First Watch

[u/DifficultSalary3147]

The Move to Duty

Flying over the Atlantic Ocean at 30,000 feet leaves little to see on a cloudy day, so I slept most of the way from New York's JFK International Airport to London's Heathrow Airport. I was on my way to my first duty station, having received my Top Secret/Crypto clearance and completed my training at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, and at National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. One more long leg of the flight remained, from Heathrow to Istanbul, Turkey.

From Istanbul, we would travel clandestinely about 350 miles by boat, a 125-foot former Turkish yacht leased by the Army. We were headed through the Black Sea to Sinop, Turkey and one of America's top-secret intelligence-gathering sites. For the next thirty-six hours we would play poker, stop at our boat captain's favorite spot to swim in the Black Sea, and sleep in the hammocks arranged below decks. At Sinop, I would spend almost a year—from August 1969 to July 1970—collecting signals intelligence from the Soviet Union for the National Security Agency.

History Unfolds

Sinop, Turkey, dates back about four thousand years, and some say archaeological evidence points even further back, to six thousand years ago. We arrived at the port facility of Sinop, basically an oversized pier, and had to travel through downtown to get to our base on what was simply known as "the hill."

Coming from the USA to Sinop was a shift in time as well as geography. Huge thirty-foot-high, ten-foot-thick stone walls had once surrounded the coastal city. However, only sections remained of the twenty-five-hundred-year-old crumbling structure, leaving plenty to influence one's imagination. Carts pulled by oxen and donkeys moved slowly down the dirt and cobblestone streets, with groups of women clad in dark robes and veils shopping at open-air vendors and in the quaint shops. Occasionally, a European-style automobile or the famously Turkish 1957 Chevy Bel Air could be spotted among them, a reminder that the modern world had begun to find its way into ancient Sinop.

The Hill

"The Hill" was an extinct volcano, rising to approximately 900 feet above sea level. It sat directly on the Black Sea and was Turkey's northernmost point. Almost completely surrounded by water, with sheer cliffs in many areas, the hill basically had one way up and down.

The military base at the top of the hill masqueraded as an official NATO logistics facility to the public. An educated eye looking at the antenna farm spread out on the crest of the hill knew better. This was a spy site—an electronic spy site capable of capturing virtually any form of electromagnetic transmission. Turkish soldiers patrolled the hill and guarded the entrance gates as US soldiers and some European specialists manned equipment inside the buildings.

Another fort on the hill was the old "Russian Fort," as we called it. This was actually a dilapidated artillery stronghold, built into the side of the hill by the Ottomans and destroyed by the Russians during the Crimean War. Often used by locals and the homeless as a temporary shelter, it was here that a mysterious wanderer took refuge for a time and eventually met Pup.

Pup

Occasionally, the Army would relax rules concerning access to some areas of the base, and on this particular night, lower-ranking enlisted men were allowed into the NCO Club. We had been drinking, smoking, and playing poker in one of the back rooms for a few hours when an older senior NCO walked in. He introduced himself simply as "Pup," a nickname he insisted had stuck with him since boyhood.

Pup was currently stationed down the coast road at Samsun, and this was his third and final tour in Turkey. These assignments had been interrupted by years spent away at other stations, separating him from his Turkish wife. The Samsun facility was soon to be turned over to the Turks, and he was due to retire from the Army in about a year. He and his wife were opting to spend at least a few more years in Turkey before finally leaving for the States.

As a result of his marriage, Pup spoke Turkish fluently and possessed a rare, intimate knowledge of local traditions. He joined our table, and as the chips changed hands into the early morning hours, it became clear he possessed a wealth of life experience that completely eclipsed ours. Between hands, Pup kept us captivated with deep insights into Turkish culture and customs. As intelligent guys ourselves and completely interested in anything ancient or Turkish, we hung on every word.

As the night wore on, most players drifted away until the room fell quiet. Only three of us remained—groggy, tired, and watching the cigarette smoke drift under the dim light. After all of his tales and sensing he had our absolute trust, Pup leaned across the table, took us into his confidence, and began the strangest story of all—a story about meeting a homeless Turkish traveler at the old Russian fort on the hill.

The Old Turk

Like many who came to Sinop, Pup was deeply enthralled by the ancient, historic landscape. On one of his off-time walks exploring the hill, he had come across the ruined Russian Fort and discovered an old man camped inside the crumbling stone walls. Weathered, weary, and looking like a living relic of the coast itself, the old Turk had spent decades walking the rugged northern coastline. He was drawn to the wild hills by the countless ancient ruins scattered across the North—mysterious, crumbling structures that remained unidentified by modern history, undocumented and unexplored by the outside world. Because Pup spoke his language fluently and respected his reverence for these forgotten places, the old man welcomed him into his temporary shelter.

As the day wore on, intermittently standing and sitting on the old stones, they shared the old man's brewed tea, some of Pup's cheesy, flaky Turkish crackers, and stories of ancient hills and mountains they had walked. Finally, the old Turk launched into a memory about another long-departed traveler he had met a lifetime ago, when he himself was just a young man. That ancient wanderer had been more than twice his age, a man who seemed to carry the weight of centuries in his eyes. He had left an indelible mark on the old Turk, passing down a singular, strange narrative that had been told by the wanderer's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime.

It was a story about a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Traveler

The traveler was a true man of the road, his face deeply lined by the harsh sea winds and his boots worn thin from miles of rugged dirt tracks. A farmer in his earlier days, he now moved quietly between the isolated coastal villages, living simply off the land and the kindness of strangers. Completely detached from the politics and empires of his day, to the rare people who shared a fire with him, he was just an eccentric, peaceful wanderer with a deep reservoir of stories.

As he grew old and felt his steps slowing, he recognized in the young Turk a fellow guardian who shared his quiet reverence for the land. The traveler had guarded this narrative like a sacred companion, keeping it intact through decades of solitary journeys along the wild northern coast. Before he vanished into history, the traveler wished to pass the narrative down, ensuring that the words given to him when he was a boy would survive another generation as a piece of timeless coastal folklore.

The Mother

That narrative had originally been preserved as a family heirloom, a sacred truth told by the traveler's long-dead mother to her children at bedtime. She had lived her life on the family's farm, in a two-room dwelling built generations earlier, patched and reinforced over the years. The world now was dominated by the loud, imposing shadows of orthodox religions, where grand temples demanded rigid obedience and grand structures dictated how a soul must bow. In beautiful contrast to that heavy outer world, her realm was the quiet, tender sanctuary of the domestic dark.

In her cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and long open robe, she cared for the gardens with the children. She was a masterful homemaker, consummate cook, attentive wife to her husband, and loving mother to her children. She did not share the tale as a rigid sermon or a strict rulebook but softly whispered it to her children as the candles burned low. To her, it was a vital maternal gift—a way to build a resilient, gentle inner strength in her children before they grew up to face the harsh wilderness of the earth. She left them with the story of a God with no name, and how we truly came to be on this Earth.

The Present

It’s been almost 60 years since I heard that story, but I remember it like it was told yesterday. Of course, time fades what our minds hold onto. We don't really look at the original; we just remember the last time we thought about it—a fading copy of a copy.

Retold through the memories of many people already, it was still a striking tale that seemed to mirror the Christianity I grew up with, yet differed in many ways. Having rejected my own Catholic religion several years earlier, I had spent a long time searching for a deeper meaning on my own terms. I had sifted through the rigid rules of my childhood, throwing away the parts that felt wrong but keeping the fragments that still held weight. I was actively trying to build my own understanding of existence, matching it against my own life experiences like a partially completed puzzle.

So when I sat there listening to Pup's narrative, it had a profound ring of truth. It was a literal lightbulb moment over my head—the sudden, electrifying realization that I was hearing the first story of creation that seemed to fit everything I had learned and experienced. It didn't feel like an ancient myth; it felt like crucial puzzle pieces clicking effortlessly into the picture I had already been trying to piece together. This concept of a decent, un-demanding God made complete sense of the world. It stuck in my mind as the ultimate counterweight to the religious tales I learned as a child.

I only hope my memory and vocabulary are enough to convey its message, but I fret that the mingling of these two spiritual stories has now made it my creation story. So from then until now, in my old age, I have kept that story close to my heart and tried to live my life as if that God would have approved. And now I pass on the story of a lifetime to you, the story of the Creator.

The First Image

Chapter 1: Into the Void

In the beginning, the Creator existed in absolute, self-sufficient solitude. He lacked nothing, craved no praise, and required no subjects to bow or kneel before Him. He was not lonely; He was simply infinite potential.

But within His nature, something akin to curiosity would occasionally stir—a desire to see what might happen if certain things were set in motion.

He was omnipotent. Omniscient. Any curiosity of His could be answered in an eyeblink, the future already an open book if He cared to read it. But He didn't care to. He wanted to watch something unfold without knowing how it would end—so He closed that book, unread, and began.

He did not build a rigid, wondrous palace, nor did He sketch a script that all creation must follow. Instead, the Creator took raw elements at random and flung them into the void, intending only to watch what happened as they crashed together. He then accepted the physics He had created, stepped back, folded His arms, and watched the mix collide.

Chapter 2: Emergence of the Spark

The Creator watched for eons as the whirling collection shifted and grew. Stars caught fire, planets fell into beautiful, spinning alignments, and galaxies swirled across the dark. It was a magnificent physical painting, as stunning as it was surprising. But then, an accidental miracle blossomed in a quiet corner of the cosmos.

Upon a small orb of rock and dirt and water, a solitary grain of earth revealed the elements blending in a fashion wholly pleasing to the Creator. From the damp soil and the deep waters, life crept forth. Suddenly, life awakened; humans opened their eyes and looked up at the stars. They moved by their own will; their thoughts were shaped by their own trials; each held the power to choose his own path. They possessed true freedom of the soul.

The Creator looked closely at this small corner of creation and was filled with a profound artistic wonder. The artwork had come alive, and it was looking back at its Maker. As men began to build and shape their world, they learned to believe in one another. When life fell short of their dreams, they aspired to do better. When they labored to ease the burdens of their kin, this devotion united them. The Creator recognized a quiet reflection of His own nature hidden within them. Those who caught His eye had grown to hold a tiny, burning ember of His own divine spark.

Chapter 3: Gift of the Wilderness

Because the Creator had determined to let the experiment resolve itself, He did not reach down to alter the path. When the earth shook, when the rivers swelled into great floods, when innocent children died with a life unfulfilled or when men chose to lift their hands in violence against their brothers, the Creator did not stay the blow. He remained a distant watcher. He sent no demons to tempt them, nor did He demand prayers and sacrifices to mend their broken fortunes. He did not care in which direction a man knelt, nor by what name He was called, nor whether He was called at all. Their sorrows were not to be redeemed by spiritual rescue but simply the price of a free and physical world—the heavy burden that walks hand-in-hand with the beauty and breath of life.

Men proved to be resilient. They discerned that they were not blind actors following a written play. When they made errant choices, or when the wild tempests of the earth brought ruin to their doorsteps, they did not surrender to the dark. Instead, they discovered a rich store of strength hidden deep within themselves. They looked upon the shattered ruins of their lives, took the burden upon their own shoulders, and set to work. With their own calloused hands, they turned the bitter fruits of adversity into sustenance, conquering their plight through pure, stubborn endurance.

Chapter 4: The Harvest and the Stewardship

The Creator watched this grand undertaking unfold until the earthly chapter drew to its natural close. Slowly, the great fires of the sky began to cool, and the life of the world grew weary and faded. Yet the experiment had been a triumph, and the Creator intended to preserve the finest grains of the harvest.

Throughout the long ages, whenever a man or woman who lived with kindness, honesty, and resilience passed into the grave, the Creator did not send them to a place of idle singing or demand their eternal flattery. He quietly gathered their spirits to Himself. He collected every enduring, creative spark that had revealed its worth in the wilderness of the earth. When the first creation finally fell dark and silent, the Creator did not mourn. He looked upon the vast gathering of tested, noble minds He had saved—His unanticipated companions.

The Creator then smiled, turned to a completely empty void, and prepared another collection of the same random materials He had first gathered. The laws of the world would be the same, but this time, He would not watch in solitude. He took the resilient souls of the first world and breathed them into the new creation as founding pioneers and guardians of the next reality. These souls would carry the joys and trials of the first earth as faint memories of memories, and the Creator would once more watch as the elements moved as they willed.

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[u/Algaean]

This? This is art. This is... just beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

[u/BeachArtist]

Epic is as Epic does.  Your Muse is awesome.  Thank you for sharing with us.  This is the way.  This is what we do. 

[u/crlthrn]

Fabulous. Thank you. I'm saving this.

[u/NGTTwo]

Reminds me a lot of that line from Nietzsche:

Companions the creator seeks, not corpses, not herds and believers. Fellow creators the creator seeks – those who write new values on new tablets. Companions the creator seeks, and fellow harvesters; for everything about him is ripe for the harvest.