I’d been meaning to have some kind of formal ‘taking off the bracelet’ ceremony. A rite that would be consistent with the commitment of having worn it, without interruption, for 33 years. That’s 72% of my life. The whole of my adulthood. Practically as long as I can remember. The deal with the bracelet was that I would only take it off when Roderick Lester, the Navy pilot missing since the Vietnam War who I was remembering and honoring by wearing it, came home. That event actually occurred a decade ago. Well, an event took place that was as close to him coming home as we’re probably ever going to get.

Roderick “Rog” Lester, in the driver’s seat. His bombardier, Harry Mossman, is in the back row, third from the left. The aircrew is preparing to fly aboard the USS Kitty Hawk at the beginning of her first line period. Photo credit: Greg Wood. Photo first published on the Intruder Association’s Viceroy 502 web page.

A piece of Lester’s flight jacket and his dog tag were found in 2003 and repatriated in 2004. While not dispositive on their own, they were found in close proximity to a section of leg bone identified by DNA testing as belonging to Naval officer Harry Mossman, Lester’s navigator and bombardier. The community and Lester’s family had a memorial funeral service for him in his hometown of Morton, WA on 20 August 2005, the 33rd anniversary of the crash. At that time, I was coincidentally preparing to go to Seattle as the first stop on a year-long, around-the-world trip; I missed the memorial by one day. I kept thinking that I would find a time — perhaps while in Vietnam — that would be appropriate to take off the bracelet. Maybe I would leave it there in the jungle, near the place his plane went down back in 1972.

I started wearing the POW/MIA bracelet in 1983. I was scandalized when I found it in my mom’s jewelry box. With the kind of black-and-white moral certitude you only have as a teenager, I could not believe that my mother had acquired one of these bracelets and then taken it off. It was in a jewelry box, like it was an ornament or accessory and not the symbol of a Sacred Oath. I sometimes miss the moral binary I possessed in my youth.

I took the bracelet and in a quick, though solemn, act, I put it on and dedicated myself to remembering this man I’d never met, Roderick Lester. He was Missing in Action, perhaps a Prisoner of War. I would wear his bracelet as a memorial to his sacrifice and a protest to the government for not working harder to find him. At the time, 1983, Lester had been missing for 11 years. It had been eight years since the fall of Saigon. With the intensity of the child I was, I began calling the Department of the Navy weekly to ask for updates on the fate of my serviceman. Had they found him? Were they still looking?

To their credit, the folks at the DoN were always kind when I called. They’d put me on hold for a minute or two to “check” and then tell me they were sorry, but they had no new news. I was too young to realize that the location and repatriation of a POW from Vietnam would have been on every news channel. All three of them. I suspect they assumed I was the child of this MIA, hoping in vain to hear that my dad would someday be coming home to me.

I wore the bracelet all the time. It was on me when I started high school; when I went to Paris for the first time; when I moved away from home. When I started college I met someone else who was wearing a bracelet like mine. Hers was in memory of Russian Jews. At some point between the beginning and end of freshman year, I noticed that she had taken her bracelet off. I asked her about it and she told me that her Russian got home. I was astounded. At 17, I was much more worldly and wise than that child who was calling the Department of the Navy all the time. In my maturity, I had come to the conclusion that I would be wearing the bracelet for the rest of my life.

I wore the bracelet when I married, and when I divorced, and when I married again. It went to law school with me. I wore it as I traveled around the world the year after law school, through Asia and Europe and a tiny corner of Africa. I wore it when I visited Dien Bien Phu, the place where the French lost their war in Vietnam. In Hanoi and Saigon. I wore it as I rubbed my hand along the bullet-pocked walls of the Citadel in Hué, where a 26-day battle left 147 Marines, as well as approximately 1,400 other combatants and 5,800 civilians, dead.

I did not leave the bracelet in the jungle on Quang Ninh Province’s Nui Am Vap Mountain where, on their 144th combat sortie, Roderick Lester, Harry Mossman, and their A-6 Intruder — call sign Viceroy 502 — went down for the last time.

Lester was promoted from Lieutenant to Lieutenant Commander while missing. The original POW/MIA bracelets only had name, rank and date missing engraved on them. Newer bracelets are red and also include branch of military, location when missing, status (i.e. MIA) and home state.

I took off the bracelet, unceremoniously, several weeks ago. It was for one of the most practical, banal reasons possible. I have, in recent years, developed arthritis in my hands. It is quite painful so I’d been frequently spraying a “cold therapy” medication on my right hand and the icy liquid would get on and under the bracelet. My swollen joints conspired with the stinging medicine to make the bracelet a source of much discomfort. I’d been waiting and waiting — for 10 years waiting — for the right time to retire the bracelet because I wanted to do something equal to the commitment I had fulfilled by wearing it. Then I realized I was making these rules up. All the weighty expectations I had about what was the proper way to honor Lester while removing my lifelong, daily reminder of him were in my head and nowhere else.

I’m glad that I took the bracelet off because I’m coming to believe that when there are things that we want to do, waiting for a time that seems right or appropriate is not always in our best interest. Sometimes when you wait for the “right time” to do something important to you, opportunities pass and you never end up doing it. By waiting for the ideal circumstances, you not only rob yourself of the experience you wanted to have, you can also miss the joy and beauty of the experiences available in the present moment.

Lieutenant Commander Roderick Barnum Lester. RIP.

Roderick Lester was man who excelled in many ways during his short life. I believe that largely resulted because he lived boldly. He was not meek and he did not await permission to follow his passions and be true to himself. Those qualities provide a good example for me. I have become timid in the two years since my heart attack. And I have, for as long as I can remember, been more concerned with not being a bother than with being bold. To honor Roderick Lester, today and every day, I will not only remember his sacrifice in death, but also the way he led his life. I will try to live my life with more bravery and determination, remembering that my time here is finite, so I should make the most of all the moments I am given.

originally published on Medium.

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