Last year, within two weeks of one another, Ben Mallory and I were laid off—both by companies we had worked with for numerous years. Mine was related to a variety of industry changes that caused revenue loss for my employer, and his was due to no longer being able to physically perform his job following a partial foot amputation related to diabetes.
Ben and I had met through a mutual friend, William “Bill” Riggling—another veteran—and whenever possible, the three of us would get together in Anchorage at Moose’s Tooth, killing a variety of pizzas, hot wings, and half a dozen growlers of Hefeweizen—raspberry, to be exact.
Over the years—twelve, more or less —we kept in touch and both lamented heavily when our friend Bill passed away. When I returned to the States after my time on Kwajalein, Ben was up my ass daily, making sure my depression and medical issues didn’t take me emotionally sideways—or to a point of no return.
He texted me for weeks when I started physical therapy, asking how things were going, whether I was improving, asking about the guys I was with, and any new recipes Ronda and I had tried after seeing them on TikTok—just normal bullshit, conversations between friends.
Then he dropped the bomb: the loss of his job and part of his damn foot.
I was fucking floored.
Here he was taking time to check on my broke ass, then making sure—after I lost my position—that I wasn’t joyriding in the dark spaces between my ears, and I never even knew he’d lost his foot and his job as a first mate. I felt like a total ass—until it dawned on me: the fucker never mentioned it.
He was such a good dude that he checked on the few friends he had left and kept his own shit to himself. No pity parties. No boo-hoo moments.
Hell no.
Ben’s life after leaving the Air Force was completely at sea. The son of a bitch had watched fishing boats for years growing up, and when he left the military he said, fuck the land—I want to be a mermaid or a boat captain, whichever pays more. He used his military skills as a maintainer and AP to get work as a mechanic—first on fishing boats. One shitty job led to another opportunity, and eventually to a much better life that fit him and his Filipino wife Maria’s grand plan.
Maria was half German, half Filipino, and one hundred percent crazy—and a mother hen to everyone who stepped foot in their home and ate at their table. No damn elbows on her hundred-year-old tablecloth either, or you took a swat to the funny bone—and I mean hard.
The moral of this memory is something I’ll never forget.
Ben was hurting. Ben was grieving the loss of the ocean and the family he worked with onboard. Maria and my wife Ronda are the same kind of women—they nurture, and they will absolutely beat your ass when you need it, deserve it, and when love demands motivation for growth and confidence.
So how did Ben stay so damn resilient and upbeat after losing part of his foot, his career, and the income he brought to his family?
Maria cooked for a week. Cleaned the house. Made sure Ben had everything he needed.
Then she packed her shit, loaded up the three youngest kids, and flew to the Philippines to see her parents—for six damn months.
Six.
With Maria gone, Ben was forced to get up, clean up, feed himself plus the kids, get the two oldest kids ready for school, attend physical therapy, do laundry, handle housekeeping, and take care of the pets. No rest for the wicked.
He told me that if Maria had stayed, her maternal and wifely instincts would’ve kicked in—she would’ve carried the weight of the family so he could recover, not improve. Not become the man he wanted to be.
Day by day, he had to relearn balance. How to carry simple household items. How to function—without knowing that Maria had threatened to whack the shit out of the kids if they coddled him in her absence.
Ben told me the hardest wall to climb was getting out of bed.
He’d swing his right leg over. Pull up his left. Feel the missing segment of his foot. Slowly place it on the deck. Say fuck it—and go.
Accept the pain. Stand as straight as possible without pissing himself from the pressure radiating through what remained of his foot and leg. Then step.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Until one morning, it was automatic.
And the pain was replaced with determination—and mission.
Slow is smooth.
Smooth is fast.
