Girl at Sea: A Story of Courage, Strength, and Growth from One of the First Women to Serve on US Warships

by Joanna Sprtel Walters

Overview

A Naval officer’s memoir about finding one’s voice.

Women have bravely served in the U.S. Navy for nearly a century, but they have only been allowed to serve in combat roles for the last twenty-five years. When the combat exclusion law was lifted in 1993, women in the Navy soon had a new range of opportunities available to them. The repeal of the law finally gave women the chance to serve on combatant ships for the first time.

Among the first women to step onto these warships as a new crewmember was Joanna Sprtel Walters. In her memoir Girl at Sea, she shares her story beginning with training at the US Naval Academy through her service in the fleet aboard combatant warships. As a member of the class of 1994, she was among the first group of women out of the Academy to have selected warfare specialties. This real-life account sheds light on a ground-breaking time in our country’s history as gender barriers continue to be torn down within all divisions of our Armed Forces.

Walters’s story will resonate with anyone who has ever had to bump their head against a glass ceiling and then fight their way through it. Her story covers difficult topics such as a sexual assault and extortion case at the end of her time at the Academy; struggling to prove herself on a ship where men felt women were invading their spaces; earning the hard-fought respect of her first division; recovering from the career suicide of engaging in a forbidden relationship; fighting to stay in the Navy and then thriving in the most difficult of environments; and her eventual blossoming into a strong Division Officer with an MBA under her belt. Through her successes and failures, Walter’s hopes to inspire others to reach beyond what they thought they were capable of and find their own inner strength.

Skyhorse Publishing, along with our Arcade, Good Books, Sports Publishing, and Yucca imprints, is proud to publish a broad range of biographies, autobiographies, and memoirs. Our list includes biographies on well-known historical figures like Benjamin Franklin, Nelson Mandela, and Alexander Graham Bell, as well as villains from history, such as Heinrich Himmler, John Wayne Gacy, and O. J. Simpson. We have also published survivor stories of World War II, memoirs about overcoming adversity, first-hand tales of adventure, and much more. While not every title we publish becomes a New York Times bestseller or a national bestseller, we are committed to books on subjects that are sometimes overlooked and to authors whose work might not otherwise find a home.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781510701625
Publisher:	Skyhorse
Publication date:	09/22/2015
Sold by:	SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:	eBook
Pages:	288
File size:	1 MB

About the Author

Joanna Sprtel Walters is a graduate of the US Naval Academy and served as a Surface Warfare Officer for over 6 years earning Navy Achievement Medals, Navy Commendation Medals and the rank of Lieutenant. She graduated from DePaul University with her MBA in 2002, moved to Colorado and has had quite a diverse career: P&G, SAHM to 2 young girls, real estate investor, owner/CEO of a casino, and most recently Principal of a small niche PE Firm. But what Walters enjoys most are the life adventures she shares with her family. She resides in Golden, Colorado.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

US Naval Academy or Bust

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

–Robert Frost

Everyone seems to go to the Naval Academy for a different reason: some following in the footsteps of a father (or mother!); some out to prove what strong, noble warriors they are; some for a higher purpose — what they call their God; others for a free ride to college; and then there was me. Perhaps my reason was not to immediately be willing to die for my country ... or the idiot standing next to me (as I had to repeatedly chant as a plebe), but rather the more selfish reason of wanting desperately to become the person that I was meant to become — even if that equated to painfully forcing myself to become her!

My journey to the Naval Academy began in my sophomore year of high school. I had a guidance counselor who felt that the Service Academies were one of the best-kept secrets in the country. Where else could you go to one of the most prestigious schools in the country, earn a fantastic education, get paid to go there, and have a meaningful, exciting job guaranteed after graduation? I was sold! The good news was that I had actually been recruited to swim by the Naval Academy, West Point, and the Air Force Academy. By the time I was a sophomore in high school, I had performed really well on the national scene in swimming and was noticed by many college coaches around the country and began receiving serious letters of interest. By my junior year, I had become an All-American, just missed the US Olympic Trials, and placed in the top three at the US Nationals while training with some of the best athletes in the world. Swimming had been a huge part of my life and something that I dedicated countless hours to, in and out of the pool.

My guidance counselor, Dr. Guerra, had been the counselor of a star student-athlete who got an appointment to the US Air Force Academy. Dr. Guerra was a huge advocate of all the Academies and helped to plant the proverbial seed for me. Although he was very helpful to me as I was making my decision (go to an Academy or one of the best swimming schools in the country?), the truth is that nobody can do all the work necessary to get into an Academy but you.

Many of the girls that I swam with laughed at the Academy letters of interest because they came from extremely liberal families that scoffed at a military education or career — parents who were hippies when they raised their children. My father had been a Marine and I was raised to be patriotic. But attending an Academy was not something that had crossed my mind or been a lifelong goal. I did not grow up memorizing The Naval Institute's Guide to Ships & Aircraft of the US Fleet or Jane's as some of my classmates had. In other words, I didn't grow up in a military family fantasizing about someday being in the captain's seat. I didn't get inspired by watching The Right Stuff or Magnum, P.I. or have some compelling family history of attending an Academy. I came from a very solid, upper middle-class family from a very middle-class Chicago suburb called Berwyn, and was an athlete.

My interest ebbed and flowed through my junior year. Although the athlete in me toyed with the idea of swimming for one of the best swimming schools in the country, I couldn't quell the small voice in my head that had been listening to Dr. Guerra. I decided to do the "Early Action Plan" and actually finished the entire package the summer before my senior year of high school. The entire package included lengthy essays, letters of recommendation, and taking medical tests and physical fitness tests, as well as interviews with my Congressman. This application is not for the lazy person. I honestly had no idea what the hell I was getting myself into, to be honest.

Dick Purdy was Navy's swim coach — and was he ever persistent! Ray Bosse was West Point's coach along with his wife, Cheri. I really liked her a lot — she was a Division I backstroker from Nebraska and we had really connected. I thought for certain that I was going to go to West Point and so did Ray and Cheri. They were so certain that they had me in the bag that they stopped calling me and assumed that I was a done deal. What they didn't know was that I was being heavily pursued by Navy.

Just before my birthday, I got a call from the Navy coach. Coach Purdy said, "Happy birthday, Joanna! How would you like this nice birthday present: You got into the academy!" Shortly after that, I received a similar call from Ray Bosse wishing me a "Merry Christmas and a Happy Birthday," but more importantly a "Congratulations for getting into West Point." Both appointments were delivered at my home with much fanfare. They were packaged in such a way that they looked like beautiful gold embossed diplomas (Navy's in a little blue case and West Point's in a little green case) and had the feel of something very significant.

It was such a great feeling to know that I had gotten into both schools and to not have to worry the whole second half of my senior year. On that particular birthday, I was easily at a high 9 on the life scale. I never expected to be faced with having to make such a huge life decision by getting accepted to two of the most prestigious schools in the country. I liked both coaches and didn't quite know what to do. In the end, Coach Purdy's persistence won me over, as I could easily talk myself into Annapolis and being near the ocean since I've always been a huge lover of the water. The real clincher for me was the fact that I believed the academics to be a little stronger at Navy and I thought that there were more options available to women. There was also this small, quiet voice that rather liked the option of going Marine Corps if I chose to. So with those things in mind, I accepted the appointment to the Naval Academy.

CHAPTER 2

Berwyn

Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.

–Gloria Steinem

I sure hit the jackpot when parents were divvied up! My mom's name was originally Julia Margie — though nobody ever called her that. She went by Margie and that nickname suited her just fine. She was a Southside-Chicago bred, tell-it-like-it-is "tough cookie." You always knew exactly where you stood with my mom — good or bad, she let you know. She had the courage to often say what most people would just think but be afraid to verbalize. Margie had to become a fighter at a very young age in order to survive. Margie was a first-generation American born to two immigrants from Slovakia: Anna, a housekeeper, and Joseph, a carpenter and handyman. During the Depression, my mom had to steal food in order to eat. When she was quite young, my mom found her father drunk and passed out on the lawn in front of her house. Little Margie was terrified that her daddy was dead and went into shock. She could not feel the entire right side of her body and became paralyzed with St. Vitus paralysis. Margie couldn't move the right side of her body for close to two years — we all know how mean kids can be when someone is "different."

When she finally overcame the paralysis, she ended up taking to folk dancing and became quite good, often performing around the Midwest and even in Europe. For her to eventually become the "Queen" of her nationality — of the Czechoslovakian people of the Chicagoland area — was a major accomplishment for a girl from the south side of Chicago with a drunk father and cleaning-lady mother who had once been paralyzed.

During the famous Houbi Day Celebration, my mother was asked to lead the parade through the streets of her town. Dressed in traditional costume with a flower wreath in her hair and two horses at her side, she led the parade. By all accounts, this should have been her special day — a day for her alone to shine. There was an excitement in the air as she stepped off. The soft pleats of her Slovak costume swayed and colorful ribbons flowed behind her as she waved at the cheering crowds and smiled warmly. Everything was perfect until she spotted her father sitting off to the side on the gutter of the street with his arm outstretched. Drunk. For a moment, she faltered and wasn't sure what to do.

With conviction and certainty, she stopped. The procession behind her came to halt and watched as she walked over to gently kiss her father on the forehead and help him up. She swallowed hard, picked her head up and turned back to the empty spot between the horses. Margie swiftly went back to her place and was able to gracefully continue leading the parade.

My mom ran a construction company in the '60s and early '70s until she had me. She wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty, be it labor or firing staff. The company she worked for, Ryerson Steel, put up the foundation for the Playboy Club in Wisconsin and the Sears Tower in Chicago. It was through this job that she developed "construction mouth" (she swore quite a bit) and a penchant for smoking in order to fit in and be one of the guys. By the time my mom had met my dad, she was thirty-eight years old while he was ten years younger. She knew that she wanted to have children badly and within two years, they had me very early on Christmas morning in 1972. My mom left her job to be home with me.

I grew up in a small middle-class town called Berwyn about twelve miles west of Chicago. In the '70s and '80s, my neighborhood was a very ethnic community with strong Czech, Slovak, and Polish roots until it began to turn more Hispanic. In fact, the Son of Svengoolie used to broadcast very hokey movies and reviews from Berwyn. Anyone who grew up in the Chicagoland area during the '80s would have remembered the long-haired, scary-looking guy with the annoying voice who opened every show from "Berrrrrwyyyyn." Berwyn was bordered by Cicero, Al Capone's stomping grounds, to the east, Oak Park to the north, Riverside to the west and Stickney to the south. As neighborhoods often do change and "roll" in a certain direction, things got better and better as you either went west or north. I am not at all doing the way in which Rich Koz would enunciate Berwyn justice — it made my city sound like some complete hick town and it became very easy for my peers to remind me where I'm from.

I started grade school at Komensky, a public school about two blocks from where we lived. I liked the school enough until third grade when I got Mrs. Ondrasek. She had just taken a special course on how to improve her teaching skills and decided to break the classroom up into three different groups in an effort to show what she had learned. I'm not sure exactly what the official labeling of each group was, but let's just call it what it really was: the smart kids and her favorites, the ones she didn't quite know what to do with in the middle, and those kids that were constantly disruptive and seemed to struggle with basic skills such as reading, writing, and math. Mrs. Ondrasek had decided to put me into the line-straddling "middle group," stuck between watching her favorites color great pictures and silently read happy books and the over-hyper, class-clown troublemakers work on icky math problems. I was green with envy! I terribly wanted to be in the group closest to the windows and longed to be with the "smart kids." So I began to pay attention to what they did that I wasn't doing. They were generally quiet, respectful, and non-fidgety. Mrs. Ondrasek had accused me of having ants in my pants in the bathroom line just days before, so surely that must have been it!

I began to put more effort into printing neater and re-checked my spelling over and over. I studied hard. Really hard. I was pretty darn competitive and didn't like being labeled a limbo kid. So I changed it! About two weeks before the school year was over, she called me and my parents in to talk to her about my progress. I had sweat my way into straight As and finally got moved into the smart group days before the end of the school year. By the time I finally had a window seat, it didn't matter to me anymore.

One could make the argument that her classroom strategy was brilliant, but my mom had had enough of the public school system for a while. In an effort to give me more opportunity, my parents decided to move me into a local private Catholic school. I was to begin fourth grade at St. Odilo's about a mile away.

I ended up attending St. Odilo's from fourth to eighth grade and, as an added bonus, got my first real taste of what cliques felt like. At Odilo's we looked like the unsexy '80s version of a Britney Spears video. We were only allowed to wear green tartan pleated skirts with white bobby socks pulled up to our knees (better not show any skin!) topped with short-sleeved, white cotton collared shirts and a forest-green polyester vest. I hated having to wear the same ugly thing every day. But the uniform was the least of my concerns.

There's always someone who just doesn't fit in and unfortunately, at Odilo's, that was me. At first the jokes centered around me being "Spurtle Gurdle" (a funny take on my last name that lacked vowels and my size) — I was on the chunkier side despite being a pretty competitive swimmer. It hurt a lot, but I tried to just let it roll off my back as best I could. At first, that seemed to work OK since it was just the dumb boys that were making the jokes and singing the made-up songs.

In the spring of fourth grade, my family took an amazing trip to Hawaii together. We visited both Maui and Oahu and had planned the trip for months — I even did my very first report on Hawaii so that I could learn all about it. My dad and I spent our days snorkeling, swimming, boogie-boarding, playing around on the massive slides, and visiting the early morning tide pools. As a family we explored the more cultural parts of the islands. I did all athletic pursuits with my dad enhanced by my mom's enthusiastic background support. This pretty much became a common theme in my life.

I think that oftentimes we don't see ourselves exactly as we are until something shocks us into reality. For me, that "shock" came in the form of a picture from Hawaii that I couldn't even talk myself into thinking was OK. I remember being very excited to get the pictures back from the big trip. There was one picture in particular that made me cringe when I saw it. My legs did not look at all how they did in my head — they looked massive to me as I peered down at the image. Adding to that was my distaste for shorts that rode up and the feeling of my inner thighs rubbing together in the heat as I wore a dress. I decided then and there to make a change.

How does a nine-year-old just decide to not be the bigger girl anymore? I already swam two hours a day on a very competitive team, had begun to see some success placing in the recent State Championships, and ate pretty healthy for the most part (my mom cooked all of our meals from scratch and I very rarely drank soda). Because it never occurred to me to ask anybody, I decided to just watch what my skinny friends did (this method seemed to serve me well in the past). The first thing that I noticed was that if we were eating something together, I had a tendency to be the first one done with what I was eating.

My first private goal became to be the last one finished when we had a snack. I was determined to master this simple task. I soon found out that it wasn't exactly easy or as simple as I thought! My neighbors, skinny gymnast sisters Sharon and Chris Deck, were in my mint green basement, a color I loathed, having a snack and I sat there talking and slowly chewing each and every bite while my stomach quietly rumbled inside of me. With each rumble, it reminded me of how much I wanted to take a bigger bite and stuff it into my mouth. But I didn't. I smiled and ignored the rumble and figured that it would go away eventually. It was a loud hungry rumble that didn't want to be ignored, but it was no match for me — Ms. Stubborn Determination. Finishing last was my first small victory. Really tasting my food, chewing it, and eating it slowly became a deliberate, conscious effort for me. I started to eat less and to get full faster as I listened to my body more.

The next thing that I began to notice was what I was putting into my mouth versus what they were putting into theirs. I had been eating a lot more — oftentimes not even because I was hungrier, but more because I had been eating so fast that I never stopped to taste my food ... or stopped when I was full, as opposed to being a constant member of the "clean plate club" that my dad had touted for so many years. The slower I ate, the less I ended up eating and the better choices I made.

That summer, I became a master of controlling myself. I began the extended break at nine and a half years old and a rather high 104 pounds. Not only did I adjust my intake, selection of food, and speed with which I consumed it, but also summer swimming training ramped up considerably with double practices. After swim practice, I'd eat my breakfast and then go about my day. I vividly remember lying on the couch during a lazy, hot Chicago afternoon reading a book when that first annoying pang of hunger would surface. I tried a little experiment to see what would happen if I ignored that nagging hollow feeling. I noticed that if I waited long enough, it'd go away within five to ten minutes for what seemed like quite a while. But then, within an hour or two, pang would resurface, bearing its now-starving, angry head and would not leave as quickly as before, refusing to be ignored. So then I'd cave and grab a healthy snack and be on with it!

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Girl at Sea"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Joanna Sprtel Walters.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Preface,
US Naval Academy or Bust,
Berwyn,
Swimming History,
Plebe Year,
Youngster Year,
2/c Year,
First Class Year,
June Week,
Surface Warfare School (SWOS),
USS Paul F. Foster,
Earning "Teflon Woman",
La Moure County,
UNITAS 1998,
Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes,