The sun rises in the East, and sets in the West. Even on that November morning, in the crisp autumn breeze atop Weather Hill, warmth showered down on Yokosuka.

The streets were sparse, with only an occasional vehicle, and a lose leash of visible exhaust gas trailing behind. A dark blue hue blanketed the rooftops and shadows of the sidewalks. Cloud formations with tints of lavender in their silver lining crawled above. The curved roof of Purdy Gym, silent floodlights over Berkey Field, dark window frames of building 1559, and still turbine vents on rooftops glowed with the warm colors of dawn.

The sun spread its rays over the clouds. Shadows shifted, slowly moving in angles across empty parking lots, over curbs, and concrete walls. The stream of light guided my stray eyes through corridors once passed, roads traversed. Morning commutes down Clement Boulevard, evening walks through Gridley, matinees at Benny Decker, snowfall and autumn foliage and rainstorms on Third Avenue, all blurred seamlessly into one panoramic image. The summer grass withered away months ago.

Memories of those who came before me filled the empty morning with the weight of the past. Trips to the dry cleaner and laundromat and barber shop, laughs over lunch at the galley, PT at Berkey Field and Thew Gym, revving motorcycles and clattering bicycles and humming cars and trucks, the national anthem echoing in the morning and at retreat in the evening. And the image of the flags fluttering above, at Weather Hill. The burden of remembering is great, and the gravity of space is heavy. Together we pass through the corridors and crevices of CFAY, marching forward.

A metal trellis carrying steam tubes forms an archway over Clement Boulevard, for its brief appearance above ground. It connects into an intermodal of heat exchange. The post office is likely bustling with the day’s mail, the Navy Exchange warehouses bellow with merchandise, and restaurants throughout base with meal prep. Ovens run tirelessly, I’m sure.

Murals fade, and buildings fall. Heat pushes through the base bloodline, pouring out of pipes in streams of steam over the stained grass and forming tributaries into rivers of asphalt in a dramatic showcase of atrophy. CFAY never sleeps. It only marches forward.

Twilight melted into morning, as a marmalade hue drifted across a perfectly geometric, concrete landscape in one slow, unrelenting tide. Within the walls of the buildings below were, and are dreams carried, hopes held, goals lost, joys had, fears felt, and memories left behind; birthdays, promotions, marriages, calls and letters home. Does the veteran see the sailor in himself still roaming these streets?

Mr. Veteran, what do you see, when you stand on Weather Hill…