Now, they're at the Missouri memorial, where Mark walks Rachel past the sixteen-inch guns that he claims "could lob a two-thousand-pound shell twenty-three miles." Rachel has the good grace to look awed, especially when he drops the tidbit that when the Pearl Harbor bombardment began, the sound could be heard up to forty miles away. He then reminisces about visiting the bridge of an old ship on which his father was second-in-command. "[It was] 'take your kid to work' day, only Dad's office was a warship," smiles Mark. "He introduced me to the sailors on watch, stuck a hat on me..." "One of those white Gilligan's Island things?" she asks. Like the one you're wearing, idiot? Rachel notices the fondness with which Mark remembers his time on the ship with his father, and wonders why Mark didn't join the Navy himself. "I was mad at my dad," Mark says. "[About him] never being around. We used to fight all the time." Mark shakes his head sadly and stares at the ground, but again, all his words are cutely pointed directly at Rachel, and it makes me wonder if he just made up the lot of it in a last-ditch attempt to prove to her they're the same person. If they are the same person, then Rachel has a long, bald adulthood ahead of her. Mark laughs sadly that he and his father argued about everything -- "Music, clothes, friends, the length of my hair," he lists. Rachel snickers. "Don't laugh," he smiles. "I used to have hair. Lots of it. Down to my shoulders." Rachel doesn't buy it. Mark returns to the subject at hand and recalls trying to provoke his father just for the hell of it. "I hated everything that he stood for, and I made sure that he knew it," Mark says. "What did he stand for?" Rachel asks. "Patriotism," Mark intones. "Responsibility. Authority. Honor." And Mark stood for joking, smoking, and midnight toking. And anarchy? Please. If Mark was an anarchist, then I'm Russell Crowe. Mark muses that he'd undo all the friction if he could, but it's too late, because his father is deeply and irrevocably dead. "He rode me hard when he was around," Mark sighs. "I think he was worried about me, worried about the choices I was making." Rachel not only doesn't care, but doesn't get it, which is amazing because she's actually been buried alive by anvils. There's a brief reveal that Mark was a surfer, which piques Rachel's interest more than any of the other drivel. "Surfing?" she gapes.