If you ask Zach Eastland what the ocean looks like at midnight, he won’t talk about darkness. He’ll tell you about light—the neon-blue trail of bioluminescent plankton curling off a carrier’s wake and a sky so clean of glare you can count every star. Those are the memories that stayed with him from the Navy: the beauty between the hard parts, the quiet after the noise.
Zach enlisted in July 2006 as a culinary specialist—a cook who had to think in battalions, not casseroles. Kitchens became command centers; menus were missions. On any given day he and his team fed 2,500–6,000 sailors, because even jets don’t fly if crews aren’t fed. He learned what the military teaches so well: everyone has a task, the mission matters more than the argument, and consequences are real. Undercook the food, sicken the crew, risk the mission. Precision, teamwork, accountability.
In January 2017, chronic injuries finally forced a medical separation. The uniform came off, but the lessons didn’t. “Pain is temporary,” he says. “It has its ebbs and flows. It can’t stop you unless you let it.”
Zach is a father of four, the kind of dad who learned to braid hair because the job needed doing. He jokes that he was once a “golden retriever” of a person—endlessly trusting and upbeat—and the world took its swings. Yet the light still breaks through. “My career ended, and I had only my family to show for it, my marriage ended. So then it’s like, okay, what do I have? I have a broken down body, a broken down mind and a broken down house, but these kids need me to be the best version of myself, because they don’t understand any of this. They’re children. They’re innocent.”
Last year, his 10-year-old daughter went to school wearing one of his old hoodies. “She was cold one morning. She didn’t have a hoodie here, so I gave her one of mine, one of my older hoodies that I’ve outgrown. And so she wears it to school. All happy, go lucky. You know, she’s wearing a hoodie, Dad’s hoodie. And I’m thinking nothing of it, right? Like to me, it’s an article of clothing that I don’t wear anymore, and I get a message later on in the day saying, You will never guess what your daughter just said to me today.”
A teacher messaged Zach: “She said she feels like she’s wearing Superman’s shield because Daddy gave me his hoodie.” For a man who pushes through pain and quiets his doubts one task at a time, that single sentence dropped everything into silence—the good kind. “For that moment,” he says, “you know you’re doing something right.” He mentions that it “melts your heart” and “It makes the screaming stop. It quiets the mind.” Needless to say, Zach Eastland cares for his children, and will do anything for them to ensure that they have what they need. A roof over their head, food in their stomach, a bed at night and the feeling of love and warmth.
In 2018, Zach bought a classic Suncook Village duplex at 12–14 Church Street with a hopeful plan: he and his ex wife would live on opposite sides, share the mortgage, keep the kids steady between two loving homes. Life had other ideas. There were seasons of helping others—opening doors to friends in need, working with local programs—followed by hard chapters that left one unit battered and unlivable. Through it all, neighbors showed up. A roofer starting his business again, an elderly neighbor scraping wallpaper, folks hauling debris—proof that community is real, not theoretical here in Suncook.
Today the house still stands strong in spirit, but time has had its say. The old fieldstone foundation could use some attention and possible professional reinforcement. Balloon framing and horsehair plaster—beautiful but tired—tell the story of a century and a half of time gone by. What remains is the kind of work that outpaces one father’s back and budget: sheetrocking a ceiling, deep cleaning, fresh paint throughout, replacing a dead fridge, and, most crucially, shoring up the foundation the right way so the next 100 years can begin.
“I know this house has fantastic bones,” Zach says. “They just have arthritis.” It’s an ironic line from a man who knows pain and keeps moving anyway.
Zach isn’t looking for a windfall. He’s looking for a hand up—a chance to bring this home “up to snuff” so it can either be sold honorably or lived in safely, letting him stabilize finances and keep providing for his kids. He’s tried the routes he could: sweat equity until the body said no, calling in favors, even exploring financing he couldn’t secure for a renovation loan to renovate.
He’s done the parts a single dad can do while cooking dinner, packing lunches, and navigating the jagged edges of chronic pain. Now he’s asking for help with the parts he cannot. Will you lend a hand to this local Veteran in need of a hand up?
And yes, there’s a kind of help that isn’t measured on an invoice: encouragement. A text. A check-in. A reminder that the community hasn’t forgotten the man who fed 6,000 shipmates to keep the mission moving.
The Navy taught Zach to finish the mission with the team you have. This time, the team is Suncook. It’s Pembroke and Allenstown. It’s anyone who believes that homes and people are worth restoring—and that a veteran who carried his share deserves a hand with the heavy lift he can’t make alone.
Ask Zach what he’d say to another veteran facing a wall of setbacks: “Don’t quit,” he answers. Then he repeats it, because some words need to be said three times to stick: Don’t quit. Don’t quit. Don’t quit.
If you can lend a hand—swing a hammer, donate a gallon of paint, sponsor a day of foundation work, or help source a fridge—reach out. Let’s turn the lights back on at 12–14 Church Street and give four kids the simplest, strongest gift a community can offer: the sound of a house settling safely for the night, and a dad who can finally exhale. Please reach out directly to Zach at 603-293-5545.
