This morning as usual, i walked out to our driveway to retrieve the Sunday paper. Making the coffee and retrieving the paper while Maureen makes one of her wonderful (and healthy breakfasts, sometimes even including a sausage patty for me). Breakfast and newspaper reading has become our daily routine, interrupted only when i play early golf.

But when i looked up over my neighbor’s house across the street, Mount Miguel once again took my breath away. The photo below is not as clear as it could be because i took it quickly with my phone before the clouds rose or burned off. It doesn’t do the scene justice. Still, it is an awesome sight and encouraged me to post a poem that has been here before and included in my book: A Pocket of Resistance: Selected Poems.

Mount Miguel February Sunrise

East north east of my front door,
Mount Miguel wore a shroud this morning;
Low clouds draped across her shoulders
below the peak at sunrise.

By circumstance, my front door faces east,
greeting the sun god
like the Navajo’s hogan door has done for centuries
over in Four Corners, a mountain or so
east of here.

Man’s antennae now reach skyward
on Mount Miguel’s peak,
silhouetted black against the rising orange orb,
before it slings white hot heat and light low to the south,
moving through the day,
bowing to the Baja lands of Mexico,
as it is wont to do in the winter months
here in the high desert.

The instruments of new fangled transmission look foreboding:
Spanish castle towers of the inquisition;
I wonder if the Kumayai once sat atop,
above the cloud shroud,
lifting their own clouds of smoke,
transmitting their own news of the day.

The city folks implanted here
tend to forget what this land beneath them was;
really is.
We have learned to just add water
to get paradise,
now overrun with those that forget
to look East at the sunrise
silhouettes of the ghost talkers.

Captain J. C. Hayes is someone i will never forget.

I met Captain Hayes in August 1980.

I had been high-lined from the USS Cayuga to the USS Belleau Wood as Amphibious Squadron Five was en route to Vancouver Island, British Columbia. I had been serving as executive officer of the Cayuga for two months due to the standing XO having a breakdown (another story). When the new XO arrived, i returned to my job as the staff’s current operations officer (by high-line).

Captain Hayes had just relieved as commanding officer, and was senior to our commodore, Captain Jim McIntyre, an E2 pilot who preferred to be known by his aviation handle of “Silver Fox.” This seniority business made things, i later found out, a bit awkward.

After the high-line and settling back into my quarters, i made my official visit to the ship’s commanding officer, Captain Hayes, in the late afternoon. He was a big man. We hit it off. The captain was from Easley, South Carolina, which made it easier. I enjoyed our visit and decided i liked him. The surface line officers stuck together in the amphibious environment where many senior aviation officers went to get their major sea command tours for furthering their careers.

I later was told in World War II, Captain Hayes had been a coxswain of an LCM3 (5 generations earlier of the landing craft LCM8, which were the state of the art during my service). His ship was involved in the invasion of Okinawa. Captain Hayes, then a third or second-class boatswainmate, took supplies into shore after the beach head had been established. As the story goes, when he returned from his run, he could not locate his ship: Japanese gunnery or a Zero fighter had sunk it.

He also was in a underwater demolition unit (the origination of Navy SEALs) in the Pacific, was awarded a masters degree in nuclear physics from the Navy Postgraduate School in Monterrey, California, and was in Admiral Byrd’s command in the admiral’s last exploration of Antarctica.

He was legendary among surface sailors and had been known to go out on a bridge wing and cuss out the line handlers on the forecastle several hundred feet away. And they heard every word. He was an old school surface mariner, my kind of Naval officer.

After getting back on the Belleau Wood for the next couple of days, i was deeply involved with catching up on my duties. I had been on Cayuga for over two months. I saw little of anyone except at the morning message meetings with the staff.

After we entered Puget Sound and set sea detail for going into Esquimalt, the Canadian navy base, the staff assembled on the flag bridge directly below the ship’s bridge. As the Belleau Wood closed to the harbor entrance, we received an intercom message from the ship’s bridge. The boatswainmate of the watch told us the port master wanted to talk to the commodore on the bridge-to-bridge UHF radio, which was not on the flag bridge.

The Commodore was loath to leave his post and directed me to go up to the ship’s bridge and talk with the port personnel.

I climbed the ladder to the bridge, feeling a bit awkward. The port should be talking to the captain of the ship, not the commodore, and there was this aviation-surface tension, not to mention the reverse seniority awkwardness. As i arrived, Captain Hayes in his gravely booming voice directed his junior officer to give me the microphone to the bridge-to-bridge radio.

The port officer pointed out crosswinds had picked up significantly, the harbor entrance was narrow, especially for a ship such as a helicopter carrier, and the tight berth would be difficult for ship of such size with the wind to moor without some damage. He then asked if the commodore would agree to going to anchorage, a mile-long liberty boat transit for the liberty party.

Feeling proud of myself for my tact, i pointed out to the port officer the commodore was not in charge of the ship, but i would ask the commanding officer, Captain Hayes, what he thought was best.

“Thanks, Lieutenant Commander,” Hayes began, “Tell them i won’t enter the harbor and will go to the assigned anchorage.”

“Aye, sir,” i replied. Then hitting the transmit button on the bridge-to-bridge, i told the port officer, “Captain Hayes said he can’t get the ship to that berth in these conditions and will take the ship to the anchorage.”

Then i heard Captain Hayes in full force:

“GODDAMMIT BOY, I DIDN’T SAY I COULDN’T GO TO THAT BERTH, I SAID, I WOULDN’T!”

“Yes, sir,” i replied meekly. “I apologize,” quickly retreating down the ladder.

The ship went to anchorage. I went on liberty, caught a hydrofoil to Seattle, rented a car and picked up Blythe, my ten-year old daughter at the airport. She and i spent a day in Seattle, rode the hydrofoil back to Victoria, stayed in the Empress Hotel, one of my all time favorite places, took a ferry to Orcas Island where we stayed with my long-time college friend Cy Fraser, spending the night in sleeping bags on the small patio of his log cabin to wake up and watch the deer grazing between us and the rocky beach of Puget Sound about thirty feet away.

Blythe and i went back to Seattle where i put her on a plane back to Austin. It was one of the nicest weeks i have ever experienced, all because i was with Blythe.

And to this day, i feel a kinship and understanding with J.C. Hayes. He taught me the difference between “can’t” and “won’t.”

Captain Hayes retired in 1983 after 40 years of active duty. He returned to his home in South Carolina where he passed away last year.

Sleep well, you wonderful mariner.

Norm O’Neal, who was on my first ship, the U.S.S. Hawkins (DD 873), in 1968 -69, and i reconnected through Allen Ernst who was the Leading Petty Officer of the sonar gang in 3rd Division of which i was division officer. Allen passed away a couple of years ago, but Norm and i have maintained contact along with several other sailors on the “Hawk.” Unfortunately, i have not been able to meet with them at several get-togethers/reunions. Norm is a great joke teller and frequently emails them to me, a highlight of my day.

His latest just came in this afternoon, and it is just too funny not to share:

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining in Southern California.

Compared to rain back home, this doesn’t count very much on the scoreboard. But you see, us folks in the Southwest corner just flat aren’t used to it, and neither is the land. The average annual rainfall out here is ten inches, and it’s been woefully short of that for several years. Drought is the operative word, at least for the last year or so.

But here comes El Niño.

Between yesterday and this evening, we’ve gotten drenched by our standards. Some parts of the county have had almost three inches of rainfall. Down here near the border, only just over an inch has fallen, but Bonita just got out of a flash flood warning, and there are number of streets flooded and several waterways threatening to overflow their banks. Areas of San Diego have had more flooding, especially in the streets. You would think not knowing being used to this much rain, the denizens would not get out very much and be very cautious. But oh no, not Southern Californians. i have gotten tired of watching cars with water past their wheel wells stuck, grounded, messed up. And i’m not talking about out of the way sideroads. i’m talking about major thoroughfares. The commute parking lots of the freeways are longer than normal by a bunch. It’s ten p.m. and i’m betting there are folks who haven’t gotten home from their nine-to-five job yet.

And we are projected to receive a total of over four inches this week.

Fortunately, we do live at the top of a hill and are pretty well protected from any serious problems. We have checked our drainage system and it’s working pretty well. But there is a lot of insanity below us.

i had things to do outside, so i put on my rain gear and was in the garage talking with Paul Shipley, our landscaper supremo when Maureen walked out. She doubled over in laughter when she saw me. She said she had to have picture of me because no one would believe this was the man she slept with.

She didn’t take the picture. So i thought i would help her. i’m not very good at this selfie thing, but this should give you an idea of what she was laughing about:

i didn’t think it was THAT funny.

But she better get used to it because it looks like i’ll be in this get up frequently in the next several months.

i used to love to run in the rain. i used to love to walk on the beach in the rain. Yesterday, i walked down a pier in the rain. i think i still would like to run in the rain and walk on a beach in the rain. But rain is also productive in my head, or at least, productive for me. i thought of about ten things to write about between yesterday morning’s rain and right now. There is supposed to be a gully washer this afternoon. My head might explode with ideas about what to write. Maybe, just maybe, i might go out and run in the rain. i know i won’t go down to the beach to walk in the rain: too much traffic. i suspect i will sit here and keep the fire going in the hearth and write. Maybe i’ll read some, or listen to music.

On New Year’s Day as we were leaving the golf course, Mary Ann Schoultz indicated she enjoyed my posts and encouraged me to keep on writing. i responded, “I don’ t think i could stop (writing). That is true, especially when it’s raining.

skin color

black
white
red
yellow
brown

what?
no green?
no purple?
no chartreus?
quite a while ago,
we had a close family friend
who was purple,
actually an ashy white
like a ghost
with purple overtones
and
white hair:
not white like they say my skin is white
but
white, real white.

she had some sickness,
a condition we called it,
solved with an old chemical remedy
which turned her ash white and purple:
scared the beejeezus out of me
when i was too young to say “hell” or “shit”
but
did so with my pals
but
never so my parents could hear.

she was a very nice old lady
and
i learned not to be scared.

now, i keep wondering
why we call me white,
those brown,
them yellow,
some red,
some black;

“people of color,” they say;
“we all is of color,” i say.
we all are different;
we all are the same;
we all have good folks;
and
we all have some bad apples:
apples are red,
violets are blue,
so is the sky,
so why do we do
the things we do
like label people
by color
by damn.