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A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam) – Installment 30

Sea Stories

i’ve had a bunch of stuff going on, including writing other, non-sea story things, and just haven’t had the time to get back to my series. i’m getting close. In the mean time, i wanted to post this old column i wrote for home town newspaper 14 years ago. The story will become part of this series, but, as many are, not in chronological order. The burger/beer place where Doc and i convened in Norfolk the summer of 1969 was the Red Mule.

Notes from the Southwest Corner:

A Sea Story                                                                                                              1/12/2009

by Jim Jewell

SAN DIEGO – An advantage of the Southwest corner for me is “sea story synergism.”

When I am in Tennessee, I regale folks with sea stories. But they are mostly repeats.

In the Southwest corner, it is different. At lunch last week, Pete Toennies and I reminisced about the deployment of Amphibious Squadron Five in 1979 and 1980. Lieutenant Toennies was the Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) advisor attached to the squadron staff. I joined the staff in Hobart, Tasmania and relieved the Current Operations Officer. We rode the flagship, U.S.S. Tripoli (LPH 10), one of nine ships in the squadron.

For Pete and me, our sea stories fit like an old baseball glove.

Then we wandered to other anecdotes. I remembered long forgotten events. So did Pete. We fed off each other. It was synergistic.

Here’s one I recalled.

In the summer of 1969, I reconnected with my OCS roommate, George “Doc” Jordan when the U.S.S. Hawkins (DD 873) changed home port to Norfolk. Doc, on the U.S.S Guam (LPH 9) and I hooked up to discuss our future. We were reaching the half-way point of our obligations. We could stay where we were or request reassignment. We both preferred the latter but pondered where.

One evening over a cheeseburger and beer, Doc announced he was requesting Vietnam. I was stunned. Doc was the hippie’s gift to the Navy.

“Why would you, of all people, volunteer to go to Vietnam?” I asked.

Doc replied, “Well I’ve been thinking about it and regardless of how we feel about what’s going on, this is our generation’s war.

“If I don’t go, I have missed that part of history.”

After a few minutes of contemplation and another beer, I agreed. I was 25 and had absolutely no good sense.

Separately we called our ‘detailer,’ who coordinated new assignments.

The detailer, who will remain anonymous to protect the guilty, informed us separately an officer cut was pending. Doc was told he would remain on active duty. I was told I would be getting out. At our favorite tavern, we compared notes and scratched our heads.

The reduction was by commissioning date. We missed the cut by a month. The detailer informed us the reduction was only half what was needed. He told Doc the next cut would not affect him. He told me I would certainly be let go. The next cut was by unnecessary billets. Again, we were not cut. Again we were puzzled.

The detailer reported the reduction again missed the needed number and one more cut was imminent. Again Doc was told he would miss it. Again, I was assured I would be gone. Poor performance dictated the last cut. Again, we remained.

We began our transfer discussions in earnest. Doc’s command refused to let him transfer.

Converted by Doc and the beers, I volunteered for Gunline Liaison Officer (GLO) in Vietnam. The detailer was elated. No one else had asked for that billet. A GLO goes past the front lines and relays targeting information for aircraft and artillery fire, not a highly sought assignment.

He informed me I must extend my active duty for two months to have necessary training and a full year in Vietnam. I informed him I was crazy but not that crazy. I would not extend so I could go risk my life. I would do it for ten months, no extension. He said no.

We discussed other options. Finally, he found an opening for executive officer, Military Sea Transportation Service (MSTS) Group One. I asked what it was. He didn’t know but would find out. When he came back to the phone, he told me I would be the only Navy personnel aboard an MSTS ship carrying military personnel and dependents to duty stations in the Pacific Rim, and should visit every major Pacific port in the year, adding I would have to extend a month.

I told him, “No problem.”

When I finally reached my new job in early January 1970, I sent the detailer a radio message. It said, “Every major port in the Pacific is Sasebo, Japan; Pusan, Korea; Qui Nhon, and Nha Trang, Vietnam. The Unit has not just me, but two Navy line officers, two doctors, one chaplain, and 18 enlisted. The military personnel are Republic of Korea troops. There are no dependents.

Several months later, I heard Doc had been released from active duty.

It was quite a year.

-30-

At the Top of the Slope

A Pocket of Resistance

Friday evening, i was late.

i have tried to stay with US flag regulations long after i completed my active duty service nigh 49 years ago. i raised the flag pole at the top of our slope in the early 1990s. i reread the flag regulations several times — the reason when the anthem is played, i take my hat off and hold in my left hand and put my hand over my heart, not putting my hat over my heart.

It was easy to raise the flag at 0800 and lower it at sunset in the beginning. My lab, Cass, liked going up to the top of the hill, check things out while i did my duty, and sometimes bolt down the hill for further adventures requiring me to follow in pursuit. Fun.

But Cass got old and left me, dammit. i got a light for the flag, allowing me to leave it flying at night, and only went up occasionally after that unless flag regulations required a lowering to half mast.

For the last several days, my flag at the top of the slope has been at half-mast. Dianne Feinstein died and the edict for lowering the flag ensued. It lasted until sunset on the day of her interment, which was Thursday. i had a long day concluding with a supper at the tapas restaurant. i did not have the energy or desire to two-block the flag up on the slope. i passed and played my Friday Morning Golf (FMG) followed by my Friday Afternoon Nap (FAN).

So around six in the evening, i climbed the railroad tie steps up the slope, stepped over the gopher pile of dirt, ascended to the flag pole, placed my two small cloth bags on the small metal table, and dutifully two-blocked the flag.

But i was not done. The chair is one of a pair Sarah brought home from Austin. When she moved to Las Vegas, they remained and became view seats next to the flag pole. They are not used enough. The rusty table, also from Sarah, the one with the rocks on top, also has a blue tooth speaker, and most importantly, a unbreakable martini glass Sarah gave me. It is filled with a Cyril Vaughn Fraser “martin.”

i don’t come up here often enough, and i was dedicated to make this one special. As i raised the flag, i looked down on our backyard. i am a lucky man. Maureen’s touch is everywhere. The view eastward, including Mount Miguel isn’t too bad either.

i sit and look west toward my Pacific. It’s not there. The last two days, we’ve had a pretty puny Santa Ana. Low humidity and the temperature actually touched 90 for a little while. Looking west, it was evident the Santa Ana had broken for there, hovering and ready for an onslaught ashore was the marine layer, lying low and fluffy white, obscuring my Pacific.

i turned on “My” library on iTunes, and selected my “Narada” album of new guitar music. i peered out at the whiteness and beyond as the sun descended. i sipped my martin, ate an olive, listened to the music. i didn’t actually sigh, but i could feel my breathing up on this slope alone.

i hope your world is as good as mine.

Thoughts on the Sea

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

By all that is wonderful, it is the sea, I believe, the sea itself — or is it youth alone? Who can tell? But you here — you all had something out of life: money, love — whatever gets you on shore — and tell me, wasn’t that the best time, that time when you were young at sea; young and had nothing, on the sea that gives nothing except hard knocks — and sometimes a chance to feel your strength — the only — what you all regret.

Joseph Conrad, “Youth, Marlowe in a beer drinking session with men who had sailed in their youth

Thoughts on the Sea

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

I have known its (the sea) fascination since; i have seen the mysterious shores, the still water, the lands of brown nations, where a stealthy Nemesis lies in wait, pursues, overtakes so many of the conquering race, who are proud of their wisdom, of their knowledge, of their strength. But for me, all the East is contained in that vision of my youth. It is all in that moment when I opened my young eyes on it. I came upon it with a tussle with the sea — and I was young — and I saw it looking at me. And this is all that is left of it! Only a moment, a moment of strength, of romance, of glamour — of youth!…A flick of sunshine on a strange shore, the time to remember, the time for a sigh, and — good bye — Night — Good Bye!

Joseph Conrad, “Youth, a Narrative”

A Brief Musing on Thursday Morning

A Pocket of Resistance

i awoke, did my morning chores, and i was taking the cat litter box leavings out to the trash when it hit me:

i am not going to root first for any particular teams in the major league baseball playoffs. My number one rooting platform dawned me this morning as i scanned the sports headlines and learned all four playoff series were sweeps., i.e. four wildcard teams had swept the other four. That meant the owners and the networks lost four games of revenue. i then added up how many games would not be played if all of the series were sweeps. The total number is twenty-one games would not be played.

i’m rooting for every series in the playoffs are sweeps.

That’s what i’m rooting for: that the four division series are won in five games series, the two league series are won in four games, and the world series is one in four games. Along with the four games already not played that number is twenty-one. 21!

That my friends is a chunk of change lost.

i think these owners and the networks televising the playoffs don’t need anymore money, and might consider quit changing rules of what was once a beautiful sport for four to seven games in October. Nah, that ain’t gonna happen. Those coin counters aren’t going to let that happen.

Go, Sweeps, Go.