All posts by Jim

A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam), Part 6

Sea Stories

This is the real part 6 of my serial book. i hope i haven’t confused too many folks with my gaffe.

i was beginning to get the hang of being on a Navy ship.

i don’t recall how it happen but i befriended a petty officer, a second class cook. He was one of the few black sailors on the Lloyd Thomas — i don’t recall any names of anyone on that cruise, although if i try real hard i might come up with some of the names of the midshipmen. The cook had been in 18 years, it was tough to get promoted back then, and was looking forward to going home when he retired (sic: you “completed active duty service” was what really happened as one, even officers, didn’t really retire with the pensions back then. One had to get a new job, start a new career. He was going home. As i recall, his home was a small town in Illinois.

Another second class petty officer i met was a BT, that’s “Boiler Tender” for old hands, and “Boiler Technician” for the newer sailors. This guy also had 18 years of service. He had made it up to first class three times, had been busted a bunch of times, and sort of settled in to being a second class until he got out. i still can see him one evening. He was sitting on the bottom edge of the hatch on the starboard side of the main deck. The hatch opened a small chamber where the deck hatch to the to the after fireroom was in the forward part of the chamber. It was designed that way so the deck hatch would not be subject to waves. i was walking forward on the main deck when i spotted him. He didn’t have the watch, taking a cigarette break and getting cool on the weather deck before going back down to the fireroom heat to work on a pump.

He, the cook, and a large number of the crew were single and lived on board. He told me he didn’t go ashore much, he liked his job, had no family, and never had any luck with women. It struck me he had landed in his briar patch.

* * *

During operations, there was a plan to transfer all of the midshipmen to the USS Intrepid (CV 11). She was the flagship of the flotilla on the cruise. Early one morning, they high-lined our 21 midshipmen over to the carrier. They had set up tours through the ship. True to form, another middie (i cannot remember his name right now, but i believe he was from Ole Miss) and i wandered off from the group. Also true to form, we got lost in the vast number of compartments and ladders on the huge ship. After the noon mess, we were to be transferred back to the Thomas, again via high line. When they mustered us by the high-line station on the hangar deck, one deck below the flight deck, where aircraft are stored and maintained. The muster revealed two midshipmen were missing.

We had finally gotten our bearings and were headed to the hangar deck when they passed the word for Midshipman Jewell and whatever-his-name-was to report to the hangar deck immediately. The announcement came from the 1MC, the loudspeaker system that broadcast throughout the ship. Relieved but a bit embarrassed, we rejoined the group and fell in line, the last two in the line.

A high-line is a ship-to-ship rig used to transfer cargo and personal. For personnel being transferred, they are seated in a bosun chair. The chair hangs from a device with rollers that rides on the high-line and is pulled by the inhaul or outhaul line from one ship to the other. With a personnel transfer, the inhaul/outhaul lines are required to be manned by personnel, not using a motor winch or other mechanical source for pulling the lines. It was a safety measure, supposedly, but pulling a man or two men in a bosun chair between two ships on such a requires rigorous effort by the line handlers. Destroyers would muster an “all hands” working party, i.e. every one on board not involved in replenishment stations, to man the inhaul/outhaul lines. It still required a lot of physical effort.

i think the other late middie’s nickname was Mo, and i know he received his NROTC commission as a Marine. i later met him for a drink when he was stationed at the Naval Weapons Station in Yorktown, Virginia. We were the last of eleven personnel transfers back to the Lloyd Thomas. We were situated in a double bosun chair. For those who might remember, such a transfer would be considered a Disney Land “E” ride.The double bosun chair was used for several more years until two admirals in one double bosun chair, were dunked during a transfer. Soon after, the double chairs disappeared from Navy transfers. Hmm…wonder why?

But they were still around when Mo and i were transferred. It had been a long day, and very, very tiring for the Thomas line handlers. Our chair was lifted up, the signals were given. Mo and i glided along the 120 feet between the ship quite nicely, the two of us unaware the line handlers were exhausted. When we were about twenty feet from our landing area, our chair stopped moving. The line handlers had stopped pulling. They were worn out. Mo and i dangled there about forty feet from the swirling Atlantic between two ships.

It seemed then and has increased over the passage of time that we hung there for an hour or so. It was more likely to been five minutes, if that, before the working party regained enough strength to haul Mo and i in our chair to safety.

There are several other incidents with high-line transfers my tale of the sea.

I was glad this one was over. Mo and i vowed we would stay with tour groups on any other such events involving high line transfers.

to be continued…

Notes from the Southwest Corner – 011: Change

Notes from the Southwest Corner

This was published around Christmas time quite a while ago, the day before 2008. i chose to publish it now, as it is in chronological order of the earlier efforts to recapture my time with my hometown newspaper. It also addresses change. Lebanon has changed since i wrote this column. It has grown. It is becoming more a suburb of Lebanon. They have widened and improved many roads, especially the interstates. Thus, traffic is much worse. They have torn down more of my memories. There are a lot of nice places and the town square has new life. The biggest change is my parents are gone, which means i can’t come up with excuses to go back more often, and my stays are shorter, much shorter. But i will be back, and hopefully, another dinner with Maureen, Henry and Brenda, Eddie and Brenda will occur again. It cannot be soon enough.

Tennessee in general and Lebanon in particular is not only a Christmas escape for me; it is a place to reflect on change. This year, the change, past, present, and future, seems more palpable.

Often, we refuse to accept change as inevitable. We spend post-Christmas creating New Year Resolutions, which we usually blow off in a week or so.

Just before Christmas, my wife and I shared a dinner at the Chop House with special folks. Change joined us for the evening.

Growing up, I spent almost as much time at the home of Henry Harding; his maternal grandparents, J. J. and Maude Arnold; and his parents, George and Virginia Harding, as I did at my own home. Henry remains my “best” friend. He and his wife Brenda joined us.

The couple’s troika was completed by Eddie and Brenda Callis. Eddie has been a close friend since we met in high school as sports competitors from Castle Heights and Lebanon High School. Brenda’s father, Jim Horn Hankins, recruited my father to work for at Hankins and Smith Motor Company in 1939, and they became partners in the late 1950’s. So Brenda and I have known each other pretty much all of our lives.

We spoke of families, children, grandchildren, and parents. We spoke of friends. We spoke of adventures growing up and shared stories of places we have been.

Essentially we talked about change.

We talked amidst change itself. My sister, Martha Duff, had played in this structure, now the Chop House, with her friend Kay Lucas, when it was the Castle Heights superintendent’s home, and Ralph Lucas served in that position.

Down the road, my mother played with the son of the original occupants of the Mitchell House, which Danny Evins so graciously renovated for Cracker Barrel’s headquarters. Further down on the original Castle Heights Avenue is the house my parents bought in 1942 when it was one of only two or three houses on the street and where they lived for sixty-one years.

On the dining area wall hung a picture of my brother, Joe, attired in a Heights jersey. A photo of me at the 1962 graduation dance hung in the opposite quarter. The placement was appropriate. Joe and I always seem to end up in opposite corners even in choice of homes: Joe in Vermont, me in the Southwest corner. We often reflect on how we have managed change differently.

At my age, change seems more important. I long for what use to be, overlooking the negative aspects of the past. The past seems more poignant. The need to share memories with my family, especially the new grandson, is strong.

Change is never what we expect it to be. The 1950’s predictions for the next century are comical looking at them from this end. Sometimes change is better than expected. Sometimes change is worse.

Growth, i.e. change, in Middle Tennessee is small compared to San Diego. A community of 100,000 has grown up about three miles south of our home since a large ranch estate was settled in 1995. The expansion of developments may soon extend to the Cleveland National Forest to the east.

The increase in population has produced traffic congestion. Water supply is more tenuous than ever. Utility rates have risen dramatically. Housing costs are astronomical. Politics has become more profitable and more divisive.

The plus side is convenience in shopping and dining. The developments are rife with parks, walking trails, nearby modern schools, and an increase in services.

When I see change in Lebanon, I winch with concern it may drive away many of the things in Lebanon I hold dear. However, it seems to me Lebanon has managed change pretty well since I left for the Navy in 1967. Good change without destruction of the past appears to have been the rule.

Dining with my life-long friends, it occurred to me they (and you folks who live here) have permanent connection to the past, which might explain the change management of the community. The sense of community is not strong in the Southwest corner. Change seems more precocious, more uncontrollable there.

Before this article is published, I will be back in the Southwest corner, attempting to manage change positively. If all goes well, I will return to Middle Tennessee several times in the next twelve months and find change continues to be positive here.

It’s a nice place to come home to. I hope that never changes.

Memorial Day, 2023

A Pocket of Resistance

Every year, usually a day later, i create a post to, hopefully gracefully, honor heroes, warrior heroes. When writing columns for The Lebanon Democrat for just shy of ten years, i attempted to do the same in my Thursday column. i did not wish either to be sappy or overly patriotic, nor to be acknowledged for caring about the tradition of the day. i certainly had no desire to use the holiday as some excuse for fun. i don’t denigrate those that enjoy the holiday, but i do hope they stop at least for a little while to pay respects to those who have died in military service to our country.

Last year, my thoughts changed a bit. You see, the ranks of the warriors with whom i served are being depleted, slowly, surely, and that surely is picking up speed. Memorial Day was not invented to show respect for warriors who completed their active duty service alive. But man, this is getting personal. i am losing warrior friends now.

One particular loss hit me harder last year. Al Pavich and i met on the quarterdeck of the USS Tripoli (LPH 10) at the Alava Pier on the US Naval Base, Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines, January 1980. We were literally friends for life. But we were more than that. We shared a stateroom, we shared secrets no one else knew, we shared living, we shared golf, and we lived hard. Al retired as a commander, but he continued to serve, taking care of his fellow warriors and making a difference. His record is available. i won’t elaborate here.

So, to honor Al once more, i have copied and pasted last year’s post about Memorial Day below- it also paid my respect to the children and teachers who died tragically in Uvalde, Texas.

Understand, this is not just to honor Al. It is posted in the spirit of honoring those who died in military service, but also those who made it through and have passed away since. All of them served in the defense of our country.

Memorial Day, 2022:

Last night, i walked to the top of our hill, looked out over the gray Pacific, the term that means “peaceful in character or intent.” Magellan aptly named this vast sea because he thought it was peaceful, perhaps calm.

Four hundred and ninety-eight years ago, having just sailed through what is now known as the Straits of Magellan with four of his original fleet of five sailing ships, i’m sure that old Portuguese sea dog would have considered the Pacific as calm and peaceful. I’m sure Richard Henry Dana would agree with me.

Last night from my vantage point, the Pacific Ocean did appear peaceful. There was a faint glow of sun on the horizon below the clouds when, at 1948 GMT-7, i two-blocked my ensign.

My flag light makes this legal. I put that light up to keep the ensign flying 24/7 (as they say) because a number of my neighbors had complimented me for allowing them to see it as they got ready for work.

That little personal ceremony last night was to remember those children and teachers that died in Uvalde, Texas this past week. Our country’s flag being lowered to half mast was an appropriate way to grieve.

Tomorrow morning at 0800 GMT-7, i will be on that hill again to lower the ensign to half mast. Our U.S. Flag Code calls for our flag to be flown at half mast from 0800 to noon on Memorial Day. I will observe that.

This year, Memorial Day is particularly poignant for me. As i noted earlier, a close friend, a brother really, died May 10. Al Pavich doesn’t technically fit those we honor this Memorial Day. We honor those who died in military service to our country. Although Al retired from the Navy in 1998, he served his country and military veterans up until the day he died. And his passing too soon was directly related to injuries he suffered in his tour in Vietnam.

As i have mentioned here earlier and elsewhere, Al’s passing has hit me hard. We went through two deployments, good times, hard times, secrets between us, and understanding. Brothers. And through it all, i knew there were others, and those others kept growing in numbers, who felt that bonding with Al as i did. As i promised, I will write more of this hero here when i have a better control of me.

Tomorrow, up on that hill, Al Pavich will be one of the heroes i honor with my lowering and raising the ensign. It is good to have moments of silence in their honor.

There are other thoughts i have tonight, but we need a rest; we need to think about the good of this country; for a moment, we need to stop the asinine rock throwing at each other, and honor those who have died for our country.

Rest in peace, you warriors of honor. You too, Al.

Rest in peace.