Nothing is ever so bad that it can’t get worse.
All posts by Jim
May on the Seacoast
May of a seacoast town
is dark, gray and dank until
the sun burns through
the marine layer;
morning is the time
to visit the coastline
gray and dank before
the sun burns through;
nary a soul but you
walks the beach;
a large black dog runs
up to the incoming tide,
barks furiously at small waves
crashing down,
then retreating fast away
to repeat the frenzy
again and again
while you walk away
along the south facing beach
toward the west
and the sea,
always toward the sea.
A Tale of the Sea and Me (for Sam), part 003
The continuation of Chapter 2:
i assumed i was over the hump with the hijinks of the sailors dealt to midshipmen. It was not over that day and would not be for almost half the cruise.
When the Lloyd Thomas cleared the bay, we and the other ships headed south. i’m guessing there was an exercise for the USS Intrepid (CV 11) flotilla requiring going south. i did not know at the time, and the concern was far from my mind, at the time, but our first liberty port would be in Nova Scotia about three weeks away.
The efforts to find me some clothes would not reach fruition until the next day. i was stuck in my service dress khaki worn for over 72 hours, sweaty, smelly. i had taken off the cover, tie, and blouse, but it was still bad.
i went to the organization meeting for midshipmen and was assigned to operations for my first department. The midshipmen were to spend time in operations, weapons, and engineering during their cruise. i went down and aft to the midshipmen berthing, and while the other middies were emptying in their seabags in their small lockers below the three-tiered racks (beds) i was depositing my discarded blouse, cover and tie in mine.
i had the lower rack of three one row off the centerline. For those who weren’t on Navy ships in the 1960’s, the racks were aluminum frames not quite three-feet wide and about six feet, six inches long. A piece of canvas had grommets where hemp 1/2 inch lines went through and laced the canvas to the frame. the bedding was about a 2-1/2 inch straw mattress with a sheet bag. A sheet, pillow with case, and a tan or grey wool blanket completed the bedding. The canvas sagged enough, especially if the middie above was large, enough where one could not roll over. If one wish to switch positions, rolling over was impossible. You had to get out of the rack and crawl back into the desired new position.
It was time for the evening mess on the mess decks. The mess decks were forward on the first deck. One entered into the chow line, cafeteria style, collected the fare on a metal tray and found a seat on the metal table and chairs. This first mess at sea, perhaps because the midshipmen were there was a bit different than most of the menus. The fare was greasy pork chops, pork and means, and mashed potatoes. i i’m sure there was more items but i don’t recall.
What i do recall is after all the middies had gone through the chow line and found a place to sit, we were treated to a parade. About a half dozen sailors had assembled somewhere near the chow line and handed out sardines from a can. About four sailors tied the sardines onto a string. Then, they paraded through the mess decks making sure the midshipmen were watching. They held the sardines above their heads, dropped them into their mouths, swallowed and announced the sardines were much better the second time around. Then they would pull the sardines out on the string and continued the process as they strolled my the mess deck tables where the middies sat.
Once again, a large numbers of midshipmen lost it and headed for the weather decks or barf bags. Perhaps my aroma was like an invisible shield. The act did not disturb me. Shortly after the mess, i went back to my rack. i was scheduled for the mid-watch (0000-0400). It had been one hell of a day.
It was not over.
About 2315 (11:15 pm for landlubbers), the messenger of the watch roamed through the midshipmen berthing, awaking those who were to go on watch. That meant me. i put back on the stinky uniform, and headed for midrats on the mess decks. The midrats (or midnight rations for those going on the midwatch) consisted of greasy grilled cheese sandwiches and coffee.
i gulped mine down and headed to CIC to arrive in time to relieve the watch at 2345. Unknown to this greenhorn, sitting on a ship facing forward or aft was the worst for dealing with the sea rolls. Of course, the radarmen on watch sat me on one of the view radar repeaters facing forward, not toward port or starboard.
Combat Information Center was always at darken ship with only red lighting to retain night vision and have clear vision for watching the radar repeaters. The repeaters were dark, machinery grey, four-foot high, 2 1/2 feet cubes with a dark green circular screen on top. The radar sweep emanated from the center and swept around the circle. If blips occurred on the screen, they were “contacts,” surface ships. i was determined to do a good job and sat focused on the screen.
By this time, we were off Cape Hatteras. i learned later that the sea around the cape was the worst for bad seas. It certainly was that night. We were taking on some serious rolls. i felt a bit queasy.
That’s when the radarmen decided to achieve their goal of getting me sea sick. They all lit up cigars and walked by my station, blowing the smoke into my face as they gave me instructions on what to watch.
It was 0100 in the morning. i smelled to high heaven in clothes i had worn for three days in hot weather. i was rolling with the ship in a dark warm space after being subjected to fake barf and sardine swallowing and re-swallowing.
And finally, i was beginning to feel sick, sea sick. i could feel the need to vomit swelling up. i could feel my innards coming up. And then, i told myself i was not going to give these guys the pleasure of me succumbing to their efforts.
i swallowed whatever was coming up, and and stared at the radar screen.
i did not get sea sick. i made it through the mid-watch. The next morning, the crew had assembled enough uniforms to give me something to wear until my seabag finally arrived. The one thing that stood out was the only available shoes were camel leather boots one sailor had bought during a visit to an Arabian liberty port in the Mediterranean. They had a distinctive odor about them, but that aroma was certainly tolerable after four days of smelling me.
i had passed big test. To this day, i am convinced my refusal to become sea sick has served me well. On ten ships, in some of the worst seas possible over 14 years of sea duty, i was never sea sick. i even cared for shipmates and cleaned up the mess they made.
And if you are going to become a mariner not getting sea sick is a wonderful thing.
i was then ready to learn about being a sailor, a crazy, mischievous sailor, but a sailor none the less.
Teeth, Eyes, Hair, Jeans, and the Cleaners: A Curmudgeon’s Rant Gone South
Begun Thursday, May 18. Finished this afternoon.
i should be finishing up Chapter 2 of my serial A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam). i should be posting a Democrat column from my “Notes from the Southwest Corner.” i should be posting another “Murphy’s Law” guffaw. i should be activating my new bluetooth transponder so i can play my ancient non-bluetooth devices, like phonograph players, CD players, cassettes, and eventually reel-to-reel tapes — as i disdain using Apple music or others because i want to listen to my music, not what they think i would like to hear. i should be organizing stuff in my garage, clothes closet, and garage. i should be cleaning and polishing my shoes. i should be cleaning the interior of my car, close to the last U.S. non-sports car with a standard transmission.
But no.
The seemingly unending string of curmudgeonly thoughts loosely tied together kept coming. It began when i saw a beautiful young woman…except she had fake eyelashes. To keep it nice, i will say like she looked like an anime from some video, but not pretty. Definitely not as attractive as she would have been with her natural lashes.
From that thought, it was easy to move to my great dislike of women, young or old, wearing jeans that cost absurd amounts of money with torn sections, which my mother would have fixed with patches. But i’ve ranted about that enough.
My travels took me to the cleaners, a return trip. A day earlier, i had retrieved two pairs of dockers pants, one blue and one khaki. When i got home, i discovered the blue trousers had been pressed with the crease in the traditional front, but the khakis had been pressed with the crease, if you can call it that, along the seam. i queried the woman at the counter. She explained the khakis were considered “casual” and that meant they should not have a crease.
i noticed a bunch of folks, young and old, but not as old as me with hair different than what was natural. Men had corn rows, toupees, or shaved sides, or shoulder length, or, heaven forbid, man buns. The women expanded on that and both had the colors of the rainbow, their choice. Remember when hair was black, brown, blonde, or auburn (remember auburn?). Nearly all had tattoos somewhere, often many wheres.
i was about to explode into damning all artificialities on or added to our body parts. Then i thought about my teeth and my friends.
You see, when i was nine, i took a header off my bike onto the sidewalk while on the way to a baseball game. That is a long story, but the short story is half of one of two front teeth was no longer part of my dental makeup. At the time, dental cosmetics had not reached its zenith and for about seven years or so, i had one silver front tooth — why am i thinking of “The Ballad of Cat Ballou.”
But my best friend, and my second best friend growing up fixed that in the winter of my junior year in high school. Henry and Jim, aka Beetle, and i went out to a frozen pond in February to skate or something, without skates of course. We would run through the snow to the pond’s edge and jump with the goal of making it to the other side standing up and unscathed. Somewhere in this endeavor, i did not make it to the other side and took another header, this time on the rough ice of the pond.
i got rid of that silver tooth…and what remained of the original one. Henry and Beetle deposited on the front steps of my house. i think my mother realized the real culprit and never chastised the Harding boys. The good news i got a bridge with a tooth that looked pretty good. For someone totally void of compassion, i delighted the next week when playing in a JV basketball game, the kid guarding me left the court to throw up because he was staring at a face with a tooth missing and scars that arched from his mouth up to his ears on both sides, looking like a small version of “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
Then, this guy pulled out into an intersection, ignoring the stop sign around midnight and i caught him flush with my Volvo, Another front tooth bit the dust…or rather bit the steering wheel, and the bridge was then for two.
And while i was executive officer aboard USS Yosemite, a cook from the wardroom mess brought me a fresh pear. i was pleased, leaned back in my office chair and took a bite. The pear was so fresh, it was hard. When i bit into it and tried to pry it from my front teeth, i was successful in pulling out the bridge and one of the anchor teeth along with the pear.
That’s three.
Then after retiring a piece of food, in spite of my flossing, hung up in crevasse next to an anchor tooth. the anchor tooth eroded.
So now i have four false teeth in front, held in place by that bridge.
i then considered all of my friends. There are very few who haven’t had some body part replacement, knee, shoulder, hip, ankles, etc.
Therefore, i think it might be a tad hypocritical for me to rant about artificial body parts. Because without such medical marvels, i would make Billy the Kid look like a dentist office ad.
During all of this deep thought, i picked up my pants at the cleaners. When i got home i discovered they were pressed along the seam without a crease in front. When i returned to our cleaners, i asked why. It seems my pants are “casual pants” that do not get a crease in the front. i’m guessing i’m supposed to go out with women who wear torn jeans that cost around $200.
It is not happening. My wife will not wear torn jeans.
And so, i must admit, i am a relic. i no longer can fit in. i am fine with that. i don’t recall any phase in my life where i really fit in.
But i do regret what we have lost. Remember back when (for those that can). We dressed up every Sunday and for any big event. We wore shirts and ties and no one, no one wore sneakers — in fact, you only wore sneakers on athletic courts. We didn’t go out without our shirts tucked in. Women wore skirts and looked great, attractive but not suggestive.
I think we took more pride in how we looked. We didn’t go for easy and relaxed. We went for pride in ourselves…i think.
Either is not bad i guess. But i am from a different place and a different time. i’m sort of glad my momma sewed patches on the torn parts of my jeans, that i don’t look like Billy the Kid with fewer teeth, and folks, i gotta let you know you will never see me with false eyelashes.
Shadow Mountain Fun
In 2015, Steve and Maria Frailey invited us to join them for a “glamping” trip to the wineries in Warner Springs, a farming community in the northeast San Diego County high desert. It was marvelous. The Shadow Mountain Winery is a wonderful place.
The first vineyard at the winery planted in 1945 is named “Old Gus” for the original owners AuGUStus and Helen Mase. Steve wanted to take a photo of us in the old tub next to the vineyard. We both laughed and hopped in. When Maureen finally realized it could be construed as being like the Viagra commercial on television at the time, she was embarrassed. i love it.
i could not figure out how to share it as a memory on Facebook, even though it’s a great memory. Thank you, Steve.