All posts by Jim

Nathan Short: a Story that Ends Well

i hesitated to post this one. It came upon me this morning. Suddenly. Just like that. i like it so why the hesitation? Well, i got concerned folks might think i’m writing about myself. i mean, after all, i am short and chubby and now, pretty much locked in to officially old.

But it’s not me. There is a part of me in there, but this is a story about Nathan Short, not me. Part of this one contains things i think are important. But just as Dave Carey expressed to me in the early 1990’s, the end game, at least for me, is for folks to make their own connections. i should not and don’t expect those connections to be mine.

i don’t know why i wish to share my stuff with the general public, or least a very tiny portion of that general public, but i do. Earlier, i thought of trying to make money, but taking a hit of around $800.00 on my poetry book, i am no longer driven by the almighty dollar, as if i ever were. And i am keeping my eye on the long end game i have: to give my grandson some idea of what his grandfather was like and what papa thought about a number of things. Again, not trying to persuade him to travel in any direction. i want him to make his own connections, including ignoring all of my stuff if that is what he decides. But i hope he doesn’t: ignore my stuff completely.

And then, there is this thing about sharing it with you. i don’t know why i do that as well. But i do. You are my friends and i hope this stuff of mine will give you the opportunity to make some connections, your connections. 

So here is a story about Nathan Short i believe ends well:

Nathan Short, a Story that Ends Well

Nathan Short just didn’t fit in;
Nathan Short never made a lot of money,
nearly always had good times,
didn’t worry much
‘cepting ‘bout other folks
being worried
‘cause he cared for them.

Nathan Short was short, a bit chubby,
not sleek and handsome,
so
the girls just liked him for being nice,
a friend.

Nathan Short never was much successful
although he went a lot of places,
did a lot of things
most people never got to go or do,
but
he liked just being there and meeting folks and having a good time.

Nathan Short did okay,
but
it seemed okay was not enough,
not having a lot of money was not enough either.

Nathan Short was liked by just about everybody,
and
Nathan Short liked just about everybody
‘cause he didn’t hold grudges, didn’t keep score,
figured everybody makes mistakes
so
he forgave them,
but
not everybody forgave Nathan Short.

One afternoon Nathan Short listened to Waylon Jennings sing
“I’ve Always Been Crazy but It’s Kept Me from Going Insane,”
and
Nathan Short finally realized he didn’t think like other folks,
didn’t quite fit in, like Waylon;
for a while, Nathan Short was sad
but
he got over it.

Nathan Short grew older
did a lot of things he had done before,
liked to piddle and did piddle about,
finding just doing things well, large and small;
caring for folks regardless of how they felt about him
’cause
it gave him pleasure,
made him feel good…
you know, self-actualization and all that.

Nathan Short grew old
and
found himself more and more alone,
which was alright with him,
discovered he liked alone
and
he went up into the hills,
built a cabin,
lived there by himself
piddling about, doing things well
and
feeling good about it
until
old age caught up with him one morning
and
he looked out east as the sun rose on his cabin door
and
old Nathan Short
died alone
but
happy.

Bonita, California
March 30, 2019

Chapter Four: Crossing the Pond

Far and away, one of the best things about deploying in my time in the Navy was leaving all attachments to land behind. That point in time was announced, even saluted by one prolonged blast on the ship’s whistle and the boatswain mate piping “attention” on his boatswain’s pipe followed by his announcement on the 1MC speakers, “Underway.” Such announcements were preceded by two even better announcements: “let go all lines,” and blessedly “all lines clear.”

All of this meant the ship was on her own. As mentioned in my description of our sea trials. The “all lines clear” did not only refer to the mooring lines and steam lines but also the phone lines. Back then, such cutting of umbilical ties meant no phone calls. It also meant no outside agencies coming on board to conduct inspections, no salesman trying to get their foot in the door, no superiors or their staff coming on board to give direction on how we should operate or address their particular area of expertise, no inspectors coming to check their particular bailiwick and disrupt the ship from getting done what needed to be done, and no dependents coming on board asking for us to do something to help them or their sailor.

“Underway” meant Yosemite was on her own to do what she, in 1944, was commissioned to do. As a career surface officer, it was a heady feeling to get underway for a deployment scheduled to last almost eight months.

At 1400, Friday, September 9, 1983, Yosemite got underway and would remain on her own power except for five brief port visits until 1200, Wednesday, March 21, 1984.

While writing this book, I came upon a shoe box full of letters I had written Maureen. Many are too personal to include here. But there are some that capture my thoughts better than I could now, thirty-four years later. The one below, as all of those letters appearing here, has been edited for grammar, sometimes to omit an item not really accurate in retrospect, or to delete a negative reference to a shipmate. This one was begun two days after Yosemite departed Mayport and was completed the night before we arrived at the US Naval base in Rota, Spain.

Lady,

Underway. Sun so bright; sea so calm: we sail. I cannot hear the engine growl or the boilers rumble from up here on the open bridge – an archaic wonder, this open bridge I have come to love with the wind in my face. Dolphins, flying fish, and a giant sea turtle bigger than a small car, busily nosing about and poking their heads up and sometimes clearing the water in their entirety to peer at this strange sight passing by, this steel mammoth filled with 900 souls, these 900 souls ironically lonelier than if they were by themselves on a deserted isle.

The above was written several days ago – I have already lost track of time – when all was peaceful. A hurricane (Chantal), born in an unlikely area and following an unusual path has reared up to pester us (our pesterers actually are the ones who control our puppet strings reacting to lines on a satellite picture, not the hurricane herself) and awake me at all hours of the night to receive reports, analyze the graphs, and then look at the beautiful sea and attempt to read her dark and brooding mind to guess at Chantal’s course and speed to minimize our peril, avoid standing into danger. Then in those irregular moments throughout the day, recommend to the captain, a knowledgeable, capable seaman in his own right, a course and speed to keep us on a safe journey east.

But we cannot take the risk of the course and speed we both think is prudent taking us eastward, defying the desk-sitting analysts back in Norfolk, for if we were wrong, there would be hell, ours, to pay with swift retribution from the desk sitters on dry land.

So we avoid a danger that never really existed for us, a hurricane that died in a confused sea, a fate precipitated by her birth in an unusual place for such phenomena while several hundred miles west we fretted away the hours.

i spent my time being concerned about our being subjected to the lack of seaman sense governing us when i realized the captain was relying on my sense of the sea, my knowledge and experience, which was close to equal to his, and certainly greater than anyone else on board. Captain Boyle was listening to and taking my recommendations, often seeking them. He commented i communicated with the sea.

i communicate with the sea.

i had never had it put that way before. And it came from a man who knows. i do not possess the technical knowledge of oceanography and meteorology. i have the basics of sailing the sea and not much more. i, however, can look at the sea’s skies and her endless depth of blue, and hear her speak her mood. i used to feel her presence and interpreted the feelings i experienced at sea as an indication that god might really exist. Now, i know it was not a god but the sea trying to talk to me. Mystic nonsense? Maybe.

But maybe it is you who has given me this gift. Maybe experiencing you and our love has allowed me to understand this power of my communication with this frighteningly beautiful force such as she.

i rejoice in the revelation but acknowledge the responsibility i bear along with the talent(?). i am even more responsible for this lovely old ship and the souls on board. i must temper my abandon and romantic restlessness. i live comfortably within my communication with this power and love you even more for allowing me to live with both of you. These people rely on me. They all rely on me whether they realize it or not to give their lives a substance, a direction, a purpose.

The Captain is an idol, an object of reverence, a god at sea. i am the force, the dynamic driving force that worms into the spirit of each soul and claims my territory. Unlike many others, but not all, i have attempted to add humor, understanding, selflessness, credibility into this force. i hope have not engendered fear. i believe i am promoting respect; respect for the Captain, for me, and the ship, but most importantly for themselves.

There have already been mistakes. There will be many more. Hopefully, they will not have any adverse impact. i only hope i don’t burn out, don’t become so involved i cannot see the humor, pathos, and futility in this game of driving, leading these people down a path that has no real direction except for the immediate and eternal goal of the ship’s mission. i already have come to love this job, but i still occasionally wonder if this awesome responsibility of power won’t destroy itself, destroy me. i sometimes feel i am Luke, old cool hand lying on that table, those fifty eggs bloating his stomach, his body resembling a man on a crucifix after he told his prison mates not to lean on him.

i am an image i believe: an image our sailors would like to emulate. They know i am happy. They know i enjoy fine things. They know i am honest and upright, and they know i am married to a beautiful woman. They also know i came from the same roots as they. i can feel they identify with those common roots and see they, or perhaps their son or daughter, can reach this plateau.

The job is consuming. i started this letter the second day out. i started this last part at 0200 the morning we arrive in Rota. Every morning, i arise around 0530; sometime around midday, go for a run or take a nap (sometimes both); have one relaxing meal (breakfast is a working meal where i read radio messages and prepare for officers call), skipping the other meal. i normally hit the rack between 2300 and 0100 but already have had a couple of nights with only one or two hours sleep. There will be more. i really am not complaining because i am really into it and feel like i’m having a positive impact.

i’ve taken very little time for personal things. Sleep is my enemy. i want to stay awake forever and cram all of these things into my life, including being XO. i can’t so i’m trying to be selective and truly prioritize. This deployment provides me the time and requires me, quite willingly to focus on this ship, crew, and wardroom. My goal is to reach peak organization by the time we reach Diego Garcia. Once i’ve achieved that, i should have the time to focus on writing, and of course, you.

i am excited. i am excited about performing this job well and absolutely bonkers about us in the future. After these 183 days of deployment, i never want to leave you. i think about actually getting screened and assigned as commanding officer of a ship. It would be reaching my ultimate Navy goal, but it also would most likely mean at least one deployment, and the thought of being away from you that long again does not sit well with me. My wanderlust is fading, but i would accept a CO assignment in a heartbeat. But there would be some regret at the thought of leaving you.

“Whatever else you are, be a seaman, know the ways of the sea and the men who go down to the sea in ships.” Unknown

“Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose, we call upon the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call. Come to the sea. Come sail with me.” John Paul Jones

 

 

 

It Was Meant To Be

This is a story i have told innumerable times. It  is timeless. i have loved many women. i still love many women. However, there is this woman i met thirteen days and 37 years ago who is pretty special to me. She is my wife. i am her husband. She is Maureen Renee Boggs Jewell. She turns sixty-eight today. She doesn’t look sixty-eight. She remains  beautiful. And i remain deeply in love. This story, told innumerable times, is too good not to tell again. 

Maureen, Happy Birthday; i love you:

In March 1982, i was the Weapons Officer on the USS Okinawa (LPH 3), an amphibious helicopter carrier – For some quirky reason, the department head position was entitled First Lieutenant, which i preferred, on all of the ships of that class, except the Okinawa. My commanding officer was Captain David Rogers, one of the best captains i had on the ten ships on which i served.

Dave was very proud of his ship. He desired it to be the best, and asked me to come up with a way to make our quarterdeck (for landlubbers, this is the main, if not the only entrance to the ship, a ceremonial and practical place for greeting guests coming on board, a check-in, check-out place for officers and crew, and for enforcing security. In short, like the bridge at sea, the quarterdeck is one of the most important places on the ship when moored or anchored.

But on carriers, or at least helicopter carriers like Okinawa the quarterdeck was located on the hanger deck, one deck below the flight deck. It was a cavernous area for stowing helicopters and performing maintenance. It was not a showy place. That made making the quarterdeck better than all of the others on the waterfront a difficult task.

Okinawa already had a huge red Japanese torii (ornamental gate) we placed on the quarterdeck when in port. But the captain wanted our entrance to be better. That was my challenge.  Finally, a couple of my division officers, CWO4 Boatswain Roger Ellis, and i came up with a solution.  A bosun is the heart of deck departments on large ships. Bosun Ellis was one of the best bosun’s around. His wife was a very short and very round Filippino lady who was involved in a lot of department activities, including creating beautiful macramé (she made the lanyard for the boatswain pipe the department gave me for a good-bye present  a year later and it hangs from my Navy brass clock in my home office still).

The Okinawa’s quarterdeck spilled into the hangar bay, a huge but not very attractive space. Guests, while waiting for whomever they had come to visit had to stand in the area. We decided to buy partitions and make a waiting area with some nice, but durable seating and hang artwork on the partition walls.

Captain Rogers thought that was a marvelous idea. So on Friday, March 12, 1982, Boatswain Ellis and his first class boatswainmate were to include panels in their bi-weekly department shopping run. The boatswainmate had straggly, straw-colored hair, which he combed into as much of a ducktail as a regulation Navy haircut would allow. On these runs the duo wore civvies. Both had on jeans. Bosun Ellis had on a black tee shirt, which did not hide his more than adequate beer belly. His hair, jet-black, was thick and also worn with a hint of a ducktail. The boatswainmate wore a studded black leather biker’s jacket over a white tee shirt. When he took off his jacket, his cigarette case was wrapped in the left sleeve of the tee shirt.

They left the ship about 1400. i had a lot of paperwork and stayed in my department office until well after 1700, more than an hour after liberty call. That’s when the pair returned.

Somewhat surprised to find me, the bosun told me they had gotten all of the needed supplies except for the panels. When i asked why, he explained, “Well, sir, we went to Dixieline Lumber (the local hardware store). They didn’t carry panels. They suggested we try this place downtown, Parron-Hall Office Interiors.

“We went there and it was real fancy, way above our pay grade. But this lady came out and helped us. She was nice and pretty, and I noticed she didn’t have a ring on her left finger.

“But she was way too skinny for me.”

Handing me the brochures he brought back from the lady, he concluded, “So I thought you should go down there and take care of getting the panels.”

On Monday morning, March 15, 1982, i drove downtown and walked into Parron-Hall Office Interiors. The receptionist called for Ms. Boggs. Our first meeting is still disputed. She says i had on my Navy hat. i have never worn my Navy hat indoors and insist my piss cutter was either in my hand or folded in my back pocket. i say she had on a light dress, and i could see her legs silhouetted by the sunlight coming through a window. She says no way.

Regardless, our panel search was over. Somehow i managed to get about five “business lunches” out of the purchase. i hated fraud, waste, abuse, and corruption, and tried hard not to let this beautiful young woman influence me, but i did keep the relationship as friendly as possible. When the purchase was made and the delivery was on the ship, i went to her office for the last administrative check on Thursday.

Then, i asked her if she would like to go see John Lee Hooker at the Belly Up Tavern in Carlsbad that Saturday.

She asked, “Who’s John Lee Hooker?”

i replied, “He’s one of the best blues singers,” and then inquired, “You do like the blues, don’t you?”

She evaded the question by declaring, “I like all kinds of music.”

She then stated i should know she had a “primary relationship.” i asked, “What’s that?” She laughed.

We went to see John Lee at the Belly Up Tavern Saturday night, and then we went back to the Belly Up on Monday to see Doc Watson.

And so it began.

As to why i was attracted to her, she was beautiful but the realization we could have a relationship that lasted for a long time came to me on a special night the following autumn.

We had been out for dinner uptown, not in La Jolla, which was most often our preference. For some reason, we were driving around Kensington, an upscale neighborhood. We passed a beautiful ravine, and i parked. We just talked about many things in the short stop, but she started talking about her beliefs. It struck me hard that she and i had incredibly similar views about living the right way. The more we were together the more i recognized how caring she was without a mean bone in her body.

And then, she sent me flowers. It was probably a first. A florist delivery truck pulled up on the pier and  the driver delivered a rather impressive floral array to the quarterdeck.

“These are for Commander Jewell,” he said. They were delivered. i became a shipboard legend. This rather incredibly beautiful woman had sent flowers to Commander Jewell.

Then i got orders across the country to the USS Yosemite (AD 19) in late summer, which would deploy across the world to the Indian Ocean. She voiced concern about our relationship lasting so far apart. So i asked her to marry me. She said yes.

Before i left, she gave me some photos of her. One of her bosses, Bob Long, was also a very good photographer and had a shooting session with her. My favorite was enlarged, framed and hung on the bulkhead of my shipboard office. It is now above the desk in my home office.

She was beautiful:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She ages very well and remains beautiful:

There is much more to this story, but it best be told another place and another time. Maureen continues to be the focus of my life, and fortunately, i continue to be hers…and it just flat doesn’t get any better than that.

The story just doesn’t get old for me.

Thank you, Maureen, for being you…and  Happy 68th Birthday.