All posts by Jim

A Tale of the Sea and Me – A Real Sea Story

In the late 1950’s, an ocean going minesweeper home ported in Newport, Rhode Island, had a new executive officer report aboard. He was a very devoted Christian and abhorred the Navy’s liberal use of profanity and vowed to get rid of foul language on his ship.

After he had relieved the outgoing XO, he called for a meeting of all officers in the wardroom, and quickly launched into a long and tedious lecture on restraining from using profanity. After about twenty minutes, he began to wind down and came to what he considered his clinching arugment:

“There is never a situation, never any time, where there is not a better word to use than a cuss word. You should never have to use a profanity because there is always a better word or phrase to use,” the XO remonstrated.

The old warrant boatswain in the back of the wardroom, coughed, leaned forward in his chair, and raised his hand. Although the XO already knew the bosun was the salt of the earth, a crusty old seaman who cursed a blue streak, he reluctantly acknowledged him, “Yes, Bosun?”

“Well sir, if you’ll excuse me, I do know of one situation where that wouldn’t work. In fact, it happened on board just the other day.”

In spite of his dislike for profanity and disagreement with the Bosun’s claim, the XO was curious and allowed the Bosun to continue.

“You see, sir,” the Bosun politely explained, “Seaman Jones was the kid designated for the mid-morning geedunk run.

This was before the destroyer-submarine piers had been added to the Newport Naval Station, and the old MWR geedunk van, called the “roach coach” by sailors, would stop at the head of the pier around 1000 hours. The destroyers and minesweepers moored out in the harbor would make a geedunk run in their motor whaleboats after a designated sailor would collect orders and the cash to buy snacks and cold drinks.

“When they got to the pier, Jones ran up and bought all the geedunk. There was so much, he had taken the tops of two shit cans (trash cans) to hold it all.

“When got back to the whaleboat, the sailor handling the bow line had forgot to attach it to the bollard on the pier, and when Jones put one foot on the gunnel with one foot still on the pier, the whale boat begin to float away from the pier.

“Well sir,” the Bosun continued with a wry grin, “Ole Jones was doing the splits, inevitably going in the drink. He looked at the two shit can lids full of geedunk he was holding with both outstretched arms, looked around, and he said, ‘I’m fucked!

“And XO, there ain’t no other words he could have used that were any better for  that situation.”

Daddy

As i explained last year on Father’s Day, my brother, sister, and i didn’t call him “Father.” We didn’t call him “Dad.” We called him “Daddy,” always. His grandchildren and great grandchildren (there was only one talking before he left us) called him “Grandpa.”

And so he was.

In all of the stuff i’ve written about him, i don’t think i’ve said one of best things about him. Several years ago, Peter Thomas and i concluded that the most consistent and most important thing about the most effective leaders in history is they did the right thing.

Daddy did the right thing. Always. Sometimes it was tough to do the right thing. He did it anyway.

Most folks believe their father was the best. They probably were for them. So i’ll join that choir.

My graphics capabilities stink. Photos are with with him and me, 1944, a month before he went to war; with my daughter Blythe, 1974 in San Pedro California; with my daughter Sarah, 1998 in his home on Castle Heights Avenue in Lebanon, Tennessee; and with his great grandson Sam, c2010 on a walk in Deer Park community – Blythe, Sam’s mother will have to straighten me out on the year.

And on many occasions pertaining to Daddy, i repost a poem i wrote about him that he liked very much:

Hands

When most folks meet him,
they notice steel blue eyes and agility
his gaze, gait and movements
belie the ninety-five years;
but
those folks should look at his hands:
those hands could make Durer cry
with their history and the tales they tell.

His strength always was supple
beyond what was suggested from his slight build.
His hands are the delivery point of that strength.
His hands are not slight:
His hands are firm and thick and solid –
a handshake of destruction if he so desired,
but
he has used them to repair the cars and our hearts;

His hands are marked by years of labor with
tire irons, jacks, wrenches, sledges, micrometers on
carburetors, axles, brake drums, distributors
(long before mechanics hooked up computers,
deciphering the monitor to replace “units”
for more money in an hour than he made in a month
when he started in ’34 before computers and units).

His hands pitched tents,
made the bulldozers run
in war
in the steaming, screaming sweat of
Bouganville, New Guinea, the Philippines.

His hands have nicks and scratches
turned into scars with
the passage of time:
a map of history, the human kind.
Veins and arteries stand out
on the back of his hands,
pumping life itself into his hands
and
beyond;
the tales of grease and oil and grime,
cleaned by gasoline and goop and lava soap
are etched in his hands;
they are hands of labor,
hands of hard times,
hands of hope,
hands of kindness, caring, and love:
oh love, love, love, crazy love.

His hands speak of him with pride.
His hands belong
to the smartest man I know
who has lived life to the maximum,
but
in balance, in control, in understanding,
gaining respect and love
far beyond those who claim smartness
for the money they earned
while he and his hands own smartness
like a well-kept plot of land
because he always has understood
what was really important
in the long run:
smarter than any man I know
with hands that tell the story
so well.

A Tale of the Sea: A Sea Story from the Luce Med Deployment, 1972

Before i get to the historic journey home, there are two sea stories while in the Med i want to share.

Some time after we got underway from Korfu, the third division crew told me a story that still makes me laugh. The Luce had been in a regular overhaul in the Philadelphia just before the deployment.

The officer i relieved was a good guy, a lieutenant who went to the Naval Academy, and got married while the ship was in the yards. Just before the wedding took place when he was the Command Duty Officer on the weekend, he invited his future wife and her parents on board for lunch and a tour of the ASW spaces.

They toured the ASW fire control and ASW spaces on the third platform. He took them to the forecastle and showed them the ASROC launcher. They then went back to the torpedo tubes on the starboard side.

The second class torpedo man was there. He was resting against the bulkhead next to the tubes. He was wearing the classic dungaree working uniform with his Dixie Cup sailor pulled down and resting on his nose.

The lieutenant pointed to the three tubes in a triangle and proudly stated to his future wife and in-laws, “Helen, Mom, and Dad, these are my torpedo tubes.

The torpedo man seemed startled. He stood erect, pushed his Dixie cup back to the top of his head and said, “Beg your pardon, sir, but these are my fucking torpedo tubes.”

They didn’t tell me what ensued, but the torpedoman was right.