i received a gift several days ago. Totally unexpected, it was delivered in a small box at the front door. We get a lot of them because we use Amazon quite a bit (in erroneous logic, i claim it is to take advantage of the “prime” free shipping).

When i opened it, my jaw dropped about six inches. Five coasters were inside. They are nice coasters. What was etched on those coasters is what floored me. It was even more surprising when i found who had sent them.

Darryl Gunter.

Darryl is one amazing guy. He was a boiler technician — still “Boiler Tender” to me. He was on my last ship, the USS Yosemite (AD 19) when we deployed to the Indian Ocean, 1983-84. When i wrote my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings, Darryl was one of the few folks who sent me photos to include.

Darryl has created a very successful boiler business in Atlanta. He is the “Chapter Commander” of the Combat Vets Association 25-8, a life member of Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW), and North Cobb American Legion Post 304. He is a patriot through and through. Currently, he is riding around the country on his motor cycle and will be out here in about a month.

i cannot wait to see him to thank him in person.

i received a number of honors while serving in the Navy. i’m most proud of my two commendation medals. But i cherish what a number of my superiors wrote about me in their reports of fitness and recommendations. Yet, there is only one that compares to what Darryl sent me.

In 1982, i was the emergency executive officer on USS Cayuga (LST 1189) for almost three months. It was a grueling time, including Amphibious Refresher Training and several incidents, two of which before i arrived involved a crew members losing their lives. The sitting XO had a nervous breakdown. As my work neared completion, The captain, Commander John Kelly recommended i stay on board to complete my required XO tour. The squadron commodore, Captain Jim McIntyre also recommended my staying aboard. The bureau said no. Still, these recommendations made me feel very good.

Yet, the only one i can remember that still makes me feel good as much as Darryl’s gift came 42 years go. Five quartermasters wrote a letter of appreciation as i was completing the XO assignment and returning to my regular tour as current operations officer on the Amphib staff.

i valued our sailors and these two gifts recognized i did. That is the best compliment i could receive:

Darryl’s gift nd the quartermaster’s letter:

“Thanks” really does feel like a feeble response. But thank you, Darryl and Picconi, Ling, Demers, Klein, and Bickford. Thank you.

Note: i once again apologize for my inability to manage graphics in Word Press.

This is not related to my time in the Navy, but it is a sea story i heard when i was aboard the USS Stephen B. Luce (DLG 7) in Newport, Rhode Island, 1973. It is one of my favorites.

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.”

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.

The legendary port was the Luce’s last liberty port. i believe it was over Thanksgiving during that ’73 deployment . It was legendary in the Navy, of course. i had stopped there for one night on my way to Korfu, Greece to meet the ship, but except for that wonderful meal of spaghetti at the off-limits area, i really didn’t know much about the city. But i found out. It didn’t disappoint.

We anchored in the bay and took boats into fleet landing. There was seemingly hundreds of people of every age, male and female, selling every possible kind of knock-off watches, trinkets of all kinds, other obviously fake goods. An officer or sailor had to push through the crowd to get to the street.

Several of us took a cab to where, i don’t recall. But we went down a road, which at least bordered the off limits area. Along a stone wall, sitting atop were a line up of ladies of the night, dressed in very suggestive outfits. i cannot confirm, but one of our cab riders claimed one was the actual “Humpty Dumpty.” She was the legendary prostitute of great girth who was considered the queen of Naples prostitution. She certainly looked the part: rotund with huge breasts and huge white legs popping out of a too small dress.

We didn’t stop.

We ended up in the night club district at a disco bar. The music was European “popcorn” dance music (or at least, that’s what i called it). We sat at a booth and some attractive young women joined us. i was married with a five-month old daughter but bought her a drink. When we had finished our beers, the women asked for another drink. That’s when i discovered her drink was mostly colored sugar water priced at $20 in 1972 dollars.

We left. Outside, we ran across a bunch of teenage boys playing soccer in the narrow street. We joined them. For about an hour, four Navy officers played soccer with the far superlative local teenagers. They far surpassed us in soccer skills…even if we had been sober.

Then, i took a trip that still resonates. i wrote a poem about it and later added an intro for a post:

In the autumn of 1972 on the only tour i can remember taking during my Navy liberty, i rode a bus to Pompeii. Much of the city had not been excavated back then, and from recent television programs about the city, much more information has been revealed about what happened .

i was enchanted. Ancient places, things now gone always move me, like the Petrified Forest in Arizona. When i returned to my ship, the USS Luce (DLG-7), i wrote this:

i went to Pompeii today in the rain;
left Naples on a tour bus
where at the front of the bus,
a fat little man
mechanically spoke his piece
about squares and statues, history,
as pimps, prostitutes, hustlers,
and
little boys selling dirty pictures
while trying to pick the target’s pockets,
along with everyday people
moved in masses
along the promenades
as we passed:
innumerable puppets in a large box,
highly seasoned with the filth of a city;

until we escaped to a smaller city
with polished tables of intricate design
and
mother of pearl cameo necklaces;

then a quick dash across the inland roads
to Pompeii
where the rain gently gathered
for the vendors to turn out
their umbrellas and raincoats
for a few lira to add to their take
selling photos and guidebooks;
the little fat man in his bemused fashion
told of the grandeur and beauty
of the ruins
before,
reeling off death statistics
before
dropping his voice suggestively
while showing rooms of licentiousness
among the ruins;
i wandered away from the tour
wondering about the people
before
they became death statistics
and
i was quiet, wondering;

i left Pompeii today in the rain;
near Amalfi, the clouds broke out
the sun in its harsh, unyielding glory;
the water far below the cliffs
on the narrow road
sparkled;
the hillside homes were bleached white
against the fury of the sea.

i left the bus to wait for hours
to make a telephone call
back home,
only to hear the unanswered ringing;
i walked to the pier
where i waited for the liberty boat
to take me back to the ship
alone.

at least the rain had stopped.

i did not mention a romantic lunch (but i was alone) at a cafe near the crest of the Amalfi coast.

After that, the Luce weighed anchor and headed to her homeport of Newport, Rhode Island. The real adventure was ahead of us before we reached home.

It was 52 years ago, and unlike when i wrote my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings, i do not have the ship’s logs nor pretty extensive notes to give me exact dates. i’m pretty sure this liberty port was before our other liberty port was changed from Venice to Naples (naturally).

Regardless, it was my first time to visit the Spanish island of Majorca and its port city of Majorca. It is, i think, the second place i decided i should move to overseas after being out of port in Sasebo in 1970. But Majorca was more entrancing. Even now, i think i could live there.

i don’t remember a great deal of that week. i remember walking the streets of Palma with the old and beautiful buildings surrounding me. i remember stopping at a tapas bar and drinking sangria (a lot of sangria) with four or so of my sonar gang. i remember one other officer (i can’t remember who) driving around the perimeter of the island. It seemed about every five miles or so, there was a different European country had established that beach as their tourist spot. There was Spain, Holland, Britain, Germany, France, and on and on. i remember the difference in the bars at those spots. Mostly, i remember gaping at all the beautiful beach women who went topless.

i remember buying a lot of gifts, mostly leather in the shops in the Palma’s shopping district. On Yosemite, i went back ten years later. And all of memories were justified and then some.

Palma is a Mediterranean dream of an island. i would go back again.