i am now at the point where the installments will be written as we go. The previous installments were edited and amplified version of my rough drafts. So there are likely going to be more incorrect passages. As i have noted, i am not a great editor, especially of my own writing.

As i wrote this installment, this is a bit bigger task than i thought it would be. i will attempt to continue to post installments on Thursdays and Sundays, but the installments may become weekly. i still intend to play a bit of golf.

Thank you for your patience.

With the news of our schedule change, our stay in Diego Garcia took on a different tone with the focus shifting to getting underway for an extended at-sea period.

The ship’s in-port business continued as usual. Liberty ran as usual. We ran “I-Division” indoctrination for new crew members reporting aboard. The ship’s basketball team played games against different base organizations’ squads including the “All Island” team at the base gym. The ship’s softball team played several games including one against the “Near Term Predeployment Force.” Small arms qualifications were being conducted. Preparations and study for advancement exams were underway. And the civilian PACE instructors were conducting a number of courses for crew and officers.

Chaplain Poe held church services: Roman Catholic Mass on Saturday and two on Sunday, Protestant Services on Sunday and Protestant Bible Study on Wednesday, and “Free Worship on Sunday evenings, two Church of Christ lay services on Sunday, and Latter Day Saints lay services on Sunday. He was a busy man.

Military Justice also had to be served. This was not a crew of angels. Sailors were sailors and always will be. The results of a Captain’s Mast on Friday, 21 October, were listed in the next day’s POD and make this point for me:

9. Captain’s Mast: The following are the results of Captain’s Mast helod on 21 OCT 83:

Diego Garcia provided its own challenges. The following POD note demonstrates beach liberty could be dangerous:

Safety Note – Cone Shells

Venomous Cone shells can be found in the Diego Garcia area. They have a highly potent venom apparatus and their stings have caused paralysis, coma, and death. Avoid these shells. 

There was another more menacing threat in the waters around Diego Garcia. A 35-foot hammerhead shark had been occupying the lagoon for years. He was considered a pet and nicknamed “Hector” by the folks assigned to the island. Needless to say, swimming in the lagoon was not wise recreation.

It was easy to forget Diego Garcia was not a paradise. It was a beautiful tropical atoll, if humid, far away from where we came. I personally experienced such an awakening on my first stop there for about four days in 1981 while stationed on the USS Belleau Wood (LHA 3) as the current operations officer of the Amphibious Squadron Five staff. I had escaped from other officers and had stopped my vehicle on the side of the road past the Naval Air Facility. At that point, the atoll was less than a half mile across. I walked over a dune to the beach on the ocean side.

I first stumbled upon the carcass of a long dead fish about six feet long. I surmised it was a tuna of some sort but it had disintegrated into being undistinguishable even though there was still some skin attached to the bone. The thought of wading in the ocean quickly vanished with my discovery.

I decided to just walk the beach. I was at peace, almost meditating as I walked slowly along what I thought was a pebbly surface. Then I felt as if I was having a stroke or something. The long stretch of beach began to seem like it was pulsating, undulating, moving. I became dizzy. I wondered if it was a slow earthquake or if the volcano from which the atoll was formed was awakening. I wasn’t afraid yet, but I was concerned.

I kept observing. I looked down at my feet and realized the source of the strange movement. The entire beach was covered by tiny hermit crabs. They were all moving, producing the undulating movements for as far as I could see. I watched fascinated, trying to get my bearings before I finally left. I never went to the ocean side beaches again.

The ship also conducted the PFT (Physical Fitness Tests) over a period of three days. The Navy’s PFT program was created in 1976 over concern many of our sailors were not physically capable of being able to perform in combat or other dangerous situations on ships. This PFT effort was a follow-on to the “JFK” physical tests introduced in the 1960’s by the sitting president, John Kennedy. Ships made a gesture of complying to those tests but there was no concrete corrective action required in the program, and it was mostly ignored and gradually disappeared.

I was all for the new standards of physical fitness. I remembered a few enlisted shipmates from previous ships who were too obese to get through hatches. The new requirements not only required passing the minimum standards of pull-ups or push-ups, sit-ups, and a 1½ mile run, they established a “body fat” minimum.” At the time, failure to meet the body fat standards or to pass the PFT noted the service member could be administratively discharged – later, there was more teeth put into the program with on-board remedial programs for failures, and if that was not productive, the service member could be sent to a Navy program for failure at body fat reduction much like the earlier established drug and alcohol rehab programs. The program was quickly labeled the “fat farm” by sailors (In my final Navy tour, I had a most rewarding experience when I required a senior chief to go to the “fat farm”). If all of these failed to produced results, the service member could be administratively discharged.

Emily Baker (now Black), our DCA recalled the Yosemite included push-ups in our PFT, not pull-ups. Linda Schlesinger, one of our stars in the supply department remembers the command master chief, BMCM Weaver crossing the finish line of the run with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

It was late October. We had been away from our families for a month and a half. For many of the crew who had not deployed before, it felt like we had been gone for an eternity. Christmas was still two months away. But we were reminded we were not going to be like Elvis and be home for Christmas. We had set up a studio for videotaping Christmas messages back home. Those crew and officers who wished to send a message back home could be taped and the videos would arrive back home for the holidays. The tapings brought the realization of not being home for Christmas into clarity.

Although I did not make a video tape for Maureen or Blythe in Texas, I was lonely also. I had made three deployments from 1979 through 1981, but I had been a bachelor then and viewed them as long, hard work interspersed with lots of fun. Now I was married, had been with my wife for a whopping two weeks before the ship left Mayport, and I was lonely as I expressed in a (amended) letter her I wrote 20 October:

Lady,

i have decided, quite on my own, there is no way possible, no way, you can be the woman i think you are.

i mean, i mean, really mean i look at your pictures. By the hundreds, i look at your pictures and know, no matter how gawdawful (Southern term)good looking i think you are, how much more i think you are good looking in the first person.

There ain’t no possible way a woman could be as wonderful as i know you are. So what must i do?

Spend as much time for the rest of my life trying to be with you, at least enough to figure out how you can be this wonderful and how (god bless office panels) i could have found you.

Love, scooby dooby doesn’t hold a candle to our love, scooby dooby.

*     *      *

The possibility of sexual liaisons among crew members continued to concern the command, i.e. the captain, me, and senior officers and enlisted. Although we knew men and women forming romantic relationships would never be stopped, we felt we needed to keep them at a minimum. I was not sure such liaisons would have a disastrous effect on the crew and the command, but I knew such going-on’s could lead to some very difficult problems and possibly create friction in the crew. One of the main functions of my job as XO was to promote good morale. I also was the figurehead for good order and discipline. Both could be threatened if amorous relationships went south. Another important aspect was our charge, specifically the captain’s and therefore mine as well was to make the Women at Sea program successful. Pregnancies while deployed, any negative impact on the ship created by relationships between men and women crewmembers (as well as in the wardroom), fraternization between male and female sailors of different ranks, especially officers and crew would have disastrous effect and possibly destroy the program. I should add such problems would leave an incredible bad mark on the captain’s and my Navy careers.

We didn’t want to throw threats at the crew or continually remind them of keeping their distance. After all, that would be going against the mantra of not having women or men on the ship because they were all sailors first. Still, I felt reminders of acting like sailors would help. The ship held “Military Rights and Responsibility,” “Culture Expression,” and “Women at Sea workshops on a regular basis. I also would frequently add POD notes reminding all hands the weather decks were off limits after taps even during in port periods.

*     *     *

Yosemite was now engaged knee deep in preparing to go to sea. Departments were ensuring they would have the needed supplies for the voyage north and our stay off Masirah (with no definite end date set yet). It was a busy time, but considering all, it was pretty much that way the entire deployment.

On Monday, 24 October, the Lynde McCormick moors alongside to refuel in the morning. That afternoon, Yosemite returns to the POL piers to refuel and then return to her anchorage.

0800, Tuesday, 25 October 1983, USS Yosemite gets underway for the North Arabian Sea and the island of Masirah, Oman. A new chapter of Navy history is begun.

This installment follows the Yosemite’s change of schedule, eliminating Perth, Australia as a liberty port and departing for anchorage off of Masirah, Oman with the objective of providing more repair and maintenance services for Battle Group ALFA.

The change made perfect sense. I suspected wanting to be at sea rather than in a port might have played a small part in the captain’s idea. I was elated. We would be at sea. There would be many less problems without liberty. The CO and XO would have much more control over ship’s company, and the change would, in fact, allow us to do our job better and more frequently.

On the other hand, this would also affect our schedule, most significantly our liberty port visit to Perth, Australia. Perth was one of my all-time favorite ports of call. I had spent over two weeks there where i joined the wardroom of USS Okinawa (LPH 3). I was single, and Perth was a wonderful place to visit.

As with all things related to Navy ship’s schedules, that schedule did change. The departure from staying in Diego Garcia make a voyage east to Perth impractical.

With the loss of Perth as a liberty port, the captain and I lobbied through radio messages to the chain of command for the Yosemite to return to Mayport at the end of the deployment by going east, around the world. Of course, we both wanted to circumnavigate the globe. We also mistakenly believed it would be a public relations coup for the Navy: the first Navy ship to go around the world with women as part of ship’s complement. The chain of command, not too excited about getting positive public relations for the Women at Sea program, denied our request.

But we would be headed north shortly. We might have been the first tender to operate in a forward operational area since the Korean War. That made missing Perth and not going around the world a little easier on me.

As the plans were changing, we continued to operate as other tenders had in the Footprint of Freedom. Liberty launches began their round trip circuits at liberty call until the expiration of liberty. Our few rules about fraternization seemed to work. We would watch and other officers would report to us how our sailors would go to the Navy clubs and have a good time. As they left, a number of couples could be seen walking with their arms around each other or holding hands. As they walked toward the liberty launch pier, they would gradually move away from affectionate postures and by the time they arrived at the liberty launch, they would have quit holding each other, not holding hands and mixing with everyone else as if they were not a couple.

Having liberty meant having problems, even on an atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean. One medical report in the ship’s logs for October 16 is proof:

Received injury report on Schmidt, Joe. S., MM3 [again, personnel who had performance  problems are made anonymous by using the name “Schmidt”] Procured head injury from falling out of his rack. Urinalysis to follow.

But even with alcohol available in the clubs and apparently marijuana and possibly other drugs available through sailors not abiding by Navy regulations, we had a minimum of liberty problems. I attribute some of that to the fact male sailors behaved better when they were with women sailors.

*     *     *

But Yosemite had business to do. To do that, we would have to refuel. It had been a long way, since Palma since we took on fuel. Combatants, for all of my time aboard them, refueled at sea.

In my first Navy years, it was from a Navy oiler. Back then, the surface Navy had the destroyer, amphibious, and service forces. The service force consisted of ammunition ships, cargo ships, and oilers. Refueling at sea was a tricky evolution, bringing a ship alongside an oiler, passing hoses from about 120 feet apart, maintaining course and speed (usually 12 knots) with the combatant maneuvering to maintain station on the oiler. The refueling usually took an hour or so depending how much fuel the combatant needed to top off. The fueling was usually accompanied by a high line between the ships with the oiler delivering supplies and mail and swapping movies. It was a demanding operation for all hands from the engineers, to the personnel on station to latch up the refueling rigs, and the bridge where the OOD keeping station was a mark of good seamanship.

By the time Yosemite deployed, most of the service forces had transitioned out of the Navy and became Military Sealift Command ships manned by the merchant marines, not sailors. The amount of refueling at sea had greatly decreased with most refueling being accomplished in liberty ports. It really didn’t matter as Yosemite’s capability to refuel at sea had been removed a number of years before we deployed. In a way, I was relieved. Even though we had the best LDO Bosun I had ever met, a Commanding Officer who was an expert in such maneuvers, and I was a conning officer with tons of experience, we had enough on our plate without having to go through refueling at sea.

On Monday, 17 October, we weighed anchor, moved to the “POL” pier and commenced an all-day refueling, returning to anchorage in the late afternoon.

Our business, Yosemite’s mission, was to provide repair and maintenance services to forward deployed ships. The first was not a destroyer type, but a nuclear submarine. The USS William S. Bates (SSN-680) came alongside and tied up to us the next morning. The one-day alongside allowed us to perform some minimal maintenance and repair work. The Bates primary need we provided was provisions. We resupplied the sub with stores, especially food items. Linda Schlesinger, our ship’s store officer at the time remembers the sub was down to hot dogs and brussels sprouts.

The XO with his requirement to be sure everything was ship shape was a bit concerned.

It was our first maintenance period since deploying, a nuclear submarine getting supplies and maintenance services from a destroyer tender. I was well aware the high jinks submariners could initiate. Their wild liberty escapades were well-known sea stories (rumors) among surface sailors. Those submariners had spent long, long days submerged without any contact with females. Some of their antics on liberty, even commanding officers, were legendary. Again, Yosemite’s executive officer was concerned, but no incidents from the sub reacting to the women crew members occurred, at least as far as I knew.

Later that morning, the USNS Catawba (T-ATF-168), a Military Sealift Command (MSC) fleet tug came alongside to port. She refueled and got underway the next morning.

After Catawba departed from refueling, I went ashore. I went on a run of about ten miles with the doc, Frank Kerrigan. We showered and changed at the gym and then went to the Officer’s Club for dinner. I sat down at the bar for an after dinner drink. Sitting next to me was the master of the Catawba.

Diego Garcia had some new buildings at the base. The transition to new barracks was completed, but the old wood buildings where base personnel originally had been housed were still standing. They reminded me of many of the WWII buildings used for training at OCS in Newport, Rhode Island, or perhaps more so like the barracks in Asia during WWII depicted in movies, wood siding on the outside with interior open space, all on stilts. The Officer’s Club was small and a spot for escape to me. The bar and dining area looked out toward the northeast where the “toes” of the “Footprint of Freedom” were visible. The “toes” were West Island, Anniversary Island, Middle Island, and East Island. The “O” Club had a great view, was comfortable, had passable food, and occasionally gave one the opportunity to have some contact with someone outside of the command, sometimes a needed escape for an all-consuming effort for an executive officer.

Catawba’s master provided me an escape. Unfortunately, I have no record of and do not remember his name. We talked over a couple of drinks. I remember most of the conversation well because I was thinking about my future.

The master related he had been a second class quartermaster on a destroyer with six years in the Navy. He got out, used his navigation experience in obtaining his third mate’s license, and quickly moved up to master of a fleet tug in his early thirties. The salary for a master of any sea-going merchant marine ship was almost three times what I was making as a commander and executive officer with 15 years of service. And the Catawba’s contract was working at sea for six months with the next six months off at home each year.

Being on a ship at sea had become a passion for me. If my quest for command at sea did not materialize, by now a likely result, I considered another option for continuing a life at sea. In my first executive officer tour with Military Sealift Transportation Service (MSTS) which had a name change to Military Sealift Command (MSC) in 1970 while I was XO, I experienced life as a member of the Merchant Marine. Transport Unit One rode the USNS Geiger and later, the USNS Upshur carrying Republic of Korea troops to Vietnam and back to Pusan, Korea. The Navy transport unit officers consisted of a commander CO, the XO, two doctors, and a chaplain. The medical team consisted of a chief and six corpsmen. Two “storekeepers” were assigned to the unit. One second class yeoman, a boatswainmate chief and two seaman rounded out the unit.

I had actually considered finishing my obligated Navy service of three years, attaining a third mate’s license with the merchant marine and spending my life at sea. But my career goal was to be a sports writer, and an offer from a good friend to become such in Watertown, New York, was too good to turn down. After my three year obligation, I left active duty and became a sports writer and then sports editor of The Watertown Daily Times.

Talking to the master of the Catawba, that possibility of remaining at sea crossed my mind again. I had always wanted to be on ocean going minesweeper and a fleet tug was similar in size and more of a working ship. It could be, no, should be fun. But I dismissed the thoughts quickly. I was married now and wanted to spend as much time with Maureen as possible.

The next day, the USS Lynde McCormick (DDG 8) came alongside for repair and maintenance services. The planning conference and the ensuing dinner in our captain’s cabin with the McCormick’s commanding officer brought about another first on our transit north in the coming days.

As we concluded the McCormick’s maintenance period, radio messages from CINCPACFLT confirmed our schedule change. The Yosemite would head north in three days, arriving off the island of Masirah, Oman on November 1.

As mentioned earlier, the bad news was the scheduled liberty port visit to Perth, Australia was cancelled. The crew was not happy with the idea of not going to Perth but going to sea and working. Also as mentioned earlier, i was personally disappointed.

I had flown to Perth from Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines on a C-141 in September 1981 to report aboard USS Okinawa (LPH-3) to relieve Ken Manni and become the weapons officer.

The flight was one of the most miserable in my Navy career. Being the only officer on board other than the flight crew and dressed in my service dress blues, I sat on a cargo jump seat in the back of the aircraft and concerned about my appearance when reporting to Okinawa, I remained there during the flight while a number of the enlisted passengers climbed atop the large amount of cargo and slept sprawled out for most of the initial ten-hour flight. The pilot announced we would land at an Australian air force base in Queensland to refuel and a breakfast had been prepared for us at the base enlisted mess. This was welcomed news as our only in-flight meal was a box lunch we had been handed while boarding. It consisted of a ham and cheese sandwich on white bread with a bag of chips, an apple, and a stale cookie. The flight crew handed out cokes and cups of water sporadically throughout the ten hours.

Unfortunately, no one had told the Australian galley of the plans. The breakfast did not occur and we re-boarded for the remain twelve hours.

But the miserable flight led to one of the best liberty I had during my time at sea. Shortly after I reported aboard, a group of officers hired two cabs to take us to Eagle Wools, a sheepskin plant outside of Perth. I was not interested in purchasing any sheepskins, but decided it would be good to mingle with my new shipmates.

Eagle Wools was consisted of a warehouse where a number of ladies were sewing sheepskins into various items, mostly hats and slippers – they later became the manufacturer of Ugg boots, but that came much later and the warehouse now boasts a modern showroom.

We were greeted by Phil White, the plant’s manager. He pointed the other officers to product sales material and turned them over to the ladies. When he asked me, what I was interested in buying, I responded I wasn’t interested, just along for the ride. He asked me if I would like a beer. Of course, I did. The two of us went over to a corner and a 1950’s era refrigerator. Phil opened it up. It was stuffed with cans and cans of Emu beer. We had both had about three when the officers finished their shopping.

I ran with Phil White and his wife for the rest of our liberty stay. I went to pubs that might as well have been in Britain. Phil took me out to the R&R inn in a park where Australians and Americans escaped from the rigors of battle in World War II and Vietnam. There after a hearty lunch, I had face-to-face time with kangaroos, koalas, and wombats. The couple also introduced me to several enchanting Aussie women. It ended the night before our ships sailed with Phil and I back at Eagle Wool, swapping tall tales. After not intending to buy any wool products at the outset, I ended up with four two-hide sheepskin rugs, a couple of wool hats, and to top it off, a nine-piece sheepskin I have used for a rug before my bachelor fireplace, a bed cover, and something to make me very, very warm when needed.

I was looking forward to escapades with Phil again, but it was not to be.

Chapter 7: Diego Garcia and a Change of Plans

While entering into the lagoon through the toes of the “Footprint of Freedom” I recalled my other visit with pleasure. I had been there as the Weapons Officer of the USS Okinawa (LPH 3) in 1982. Sitting seven degrees south of the equator, the atoll measures just over eleven square miles. From the air, the land mass around the lagoon looks much like a footprint, which where its nickname originated among sailors.

The weather is best described as muggy. Although there is considerable wind, I never felt it as a problem. The oppressiveness of mid-70 lows and mid-80 highs throughout the year is mollified somewhat by the ocean breezes. Although the annual rainfall was just over eleven inches, the humidity and the dew points produce categories of “muggy,” “oppressive,” and “miserable,” nothing else all year long. In spite of the small amount of rain, the humidity produces jungle thick vegetation if not held in check. I found it livable, even bearable in the shade and thought if I ever were marooned on an island I would want it to be like Diego Garcia.

But it wasn’t deserted. The base had a gym, complete with racquetball and basketball courts, weight rooms with spas and saunas in the dressing rooms. There were enlisted, chief, and officer clubs, as well as a “seaman’s club” for the merchant marine. The Navy exchange was small but adequate. The exchange had pith helmets like the ones worn by the “Ramar of the Jungle” cast in the television series that ran for two years in the early 1950’s. In my first visit, I bought two pith helmets. I kept one and sent the other to my brother in Vermont. A number of the officers and crew of Yosemite purchased pith helmets as momentoes.

Diego Garcia is the largest and only inhabited island in the Chagos Atoll chain, which consists of approximately sixty islands. It has been a British Indian Ocean Territory. (BIOT) since 1965 when it was detached from being a part of the British colony of Mauritius. The local population, consisting largely of former slaves on the coconut plantation on the eastern side of the island, were forcefully deported to the Seychelles and Mauritius for the British to focus on the island being a forward military operating station for the Indian Ocean.

The British military maintained a presence with a unit of about thirty personnel as the United States Navy became the dominant presence on the island. A significant number of deployed USNS cargo ships were anchored there to provide immediate equipment and supplies to U.S. forces in any surprise conflict in the Mideast or other Indian Ocean areas, particularly in the Persian Gulf. The Navy also commissioned a “Naval Air Facility,” used primarily by the Air Force for long range bombing capability throughout the Indian Ocean.

Once Yosemite anchored in the middle of Diego Garcia’s lagoon, base personnel brought out a large barge to serve as our departure point from the accommodation ladder to the waiting liberty boats to take our crew and officers to the island.

I was a bit anxious again. It seemed I spent quite a bit of time being anxious. Liberty on Diego Garcia would be different than Rota or Majorca. To begin with, there were some Navy female personnel assigned to the Naval Station there, but very few. Our sailors would be going on liberty with just themselves, male and female. And there were no orphanages to attend to, no tours to occupy liberty time. The possibilities concerned me.

We were expecting to be there for almost three weeks, transit to Perth, Australia for liberty, then back to the atoll before a transit and short period anchored off Masirah, Oman.

*     *     *

Maureen was never off of my mind. One of the principals at Parron-Hall Office Interiors, Bob Long, where she was an account executive was also an excellent photographer. For a wedding/going away present, Maureen gave me some beautiful photos of her. One large one framed, which I hung on the after bulkhead of my office so I could look at it anytime I glanced up from my desk. It was the photo, Dina Weaver, the ship’s ombudsmen noticed Maureen looked like Susan Lucci, the long term star of “All My Children.”

I looked at that photo a lot. After all of my work had been put to bed, I would write her a letter, perhaps adding every night. Sometimes I would write just for me. Here is a poem I wrote and sent to her between Yosemite clearing the Suez and Diego Garcia:

To Maureen, the Beginning of an Epic Poem

 Indian Ocean phosphorescence,
glowing wave in the night
awes me not,
i have seen this glow in other oceans,
while young sailors shout in delight
at their sighting the sparkling waves;
i, unamused, return to my stateroom
with better things to do
like dream visions that are real.

 there should have been a diaphanous mist,
ethereal, mystical,
flowing about her
when she walked toward me
the first time
(mind, do not play tricks on me:
i desire to remember the moment
exactly as it was,
clear, finite.
her dress a gossamer gown,
softly caressing the elegance of her body;
her hair curled and falling to her shoulders gracefully,
framing her delicate, fine yet soft features;
eyes, oh eyes that drew me in, took my breath,
suggested more than my mind could comprehend,
grasped my soul
and
told Scherazade’s thousand tales,
drawing me into a bottomless pit of emotion
before i knew emotion could have no end,
allowing me to float suspended in her beauty.

 i was afraid to speak,
afraid i might fall from suspension,
might break the image before me;
then we got down to business;
what in god’s name did i think, i think;
perhaps suspicious of her beauty,
certainly awed;
i made a joke.
did she notice i was nervous?

oh, little boy,
walk away
if you are merely making a furniture deal;
walk away happy with the thought
you will see her at least one more time.

 i am deep into the Indian Ocean night;
i have learned to gauge the depth of the night
by the strength of the coffee;
now, the coffee is knock your socks off strong,
burnt grounds black;
the work seems endless;
the sea is infinite;
yet i smile
when i dream of her.

*     *     *

Before we had arrived in Diego Garcia, I decided to let Maureen know our schedule.

I hedged on rules about confidential material in a quick note to Maureen. I felt guilty in that I would be screaming mad, or at least fake being screaming mad if a junior officer or sailor had divulged such information to a spouse, but I also knew from experience, ship’s schedules, although confidential information, were quickly available to just about everybody. I overcame my guilt when I thought our schedule was set. I sent it to Maureen with trepidation:

Boggs,

Around the world seems to be a lost hope. Here’s the schedule as we know it:
14-24 Oct: Diego Garcia
25 Oct– 2 Nov: Transit to Perth
3-7 Nov – Perth, Australia
8-16 Nov – Transit to Diego Garcia
17 Nov – 7 Dec: Diego Garcia
7-12 Dec – Transit to Masirah, Oman
13-25 Dec – Masirah, Oman (anchorage, no liberty)
26-31 Dec – Transit to Diego Garcia
1-10 Jan – Transit to Mombasa, Kenya
11-17 Jan – Mombassa, Kenya
18-23 Jan – En route to North Arabian Sea
29 Jan-9 Feb – Ops North Arabian Sea (i’m guessing we’ll be at anchorage in Karachi, Pakistan with some liberty)
10 Feb-21 Mar – En route Mayport (Best bet is one stop in the Western Mediterranean: we plan to ask for Malaga, Spain. If we could stop in the eastern Med, it would most likely be Athens or Korfu, Greece.

*     *     *

The first morning after arriving, we had our “turnover” with the USS Cape Cod (AD 43). It was very short. The tender we were relieving had not had one period of maintenance for a Navy ship. We were appalled. The thought of sitting at anchor in the lagoon with nothing to do was not a comforting thought. Captain Boyle thought of a way to make us more effective and was determined to make it happen. He forwarded his proposal to Admiral Butcher, our immediate operating superior and the Commander, Task Force 76, and Admiral Hogg, Commander 7^th Fleet, the senior Navy officer for operations in the Western Pacific and the Indian Ocean

Captain Boyle recommended Yosemite, rather than remaining in Diego Garcia except for one December week off of Oman and the liberty trip to Perth Australia, sail immediately to anchorage off Masirah, Oman and provide maintenance and repair services to ships of Battle Group Alfa, the USS Ranger (CV 61) carrier group for the bulk of our time in the Indian Ocean.

The chain of command realized Captain Boyle’s idea had merit and ordered Yosemite to get underway and head to an anchorage off the island of Masirah, Oman much earlier than scheduled.

The problem the captain had identified was distance. Nearly all, if not all U.S. combatants were operating in the North Arabian Sea or in the Persian Gulf, a distance of over 2,000 miles from Diego Garcia. For a ship to receive maintenance and repair services, she had to transit that distance twice to get to and from Diego Garcia, over 4,000 miles. That’s over ten days. Adding the repair availability, normally two weeks back in the states, would make a ship unavailable to meet operational requirements for over three weeks.

Going to anchorage off the island and staying there until Christmas made good sense. Compared to Diego Garcia, Masirah is much closer to the primary operation areas of U.S. forces. A ship could reach Yosemite within a day of being on station, sometimes less. Since Yosemite would be at anchor, essentially at sea, with no liberty, time for services to be completed could be compressed into much shorter periods. Such a move would allow Yosemite to be much more effective in accomplishing her mission, i.e. providing support services to combatants in a forward deployed area.

Chapter 6: The Red Sea, The Indian Ocean, and Crossing the Line

The ten days transiting the length of the Red Sea was rather uneventful although I was concerned about a relatively unarmed U.S. Navy ship in a less than friendly area. The Gulf of Aden transit was no less traumatic although it felt more like being at sea than anything in the Canal or the Red Sea.

Looming ahead was a significant concern of mine. I decided not to discuss it with anyone, even the captain. It was going to be what it was going to be, and my discussing it would not change it. On Wednesday, October 12, Yosemite would cross the equator. The ship would experience “Crossing the Line.” “Crossing the Line” was a rough initiation in my old Navy. I was concerned it might get out of hand, and that could become a huge problem for a ship with 106 enlisted women, two female chiefs, and six female officers.

In general, the Navy had been cracking down on hazing, which for centuries was a major part of the initiation of “pollywogs” (those who had not crossed the equator) by “shellbacks” (those who had crossed the line and gone through the initiation). I knew. I was a shellback.

In 1979, I flew to Hobart, Tasmania to join the staff of Commander, Amphibious Squadron Five as Current Operations Officer aboard USS Tripoli (LPH 10), a helicopter carrier. Our staff numbered about thirty, the ship’s complement was just short of 700, and the number of embarked USMC personnel on the landing force commander’s staff and the marine air unit also numbered just less than 700. The ship had crossed the equator en route to Tasmania. The number of pollywogs was significantly more than the number of shellbacks. It was a raucous two days.

The number of personnel, i.e. pollywogs, reporting in Tasmania included about 100 enlisted marines and one lieutenant commander, aka me.

Tripoli departed Hobart and went to Sydney, Australia for a week. Following Sydney, we made a port visit to Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea. After New Guinea, we headed for Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines, and crossing the equator en route.

The officer I was relieving, Lieutenant Commander Conrad Bormann, knew “Crossing the Line” could be very rough for me. Out of 100 pollywogs, I was the only Navy type and the only officer. The 900 or so brand new shellbacks were excited about being on the giving part of the initiation, especially to initiate the one Navy lieutenant commander. Conrad gave me the low down on what was going to happen, how I should pick out my shabbiest working khaki to wear backwards and inside out for the ceremony, and how to act. He went an extra mile by promising to escort me through the initiation line to prevent some overzealous new shellback from hurting me.

After getting up an early hour, I dug out my oldest and most stained khakis (having been a chief engineer, I manage to soil a number of working khakis), turned them inside out, and pulled them on. I reported to the mess decks and was met by Conrad. I pretty much faked eating the “green” eggs and other supposedly gross breakfast fare. I figured I didn’t need anything on my stomach for what was going to happen next.

Conrad escorted me to the gauntlet of eager new shellbacks excited about getting to lay on to a lieutenant commander with their shillelagh’s (lengths of fire hose cut to be flexible paddles). The shillelagh-wielding gang did not disappoint. I was amply whacked as I crawled along the flight deck, confident and assured Conrad was watching to make sure it would not get worse.

On my knees, I was ushered to the boatswain, one of the…how shall I say this, ahh… most stomach-ample sailors on the ship. It was time to kiss the “Boatswain’s Belly.” He grabbed by ears and forced by head into the folds of his grossly greased belly. This could have been really bad, but Conrad had it stopped before I completely lost my breath.

Still, it had not been unbearable, and I was confident as I approached the last two steps. It would soon be over. Conrad’s escort was a blessing. Then, as I approached the chute filled with garbage we had to crawl through, Conrad, after a messenger had run down to him from the flag bridge nudged me and said, “We just received a top secret radio op-immediate radio message. I have to go read it, brief the commodore and chief staff officer, but I’ll get back as soon as I can.

As I faced the jury rigged tube stuffed with the previous night and morning messes garbage, my confidence dimmed a bit. But it was only about fifty feet, and one more event. I made it through and was spitting and trying to clear gunk out of my eyes and ears. I saw the final event was being hoisted in a cargo net along with three or four other pollywogs and being blasted by a firehose stream. Considering all of the slime I had all over me and filling most of my pores, that didn’t sound too bad.

But as I headed, again on my hands and knees, to the cargo net’s final indignity, they stopped me. I was informed as an officer, especially a lieutenant commander, the only officer on the ship who was a pollywog, I would have to kiss the boatswain’s belly and traverse the chute again.

Being a good sport, I went through the ordeal again. This time with that unholy garbage mess now filling the pores of my pores, I once again headed for the cargo net. Once again, I was stopped. Once again, I went through the line. I was beginning to wonder, but Conrad finally came back, saw what was going on, and took me to my cleansing.

Back in my stateroom, I stripped out of my inside out khakis, violated the Navy shower rule with a non-stop fifteen minute drenching, trying to wash as much as I could off of me. Finished and dressed, I gingerly held my initiation uniform away from me, walked out to the weather decks and tossed the garments into the sea.

So I was very aware of what could happen at the Crossing the Line initiation.

We used every way of communicating to keep things under control, including a POD note:

1. CROSSING THE EQUATOR: (THE INITIATION)

GENERAL SAFETY GUIDELINES: “CROSSING THE EQUATOR” IS A TIME HONORED TRADITION IN WHICH AN INITIATION CEREMONY IS PERFORMED TO INTRODUCE THE SLIMY, GREASY POLLYWOGS TO TRUSTY SHELLBACKISM. IT CAN AND SHOULD BE FUN FOR ALL HANDS. IT CAN ALSO BE UNNECESSARILY INJURIOUS AND HUMILIATING IF COMMON SENSE IS NOT APPLIED TO TONE DOWN THE PHYSICAL AND MENTAL ACTS WHICH ARE INVOLVED. SHELLBACKS MUST GUARD AGAINST BEING OVERZEALOUS WHEN APPLYING THOSE WELL-DESERVED WALLOPS TO THE HIND SIDES OF THE SLIMY POLLYWOGS. THE SAFETY REGULATIONS SHALL BE STRICTLY ENFORCED AND ANY PERSONNEL VIOLATING THOSE REGULATIONS WILL BE REQUIRED TO FORFEIT ANY PARTICIPATION IN THE CEREMONY. THE WOGS WATCH COMMITTEE HAS THE OVERALL RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE SAFETY OF BOTH POLLYWOGS AND THE SHELLBACKS ON THE FORECASTLE. ALL SENIOR PERSONNEL ON COMMITTEES HAVE OVERALL RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE SAFETY OF BOTH THE POLLYWOGS AND SHELLBACKS IN THEIR ASSIGNED AREAS. THE FOLLOWING GENERAL SAFETY GUIDELINES SHALL APPLY:

1. 1. FIRE HOSES SHALL NOT BE USED INSIDE THE SKIN OF THE SHIP.
   2. FIRE HOSES SHALL NOT BE SPRAYED DIRECTLY TOWARD POLLYWOGS.
   3. NO FOREIGN MATTER OF ANY KIND WILL BE RUBBED INTO EYES, EARS, OR NOSE.
   4. WALLOPS, TO THE HIND SIDES, SHALL BE MADE WITH CARE TO AN AREA BELOW THE WAIST AND ABOVE THE CROTCH AND SHALL ONLY BE ADMINISTERED IN THE DESIGNATED “SHILLELAGH LINE.”
   5. CARE MUST BE TAKEN TO AVOID DIRECTING WATER TOWARD ELECTRICAL BOXES AND OUTLETS.
   6. ACTIVITIES INCIDENT TO “CROSSING THE LINE” WILL BE CONDUCTED ON WEATHER DECKS ONLY. ALL AREAS INSIDE THE SKIN OF THE SHIP ARE OFF LIMITS TO INITIATION EVENTS.
   7. POLLYWOGS WILL WALK UP AND DOWN LADDERS.
   8. SHOWER SHOES OR RUBBER PADS WILL BE TAPED TO THE KNEES.

I considered adding some comments to the above note concerning sexual abuse of any kind being cause for NJP. I remembered our watchwords of not having men and women but sailors aboard and decided against such a warning.

Captain Boyle, Command Master Chief Weaver, who would be King Neptune in the ceremonies, and I had numerous meetings on security and how to handle any misconduct. The word got out. It was not a patty cake initiation. It was pretty much the way I remembered them. It just happened to be some women pollywogs who became shellbacks that day.

The ceremony, I thought, was really good for morale. Everyone had gone through the ordeal or meted out the initiation requirements together. Everyone was proud of getting through the two days, and everyone on board was a certified shellback.

Now it was time to get ready for Diego Garcia.

As we approached Diego Garcia, the captain and I wanted to be sure our sailors understood our rules. After discussing liberty on Diego Garcia, I published the following note in 4 October Plan of the Day and it ran daily in the POD until we reached the lagoon:

5. Fraternization: The following USS Yosemite regulation is provided for the information of all hands: Fraternization between crew members of the opposite sex is prohibited on board or on the pier controlled by Yosemite. There will be no displays of affection, physical contact, or other type of conduct except that which is normally expected in a military environment. Off ship, public display of affection between Navy members in uniform is prohibited.

The morning of Thursday, 13 October, we went from pollywogs and shellbacks to sailors a day out of port. Not counting the Suez Canal transit and the refueling stop in Augusta, Sicily, we had been out of port since leaving Palma de Majorca 27 September, the longest continuous time at sea, 16 days, for the vast majority of Yosemite’s crew.

We began our preparations for entering port in earnest. A fresh water wash down of the entire weather decks was conducted that morning. A navigation brief for entering port was held in the wardroom in the afternoon. We took a break when the captain cut the cake on the mess decks to celebrate the Navy’s 208^th birthday and then held a brief on boat operations, especially liberty boat runs, presented on the ship’s closed circuit television in the evening.

1425, Friday, 14 October 1983: USS Yosemite (AD 19) anchored in the middle of the lagoon of Diego Garcia. Known to sailors as the “Footprint of Freedom,” Diego Garcia had a significant U.S. Navy presence in the British Territory, the largest island in the Chagos Atoll Island chain

There is not much there. However, I had said during my previous stop there in 1982 on USS Belleau Wood (LHA 3), it was my vision of the island I would like to be on if marooned. It was still that enchanting.

When we moored in Palma, I had been the executive officer for forty days. The Yosemite had been on deployment for two weeks. I was still learning how to be an effective executive officer. After Palma, we had an overnight of steaming to Augusta Bay, Sicily. Our stop in Sicily was brief. We anchored in the bay.

It was difficult being number two, essentially subjugating my natural inclinations to the captain, and in many ways, adapting my behavior to most effectively lead and manage all of my subordinates while demonstrating the behaviors he expected and deserved from me as his number two. I expressed my frustration in a long letter to Maureen:

Lady,

i almost lost it somewhere in mid-Palma until tonight {October 14}. I could feel the edge creeping in, the desire to not be where i was, the frustration, the lack of confidence all waxing toward the surface. There was no place to breathe, no one to talk to. The box (cassette tape) i spoke into was only a box, did not respond. The letters i placed on the paper were cold and flat, dull nothings that said less. I perceived all around me shrinking into their protective envelopes, not working together for the whole, lobbying for their interests, and i could feel all of those good feelings ebbing, not gone, but i could feel myself sliding back into the mire.

(Another day). But i caught it, stopped it, put the world in perspective, thought of you, loved you, thought of how long it would be before i saw you.

Then came another malady. Plague immunization came for me as we readied for entering the Navy port of Augusta, Sicily. The shot slowly went from having the expected sore arm into a touch of the plague, driving me down into a slight fever; my work hours caught up with me and the combination demanded sleep as retribution. i yielded amidst the silly mast cases of drunks, malcontents, malingerers, and young, good sailors losing their heads over their first piece of bona fide foreign tail and explained to me at XOI: “I met this girl and my friend and hers went back to her apartment and accidentally fell asleep. She didn’t have no clock, and I didn’t have no watch.”

So i see this twenty-year old sailor, and i try to imagine the inept, drunken groping and all else that went on, and i wish i could tell him some things but i know he would never understand even if he listened and most likely will never learn.

(I should point out not all male sailors followed the women sailors as I claimed earlier.)

*     *     * 

One of my goals after taking over as XO was to update the ship’s instructions and eliminate duplication of instructions issued by higher authority. The first night after Commander Sheffield had departed, I hung my photograph of Maureen, arranged the office to my liking, and began to examine my surroundings. There was a built in bookcase behind my desk, about six feet tall and about five feet wide. It held two-inch and three-inch loose leaf notebooks. They were filled with Yosemite generated instructions, some dating back probably to when she was commissioned in 1945. I wanted to leave after my tour with a set of ship instructions that were current, logical, and built upon existing instructions from our superiors, not parroting or duplicating them.

I didn’t think I could complete them in what I anticipated to be a two-year tour, at the longest three years. But I was going to try.

The only time to work on this revision project was each evening underway after I had briefed the Captain following 8 O’clock Reports. This meant I would usually start around 2200 because after my meeting in the Captain’s cabin, there was always a department head or someone else who wanted to talk to me. I enjoyed these conversations at the end of the day and didn’t discourage them. Chaplin Poe was a great confidant. We would share stories and discuss potential problems and complain to each other. George Sitton was another frequent visitor in the evening. George and I respected each other’s knowledge of the sea and deck seamanship, and he was an old style sailor like me with a caustic humor.

There were others, but I most welcomed Frank Kerrigan, the doc. As mentioned earlier, Frank was brand new to the Navy. The powers that were then had not sent him to “knife and fork school,” which we laughingly referred to an indoctrination period for officers who had no prior Navy experience like doctors, attorneys (JAG), and chaplains. Frank graduated from Michigan State on a basketball scholarship. Although he never made the varsity squad, he scrimmaged against Magic Johnson. That made him a superior athlete in my analysis. We both loved sports. Frank was the one person on the ship with whom I could talk about things without my position of number two having any impact on my duties as executive officer. For Frank, I was able to explain many things about the Navy no new officer without any indoctrination would know. We were both recently married. It was a great relief to spend a couple of hours with no pressure.

But the doc and the others had lots of things to do and all were gone most of the time before taps. That’s when I would pull down a notebook from the bookshelf and begin shredding it, checking it for being current and for duplication. Arduous work. But somebody had to do it. Actually no one had to do it, but I thought it should be done.

*     *     *

Other than the crypto destruction and the drug case, the two-day journey to the southeastern part of the Mediterranean Ocean was mostly uneventful. The ship arrived at Port Said, the entrance to the Suez Canal at night. It was confusing immediately. The anchorage held an uncountable number of ships with their standing lights shining like a sky with thousands of stars. I don’t recall seeing any other area of the seas with more ships other than the entrance to the Malacca Straits near Singapore. For some reason, this mass of every kind of ship and vessel imaginable struck me as more ominous.

The next morning, ships began entering the canal at 0400. Yosemite’s turn in line came early, getting underway at 0100. We steamed to the entrance and took the pilot on board. The Navy had warned us about taking on board other parties, even if recommended by the pilot. The other parties usually claimed extra lighting was required and then charged exorbitant fees for essentially useless floodlights. Even though we had briefed the key sea detail personnel on this warning, a team of five Egyptians were allowed to board with the pilot. When the captain and I were informed, we instructed our personnel posted at the entry to the ship on the port quarter to quarantine the Egyptians in a small compartment for the duration of the transit.

Captain Boyle quite rightly was very conservative in his view of foreign nationals being aboard the ship. He was very accommodating to guests but also very protective of his ship and his crew. His recollection of the Egyptian pilot:

My most vivid recollection is the pilot. Somehow I became aware that he had been disrespectful of our female officer, (Linda, I think) as she escorted him to the bridge. I was furious and had as little contact with him as possible. He was less than worthless foisted on us by the Egyptians. As I recall I directed him to your chair on the bridge and for him to remain there and that he had no further interaction with our women crew members.

Having spent lengthy times in Subic Bay, I was very aware of the deceptiveness and the thievery of foreign natives boarding Navy ships. I was quite angry our personnel had allowed the Egyptian floodlight team aboard. The Egyptian pilot blustered his indignation at our not allowing his team to have free access aboard the ship, but we remained adamant. I too recall the pilot sitting in the executive officer’s chair (mine) on the port side in the pilot house.

*     *     *

Captain Boyle remained on the open bridge through almost the entire transit of the canal. Although he relied heavily on the experience and expertise of Lieutenant Sitton to serve as Officer of the Deck and conning officer, he allowed others to conn the ship under his or George’s oversight. I suspect when our female officers, Lieutenant Kathy Rondeau, Lieutenant Sharon Carrasco, Lieutenant Junior Grade Noreen Leahy, and Ensign Emily Black to take the conn, they were the first females to drive a capital ship in the Suez Canal.

If I can get past the hubris of the pilot and the unethical, if not illegal boarding of the floodlight team, the passage through the Suez was remarkable and thought provoking.

Even though I had witnessed the conglomeration of ships waiting for entry into the canal, the never ending line of large ships of every type was just incredible. For example, the number of languages used in the necessary communication with the canal transit operators was astounding. Once in the transit, I was not only staggered by the numbers but concerned about safety. The distance between ships was 500 to 1,000 yards. I worried about another ship’s going DIW (Dead in the water) due to engine malfunction or, because of a language barrier, a miscommunication between a ship’s master, the pilot (especially if they were as all incompetent as ours), canal operations, and another ship creating a potential collision. It was not a comforting thought. I was positive my concerns were echoed by Captain Boyle.

When I could divert my concerns about the shipping, the canal itself was stunning. The engineering effort required to dig a watercourse 120-miles long and a width that easily can accommodate the U.S. Navy’s newest aircraft carriers was nothing short of amazing to see.

My everlasting impression of the journey was sand. There were other emotional reactions. Shortly after clearing the passage through Port Said, evidence of the Six Day War and Israel’s sudden victory was evident, even twenty-six years later. Destroyed tanks and armored vehicles partially jutted from the sand. It was sobering to consider how swift and deadly the Israelis took the Gaza Strip. Not too much later, we passed small villages. The citizens, especially youths, sat on the canal wall with their feet hanging over the edge laughing and yelling as Yosemite passed by. It was a different world than ours, almost as if they were from an earlier century, at that moment only yards away.

At 0900, eight hours after beginning our transit, the column of ships anchored in the Great Bitter Lake. It was a salt water lake, and it was barren. Ship columns would anchor there to allow the columns transiting in the other direction to pass and reenter the one-way canal on the other side. Four hours, we stood at anchor, getting underway headed south again at 1343.

The rest of the transit was uneventful. But when we dropped off the pilot and the band of thieves and cleared the canal, we all breathed a sigh of relief, especially the captain and I.