It's Only Me- Chapter 18- Merchant Marine

In September of 1980 I was Honorably Discharged from the Navy on the USS Milwaukee. We had been in the Brooklyn Navy Yard since July.

New York City was like a giant cesspool in 1980. After Mayor Lindsay had left office we got Mayor Beam who pretty much raped the City financially. Crime and drugs were rampant. In the 61st Precinct, where I had been raised, all of the Officers were transferred to other Precincts as the result of a massive car theft ring.

My Mom was back in the hospital, still dying. It had been more than 20 years at this point since she was taken ill.

On my birthday, October 8th, I had been to see her at New York Hospital, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was raining and I was walking. I had spent all the money I’d earned in the Navy while seeing the world and sampling all it had to offer. Now I was back in Brooklyn in roughly the same shape as when I’d left.

Walking back towards Columbus Circle where I planned to take the “D” train back to Brooklyn, I decided to pick up a little pot from the many dealers standing around hawking everything from smoke to coke. I had less than $10 to my name. I was approached by a Puerto Rican guy who asked if I wanted some smoke- I explained that I had less than $10 but if he could let me have the dime for $9.50 I would be pretty happy.

He assented and then suddenly started to run away yelling “Lookout- cops!” which was standard street practice when ripping someone off. I slammed him to the fence and hissed “You really don’t want to fuck with me today!” He shoved 3 or 4 bags of weed and my money back at me while yelling “You’re crazy man- crazy- gonna get us both busted!” I let him go as I picked up the weed. He ran away.

Nothing had really changed at all for me at home. My Dad wanted me to work for him and Harry and Al wanted me back but I knew I needed to move on.

I went home by subway and contemplated my options. My plan had been to get my Union card and join the Merchant Marine. But it was the same old run around. The only way to kick start this thing was to go to the Coast Guard (they are the DMV of the Oceans) and give them my Sea Transcript which would allow me to get my Able Bodied Seaman Papers.

The Coast Guard was located in Battery Park at the time so I went to see them. But they would not count my sea time as 100% of time served- my Sea Service Deployment Ribbon not withstanding! They only would give me 50% of Navy time! This was very unfair and so I showed my transcripts and got it upped to 80% and was allowed to take the tests for Able Seaman rather than Ordinary.

I took a lifeboat examination in which you have to successfully lower a lifeboat into the water without dumping anyone. I also took a short written exam on rigging, etc. I now had my AB Document (Able-bodied Seaman.) This would allow me to join Military Sealift Command as a Seaman, working on deck and standing watches. This was a bit of a blow to me as I had hoped to take the exam for Third Mate and start out as a Watch Officer and Third in Command. This was equivalent to what I had done on board Milwaukee as a Quartermaster. But rules are rules.

So on a cold and windy December 1st I went down to Military Sealift Command in Bayonne, New Jersey with my sea bag, to see about shipping out with them. I had already filled out my Form 171 which is required to obtain a Civil Service position. Mine would be an “Excepted” position, meaning that my skills would require no further tests, but rather that I would be hired based on my Certifications.

I was in the office of Mildred Johnson who did the hiring for the entire Command. An imposing black woman, her demeanor hid a heart of gold. She carefully explained to me that there was a waiting list of over 350 people to ship out. Also I did not have my Passport, having never needed one while in the Navy. My Navy ID was considered a Passport as well as a driver’s license while I was on active duty. Obtaining one at this time of year would take days, at the least.

Feeling a bit crestfallen I was prepared to leave when I heard the call come in for an immediate replacement on the USNS Pawcatuck- a fleet oiler currently on station in the Med. Hurrying back to Mrs. Johnson I asked her if I could fill that slot, having just come off of 2 fleet oilers. She replied that the position required Underway Replenishment (UnRep) experience. I showed her my transcripts from the ships I had been on and that’s when I found out just how quickly the government can move if it wants to.


When Mrs. Johnson found that I had UnRep experience she was overjoyed. When she saw my seabag and realized that I was ready to leave now- she was in heaven! She provided me with a letter to present in Manhattan at the place where you got your Passport. I was also photographed, fingerprinted, hired and provided with a new ID Card identifying me as an employee of Military Sealift Command. Then I was issued airline tickets to Barcelona, Spain. I was also given several hundred dollars as an advance on my first pay to be used as expense money along the way. I was told to save all receipts. My flight was at 7PM from JFK and I didn’t even have my Passport!

Racing into Manhattan I walked into the Passport Office and was told by a uniformed guard to take a number and a place in line. I showed him my letter and was ushered to the front of the line. Several hundred people were now grumbling behind me. But with the prize so close at hand I ignored the commotion. I was sent for a photo down the street, returned to the office once again and got my Passport in record time.

From there it was a race to the airport where I had dinner and then a great flight on a 747 Jumbo Jet to Barcelona, Spain. There I would board my first merchant ship- the Pawcatuck.

It had taken me 4 years but I had finally arrived at my initial goal. I was a Merchant Marine.

The Old Black Guy

Periodically I re-post this short, true story from my time in Norfolk. Today; with nothing better to post; is one of those times.

I entered the Steak and Eggs for a bite on a slow summer night. It was one of those sultry, sticky, Southern nights - like an old movie loaded with intrigue and suspense.

The restaurant was empty with the exception of the one guy working the counter and mopping the floor. There was also an elderly black man pacing up and down the aisle between the counter and the row of tables by the window.

I was working on the USNS Sirius during the day and driving the cab at night to ward off the boredom of Norfolk. Late at night I would go to the Steak and Eggs place located off Granby Street at the Greyhound Terminal for a bite to eat. The following events took place there one night in July.

I ordered my steak and eggs and noticed that the elderly black guy was really agitated, pacing up and down while opening and closing his fists. He was also talking to himself. He was dressed in the typical fashion for older black men of that time. Suit trousers pulled up high, almost to his chest and a white dress shirt with no jacket. On his wrist was one of those hospital bracelets that indicated he had just come from an emergency room or been released from the hospital after a stay.

His ranting was repetitive and consisted of one or two points- mainly that “Lord, Lord, I cain’t go home- no suh! They watching me- I tol’ dem I weren’t saying nuthin’- but Lord, Lord, they don’t believe me….” He was sweating profusely as he continued his pacing. The cook and I were beginning to get nervous.

Slipping from behind the counter the cook sidled over to the pay phone on the wall and I heard him call the police. The old man was too busy to notice this and kept on pacing and talking.

Within 3 minutes an unmarked car pulled up and 2 white men got out. They were dressed in suits- minus the jackets. They had what appeared to be some kind of walkie-talkie with them.

Walking up to the old man and with a nod to the cook and myself they addressed him, “Okay old man- time to go.” They put their hands on his shoulder and started to guide him to the door and their vehicle. The old man protested loudly, “I ain’t gonna say nutthin’- no sir- I swear!” The reply, delivered gently, in retrospect was chilling. “We know that old man, just come with us.” They steered him out into the parking lot and the waiting car.

It all seemed so natural- 2 detectives picking up this old man in response to a call from the cook…

As they loaded him into the car a marked Police cruiser pulled in and 2 uniformed cops entered the restaurant. “What’s the trouble?” they asked.

The cook and I exchanged horrified glances and began to yell, “Stop that car! Stop that car!” The 2 cops ran outside just as the unmarked car had pulled out of the parking lot and were stopping for the red light.

One cop ran toward the vehicle while the other got in the squad car. The driver of the unmarked vehicle took off through the red light with the cop car now in pursuit- lights and siren splitting the heavy air. The unmarked car headed straight for the tunnel to Portsmouth with the Norfolk Police car close behind. When they emerged from the tunnel in Portsmouth the unmarked car had vanished.

The police returned to the Steak and Eggs where they interviewed the cook and I. It was impossible for me to finish eating so I left and hit the streets for a couple of hours before returning the cab and heading back to ship.

The following evening I was watching the local news in the ships lounge when a story came on that chilled me to the bone.

“An elderly African-American man was found in Portsmouth this morning. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The body was located at the edge of the river near the entrance to the Portsmouth tunnel. No clues and no suspects have been located. Anyone with information on the identity of this man please contact the Portsmouth Police Department.”

Baffled

At one time I possessed 4, or more, different, and current pieces of United States Government issued identification cards/documents. Foolishly, I used to carry them all with me, sometimes using one, or more, of the documents to bluff my way past security in order to gain entrance to places I should not have been, or obtain some extra assistance when necessary. I always found that, for the most part, the old adage “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then baffle them with bullshit”, worked well for me. 

At the time of this story I was carrying a valid US Passport, which identified me as a tourist. I also had a black Dept. of Defense identification card, which identified me as a civilian crew member aboard an American military vessel.

In addition to that I always carried my pink Armed Forces Reserve Identification Card, which stated that I was on Inactive Duty with the United States Navy.

And, as if this wasn't quite enough, I also presented my United States Coast Guard "Z" Card, which made me a Merchant Marine serving as an Able Bodied Seaman.

I also had with me my newly issued United States Coast Guard Third Mate's License, a document which identified me as an Officer and allowed me to operate vessels of any size in any waters. To be blunt, I was a walking enigma.

Now no plan; however well-conceived; works indefinitely, there must come a time when something, or someone,  comes along to block your path. Both of these forces came to play one night in Rota, Spain; across the bay from Cadiz; when I tried to enter the Naval Base. 

Dressed; as I was; in civilian clothes, with long hair to boot, I did not look like I belonged on any military base anywhere. Accordingly, the guard, who only spoke Spanish, motioned for me to produce my Identification. So, I decided to just overwhelm him with all of these official documents. 

Well, I did, and it worked. As a matter of fact, he was so overwhelmed that I was immediately arrested on suspicion of espionage due to the conflicting nature of the documents I was carrying. It was hard for the authorities on duty at the time to grasp that I was a civilian, who was also in the United States Navy Reserve, working for the Department of Defense as a Merchant Marine; as both a Seaman and an Officer; while in possession of a passport that said I was a tourist who had not even bothered to have it validated when I entered their country; begging the question of how I got there and just who the hell I really was.

It was hours later; when the whole thing got sorted out; that I remember being back aboard ship in my stateroom thinking, "Man, I really showed them..."

"Rainbow Quest" - Pete Seeger and Guests

There was nothing on television to hold my interest the other night and so I turned to You Tube. There are so many things I would like to watch on there that I never take time for. And, with so many new things to discover on there, I will never catch up. Contrasted with the constant clicking associated with channel surfing, it was kind of nice to settle into something different for almost an hour.

The Pete Seeger "Rainbow Quest" series ran for 1 season on Channel 47, the UHF mostly Spanish speaking TV station, from 1965-66. I ran into it a couple of times by accident while fooling with the UHF antenna when; you guessed it; nothing worthwhile was on regular TV. So, how ironic is it that I should run into the same problem 50 years later and find the same solution in Pete Seeger both times?

This show is typical of all 39 52 minute episodes. There is no audience; which adds to the stark quality; I mean Pete was the "sing along with guy". He was the Mitch Miller of folk music. Actually, Miller took that page from Pete's book.

The list of gusts on the Rainbow Quest shows will knock you out. Everyone from Donovan to June Carter and Jonhny Cash, Judy Collins, Buffy St. Marie, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee are just some of them.

Naturally the show didn't make it. How many of you actually fooled with UHF at all in New York City? Actually I had forgotten all about the shows until I read the book "Red Scare" a few; well, several years ago. That book deals with the McCarthy Era and the blacklists; which included Pete Seeger. If you don't know about his role in that shameful episode of government overreach you should look it up sometime.

But it wasn't until I was re-reading it last year that I took the time to watch any of the shows again on You Tube. Maybe it's the passage of time; or the passing of the people on these shows; but time has made them even better than I remembered. If you're bored, take a listen and see.

The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" by W.S. Gilbert (1980 something)

The following epic poem was written in the 1980's by a guy who sailed with Military Sealift Command; the same quasi-military organization I was with at the time. The poem was posted by 

Edward Nanartowich the other night. I immediately remembered seeing it before and have asked for permission to re-post it here. 

"Some of you old timers were around when Gilbert wrote this poem I am sure, but it is a tongue in cheek, gallows humor kind of story back in the days of wooden ships and iron stomachs (to coin a phrase). Enjoy it if you have the patience to read."

 The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell' by W.S. Gilbert

 'Twas on the shores that round our coast

 From Deal to Ramsgate span,

 That I found alone on a piece of stone

 An elderly naval man.

 His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

 And weedy and long was he,

 And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

 In a singular minor key:

 "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig."

 And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

 Till I really felt afraid,

 For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

 And so I simply said:

 "O, elderly man, it's little I know

 Of the duties of men of the sea,

 But I'll eat my hand if I understand

 How you can possibly be

 "At once a cook, and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig."

 Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

 Is a trick all seamen larn,

 And having got rid of a thumping quid,

 He spun this painful yarn:

 "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

 That we sailed to the Indian sea,

 And there on a reef we come to grief,

 Which has often occurred to me.

 "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

 (There was seventy-seven o' soul),

 And only ten of the Nancy's men

 Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

 "There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig

 And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig.

 "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

 Till a-hungry we did feel,

 So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

 The captain for our meal.

 "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

 And a delicate dish he made;

 Then our appetite with the midshipmite

 We seven survivors stayed.

 "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,

 And he much resembled pig,

 Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

 On the crew of the captain's gig.

 "Then only the cook and me was left,

 And the delicate question, 'Which

 Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose

 And we argued it out as sich.

 "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

 And the cook he worshipped me;

 But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

 In the other chap's hold, you see.

 "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,

 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,' --

 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,

 And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

 "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me

 Were a foolish thing to do,

 For don't you see that you can't cook me,

 While I can -- and will -- cook you!'

 "So he boils the water, and takes the salt

 And the pepper in portions true

 (Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot,

 And some sage and parsley too.

 "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

 Which his smiling features tell,

 ' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see,

 How extremely nice you'll smell.'

 "And he stirred it round and round and round,

 And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

 When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

 In the scum of the boiling broth.

 "And I eat that cook in a week or less,

 And -- as I eating be

 The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

 For a wessel in sight I see!

 "And I never grin, and I never smile,

 And I never larf nor play,

 But I sit and croak, and a single joke

 I have -- which is to say:

 "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

The Bosun and Me - USNS Jupiter (1981)

In the summer of 1981 I was stationed aboard the USNS Jupiter, a “roll on/roll off” ship which was “on station” in the lagoon at Diego Garcia. There are personal conflicts aboard every vessel afloat, and the Jupiter was no exception to that rule. In this story I am not the bad guy; but ultimately I am not the good guy either.

Bosun Browning and I were anything but friends. As a matter of fact, we had come to blows once; well, nearly to blows one might say. I couch the episode in that light due to the fact that I had the presence of mind, and the swift footedness of youth to quickly repair myself to the Captain’s cabin for refuge.

The whole thing started innocently enough, with the Bosun; who is the man tasked with everything on deck aboard ship; and I engaging in some trash talking of one another’s backgrounds. I was that bane in the side of all true Southerners; a Yankee; while he occupied in my young mind that special space reserved for the mouth breathing, knuckle dragging denizens of the Deep South. This “trash talk” had gotten somewhat out of hand, considering the fact that he weighed about 250 pounds and stood 6’4” in opposition to my 145 pounds and slender 6’ frame.

At the time; and remember I was in my mid 20’s when this story takes place; I knew little fear, and each evening after going ashore and running through the jungles of Diego Garcia; which are not very dense, the island itself being but 34 miles long and only ¼ of a mile wide at its widest point; I would return to the ship and weigh myself, calling out to the Bosun that when I attained the unimaginable mass of 150 pounds, I was determined; actually hell bent upon; kicking his Cajun ass. This resulted in Bosun Browning awaiting the return of my boat each evening. He would then follow me to the scale and watching over my shoulder he would check my weight with me. This was a fight that was going to happen and he was planning on losing no time in getting the thing started.

The disappointment on his face each night, as I hovered between 147 and 148 pounds, was almost heartbreaking; even to me; though I knew that should the battle ever occur, I was sure to come out on the short end. The Bosun, impatient for his chance at hastening my demise, always shook his head in disgust as I failed to attain the 150 pound mark. To this end he had begun handing me a candy bar, or a piece of cake, after each failed weigh in. As I said earlier, he was in earnest for the battle to begin.

As the months wore on and I continued to hold at 148 pounds, which is the most I have ever weighed, we developed a mutual respect for one another, but he was still looking forward to the impending battle with relish. Sometimes things don’t go quite as planned and there is often a valuable lesson to be learned, if you keep your eyes open and your wits about you. This was one of those cases.

One night, sometime around midnight, I slammed my hand in a hatch and the nail was throbbing and aching something fierce. I was roaming the deck, unable to sleep, when I chanced upon the Bosun, who inquired as to the nature of my trouble. Showing him my finger he looked pained and told me to follow him to his cabin. I was in such a state that I did just that, not knowing what to expect from my nemesis.

Arriving at his cabin he rummaged through some tools, and pulling out a drill bit proposed that he would drill through my finger nail, thus relieving the pressure of the blood beneath it and my pain. Such was my pain that, with a trusting and uncharacteristic willingness on my part, I agreed to this experiment.

With a surgeons gentle touch this large Cajun shrimp boater proceeded to drill through my finger nail, and did exactly as he said he would, with a gentleness belying our continued state of war.

This is the night in which I learned a most valuable lesson; that the person most likely to help you in times of distress is often not your friend, but rather your enemy. I retired to my cabin to ruminate upon this philosophical discovery and what it really meant in practical terms, particularly aboard ship. What I came up with, in conclusion, startled me then, and I have often thought back to this event when faced with confusion by the actions of others over the next several decades.

Take, as an example, three people standing on deck in a storm at sea. Two are friends and the third hates the other two. One of the two is swept overboard. The friend stands there transfixed, unable to assist due to two reasons, the first being that he is so upset at the loss of his friend, he is effectively immobilized; the second being that he is conscious of the risk he would undertake should he choose to take some action.

The enemy, on the other hand, is not weighed down with all this. He only knows that should he not take some decisive action, he will be judged by a very different standard. The friend of the victim will be consoled for his loss, while the enemy will be reviled for doing nothing. His inactions will be dismissed as his having availed himself of the unexpected pleasure in seeing his enemy hurt. Due to this he will leap overboard in a maelstrom in an effort to avoid this perception. I have seen this type of behavior several times in my years at sea, as well as my many years ashore. I stored this lesson away and gradually, over the course of the next few months, the Bosun and I were able to mute our "cold war" until the whole argument had become pointless.

In November, after the monsoons had ended, we were both scheduled to fly home on a 21 hour flight from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to Newark Airport in New Jersey. We had a pleasant flight, during which I learned his entire life’s story, as I am sure he learned some of mine. I found, much to my surprise, that I was actually beginning to like this guy.

We landed at Butler Aviation Terminal, which is located at the far end of Newark Airport and proceeded through Customs and then outside to the line of cabs waiting at the curb. The Bosun asked me to watch his bags while he went to the rest room and I assented.

As soon as he was out of sight I took his baggage and tossing them in the back of the next available cab, handed the driver a $50 bill and told him, “Here’s $50, I don’t care where you take the bags.” I grabbed the next cab and high tailed it out of there in a flash.

There are probably many lessons to be learned from this story, but I will not assign myself  the task of pointing them out. My actions at the airport that morning would seem to call any judgments I might make on the matter into question.

Sight Reduction Tables - Not So Obselete

Someday my children; or perhaps grandchildren; will come across these volumes of carefully arranged numbers and wonder just what in the hell they are; and what they were used for. That will explain this post.

I used these books while in the Navy; and later as a Merchant Mariner; to find where we were while at sea. They were commonly called “lattice tables” if my memory holds correct. When shooting the sun or stars for a position these books were invaluable since they saved you hours of the computations necessary to obtain the information already contained in the book.

The book itself   is the finished product of about 3,000 years of observations and calculations made by mariners who were sometimes representative of nations who were at war with one another. But still the knowledge was shared. That’s how important these books were. Now, of course, everything is on computer and smartphones, navigation satellites, etc. but at one time you had to actually know what the numbers represented. And how to use them.

Basically the numbers are published in six volumes, with each spanning a 15 degree segment of latitude. The one at top would be used in latitudes from Northern Brazil to the lower southern United States.; or any other location in the world within those boundaries. They are used for navigating by sextant while crossing the ocean and out of sight of land.

Their use is outlined in the beginning pages so that anyone can open the book up and teach themselves. That’s what I did. You take your longitude in relation the Aries; this is called your Local Hour Angle. That, along with your assumed latitude and sextant reading will yield you the precise mathematical location of the star, or planet, which you have “shot” with your sextant. Converted, this will give you a line of position. Ideally, you do this for several stars.

These lines of position will then be used to lay lines on the chart to the points where the stars would be if they were at sea level. Just like a lighthouse, or bouy. The point where all of your lines cross represents the position you are at on the terrestrial plane.The satisfaction of making these computations is enormous, as they give you a sense of just how small you, and your ship, are in comparison to the larger picture. Nowadays there is a place to go online and the computer will make these calculations for you.

You may have seen these for sale on e-bay. They run anywhere from $9 to $20. I suppose many of the people snatching them up are survivalists, waiting for the end times when all the technology will come crashing down and  knowledge will be magic. More power to them. I’m holding onto mine because when I hold it in my hands I am 26 years old again, “punching pubs” at dawn; or dusk; beneath a red light to preserve my night vision. The ship is rolling and the air smells like diesel; or maybe that was me.