"Wog Days"

I don't know if this was typical over a millennium or where the Navy got too PC' to carry on the ol' tradition but there was no subject out of bounds when we crossed the Equator for the first time!

Originally the tradition of crossing the line was created as a test for greenhorned sailors to prove their worthiness of handling long rough times at sea. This was the Ol' School Navy "Crossing The Line Ceremony" quite unlike that of today's "kinder, gentler Navy". It was here the slimy 'polywogs' were witnessed crossing the equator for the first time & gett'n duly initiated into the 'Solemn Mysteries Of The Ancient Order Of Shellbacks!' Ol' Salts who'd already crossed the line be known as 'Trusty Shellbacks,' & often referred to as Sons of Neptune! It involved the most grueling & often sordid tests & challenges not intended for the most weak & squeamish sons-a-bitches on deck. When the ceremony was over & a sailor had completed his initiation he was known to be deserving of his trusty shellback. There was nothing like wearing underwear inside out & backwards, gett'n rotten eggs broken over the head, & drink'n the all mighty 'truth serum!'

On the Bagley the event started the day before with the Contest of contests among nominated Wog Queens. The favorites of the slimy pollywogs were sequestered to play the part. I was honored with the privilege to play along in the game, or maybe some of those homophile bastards just wanted to see me dressed in drag. I did have sexy legs! Whatever the reason, I was a real sport & took it like a champ. I made the best of the situation pranc'n around on the flight deck like a ferry while winking & making sexually evocative gestures at King Neptune & the Skipper too. Sailors would hoot-n-holler their vigorous approvals as we paraded the flight deck, making our way like a band of hookers. The name of the game was humor & using our wits to put together a very seductive costume.

I'll bet your wonder'n how we managed to cruise around for months with brassieres, fishnet & stiletto heels stowed away in the little space available to a Sailor at sea while wait'n for this day? Well it's simple actually. I had an extra large navy sweater we managed to mutilate into four pieces using the arms for leg warmers & the lower half, a skirt. We conjured up enough DC chalk for make-up & an ol' poka-dotted rag for a head scarf. I managed to take third place next to the Puerto Rican cook doin the Carmen Miranda act. He was a flamboyant type with all the advantages of making a good drag queen. He even knew how to dance the samba & the tango so he'd surely be a shoe in.

The next morning around 0500 hours we were awaken to the sound of Davey Jones greeted by the Skipper on the bridge. All us slimy wog sons-a-bitches were drug out of our pits & forced to wear our dungarees inside out & backwards with our skivvies on the outside marked with a P on our backside to show our true colors as wogs. No kneepads? To bad so sad as the nonskid would just chew up the knees if left unprotected. From berthing to topside we were forced to crawl in single file lines to the forecastle while whipped with shalalees & hav'n every fluid, grease, or smelly sauce found under the sun applied to our backsides. We'd be lined ‘nut to butt’ & forced to simulate sodomy on one another as we slowly made our way to the gaudamn 'Wog Breakfast!'

Once on the forecastle we were introduced to a nasty concoction of macaroni noodles & bug juice or 'navy kool-aid to all you landlubbers' as we were forced to roll around & stuff it in our mouth while everyone in tarnations crawled through it. When nice & grubby the shellbacks sprayed us down with 150 psi of fire hose to clean all the macaroni grit off our slimy asses. Now, it gets pretty gaudamn warm at the equator but when it’s that early in the morn'n & the sun hasn’t come up that fire main can do a real number on ya!!

From there we scurried across the deck on our hands & knees shivering & drenched in salt water up to the garbage chute full of the foulest most wretched creation of vile garbage you could imagine. It was only worsened by the course of the morning hours as the heat putrefied the rubbish & a few unlucky sailors managed to spill their guts for the next group to crawl through. Yes it was quite despicable. Once through the garbage chutes it was on to the flight deck which came into view as a carnival of mayhem where the shellbacks would continue the onslaught of brutality & force each pollywog to take on such impossible tasks as pushing raw eggs across the nonskid from point to point without breaking them using only their nose & their dick skinners hog-tied behind their backs, or blowing pad eyes clean of mucky water which was an impractical undertaking.

At this point each of our sorry asses would be called upon to smother our faces in the Royal Baby’s fat ass gut all smeared in peanut butter & whip cream while trying to retrieve the cherry buried deep inside his royal belly button: no homoerotic undertones there! Once retrieved we'd be forced into a stockade & the Shellback's interrogated us for our worthy pleas to go before His Royal Majesty, King Neptune & his Royal Court. Here we'd be asked if we’d be 'Courageous Shellbacks' or 'Repulsive Pollywogs.' If the answer wasn't what they'd be look'n for, to the beginning we'd be sent to repeat the onslaught once again.

I never really knew what the right answer was. I suppose it was agreed upon rather they liked you or not. I only had to go through once. From that point I was directed to the fan tail where I'd be stripped of all my clothes & threw them overboard. Imagine a bunch of naked ass squids scampering through the ship nasty & wet with garbage to the nearest shower only to wait in line so we could clean our slimy asses off. You’ll never see that in today’s Navy. Not with all the ladies onboard. Besides, this has become a Navy that is largely devoid of any formidable challenges to test our endurance to the worst that life has to offer. One thing I know for sure, my wife is still disturbed by those Wog Queen pictures!

I've been a shell back for some years now watching as the ceremonies become watered down & void of any real fun!! Gone is the puke ridden stench & the Wog Queens & the cherries in whip cream in the fat, lint-filled belly of the Royal Baby! And away with the naked men scampering across the deck to shower away the mess. Maybe the CNO is homophobic... hell I'm just glad I got the experience prior to the kinder & gentler Navy.