" A Gal In Every Port "

Moms and Dads, lock up your doors and hide your daughters … the fleet is in town!  Any young lady within a fifty mile radius of port of entry were never safe from a sailor who had been out to sea for any amount of time.   Swabs were like a pack of hungry pit bulls chasing a pork chop as soon as they saw women for the first time in months!

Why wouldn’t they? When a sea going Crackerjack just spent a month at sea stone cold sober, working sixteen hour days, his most intimate moments were on the shitter with Rosie and her five marry sisters and a filthy nekkit lady magazine that’s been passed from shipmate to shipmate … just don’t get the pages sticky! There’s nothing like being out at sea crammed into a testosterone fueled compartment with no contact with the outside world to make you a bit untamed.

“Me hair is made of hemp and me clothes of seaweed … I’m as hard as I am as I are … aaaargh!”

That’s the spirit, I always say.  You tend to go feral with poor eating habits, rude sounds from strange orifices and a gape in your step we call your ‘sea legs!’  We were steeped, boiled and drowned in stupidity all those years. I suppose you could say we thought with the wrong head more times than not and that often lead to precarious situations.

And though we weren’t known for being debonair like a traveling Casanova, we could crack you up with the hook of a joke we’d honed to precision after endless night watches.  We had a certain sort of allure … peculiar and intriguing with every yarn we would spin of the mysterious storms & sun rises, treasures and faraway places we’d been! And when that lassie at the bar would gaze in the sailor’s eyes … she’d surely be lured through fathoms of charm she could only skim the surface of. 

And in a pub … How many can count the nights of drunken debauchery finding yourself trying to peel her arm off at 0400 hours to make it back to the ship before liberty secured?  What do you do with a ‘Drunken Sailor,’ indeed!  Nothing like the story of the sailor who was ‘UA’ with the Captain’s daughter and found passed out on top of her by Shore Patrol in a blubbering mess!

Yes, a “girl in every port” is a saying for a reason, but it’s not that simple. If there’s anything us Crackerjack Sailors liked more than a girl in every port, it’s having one waiting back home for your return! She’d be waiting joyfully with open arms wearing the dime store perfume and cheap red lipstick! After a passionate sailor promised all those gals eternal devotion, love and romance … it turns out there were more girls than you might think willing to spend their evenings with their panties off for some silly son-of-a-bitch of a sailor … He-He! Those were some days!!!

"Water Tight"

Material Condition Readiness for battle and weather conditions are set aboard US military vessels to maintain watertight integrity and readiness against various threats. There's Condition X-Ray, Condition Yoke, and Condition Zebra, all used to dictate how to "button up" ships.

The names of those conditions were derived from an old childrens' quip,

"XYZ— eXamine Your Zipper."

That’s what they told us in Bootcamp … True Story!!!

" Drop Foot "

I’m suffering from drop foot due to neuropathy after spinal surgery ten months ago! I found this joke rather humorous …

Two sailors meet each other on a pier. Both are dragging their right foot as they walk. One points to his foot and says …

"Persian Gulf, War in Iraq!"

The other points his thumb behind and says …

"Seagull crap, 20 feet back!"

"Tool Stank"

This week, I grabbed a box of tools at work that brought back a lot of Crackerjack memories. The box was made of yellow plastic and on the inside were a set of multi-colored nut drivers of various sizes. Then it hit me … that smell! The Xcelite tool box has a smell the EPA would confuse with a hazardous waste dump. It’s absolutely stankalicious if you know what I mean.

It brought back memories yes it did. We used these tools quite extensively in the turbo-techno-twidget world of whizbangs and molecular synchro servo umpty squats in the good ol’ Canoe Club! You twidgets should all remember the old Xcelite tools. I remember the first time I’d used these engineering marvels, they had a smell worse than a Motel ‘6’ bathroom after a chilli dog eating contest! I spent a little time sniffing each tool in our unorthodox chaotic toolbox filled with accumulated crap discovering which ones gave off the butt stank! I’m not talking the unwashed rank kind of horrid. But the “something crawled inside a monkey’s ass, stayed there a week and fell out dead and horrid."

After a couple of ships and signing on to a brand new commissioned ship, we got a brand new set of these tools in each CIWS Mount in a big brown briefcase.  I thought for sure, some new tools that don’t stink … I couldn’t had been more wrong. As soon as the tool kit was opened the A/C in the space immediately recirculated the distinct smell of ass that permeated everything once the case was opened.

We tried dipping them in solvents like PD-680 and alcohol to kill the smell … nothing worked! We even poured stuff that made the place smell like a cheap New Orleans whorehouse. Our First Class at the time tried one of them ultra-sonic cleaning machines a time or two but with no luck. I guess the Top Brass figured working with such a high level of stank should develop a level of immunity that could stand up to anything below the level of ground zero in a CBR environment.

There were times you’d be laid out in the back of the shop, with your foul weather jacket tucked under your head taking a snooze until someone opened that God-for-sak’n tool case …

“Who the hells been wearing their skivvies inside out and backwards for the last three or four days?!?”

That smell could knock your socks off and send them running…

The best part was during General Quarters. Each Mount had three or four young Seamen from the Deck force assigned as their Battle-stations. There was nothing like a young crackerjack sailor all sweaty from a hot day on deck with deck gray spattered dungarees and arm pit stains the size of a volleyball.  They’d come in and get in battle dress discussing women’s tit sizes and sex with the fat girl that hangs out at that club out in town. The Mount Captain or one of the other techs would inconspicuously open the Xcelite case behind one of the unsuspected swabbies and …

“Man, what’s that smell? You been scratching your butt?”

… another would say …

“Seaman Jones, you smell like you haven’t used soap and water for two weeks! What, did that fat girl let out the flatulence and you haven’t showered since?”

“That’s some of the foulest air imaginable! Damn!!!”

“What are you a dog? Why don’t you shower after stick’n her in the butt?”

We would stumble around the CIWS Mount acting dumbfounded wondering what the hell that smell was. And the shenanigans would go on as that unsuspected swabby would take big time heat for that nasty smell, and none of the others were any of the wiser.

Yes, those were the days.  Your average civilian would never understand us. They just wouldn’t get it, period!

"Navy Wives"

A Navy Wife found out that her sailor husband had stopped paying the bills while away at sea. Needing financial support she went to Navy Relief. After the initial greetings the gentleman asked the names of any children she had...

"Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, and Dave!"

… She replied …

"Ten children all named Dave? If you don't mind, how do you ever call them to dinner?"

… He asked …

"I just shout, dinner time Dave, and they all come."

… She said with a smile …

"No... What I mean is, how do you call just one of them?"

“That’s easy, I just call him by his last name."

“The North Atlantic Squadron”

Sea Shanties can come of the naughtiest kind. Send the kids away, send away the easily offended, send away the not-so-easily offended, and then give it a spin. While listening to this tribute to the North Atlantic Squadron, you’ll almost certainly find yourself happily tapping your toes to the most explicit sailor music imaginable. Which is just fine, until you come to the realization that your seagoing salt of a Great-Grand Daddy likely sang these very songs. Then you might feel a bit strangely disturbed. Enjoy …

Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.

When we arrived in Montreal, she spread her legs from wall to wall.
She took the Captain balls and all in the North Atlantic Squadron.

We were seven days at sea, the Captain took to buggery.
His only joy was the cabin boy in the North Atlantic Squadron.

Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.

A-sailing up and down the coast, now here's the thing we love the most,
To fuck the girls and drink a toast to the North Atlantic Squadron.

Well, off the coast of Labrador we took on board a floating whore.
We fucked her forty times or more in the North Atlantic Squadron.

Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.

A-sailing up to Newfoundland each sailor had his prick in hand.
Oh say, my boys, can you make it stand? in the North Atlantic Squadron.

And when our ship is in dry dock the whores around us all do flock.
It's every man unfurl your cock in the North Atlantic Squadron.

Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.
Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.
Away, away with fife and drum,
Here we come, full of rum.
Looking for women who peddle their bum
In the North Atlantic Squadron.

"Tattoos No Longer For Sailors & Whores"

Tattoos with sailors can be traced back as far as the 1700s when Captain James Cook came across the Maori of the South Pacific, and his crew decided to get tattoos as "souvenirs" of their visit. After that the connection between sailors and tattoos steadily increased.

It had often been said that sailors and prostitutes were the only ones that had tattoos and that they'd end up in prison someday. 

Miss Eleanor Barnes of the Seaman's Institute once remarked, "Some people pour out their colorful stories to juries. Others relieve the tension by writing for the confession magazines. The sailor enlists the tattooers needle upon his own body in dull blues, vivid reds, greens and yellows to record the story of his loves and hates, his triumphs, his religion, and his patriotism." Enuf said! 

In the 1940s tattoos saw one of the biggest booms the tattoo trade had known in years. From far and wide, eligible young Crackerjacks were flocking to their favorite needlers with demands for lingerie, skirts, brassieres, fans, bubbles, flowers, and butterflies, almost anything that would cover up a bare spot.

Norman Collins, better known as Sailor Jerry, was a prolific tattoo artist for sailors. During the Second World War in Honolulu, Hawaii, the red-light district was ablaze with sailors and soldiers about to ship off, and in the very center of this was Collins. His skill and prolific work helped make tattoos an art form in America rather than merely a permanent souvenir for drunken sailors.

Since the 1970s, tattoos have become a mainstream part of global and Western fashion, common among both sexes, to all economic classes, and to age groups from the later teen years to middle age. For many young Americans, the tattoo has taken on a decidedly different meaning than for previous generations. The tattoo has "undergone dramatic redefinition" and has shifted from a form of deviance to an acceptable form of expression.

Tattooing has been on the increase: habit not confined to seamen only…

Once the mark of sailors and bikers, body art is now sought after by the fashion-hungry… 

Tattooing has "entered the mainstream" 

Tattooing has passed from the savage to the sailor, from the sailor to the landsman. It has since percolated through the entire social stratum; tattooing has received its credentials, and may now be found beneath many a tailored shirt.

… FIN ...

"Musical Implants"

The Naval Institute has been working on the development of computer chips that store music inside women’s breast implants. 

This is a major breakthrough, as women are always complaining about sailors staring at their breasts but never listening to them…

"Crackerjack Etiquette"

For centuries the general population of this here Ol’ Canoe Club has contained a wide spectrum of boys and girls from all over the country. It’s been a cross-section of Middle America. In the middle of this seething caldron of raw, untamed feral beasts, we’ve got those who are exceptionally bright to those of the walking brain dead.

 Yes, you get the occasional screw-up, or last year’s senior class clown to “wait ‘til they get a loud of this shit” kind of lunatic and the whole gambit of “Shut the fuck up or I'll drop kick you in the brain-housing you weak pussy-ass-bitch” kind of Billy Bad Ass with language worse than a parrot in a whorehouse!

On the ship and in the shop you here shipmates saying …

“Hey, toss me that fucking wrench.”

… or …

“Can you all stop fucking swearing and arguing for one minute? We’ve been troubleshooting for three fucking straight days!”

That was our typical dialog amongst shipmates. We vented, we shit talked and it was all okay. It was how we expressed ourselves, amongst ourselves. It builds camaraderie.

Nobody ever accused Saltwater Navy Crackerjacks of having good manners. Hell, Eleanor Roosevelt once even said sailors have the cleanest bodies but the dirtiest mouths of all the services. There’s a reason they refer to it as “Cussing like a Sailor.” It’s reminiscent of that age old image of a flipped back white hat sailor with lucky strikes rolled up in his shirt sleeve and a zippo lighter imprinted through the pocket of his dungaree pants! I was up to my waist in smoking vulgarities, cuss words and spine warping language.

On my last ship we had a Sonarman named Bierly known for sleeping butt nekkit with his rack curtains open. He even had a sign he would hang on his rack …

“Fuck me but leave a tip!"

Believe me when I say, “I’m no angel!” I’ve been known to season my vernacular with a four-letter word here and there myself, but I’ve usually tried to be self-conscious of those around me … especially after the Thanksgiving dinner table incident my first time home from Bootcamp. 

Historically, sailors were tough hard-working, hard-drinking men who worked in an all-male environment, and didn’t need to worry about social etiquette or “offending the ladies” so to speak.  Sometimes while on liberty we stand out amongst polite society due to our unruly behavior and foul language.

It reminds me of riding the San Diego Trolley through downtown San Dog. You’ve got four stops to your destination and there’s always a group of young sailors that start every sentence with “Fucking” and end the same sentence with “and Shit!” It’s always in the presence of old grannies and families with little kids. You sit there listening to this crap and the only thing that comes to mind is why we get a bad name. It often made me wonder how many times these numbskulls repeated the third grade.

I actually remember once sitting on a bus across from some young Marines out of MCRD with full-fledged gorilla armpit perspiration having an out loud discussion about some young lady’s camel toe and speaking quite publicly about the details of your average females bust development… I mean really??? How would your grandmother feel sitting across from these fellas swearing like a whore in church?!?

“Fuck me man, it's hotter than two queer Wookies fucking in a fleece-insulated sleeping bag in the middle of Kenya!”

“Do you know who really gives a fuck? Hookers! Hookers give a fuck, but it’ll cost you!!!

“That chic over there has a fine ass but no tits!”

“It’s okay if she has no tits, I can still motorboat her butt cheeks!!!

To these Marines, the word ‘Inappropriate’ was as ambiguous as Matt Lauer’s sexuality! So as a Chief, I made a polite approach. I related to them as a fellow service member and posed the question …

“Listen here you ‘Devil Dogs,’ telling you not to cuss is a ridiculous notion. After all, you didn’t fight your way to the top of the food chain to become vegetarians. But as a Marine and a gentleman, it’s just not cool to be out in public screaming obscenities all the time. It’s called common courtesy. As Marines, this is your chance to adapt and overcome!”

To be honest, these were some stout healthy young boys who could had easily cold cocked me and rendered me horizontally inert! Maybe because they recognized me as a Navy Chief or just realized I was right, I don’t know. But they were respectful and took to what I said with a …

“Roger that Chief. We got you. We understand.”

In front of the boys, I could give two shits, but on the trolley, bus or Union Station in front of priests, moms, kiddos and grannies of all sorts it’s just not cool at all. In all those years I had many of these experiences. A young Sailor or Marine full of testosterone could say …

“Your hair is like corn silk under an August moon, your lips as rubies and her teeth, pearls!”

Instead he’s got to say …

“I'm so horny me cock could cut diamonds right now!”

One of the best comebacks I ever heard…

 “Are these your eyeballs? I found them in my cleavage.”

Later on came the gentler, kinder more civilized service with house broken Boy Scout types … no cussing, frowned on drinking, and no smoking except in super-secret designated spaces. No more skin book swaps, naughty calendars and raunchy joke marathons. It always amazes me how now sailors have to dance the “PC” fandango over preferences of words onboard ships with today’s crew yet no one seems to care how they talk out in the center of the universe.

I guess that’s just the way the new ships rock-n-roll…

"Home From Deployment"

Because the husband had just gotten home from a six-month tour of duty, the husband and wife were furiously making love when, all of a sudden, the wind slammed a door shut somewhere else in the house.

The husband kidding around says,

"Oh no! That must be your husband coming home."

And the wife unwittingly replies,

"Oh No. He's off in the Navy for six months!" 

"Short-Timer"

Anyone remember “Short Time Calendars” during your service in the ol’ Canoe Club? I’ve been told and research suggests that the calendars started during the Vietnam War. Most soldiers had a calendar on which they crossed out the days spent in Vietnam. When you were considered ‘short’ the calendar was taken more seriously and many GI’s had very creative ones…

Usually, nothing more than a simple, pocket sized calendar or piece of paper with numbered squares, each one representing a day and that was carried by a soldier who marked off the days “in-country” one by one until his rotation date came up.

Some got creative, some were “works of art”; pictures divided up like a “paint by the numbers” drawing where you colored in one day at a time, but basically, they were just a way to keep track of the days looking forward.

In later years the custom was borrowed throughout the services as sailors planning on getting out after their first hitch would follow suit with these bits of art...

Personally, I never carried one as I ended up doing a Twenty-Three year stretch. Never considered myself a lifer. But here we are talking about it like it ain’t nothing but a thing…

I remember a picture of a fist with an up raised finger divided into 100 squares and from day one-hundred to go, it got each square colored in.

Here’s a short little poem that goes along with all those single enlistment short timers…

"I'M SO SHORT THAT"........

-When I jump out of bed, I free fall for 3 minutes before I open my chute! And then it takes all day to climb out of my boots!
-I could parachute off a dime!
-I had to parachute off my bunk to the floor today!
-I can walk on stilts under a pregnant amoeba!
-I am knee high to a tadpole!
-I drink coffee with a long straw because I can't reach the table!
-I have to jump up to look down!
-I can play handball against a curb!
-They use my height to measure jungle boot tread!
-I could jump off the edge of a quarter and scream "AAAAHHHH" all the way down!
-I was too short to be seen at my farewell party!
-I have to blouse my flak vest inside my boots!
-I have to look UP to a 2nd Lieutenant!
-I have to stuff paper in my boots to see out!
-I could sit on my thumb and let my feet dangle!
-I can sleep in a matchbox!
-I have to part my eyebrows to trim my toenails!
-You can see my feet on my driver's license!
-I can walk under a worm without bending over!
-I can sit on a dime and dangle my feet!
-I have to use a ladder to scratch a snake's belly!
-I left yesterday!
-I could trip on a dime!
-I can't even carry on this conversation!
-My feet don't touch the ground!
-I can't even stand on a dime to see over a nickle!
-I have to look up to see down!
-I don't have to open the door to leave the room!
-By the time you recognize me, I'll be gone!
-During firefights, I just crawl under my rucksack!
-During incoming, I have my personal sandbag to get under!
-I am next!
-I won't write another letter, because I'll beat it home!
-I can hide behind a blade of grass!
-You don't really see me, I'm just a figment of your imagination!
-I got lost in my boots, just putting them on!
-I can sit on a dime and dangle my legs!
-I can walk under a pregnant ant with a top hat on!
-I need a ladder to step up on the curb!
-I need a step stool to reach the piss tube!
-I'm too short for long conversations!
-You need a magnifying glass to see me!
-I have to stand on tip-toes to see out of a tank track!
-I'm counting seconds!
-I might not start another letter, 'cause I'll be gone before I finish it!

"Hot Dog"

Top Gun Aviators are sometimes called “Hog Dogs” because they’ve mustard a lot of courage to get this far and relish putting it to the limits!  

"The Pig & The Rooster"

Here’s a Yarn from an ol’ Coot off the USS Rochester CA-124, Earl Lanning, 1950-53’…

Thomas Dallas George was not what you would call your average Rochester sailor. He was a good seaman and could perform most any of the deck hand skills. He was well-liked by everyone and he was in Jackson’s 3rd Division.

I first met T.D. (that’s what we called him) in Columbia, SC, where they had sent me from Asheville, NC, to be sworn in by the Navy. We went to San Diego by train, and were in the same company in boot camp. Later we were assigned to the ROCHESTER, which we boarded in Japan.

Everything was going OK with T.D. and myself. Although we were later in different divisions, we were in the same area and would see each other every day. Like I said, George was just somehow different….sometimes he would get a little gleam in this eye, and no one had better dare him to do something, because he was fearless.

T.D. was in awe of some of the “old salts” that were on the ship at that time. Many of them had been in the Navy since the ’30’s. He would sit for hours and listen to them spin yarns about “Old” Hong Kong, Singapore, Shanghai and other exotic ports. Back in their days they were pretty wild and dangerous places. Now, some of those old-timers had beliefs that went way back in seafaring tradition. This is where the story begins.

One day I was talking with him and he said, 

“Earl, you know what my greatest fear is?” 

I said I didn’t think he was afraid of anything. 

“Well, I am. I’ve always had a fear of drowning.” 

I wondered why since he was a great swimmer. But, he smiled at me and said, 

“I have this figured out now. When we get in port I will show you what I mean. Old Drummond in the 3rd Division told me what to do.” 

I told him that that old nut would get him killed.

But a few weeks later, after we had been in port, I met T.D. standing back by the 3rd Division hatch. He had that grin on his face. I knew he had been up to something. He said, 

“Look Earl,” 

as he pulled up his bell-bottom jeans and pointed down. To my amazement, there, on the top of one foot was tattooed a pig and on the other, a rooster. He said, 

“Old Drummond says it will keep you from drowning”.

A week or so later we were still in port. A bunch of us were sitting around in the aft starboard mess hall drinking coffee and talking. T.D. had on a pair of flip flops and was staring down at his feet. He looked up at me with that gleam in his eye and said, 

“Earl, I am going to try them out.” 

He jumped up and started running. The other fellow asked what that was all about. A few moments later we heard the O.D. call out on the intercom, 

“Man Overboard! Man Overboard! Starboard Side!” 

We all ran up topside and over to the rail, just in time to see T.D. swimming alongside, even with the aft 5″ turret. He swam back to the boat boom on the fantail and climbed up on it. He looked at me, sticking one foot out and said, 

“See, I told you Old Drummond knew what to do…it worked!”

"Row, Row, Row Your Boat"

While motor-boating his girlfriend’s breasts, a sailor was in need of a little air when he yelled out …

“OH NO! We’re all out of gas! We have to paddle the rest of the way!”

That’s when he proceeded to stick his arms out like oars and smack her titties back and forth!!!

"Seraphina"

Blasting and Bellowing out Sea Shanties was a favorite past time of our nautical Ancestory! Bawdy Shanties were like Sea Porn! Wouldn’t it be great if it was brought back once again…

In Callao there lives a gal whose name is Serafina
Serafina! Serafina!

She sleeps all day and fucks all night in the Callao Marina
Serafina! Oh, Serafina!

She’s the queen, of all the whores that live in the ol’ Casino,
She used to screw for a monkey nut but now she’ll fuck for a vino.

At robbin’ silly sailors, boys, no gal was ever keener
She’ll make you pay right through the nose, that lovely Serafina!

She’ll guzzle pisco, beer and gin, on rum her mum did wean ‘er
She smokes just like a chimney stack on a P.S.N.C steamer.

Serafina’s got no drawers, I been ashore an’ seen ‘er
She’s got no time to put them on, that hard-fucked Serafina.

She’ll claw and kick and bite and scratch when in the old arena

She’ll rob you blind if she gets the chance that dirty she hyena

When I was young an’ in me prime, I first met Serafina

In Callao we saw the sights an’ then went up to Lima.

But the finest sight I ever saw was little Serafina,
But the very next day as we sailed away, I wisht I’d never been there.

I used to love a little girl whose name was Serafina
But she’s gone off with a Dago man who plays a concertina.

"The BOHICA Files"

Life in the ol’ Canoe Club could be the “all work and no play” kind of mundane if you didn't stir up the pot every now and again.  If you’re a civilian type, and never been in the Navy, it would be damn near impossible to explain. But we did some shit! We invented major controversies to keep us occupied! Totally creative stupid stuff was the best entertainment you could get.

One minute our priorities were fighting those Soviet Commies and dealing with the repercussions of the Cold War, the next we were being condemned for a bad shave and in need of a major haircut. That’s just the way it was. Crackerjack Sailors didn’t know any better and truth be told, figured it would always be that way! You could cram 6000 sailors onboard a carrier and multiply that number by a hundred in rumors and free enterprise!

Case in point …

Onboard the newly minted USS Nimitz way back in its infancy, it’s said that a sailor had whined and complained to the Executive Officer (XO) that working hours were too long and didn’t allow time for the crew to take care of personal business as nothing was open before ship’s work and everything was closed at knock off! Apparently the XO had no empathy and told them to suck it up.  And that’s when the shenanigans started!!!

About this time the XO had overheard some of the crew referring to the ship as “USS NUMBNUTS.”  Not happy with the moniker, the XO had a question and answer column in the Nimitz News. In this column he’d put on a shipboard contest for a positive catch phrase, as some sort of morale booster. Somewhere along the line, a good old talented smart ass of a shipmate came up with the slogan…

“BOHICA – Our Screws Never Stop! U.S.S. NIMITZ CVN-68” 

Somehow this young sprite of a lad convinced the XO that BOHICA was a positive Native American word that could double as an acronym for…

“Best Overall, Highest In Carrier Aviation!” 

And would you believe that it actually worked? It won the contest!!!

For those not good with acronyms and wondering the true meaning of BOHICA…

“Bend Over, Here It Comes Again!”

And just like that, there were all sorts of trunk magnets, banners, t-shirts, ball caps, and stickers everywhere sold right out of the ship’s store. They were selling like generic Viagra on a PI street corner. Everywhere you looked there was another twelve inch by five inch bumper sticker announcing to the world that the folks onboard worked 24/7 to make the nuclear power the most efficient the world had seen!

After thousands were sold, the skipper, Captain Compton, found out the true meaning of BOHICA and decided the Nimitz was forever more out of the BOHICA business. He had the Master-At-Arms in full force participating in a project to surgically remove all visual evidence anywhere on base! Death would have been one of the lesser penalties that would’ve been paid by any son-of-a-bitch caught advertising such shenanigans!  To indulge in such nonsense was an invitation to have the major element of one's manhood promptly nailed to the top of the mast!

"Let us not continue to offend and embarrass ourselves over these offensive eyesores donning our bulkheads, piers and parking lots."

I don’t know who had the cohunes to convince the XO of such things, but he must had been some kind of self-possessed Superman!

One shipmate told me,

“We didn’t’ invent the phrase, BOHICA, but it sure was true. To say the workload was nothing less than slave labor would be a master stroke of an understatement. No human being should live and work like that. I have no idea how many hours a week we were putting in, something like the sweat shops in China, but you can bet your fanny it was a hell of a lot worse than today’s standards of living. They say the ship stayed at sea for almost an eternity with Builders Trials and all of the Qualification runs they had to do before the ol’ Canoe Club would pay the shipyard for the balance due!”

It was said that later, during the maiden cruise, Captain Compton saw a “BOHICA” sign posted in the jet engine shop. Needless to say the skipper lost his mind and lit them up like a Christmas tree. From then on, they looked around for zeros before giving away BOHICA merchandise!  It was also said that upon return from that voyage, the Skipper had about ten of those bumper stickers applied to his car, none by him. That said, that crew will also tell you, when they went to sea they were ready, well trained and knew the ship inside and out and knew how to fight with it to its fullest capabilities. They were ready, but as always …

“A sailor isn't happy if he doesn't have something to bitch about. Because a Bitchy Sailor is a Happy Sailor!”

I must admit, I thought it was just one of those malarkey full of shit sea stories, until I saw a bumper sticker on the back of an old pickup truck one day at the Navy Exchange.

As the years went by, the legend of BOHICA would still continue …

Bill Hartman said that years later as a first class checking aboard he was told by a former shipmate he should ask for his BOHICA kit from his Department Head during in-brief. Lucky for him he already understood what it meant.

Wayne H. Franklin said he’s still got a bumper sticker and tried to gift it to the Nimitz Historical Society but was rebuffed! He said Captain Compton didn’t like it much. Especially after the crew painted it on bedsheets and hung it out off the island side of pier 13 when they got back from a North Atlantic Cruise!  

Riding the ships today must be like living in a Boy Scout Congregation! No banter, no teasing, no shenanigans.  No “No-Shitter Sea Stories over a couple of cold beers. I wonder what it’s gonna be like one day with no more “you ain’t gonna believe this shit kind” of yarns?!?