" Selective Memory "

The author, Lane Olinghouse, once wrote …

“Time lets you remember the rich, good taste of country butter, and forget about the churning.”

That’s why it’s always rich when you get the chance to muster up with someone from the old gang. 

An old shipmate, Neil “The Sauceman” Saucier, came to visit me the other day from all the way across the country. We sat around like a couple of old geezers reminiscing of all those good times we had on the Good Ship Rainier back in the day. Sometimes we could act like the most unsalvageable riff-raff the Navy had ever turned out.  We were always having the best time pissing up each other’s rope … a ripe pair of smart ass connoisseurs.

“Remember that time I was giving Hert a bunch of shit and he was ready to pulverize me into a million pieces? Then you and Marcus Cool jumped on his back and tried to stop him? You guys were getting thrown around like rodeo clowns … it was hilarious!”

… Then I said …

“I ran into Woody a few years ago and he reminded me about waking him up at reveille with my skivvies down around my ankles, slapping my butt-cheeks together … From one asshole to another, it’s time to get up!”

… Sauce said …

“Oh shit, that’s funny. Do you remember that time we were being a bunch of idiots carrying empty ammo cans up and down the ship, a can bounced off the lifeline and straight back into my face? It was a big whammo with the ammo!”

… I sat there with the dumbest look on my face as I couldn’t recollect what the hell he was talking about…

“You mean you can remember talking out of your asshole waking up Woody, but you can’t remember one of the most traumatic events in my life? I had my two front teeth knocked out! For months, I had to walk around looking like a kindergartener waiting for the Tooth Fairy.”

I’ve been known to have a pretty good memory, but it took some coaxing to knock the rust off those cranial gears before it started to come to me. Sauceman had to walk around the ship with a false tooth retainer for the rest of his time onboard. I remember now, because he’d take his retainer out and mess with the fellas just like a shipmate should! A couple of shipmates were sitting around watching a movie in the lounge, and out pops two front teeth on the table while one of the fellas was enjoying his popcorn or sucking down a soda. We were just a couple of bluejacket idiots enjoying our time with fellow practitioners of our limb swinging, saltwater, seagoing berthing treehouse. Common decency stopped at the door and was usually not welcomed in such places in those days. We just rode each other’s nerves like brothers always do.

It was great to see the ol’ Sauceman as we tossed around pure unadulterated bullshit of long-ago oxidized memories onboard old Lucky No. 7 … such wonderful memories they were. He teased me for sticking around long enough to become an old barnacle-encrusted Navy Chief … foul-weathered, foul-mouthed, and all.

I hope I can find some more sea story bullshit artists in the future to pluck a few more memories out of the cobwebs … I know you rapscallions are out there.

 

( Fin )

 

" Burnt Fin "

 

This is a story from Petty Officer Brantly off the USS Towers from way back in the day. I hope you all enjoy …

The Tartar / Standard missiles we carried onboard were of two colors: “blue” for practice (used for DSOTs, Daily System Operability Tests; contained no rocket motor), and “white” (live ‘birds’).  Well, since the “blue” practice missiles were ‘run up on the rail’ once a day, the rear fins (which had to be unfolded each time) had a tendency to eventually wear out.  Consequently, these blue fins were sometimes stored in the Missile Computer Room.

Well, one of the GMM2’s (I’ll leave out his name), thought he would play a practical joke on the GMMC.  We were preparing to have a “live” missile shoot at a drone in a few days, and he thought this would be his opportunity.  The idea was this: he would take one of the “blue” practice fins and paint it “white”.  Then he took his Zippo lighter and “burnt it up” a bit.  The GMMC always went out personally to check the missile launcher after a live firing, so the GMM2 ‘planted’ the “burnt-up” painted “white” fin in the safety net around the launcher just before the live fire drill.

This is where the plan broke down…  The GMM2 successfully planted the fin in the safety net, but when we had the missile firing, the launch was a failure; the missile had to be self-destructed because of its erratic flight.  The GMMC went out to check the launcher, and he found the planted fin, and naturally thought that the fin had fallen off the real ‘bird’ and caused the launch failure!  Before he could be stopped, he took the fin up to the bridge to show the Captain, who radioed the Admiral in charge of the test, who messaged……….who knows how far it went up.

Well, eventually the word got out to the Captain about the joke, and the next thing we heard was “Petty Officer (deleted), lay to the bridge!” We never let our friend live that one down.  Later, we heard that the XO had told one of the chiefs that there was some humor there, but the Admiral was not too pleased.  One thing that I always remember about the Towers crew, both officers and enlisted, we stuck together, at sea, in battle, on shore (and in humor!)...

 

Fin 

" Chewing at the Bit "

 

I’ve written much prose over the years about the debauchery of being a sailor and all the highs and lows that come with it. I started running out of ideas on how to compose even more such nonsense so I decided to take a turn and write about some of the lessons I’d learned along the way … Lord knows there were many.

My first six years in the ol’ Canoe Club, I didn’t know shit from shinola. I remember hanging out with sailors who preached about their lack of military bearing while sticking it to the man using the word “fuck” a lot. I know most of you had been there and done that a thousand times. But some things didn’t always click with me when I sat listening, trying to wrestle with the ideas of what was wrong or right.

We can talk about the political correctness that started to rear its ugly head or our so-called leaders punching their ticket to make the next rank as they shit on the lower half of the animal kingdom, but regardless of reason, some lessons got traction in my life and I learned a great deal from them. 

Now I grew up short, left-handed, and born with the funny last name of “Swing.” You can only imagine the thousand or so derivatives made into nicknames from that alone. Not to mention I had a whole slew of “Peanuts” characters for step siblings … Chuck, Linus, and Lucy. That ain’t no shit!

You see, I can relate to that ol’ song by Johnny Cash, “A Boy named Sue.”  I had to navigate through the hardened facts of being a bit different, and it tends to thicken your skin when it comes to a barrage of banter and insult. Not to mention I grew up in a time when it was always repeated …

“Sticks and Stones may break my Bones but words can never hurt me.”

So it never bothered me much when people would call me “Swing-Lo Sweet Cheerio,” or Swing-batta-batta-Swing,” or all the other nicknames associated with the mockery of my surname. It just rolled off my back like water on a frog.  

That brings me to Master Chief Mike Oldknow. Now I was a Second Class Petty Officer at the time, and Master Chief loved to make fun of my last name. Every time I walked in a space …

“Hey, Teeter-Totter Swing or there’s Swing-a-ling-a-Ding-Dong.” 

But it never bothered me. I’d heard it a million times. So I was a little surprised when I got a real ass-chewing that kind of made my asshole pucker a bit.

Working as a Firecontrolman, there are times when some maintenance is shared with the Electronic Warfare guys. I don’t remember exactly what the maintenance entailed, but I had called over the “Bitch Box” to the “EW” shack asking for EW3 Heupal. Heupal had responded that he couldn’t talk right now as I could hear Master Chief’s voice in the background ripping into his crew. Not thinking clearly I responded …

“Is that Master Chief Old Nuts?”

The next response was quite clear and concise …

“Petty Officer Swing! Get your ass to the Ops Office pronto, and don’t stop at “GO” on the way.”

Needless to say, I marched down with my tail between my legs as I knew from the sound of his voice he wasn’t happy.

I walked into the Ops Office with Master Chief standing there, face and neck red and flared with his eyeballs about to bulge out, and before I could get a word in, Master Chief was ripping into me from one end to the other …

“Gauddamn it Swing, who the fuck do you think you are? What makes you think you can get on the Bitch Box and talk to a Master Chief that way? I’m a Guaddamned Master Chief in the United States Navy and you are going to respect me as such … blah, blah, blah …”

This went on for a good five to ten minutes, and finally, he asked me what I had to say for myself…

“But Master Chief, you make fun of my name all the time.”

His face got redder and his eyes bulged even more as he paced back and forth a dozen times trying to figure out what to say. He occasionally pointed at me like he was going to make a point, but stopped himself. I could see he was having a mental conundrum as he tried to figure his way around this one.

Finally, he told me to sit down as he sat in the chair next to me and says …

“Listen Swing, I know I fiddle with your name a lot and you’re always a good sport about it. And quite frankly you’re Oldnuts shenanigan I find kind of funny. But I can’t let that stand in front of everybody. I have to maintain a manner of discipline in that shop and I can’t have you getting in the way of that. It’s something you’re going to have to learn if you want to make it far in this Navy. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

When he put it in a way I could understand it was like an epiphany. It wasn’t about tit-for-tat, but the big picture in general. When you’re young and dumb, you don’t always see the big picture. That was a good lesson learned.

Master Chief would chew my ass on many occasions. He would say …

“Swing, I chew your ass because I like you and I want you to do well in this here Navy. Just think of an ass chewin as free advice and a lesson learned in life … It ain’t personal.”

I’ll never forget that. I call it “Chewing at the Bit.” It’s just one of many lessons I had to learn along the way…  

" Debauchery on the High Seas "

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" Letters from Home "

 

In today’s world of instant gratification, the norm seems to be immediate reward without any effort. It’s become ever more prevalent with each new generation. They never had to sit and wait while absence let the heart grow fonder.

Now, back in the days before email, cell phones, and social media, we had good ol’ snail mail. That’s right. We had to wait weeks, sometimes months to get a letter from back home. That’s why mail was so important back then. Mail was the lifeline that kept us sailors connected to the folks who didn't make a living floating like a cork in the deep blue sea. Rather it was a letter from Mom & Dad or Cindy, Sue, or Betty-Lou… it didn’t matter. It’s what we were waiting for to see if barnacle-encrusted rapscallions still had any significance in the domesticated world. 

Are there still mail buoy watches? For you landlubbers, the mail buoy watch was usually on the forecastle dressed in kapok with wet gear while diligently holding a shepherd’s hook to catch the buoy as we floated on by. Of course, this was a load of horseshit. A senior band of enlisted gorillas were usually in charge of such functions. But hell, back in the day, we always found ways to harass the new guy onboard. We sent a lot of new guys on fools' errands to keep them on their toes. Standing the mail buoy watch was just one of many.

When Mail Call was passed over the 1MC the Mail Petty Officer passed out mail while making smartass jokes about paternity suits, divorce decrees, or some sort of eviction notice… etc… etc.

“Hey Mack! You got a few official letters here. Looks like the ex-wife is sending out the dogs to collect the loot.”

"Smitty! Ya got a letter from some honey in Olongapo. Says she wants to get married so you can bring her to America and buy her Honda!”

"Hey Joe, is that a letter from your girl back home?"

... Joe would reply ... 

"Is a pig's pussy made of pork?"

Some Sailors got love letters, and some didn’t. We all enjoyed the ones with the perfumed prose and laced panties to tuck under our pillows at night. It was one hell of a way to kick-start a wet dream. Some letters were so saturated in perfume they could make a dead monk horny! And some letters were written as though they had come straight out of a Xaviera Hollander Penthouse editorial.

You had to be careful who you shared your letters with. Some lowlife son-of-a-bitch would be more than willing to read those letters to a full audience…  

“I can’t wait to see you again so you can kiss me passionately as I feel your hand go up my blouse …”

You know the drill. I had a gal who would send mixed tapes of what she considered “our songs” to remember her by. About 80% of the songs were like auditory ipecac. If my ears could vomit they surely would.

Then there were of course the ‘Dear John’ letters. Those inescapable letters would read …

"I know you will understand... The neighbor came over to fix the leaking faucet but fully rooted my plumbing instead. His snake is much more effective than yours. You’ll be receiving the divorce papers in the mail soon. In the meantime, I’ve drained the bank account and maxed out all of the credit cards. I figure you won’t need them while on deployment anyway, so have fun …

Signed,

Your soon-to-be ex-wife!

P.S. I'm sure you will find a Filipina more suited to your unique lifestyle."

But the family members, sweethearts, and other loved ones who faithfully wrote were absolute saints to a young man far away from home for the first time. There was nothing better than a little bit of warm welcomed news coming back from Mayberry Umpty Squat, Ohio. It was the mail that kept us going for so long. Even if we had to wait weeks upon months to receive that letter…

 

 

( Fin )

" Rat Guards "

 

Does anyone out there remember securing the mooring lines when pulling in? Some idiot on the lower end of the ship’s social structure would be fed a pile of manure about rats under the pier the size of a Maine Coon.

“They’re big nasty sons-a-bitches. They’ll take a bite out of you if they’re hungry enough.”

Or the best one yet …

"Which one of you little mother fuckers frapped the mooring lines without the rat guards?"

They’d try to have you shimmy down the line frapping two rat guards to keep those big sons-a-bitches from jumping over while they had a heaving line tied to your waste. What’s a rat guard you ask? They were those sheet metal cones we put over the lines after doubling them up that looked like Chinese coolie hats. If you were really good you could tie the lines like puppet strings and make them dance.

Hell, there was nothing to stop them there rats from crawling up the bottom of the brow.  Bored on the Quarterdeck midwatch it would have made good use of an issued .45 to take out those nasty desperados as they did the Cha-Cha up and down the pier.  You’d see a few a time or two … especially in overseas ports. It would’ve been one hell of a target practice if you didn’t have to account for all the root’n, toot’n, and shoot’n going on. I can see it now standing in front of the old man …

“But you shoulda seen it, sir! That rat was the size of a Rottweiler, with blood-red eyes and foaming at the mouth!”

“Well son, you must not be a very good shot because we didn’t find any dead King Kong-sized rats lying on the pier this morning.”

“Oh, I gave it my best shot skipper, but that son-of-a-bitch did a corkscrew turned into a full gainer into the water. I must’ve scared him off because I never saw him again.”

“Son, did your mother turn out a slew of idiots, or are you the only one?”

If you can imagine it, it’s probably happened.  I would love to be a fly on the wall at that skippy’s mast. I know these classic tales fall into the realm of relative bearing grease and the ol’ BT punch! But, we were dumb and naïve at times. Usually, the better of a Commissioned Officer or some old Salty Chief would put a stop to such nonsense just before it got too out of hand.  

But hey!  It was a long time ago. We were young dumb, and full of vigor! It was over thirty years ago. At the golden age of our youth, we were as green as they came. I'd go back and do it again in a heartbeat! 

 

" Happenings on the Mansfield "

 This one comes from a radioman off the USS Mansfield back in the 1960s during the Vietnam War. I hope you all enjoy…

Thought of something that happened in good ol' Subic Bay back on the Mansfield before heading to the Tonkin Gulf. One night almost all of the Wardroom were in the Officer’s Club on base. The tables were full of empty San Migoo bottles and the CIC officer started calling out coordinates. The Weapons Officer began throwing the bottles over the portable partitions, at other officers from other ships! Needless to say, they were all "86'd". A night or two later they were back in the O' Club when the admiral of the base walked in and his aide, a commander, called out …

"Attention on deck!"

Every officer snapped to attention except for the Skipper. Again, all our officers were 86'd. Our Skipper later talked with SM1 Johnson and asked if he could make a flag and the flag was to be ready to fly when we pulled out of Subic. Johnson said …

"No problem, Captain."

When we left Subic and the command "underway, shift colors" was given, the battle flag (yellow-gold flag with a black silhouette of a female and right under it was the new flag, the same size as the battle flag, red flag with white lettering that read …

“TO SUBIC WITH LOVE' and the one-finger salute!!"

 

( Fin )

" Ship Handling Problem "

- By Jon F Easley  

Dear Sir,

It is with regret and haste that I write this letter to you; regret that such a small misunderstanding could lead to the following circumstances, and haste so that you will get this report before you form your own preconceived opinions from reports in the World Press, for I am sure that they will tend to over dramatize the affair.

We had just picked up the pilot, and the apprentice had returned from changing the 'G' flag for the 'H', and being his first trip was having difficulty in rolling the 'G' flag up. I therefore proceeded to show him how, coming to the last part I told him to 'let go'. The lad, although willing, is not too bright, necessitating my having to repeat the order in a sharper tone.

At this moment the Chief Officer appeared from the chartroom, having been plotting the vessel's progress, and thinking that it was the anchors that were being referred to, repeated the 'let go' to the Third Officer on the forecastle. The port anchor, having been cleared away, but not walked out, was promptly let go. The effect of letting the anchor drop from the 'pipe' while the vessel was proceeding at full harbour speed proved too much for the windlass brake, and the entire length of the port cable was pulled out 'by the roots'. I fear that the damage to the chain locker may be extensive. The braking effect of the port anchor naturally caused the vessel to sheer in that direction, right towards the swing bridge that spans a tributary to the river up which we were proceeding.

The swing bridge operator showed great presence of mind by opening the bridge for my vessel. Unfortunately, he did not think to stop the vehicular traffic. The result was that the bridge partly opened and deposited a Volkswagen, two cyclists and a cattle truck on the foredeck. My ship's company are at present rounding up the contents of the latter, which from the noise I would say were pigs. In his efforts to stop the progress of the vessel the Third Officer dropped the starboard anchor, too late to be of practical use for it fell on the swing bridge operator's control cabin.

After the port anchor was let go and the vessel started to sheer I gave a double ring Full Astern on the Engine Room Telegraph and personally rang the Engine Room to order maximum astern revolutions. I was informed that the temperature was 83 degrees, and was asked if there was a film tonight. My reply would not add constructively to this report.

Up to now, I have confined my report to the activities at the forward end of my vessel. Down aft they were having their own problems. At the moment the port anchor was let go, the Second Officer was supervising the making fast of the aft tug and was lowering the ship's towing spring down into the tug.

The sudden braking effect of the port anchor caused the tug to 'run in under' the stern of my vessel, just at the moment when the propeller was answering my double ring Full Astern. The prompt action of the Second Officer in securing the shipboard end of the towing spring delayed the sinking of the tug by some minutes thereby allowing the safe abandoning of that vessel.

It is strange, but at the very same moment as letting go of the port anchor, there was a power cut ashore. The fact that we were passing over a 'cable area' at that time may suggest that we may have touched something on the riverbed. It is perhaps lucky that the high-tension cables brought down by the foremast were not live, possibly being replaced by the underwater cable, but owing to the shore blackout it is impossible to say where the pylon fell.

It never fails to amaze me, the actions and behaviour of foreigners during moments of minor crisis. The pilot, for instance, is at this moment huddled in the corner of my day cabin, alternately crooning to himself and crying after having consumed a bottle of gin in a time that is worthy of inclusion in the Guinness Book of Records. The tug captain on the other hand reacted violently and had to forcibly be restrained by the Steward, who had him handcuffed in the ship's hospital while he is telling me to do impossible things with my ship and my person.

I enclose the names and addresses of the drivers, and insurance companies of the vehicles on my foredeck, which the Third Officer collected after his somewhat hurried evacuation of the forecastle. These particulars will enable you to claim back the damage that they did to the railings of the number one hold.

I am closing this preliminary report because I am finding it difficult to concentrate with the sound of police sirens and the flashing lights.

It is sad to think that had the apprentice realized that there is no need to fly pilot flags after dark, none of this would have happened.

Yours truly,
    

Harbour Master...

" Humanitarian Feel-Good Patty-Cake Sessions "

 

In all my time in the Navy, I served as a Firecontrolman (FC). Not to be confused by you landlubbers as a fireman as I always tell people we were meant to start fires, not stop them.  I’d been asked a gazillion times if I’d wished I’d had the glory of shooting down the bad guy in times of war. Well, how the hell do you answer a question like that?  I did twenty-three years in this Canoe Club as an FC never firing a gun or missile in anger. We practiced like hell, but I never had to squeeze the trigger, push the button, or flip the switch as it were.   

I mean, how’d you feel having another man, child, or woman’s loss of life weighing on your conscious? Well, I couldn’t tell you because it never happened to me. But I knew what my duty was and I would’ve carried it out promptly, but the situation never presented itself in my behalf. It reminds me of a question I asked a Vietnam veteran a long, long time ago if he’d ever killed anybody over there…

“Well, that’s an asshole question.”

… was his reply.

Looking back and realizing what I know now, yes it absolutely was an asshole question, and so is asking someone if they wish they had the glory of doing so. I would suspect the majority of our men and women in uniform ain’t itching for the chance to take out some bad guys but some here in our own US of A seem either damned sure that our military members are a bunch of psychopathic trained killers or are rooting for the other team. I just don’t get it. 

I grew up and enlisted during the Cold War. My God, twenty-thousand testicle-radiating nukes could go off at any time from all around this fishbowl, and we’re kicking our own asses harder than the enemy at large!  Pro-Hamas provocateurs are lighting torches and lighting fires in our own homeland scaring the hell out of anyone who believes in the Judeo-Christian way of life.  We've got kids on college campuses hiding in the library bathroom while hundreds of protestors are breaking windows and banging on the doors chanting, “Let-Us-In … Let-Us-In!” Reporters are getting kicked in the head just for covering these mutineers.

I just don’t get these snot-nosed imbeciles fawning over Iranian, Hamas, and Hezbollah terrorists while propping up their corrupt regimes and bending over backward to accommodate their actions.  Don’t they realize these groups would sooner lop off their brain-dead heads than have a civilized conversation with them? And that totally leaves out the axis of evil manifesting between China, Russia, Iran, North Korea, and who knows what else.

Unfortunately, the way we are spreading ourselves thin and the debt we’ve incurred over the years, a couple of well-armed row boats might be all we can do to help out the Israeli IDF. It used to be that the enemy would eventually give up when they got tired of dragging their dead children out of the rubble from all of the pain and destruction. The Israelis aren’t fighting a war where the leading faction gives a damn about their own civilians. All they care about is the eradication of the Jews and any other infidel hiding on the planet.  I’d say they are worse than Hitler because their fervor comes from religious ideology rather than nation-building. 

That being said, the ways of war do not include humanitarian feel-good patty-cake sessions with fake crony allies in the likes of Qatar and Pakistan.  These people don’t give two shits about the rules of war or the Geneva Convention.  As a matter of fact, they use it against us as we’re the only ones who will remotely play by the rules. While we’re sitting at home arguing over gun-free zones, gender ideology, and pronouns the enemy is teaching its youth how to tear down and clean an AK-47.  This puts us in a reactive state just waiting for another 9/11 or Pearl Harbor to happen. 

Unfortunately, the next one will probably be a megaton explosion or some sort of biological devastation. In the meantime, our political leaders try to appease our enemies while we sit our collectively complacent asses on the sidelines in a non-participating way while we watch the world burn. Let’s all hope that in the end, cooler heads will prevail and we don’t resort ourselves to ash and cinder… We need more Teddy Roosevelts in the world. 

( Fin )

" Shenanigans on the Brinkley Bass "

 

Back in the day, many moons ago, approximately the early fifties, the USS Duncan was tied up in a nest with the USS Stickel, Isabel, and the Brinkley Bass in Sasebo Japan loading supplies. The crew as usual went on the beach rearing and anxious to squeeze out as much of their short liberty as possible since they weren’t allowed overnight liberty in occupied Japan. The next morning as all four destroyers were to leave port for Korea, they were all blown away by a stunt that some crew members had pulled.

It appeared someone, probably with a snoot full of Nippon beer, got a water taxi to tie up stern of the Brinkley Bass. With a can of haze grey paint and some handy old brushes, they proceeded to paint over the letter "B" on both the first and last names of the ship. Thus when she put to sea the next morning she steamed out proudly as the USS Rinkley Ass.

The crew of the Bass was blamed for this and received liberty restrictions on their next visit. I don't know who did it but my suspicions tell me it wasn’t any of the crew onboard the Bass. From there forth, her Skipper would assign an armed sentry to guard her stern to prevent nautical naughtiness from happening again.

And that my friends is a no–shitter!!!   

"Another Spark of Memories"

 

An old shipmate regaled me with this story that was not only entertaining but reminded me of how I got my current job in good ol’ civilian land.  Apparently, this fellow was a radioman back in the 1960s’ on the USS Mansfield.  Shortly after arriving onboard, the new Operations Officer wanted a tour of the radio shack. So shortly after morning Quarters, the RMC and the new Ops Boss rang the shacks buzzer to let them in. 

It didn’t take a minute for the Ops Boss to recognize a Union Pacific Railroad calendar up on the bulkhead …

“Who worked for the Union Pacific Railroad?”

… He asked …

“My father, Sir.”

“Where?”

“Marysville, Kansas, Sir.”

… The new Ops Boss replies …

“Marysville! What's his name?”

“B.E. Jaynes.”

… He exclaimed …

“Trainmaster Bart Jaynes, hell yes I know him, he fired me!”

Turns out he had wrecked a UP vehicle and our illustrious shipmate’s dad fired him for it. He said the Ops Boss never held that against him. When he got home he told the story to his Dad. He remembered who he was and got a big kick out of the tale.

His story reminded me of when I got interviewed for my current civilian job. As soon as I answered the phone …

“Is this retired Firecontrol Chief Dennis Swing?”

“Why yes it is.”

“Well, you might remember me as Firecontrol Second Class, Chad Graham. I’m about to be your boss.” 

And that’s when I remembered the old phrase…

“Be careful whose toes you step on, they might be connected to the ass you have to kiss tomorrow.” 

And that my friends is a no-shitter! 

" What's in a Ship's Name "

In 1981, President Reagan had ordered the U.S. Navy to change the name of a new attack submarine from the USS Corpus Christi to the USS City of Corpus Christi. The change was made after religious leaders objected to the idea of a nuclear attack submarine bearing a Latin name that means the “body of Christ.”

 

" Dame de Voyage "

 

Have you ever wondered how sex dolls came to be? It’s, without doubt, a no-shitter historians will talk about for years to come. Nowadays we see the typical blow-up doll thrown around at bachelor & bachelorette parties. But the infamous sex doll had a valid beginning.  It may come as no surprise that there ain’t much literature about the origins of the sex doll.

From the beginning of man’s sexual desire sprang the urge to create something which was female in appearance, but completely amenable and doesn’t bitch all the time! But to talk openly about it was taboo, so therefore most of the myth and legend are just that, and hidden behind the lore in our minds. 

Some of the earliest noted examples of the sex doll was in the 17th century when hand-sewn leather puppets made by European sailors were traded with Japanese sailors. Swabbies in those days were reportedly lonely on long voyages and so, one thing led to another. In those days, sailors spent years at sea traveling on lengthy voyages away from wives and mistresses. In port, these shipmates found relief and companionship, but underway it was buggery or the use of life-sized cloth dolls. They were handcrafted from material stuffed with straw and sawdust and possibly a cannon ball draped with a mop head for a head. Requiring the use of quite the imagination, these were shared amongst the deckhands and held together by dried body fluids. Back in those days the term “dame de voyage” or “dama de viaje” was given to these well-worn receptacles spreading venereal disease amongst the crew.  Hell, the earlier forms of rubber didn’t come about until the mid-19th century.

So what got started as leather puppets in time became your average everyday blow-up doll.  As time goes by, the more realistic the dolls become. Nowadays with all the fancy CGI, AI, and so-on-and-so-forth the interest in elasticated lovemaking has surged like nobody’s business. Them there dolls are damned near real without all the headaches! Imagine from a swab head on a cannonball with lipstick to the futuristic vagina-quiver 2000 with multiple speeds and robot memory to better your pleasure. Who said the human race hasn’t achieved anything?

It’s no surprise that before the more genteel types became an accepted part of ship’s company, sailors surreptitiously made sweet love in dark and secret hidden fan rooms to an inanimate object that keeps its mouth shut and doesn’t talk back. Shipmates argued rather sex with a blow-up doll was even a sin. The question is rather we were versed in the King James Bible or the Rick James version. Our values were conflicted depending on whose side we were on.

Such was the case when a Filipino Chief walked in on the oil lab during an unrep detail only to find the “Oil King” blasting away on his favorite doll with his cohort in crime sitting behind him with cock in hand waiting patiently for his turn on ol’ Dolly! When the only substitute for lovemaking was masturbation or buggery, perhaps the “dame de voyage” was the only sincere option.  Perhaps this is where we get the tales of sirens and mermaids fueling our testosterone fantasies underway. We can certainly appreciate the growth of prostitution in the many ports around the world. They say “Supply always rises to meet Demand.” And so goes the long line at the short-arm inspection window in front of medical. It just goes to show it doesn't pay to get over-inflated or put your prick in the wrong things or places.

 

( Fin )

"Jimmy Buffet "

 When asked about one of his greatest experiences of all time, Jimmy Buffet beamed …

“Easy. Taking off and landing on an aircraft carrier in an F-14 Navy jet fighter. Top of the list. I rode in the navigator’s seat ... Unbelievable. There’s nothing like it. It's beyond anything you can describe. I fly, but this takes flying to another level.”

“I always wanted to do it,” he said. “I used to drive over to Pensacola from Mobile, and I'd see all the Navy officers in flight training. I'd see these guys tearing up the sky, then driving sports cars, and they'd have their uniforms on, and it looked pretty snappy. If I had not become a musician, I would probably have become a pilot. Something had to get me out of my dull existence in Mobile. I wanted to see the world, and these guys moved and traveled, and I wanted to go. That was just in my blood. I always was a road dog.”

Jimmy is also famous for claiming to be a ‘Pirate’ two-hundred years too late!

"Fun with the 1MC"

 

When I was in the Navy standing the boring night watch, I  used to get on the 1MC and do a running show for the crew …

“Hello, this is The Shadow speaking. Tonight we will tell you the story of …”

I customarily improvised some filthy story, with the hero slowly being squeezed to death by 37 naked women. One night. | came on for my moment of glory, with my usual opening line …

“Hello, this is the Shadow speaking.”

A split second later, the Skipper's voice came from the bridge and said …

“And this is The Phantom. Shut the fuck up.”

Needless to say. I went off the air promptly and permanently. I could take a hint. 

"Fitrep Surprise"

 

The Navy writes Evals & Fitreps to rate their sailors on performance as we all know. The following are actual excerpts taken from these evaluations over the years ...

His men would follow him anywhere, but only out of curiosity.

I would not breed with this sailor.

This sailor is really not so much of a has-been, but more of a definitely won’t be.

When she opens her mouth, it seems that this is only to change whichever foot was previously in there.

He has carried out each and every one of his duties to his entire satisfaction.

He would be out of his depth in a car park puddle.

Technically sound, but socially impossible.

This sailor reminds me of a gyroscope, always spinning around at a frantic pace, but not really going anywhere.

This young lady has delusions of adequacy.

When he joined my ship, this officer was something of a granny; since then he has aged considerably.

This sailor has used my ship to carry his genitals from port to port, and the rest of my sailors to carry him from bar to bar.

Since my last report, he has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.

She sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.

He has the wisdom of youth and the energy of old age.

This sailor should go far – and the sooner he starts, the better.

In my opinion, this pilot should not be authorized to fly below 250 feet.

The only ship I would recommend this sailor for is Citizenship.

Works well when under constant supervision and cornered like a rat in a trap.

This sailor is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot. 

( Fin )

"Man Overboard"

We were conducting flight operations on the carrier off Jacksonville, Florida. The topside Safety Petty Officer on the No. 3 catapult was accidentally blown over the side by the exhaust of a turning F-4 Phantom jet. All those who witnessed the incident thought for sure the man was lost because the flight deck was 65 feet above the ocean. Fortunately, he was rescued by the ship's helicopter. Later that day, I visited him in sick bay... 

"Were you scared?"

 … I asked …

"Scared … I yelled 'MAN OVERBOARD' three times before I hit the water!"