By: Garland Davis

From Wikipedia: A typhoon is a mature tropical cyclone that develops in the northwestern part of the Pacific Ocean between 180° and 100°E. This region is referred to as the northwest Pacific basin. For organizational purposes, the northern Pacific Ocean is divided into three regions: the eastern (North America to 140°W), central (140°W to 180°), and western (180° to 100°E). Identical phenomena in the eastern north Pacific are called hurricanes, with tropical cyclones moving into the western Pacific re-designated as typhoons.

The Hurricane Season for the Hawaiian Islands runs from June first through November.  There are, on average, four Central Pacific hurricanes each year and three named tropical storms.  So far this year, we have had fourteen hurricanes.  Only the first one did any damage and then only to the Big Island of Hawaii. Number fifteen,  another tropical storm is forming in the Eastern Pacific and is expected to be at hurricane strength by the time it crosses into the central area later this week.

Having served twenty-five years afloat in, mostly, the Western Pacific, I probably saw more hurricanes/typhoons than most people, but I have only experienced two hurricanes ashore, Hurricane Hazel, as a child, and hurricane Iniki in Hawaii after I retired.

Growing up in the Piedmont region of North Carolina the worst threat from the Atlantic Hurricanes was some increased rainfall.  There was little to no threat from the higher winds.  On October 15, 1954, Hurricane became the, once in a century, exception.  Hazel made landfall at Long beach, N.C., a community of Oak Island as a category four hurricane with winds exceeding 140 miles per hour.  After landfall it tracked inland, and battering winds cut a wide swath northward toward Raleigh.

I remember Hazel well. I was in the sixth grade.   It was raining as we ran for the school bus. And it kept raining.  By the time we arrived at school, the parking lot was flooded by a few inches and the side ditches of the roads were over flowing.  The principle was at the bus stop informing the drivers to take everyone home.  School had been canceled because of the weather.  As we went back through the low point below Baux Mountain, we could see the creek was already over flowing.

My brother and I arrived home soaking wet.  We lived on a dirt road and the bus driver refused to take us to the house.   He didn’t want to risk getting stuck. It was only a mile to our house. We had to walk and were completely soaked with my brother crying by the time we made it home.  There were other kids on our road, but we had the furthest to go.   It rained for the next two days.  When the weather cleared up, the Yadkin River looked like the Missississippi River and the creek behind the house was lapping at the lower level of the barn where the stalls were, a hundred yards from it’s normal banks.  We moved the cows, goats and the mule into the garage and the shed.  The aftermath of the flooding clearly showed the power of water.

I cannot begin to count the number of typhoons that I have experienced. The Navy, when possible, sends ships to sea, when a typhoon or hurricane is imminent. A ship needs sea room to maneuver. Every mariner’s worst nightmare is to be caught on a lee shore during a storm.

I was serving in USS Mahopac, an Ocean Going Tug. We left Vung Tau, Viet Nam in the fall of 1968 with a huge square-ended floating crane in tow. We were bound for Sasebo, Japan. Our best towing speed was about three knots (80 miles per day). The trip would take about thirty days. A few days into the trip, we learned that we were in the path of a typhoon. We couldn’t run because of the drag of the tow and we could not abandon it. We had to ride it out.

Once the storm hit we could barely make turns (revolutions of the screw) for two knots. The towing motor reel that contained the towing wire would pay out wire when the strain was too heavy and take it back noisily when there was slack.  If all the wire was taken off the spool it could result in damage to the motor and the ship and loss of the tow. Two knots were barely enough to maintain steerage way, keep the bow of the ship into the wind and seas and not severely overtax the towing equipment. We could not see the tow, it was lost in the rain. The only reason we knew it was there was the tension on the tow cable.

Water was washing over the signal bridge (the highest deck on the ship). We were taking up to forty-five degree rolls. The crew was extremely seasick.  There were about six of us, out of a crew of forty-four that weren’t sick.  The Captain, SM1, 2 EN1’s and an ICFN and I.  The CO, the SM1 and I manned the bridge throughout that night, while the engineers kept the diesels running.  I was helmsman for over twelve hours that night. Conditions started easing when morning came.  I went to the galley to prepare some food and we started kicking guys out of their racks and getting them moving around again.

After about seventy-two hours of these conditions, the weather cleared and we sorted ourselves out and took inventory. We lost that radar antenna and mast, the ships boat, and anything that wasn’t bolted down. The exhaust stack from the engine room was bent aft at a slight angle. All electrical navigation was knocked out.

During the storm, the Navigator could only guess as to our position. When the he was able to get a position, he discovered that we were almost one hundred eighty astern of our last known position before the storm. The tow had towed us from a position north of Da Nang, South Viet Nam to a position NNE of Cape St Jacques, the southern tip of Viet Nam. I rode out many other storms, but this one was the worst.

I have been asked if I was afraid when the Morton came under fire during the waning days of the Viet Nam war.  I tell them no.  I got over being afraid during a storm one night in the South China Sea.

Hurricane or Typhoon, it doesn’t matter what the hell you call them.


Training Ensigns

Training Ensigns

By:  Garland Davis

I was the LCPO in the Supply Department.

It was around midnight.  I had been working with the baker.  With a little more training, he would become a very competent dough head.  I grabbed a cup of coffee from the mess deck urn and went to my office to drink it before grabbing a shower and calling it a night.

Someone knocked and opened the door.  It was Ensign Boone (not the officer’s real name), the Assistant Supply Officer.  He was also the Disbursing (S-4) and Ship’s Store (S-3) Division Officer.  Most of my dealings with him were in regard to maintenance of Supply spaces and DC PMS.  The Supply Officer was the Food Service officer and pretty much left the running of S-2 Division to me.

I said, “You’re up late. Mr. Boone. What can I do for you?”

He was almost in tears. “I need someone to talk to Chief, you seem to have it all together. Maybe you can give me some advice. I am at my wit’s end.  I don’t seem to be able to accomplish anything and I seem to get further and further behind.  I am the DISBO and have to issue change funds to the ship’s store operator and to the Postal Clerk along with blank money orders, cash checks, and do special pays, then collect from the ship’s store and post office and reconcile my safe after every transaction.  As S-3, I have to supervise the laundry and ship’s store.  Now since Mr. McBride was promoted to JG, I am the Bull Ensign and the XO designated me as the Wardroom Mess Caterer.  I have too much to do already.  How can he expect me to supervise the Wardroom cooks and stateroom cleaners also?”

I told him to go get some sleep and I would talk with his SH1 and DK1 to determine what was going on.  As far as the wardroom cooks and staterooms.  I had that under control and he didn’t have to worry.

The next morning, I grabbed the SH1 and asked him why he wasn’t helping his division officer.  He said exactly what I expected to hear, “Chief, he won’t let me do anything.  He wants to do everything himself.”  I heard the same thing from the DK1.  The DK1 and I had been in another ship together.  They were just laying down and letting Mr. Boone bury himself trying to do their job.

The Supply Officer generally worked out of his stateroom.  He was an F-4 back seater for most of his career.  Due to vision problems, he lost medical clearance and augmented to the Supply Corps to finish his career.  He was a passed over LCDR with about three years to complete his twenty. He had come to the Supply Corps late and really wasn’t what people normally expected of a ships SUPPO.  I went up to his room and had a long discussion with him. I told him of my conversation with the Ensign. He told me that he was aware that Mr. Boone was having problems.  He said he told him what needed to be done, but the kid didn’t seem to want to put any trust in the enlisted people in his divisions.  He indicated that he was already thinking that Ensign Boone may have to be relieved.

I told him that I didn’t believe it had to come to that.  I told him that as Department LCPO, I would take over his divisions temporarily.  I would take him under my wing and teach him to be a division officer.  I also told him that l would have a “come to Jesus” meeting with the PO1’s to make sure they started pulling their weight running the divisions as LPOs should.  I asked the SUPPO to let Mr. Boone know of my new status and ask him to come see me after he talked with him.

The next morning, the Ensign came to me in the Mess Decks and said, “The Commander says we need to talk.”  I asked if he had issued his change funds and reconciled his safe. He indicated that he had.  I took him to my office, kicked the records keeper out and basically told him how he was going to operate.

I told him that you are permitted to designate the senior DK as an assistant and issue him a fund permitting him to issue change funds and postal funds, cash checks and perform special pay.  The reason I know this, we were stationed in another ship together and he was a cashier there. He will keep a separate Cash Book.  This will limit you to a single cash transaction per day when you reconcile with the DK1. He will also supervise and assist the other two DK’s with the posting of pay records and preparing of pay lists.  You will refer all crew members’ questions regarding their pay to DK1.  You will not drop what you are doing and research records to answer their questions.  Let the DK’s do that. It is part of their job.

I told him you will draft a letter handing accountability of Ship’s Store stocks and storerooms to the SH1. You don’t have to carry the keys and supervise every stores on load or breakout.  That is SH1’s job.  It is also his responsibility to oversee the operation of the barbershop and the laundry.  You don’t have to go running off to the laundry every time someone complains about laundry not done or missing.  Refer questions and complaints to SH1.

I told him I would see that he received cooperation and support from the petty officers.

He asked, “What do I do first?”

I told him, go to your manuals for the proper wording and draft letters appointing DK1 to cash duties and SH1 to the custodian of ships stores stocks. In the meantime, I talked to the PO1’s.  They say a supervisor should criticize subordinates individually.  Well, I chewed these two’s asses collectively.  I told them that their jobs were to help this Ensign become a good officer by helping him do his job and all they did was lay down on their lazy asses and watch him dig himself into a hole trying to do their jobs.  I had reviewed both their records. They had good evals which indicated they were competent in their ratings and were good Petty Officers.  I told them what their new duties were going to be and that I expected them to support that Ensign.  I left them with, “I’ll tell both of you, if Mr. Boone gets relieved, I’ll insure that it is indicated in your evaluations that it was because of your lack of support and your incompetence. They were so low when they left my office that could probably have crawled under the door.

I went to the Disbursing Office to find Mr. Boone.  He was at a typewriter typing.  I asked, “What are you doing, sir?”

He said, “Typing up those letters for DK1 and SH1.”

I tore the paper from the typewriter, tore it in half and said very quietly, “That is what I am talking about.  You have people to do the typing.  You have a DK1, DK2, and a DKSN.  Assign one of them to do the typing.  You are the Division Officer be the fucking Division Officer.”

He said, “But what am I supposed to do?”

I said, “After you Tell DK1 to have the letters written and have them on your desk in an hour, why don’t we go take a walk through Officers Country, the Wardroom, and the Pantry since you are now the Mess Caterer.  If we should happen to bump into the XO, he might be impressed, then since you are the ASST SUPPO, we will tour all supply department berthing spaces and cleaning areas.  Something you should do every day.  By then the letter should be ready.  You can set up a cash fund and Cash Book for DK1 and turn keys to the storeroom over to SH1.  Then you can go on liberty for the rest of the day, I’ll fix it with the boss.”

He said, “But, I’ve got to do an order list for ship’s store stock.”

I told him, “Before you go ashore tell SH1 to create the order list and have it on your desk for review tomorrow morning.  Come see me when you get aboard and we will get started. Not only do you have to be the division officer, you need to crawl into the SUPPO’s back pocket and learn his job.  In an emergency, you have to be able to step up and be the SUPPO.”

Over the next few months, I taught him to be a division officer and the Supply Officer taught him to be a Department Head. He went from scuttling about timidly to carrying out his duties and dealing with the other officers with confidence.

He decided to leave the Navy at the end of his obligation and work in his father’s real estate brokerage in Massachusetts. He has been successful and now owns the brokerage.

Shortly after I took Mr. Boone under my wing, the Captain stopped me in the Passageway and said, “Thanks for taking care of Ensign Boone, I thought I was going to have to do something that I don’t like to do.”




By:  Garland Davis

They were the engineers who made the steam, the electricity, the water, ran the auxiliary machinery and made the ships go.  They were the MM’s, BT’s, EM’s, EN’s, HT’s, IC men, MR’s and some that I have probably forgotten.  They took on the fuel that they turned into the steam that moved the ship and made the electricity.  They inhabited the lower levels of engineering spaces, crawled through bilges and other tight places into which only an idiot would enter… Sweating, joking and cussing the whole time.  They tore clothes, skinned their knuckles and burned themselves with steam and hot water.  Through cold northern seas and the sweltering tropic oceans, they kept the ships moving and the machinery operating.

They were not all greasy apes with an oily rag in one hand and a stolen crescent wrench in the other.  They were intelligent young men with pride in their spaces and the jobs they did.  The brightest of them ended up as doctors, lawyers and college professors.  I knew an ENFN that went on to earn a PHD and was involved with the Space and Shuttle programs at Jet Propulsion Laboratories.

They were usually referred to as Fuckin’ Snipes by their fellow crewmembers. They were Snipes because they wanted to be.

They happily tended the machinery of their hot, noisy world.  They crawled through small nasty places.  They were shocked, pinched and thrown about.  They were wet and cold, wet and hot, wet and oily.  The humidity of their spaces was always at one hundred percent.

They routinely worked around the clock to get a piece of machinery fixed that some officer had just told them would take yard birds and naval engineers to repair.  However, they fixed it anyway and sent a “fuck you” off to the naval engineers.  During these marathons, they lived on “black gang coffee” and baloney sandwiches eaten with greasy hands. They smoked cigarettes only half way down before forgetting or the smokes became too nasty to smoke from the oil on their fingers.

At times, they did their work with the delicate skill of a surgeon and at other times with the force of pry bars and large hammers. They often lifted extremely heavy weights in spaces too small for the number of men needed to do the job safely.  They stuck their hands in places where wayward electrons might be waiting to kill. They were contortionists having to get in the most awkward positions to fix things placed in stupid places by those brilliant naval engineers and yard birds.  “Fuck’em.”

They wore their badge of office with pride. The torn, greasy and acid-eaten dungarees… their hands always black with grease in the pores and cracks of their knuckles.

Shipmates in the “Basement.”


Fat Boy Program

Fat Boy Program

by: Garland Davis

It was sometime during the 1980’s.  One of the FF’s I served in…not sure which…doesn’t matter.  He was a non-designated fireman.  He had flunked out of BT ”A” School and had been sent to the fleet to cover the mess cooking and compartment cleaning requirements of the engineers.  I had him a couple of times as a mess cook.  He was a heavyweight and got heavier.  There were no worries about leftover breakfast pastries or desserts while he was around.  He pretty much took care of leftovers.  Some of the other mess cooks told of him eating leftovers off trays while working in the scullery.

This was one of the many periods when renewed emphasis was placed on physical fitness and a new iteration of the “Fat Boy” program was promulgated.  Responsibility for implementation of the program was placed on Executive Officers.  Our XO had stars in his eyes and was determined that no “fatty” would impede his progress toward said stars.  I was called to the XO’s office/stateroom and was told to create a “diet menu” for his review.  He fancied himself a nutritionist and decided that a twelve hundred calories per day diet would be enforced on anyone he determined to be overweight or who appeared fat. After a lot of effort and the XO’s rewriting of my suggested menus, we finally reached a nutritional regimen that I will describe as “slow starvation.”

The XO had the “Doc” move his scale to the passageway outside sickbay and personally conducted a weigh-in of the entire crew, with the exception of the Captain.  Next morning the POD announced the fat boy program. It outlined an exercise and physical fitness program for the entire crew, including a thirty-minute run each morning when in port.  It also listed the personnel who were to eat the restricted diet in the mess decks.  These personnel could not purchase “geedunks” from the ships store, could not use the soda machines and were not permitted to visit the NEX roach coach.  The XO cautioned that anyone assisting members on the list to circumvent these rules would be placed on report.

Which brings us back to our Fireman.  He was immediately removed from mess cooking and sent to the fireroom.  The first day he came through the mess line and was only given those items designated for the diet menu, he threw a fit.  He was screaming and threatening the cooks and mess cooks.  The CMAA and a couple of Petty Officers got him out of the mess decks and calmed down.  He appeared to give up and get with the program.  He gave up on the histrionics with an exceptional “Feed me’ yelled as he came through the mess line.

The FN wrote to his mother, who was a doctor.  He sent her the POD with the Xo’s rules and a copy of the diet menu.  The doctor contacted a Senator and Congressman from New York and complained to them that her son was being mistreated and that the diet was extremely unhealthy.  Shortly afterward, the Commanding Officer received a Congressional Letter of Inquiry asking for an explanation for the restricted diet of a valuable constituent’s son.

I can only surmise that the Captains comment to the XO was, “knock this shit off.”  I was told to scrap the diet menu, all PT was canceled, and all restrictions on designated personnel were rescinded.

Soon after this was made known to the fireman, word was passed that the mobile canteen was on the pier.  FN was first off the ship.  After he made his purchases, he kept the truck between himself and the pier.  The truck pulled away to reveal him, shirtless, with his big gut hanging over his belt.  He had smeared chocolate candy all over his body and face.  With a candy bar in each hand, he stood there with both middle fingers extended and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Fuck You XO, Fuck You XO.”, like it was a mantra. The XO stood on the O1 level speechless.  Doc called the Naval Hospital and got an ambulance.  FN was taken to the Psychiatric Ward and was sent home as a mental case.

The XO eventually retired as a Commander.


A Sailor’s Language

A Sailor’s Language

by: Garland Davis

I have been told that sailors use injudicious and inappropriate language. Inappropriate to what? Sure as hell wasn’t inappropriate to the Far East Fleet.

I recently read in a blog about life in Appalachia about by-words.  By-words are words or phrases used in the place of profanity or cuss words. The most common by-word used by my shipmates and I was “Fuck.” Injudicious? Perhaps… Inappropriate? Doubtful… Make that, HELL NO!  No, make that FUCK NO!

The language most sailors speak was never used by Dr. Suess, Mr. Rodgers, or Captain Kangaroo. I never rode a ship with either of them or the Muppets. If they were ever haze gray and underway, I can assure you they spoke as sailors, injudiciously and inappropriately.

Some sociologists have conceptualized a theory of social acceptability that states sailors’ communication ability and gentlemanly behavior deteriorates in direct proportion to the distance separating them from their mamas and other female relatives. The women in a sailor’s life, other than honey-kos and bar hogs, are the civilizing influences that keep him from running around naked, living in trees, and resorting to cannibalism.

There has never been a Chief Petty Officer who talked like Bill Buckley. They may exist somewhere, but if they do they are Pentagon Yeomen or light in the loafers Chaplain’s Assistants, who have never ridden old worn out haze gray steel on the Asia Station. Nobody’s Mom or Aunties were there either. If any of them had been there, many sailors would have been gargling soapy water.

Living beyond the influence of females leads to a diminution of vocabulary to a level where words like ‘fuckin’ thing’ and ‘that goddamn son-of-a-bitch’ is universally applied to practically every close by object. An amazing thing is the fact that all your shipmates understand exactly what you are talking about. For those of you who were never stretched out under a piece of machinery weighing more than a bank vault, with oil leaking all over you, it may be difficult to understand how pointing to something and saying, “Hey Hoss, hand me that Mother Fucker”, saves you the mental exercise of remembering it’s correct name.

“Kick that Piece of Shit over here” and “Hey, you up there, bear a hand and drop that big bastard down to me” are coherent requests to any idiot who ever shit between a pair of regulation shower shoes.

Pacific Fleet sailors who rode Fletcher and Forest Sherman Class Destroyers and WWII Cruisers understand the universally applied vernacular of the Naval Service.

I wonder what influence the introduction of females into the seagoing Navy, a place that was once a man’s world, is having on the American Blue Jackets ability to converse in a language that is effective, colorful, and easily understood. I suspect that many of the girls recognize the effectiveness of a sailor’s language and readily adopt it.

For those of you trying to wade through this idiotic bullshit., let me explain. I know it’s somewhere in the New Testament, where God speaks to the first sailor… Well, maybe it wasn’t God… Maybe it was Noah’s Cheng. I don’t recall, but somebody said,

“Thou that ride Haze Gray Steel on the Far East Station shall be forgiven the use of injudicious language for ye art engaged in toil inside some of the damnedest contraptions ever created and ye shall receive blanket amnesty for verbal transgression in the performance of your assigned obligations.”

That was later extended to cover all the bars on Honcho, Magsaysay, and Wanchai.  It also covers the ports of Taiwan for those of you fortunate enough to have pulled liberty in that paradise.  It also includes sea stories told on liberty anywhere other than within a hundred miles of where your mother and any other female relative are currently geographically located.

I hope this Biblical reference will clear up and eliminate, for those of you seeking to save my soul for the use of naughty words, the need to communicate your concern.

Many of our shipmates have already reported to the fleet of the Supreme Commander. I am sure the folks who run the squadron up there are perceptive. By now, some damn Machinist Mate has to have dropped a harp on his toe or misplaced his wings, so the language cannot come as a startling revelation



Daisy Red Ryder Air Rifle

Daisy Red Ryder Air Rifle

By:  Garland Davis

In 1938, the Red Ryder comic strip was first published. Red Ryder and his partner (Boy, the gays have sure changed the meaning of that word) Lil’ Beaver (Always loved that name.  Beaver is a furry thing that has always interested me.) were carried by many west coast newspapers and a few of the larger east coast papers. The Red Ryder radio series aired sporadically from 1942 to 1951. A short-lived TV series aired in the early fifties. The Red Ryder company licensed products such as the Daisy Red Ryder BB Rifle. This remains the longest continuous license in the history of the global licensing industry. The appeal of the Daisy Red Ryder BB Rifle to youngsters was depicted in the Christmas classic film “A Christmas Story,”

Every country boy in North Carolina ached to own a genuine Red Ryder BB rifle.  I suspect just as many of my contemporaries in the city also had a strong desire to shoulder the rifle also.  I was forced by my parents to wait until I was ten years old to own the gun that won the west.  I salivated at the ads on the Red Ryder show.  Finally, on Christmas day 1954 I became the last of my friends to own the gun. I received the yearned for Red Ryder Lever Action BB Rifle.  So did my eight-year-old and six-year-old brothers.

For some reason, I didn’t think it was fair at all.  I had to wait until I was ten, why didn’t they?  But in later years, I realized my parents did it to avoid the ensuing crying and tantrums.  Both brothers were past masters at crying and whining.  After my dad would give them an ass whipping for whining, they would go right back at it in a higher volume.  Even when I worked for the money and bought something for myself they would cry and whine until my mother gave in and bought them one also.

Ammunition for the rifles was sold in red cardboard tubes resembling a shotgun shell.  Each tube contained 100 BB’s and cost five cents, although they could be bought in multipacks of six tubes for twenty-five cents.  I learned early on to not take advantage of the multipacks and only buy one pack at a time otherwise my brothers, being out of BB’s, would piss and moan until my mother made me share.

My mom had been blinded in one eye at two years old in an accident.  She warned us stringently and almost daily that a BB could “put an eye out.”  I took it to heart and never “fired” my rifle at anyone.  I cannot say the same for one brother.  Make him mad and he would shoot.  I tell you BB’s sting like a mother. I could usually run and duck away before he could get a second shot off.  If he was out of BB’s, he was a dead eye with a throwing rock.

For a couple of summers, there wasn’t a bottle or jar (except for those bottles with a two cents deposit return.) that didn’t come into our sights.  Nor was there a bird in Western North Carolina that was safe.  We slaughtered them by the score.  An act that I now regret and hope that I am forgiven for one day.

For a couple of summers, we were in the woods almost daily with our BB rifles searching for anything that looked as if needed to be shot at, which was almost everything that came into view.  We would make a day of it.  We would pack our normal lunch of peanut butter sandwiches.  I would always try to sneak away to prevent my brothers from tagging along, sometimes going out the window of my room.

It was summer and no self-respecting southern boy wore shoes in the summer. Of course, we ran through the woods barefooted.  There was the day I should have learned a painful lesson about unloaded and uncocked guns.  I am fortunate that it was only a BB rifle.  We had stopped to eat.  I knew I had not recocked my rifle since the last time I fired it.  I was sitting on the ground with my back to a dead fall and my legs stretched out in front of me.  I had placed the muzzle of the rifle against the top of my right foot.  Knowing that it wasn’t cocked, I pulled the trigger shooting a BB about a quarter inch into the top of my foot.

SIDEBAR: Believe it or not, three years later I did the same thing with an “unloaded and uncocked” twenty-two caliber rifle and shot a twenty-two short through my foot.  The BB hurt worse.  END SIDEBAR

I knew that if my mom discovered that I had shot myself I would end up unarmed and with an ass whipping from my dad. I gritted my teeth and dug the BB out with my pocket knife.  I told my mom that I had gotten hung up on a discarded piece of barbed wire.  Fortunately for me that neither of my brothers was with us that day.  I sometimes believe that some of the greatest joys of their childhood was an opportunity to rat me out to Mom and Dad.

NOTE: The Daisy Red Ryder 1938B Air Rifle is still manufactured, the identical BB rifle that I received for Christmas sixty-one years ago.  I noted with interest that a BB gun cannot be ordered on-line for delivery in North Carolina.



Where in Hell Did They Go?

Where in Hell Did They Go?

By:  Garland Davis

They were famous throughout the Navy.  The Gut in Barcelona; East Main Street in Norfolk; Flatbush Ave in Brooklyn; The Combat Zone in Boston; The Pike in Long Beach; Market Street in San Francisco; Broadway Street in San Diego; Hotel (Shit Street) in Honolulu; The Honcho in Yokosuka, China Town and Sakuragi-cho in Yokohama; Wanchai in Hong Kong; Buggis Street in Singapore; Magsaysay in Olongapo; and all the other places where fleet sailors congregated.  People ask, “Where did they go?”  Well shipmate, they didn’t go anywhere.  You are asking the wrong question.  You should ask, “Where did all the fleet sailors go?”

Long ago, on payday night and in the nights following, these streets were a paradise to the North American Blue Jacket.  A person could look down the street and see neon signs advertising beer and bars and a sea of white hats bobbing up and down as sailors made their way from bar to bar.  At liberty call these became a shopping center for intoxicating beverages and sex.  And in some places a PO2 could get that new First Class crow sewn on or that old Third Class crow sewn back on.  No need for crows these days.  It is all collar and hat devices.   Hell, I don’t see much need for dress canvas these days.  The only time I see it worn is when a ship is leaving or returning from a deployment. With all the straight sailors and females, the gays and lesbians and “don’t knows” aboard these days, I figure sailors are shopping for sex closer to home.

The smoking lamp is cold and probably over the side or being saved for recycling or Mary Soo (forget her, CumShaw is Fraud, Waste, Abuse and misappropriation of government property. I’ll tell a story about the consequences of CumShaw some time.) Instead of trading useless gear to Mary Soo for painting the ship, the Navy now recycles and lets a multi thousand dollar contract to get the job done.  Smoking is now frowned upon.  Surface ships limit smoking to a tiny, uncomfortable topside space.  My shipmates in the Bubble Head world can no longer smoke anyplace aboard the boat.  Municipalities and states have jumped on the bandwagon and banned smoking in bars and restaurants.  Drive past any bar or lounge and you will see a group standing on the corner smoking and no, they cannot bring their drinks outside. It is against the law to drink in public.

Drinkers are now pariahs in our modern Navy.  The clubs are closed.  They no longer exist or have been converted to MWR game rooms where the strongest drink available is a fucking Red Bull.  Quarterdecks of ships, in addition to a podium, log books, long glass, and weapon are now equipped with Breathalyzer and probably a watch stander to operate it.  Many commands are requiring that sailors refrain from drinking the day prior to a duty day.

Back in the day, a sailor ashore knew that his shipmates had his back.  Whether in a confrontation with a sailor from another ship, marines, or Limeys, he knew his shipmates would stand with him.  Too much to drink!  A shipmate would help you back aboard and even help you to your rack. You would do the same for him when necessary.  These days, you are assigned a “Liberty Buddy.”  You are to stay together and, I guess, keep each other from drinking or smoking.  With the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”, I guess a dalliance with a “Rump Ranger” would be okay.  But, before you go ashore, you have to formulate a “Liberty Plan” and get it approved by your Department/Division Liberty Coordinator.  If, during your liberty, you or your, Liberty Buddy change your plan, you must contact your Liberty Coordinator and   get the change approved.  I surmise that, “I’ll be in the Barrio some place getting fucked up, a blow job, and laid.” Would not be an acceptable liberty plan. It always worked for me!

They were more than streets bars. First and foremost, they were the repositories of small bits and pieces of the history of America’s forces afloat. They were the unofficial clubhouses of those of us who went to sea on old gray steel under the flag of the United States. They were places where a thirsty bluejacket could go and park his ass where sailors heroes of earlier fleets theirs. They were the poor man’s Valhalla, where lads who plowed deep salt water, could go and share fellowship and sea stories with fellow sailors… A place where the well-intentioned lie and the bullshit-gilded flawed recollection were readily forgiven and accepted.

They were places where lonely strays could tie up alongside a warm annd willing honey-ko on a cold night… For less than forty bucks.

Where did the streets and the bars go you ask?  Where the fuck did the sailors go?


Parkinson’s Disease and Dill Pickles

Parkinson’s Disease and Dill Pickles

By: Garland Davis


Parkinson’s and Dill Pickles don’t have a damn thing in common except beer.

Most of you who read the crap I write know that I have Parkinson’s disease. It is a progressive disease that usually manifests itself after age sixty and becomes progressively worse as one ages.  There is no cure and it is basically a death sentence. The brain stops producing a neurotransmitter, in the central nervous system, that is necessary for conscious control of muscular movements. Most muscles that are controlled unconsciously are not affected, i.e., respiration and heartbeat.   There are a number of suspected causes of Parkinson’s: genetic, environmental, exposure to certain chemicals, i.e., dioxin (Agent Orange), head trauma, i.e., Mohammed Ali, early onset PD, i.e., Michael J. Fox.

I said most muscles “unconsciously” controlled are not affected.  One exception is peristalsis.  Peristalsis is a gentle muscular movement of the digestive system that moves food through the digestive system from the esophagus through the exit door.  As the disease progresses taking a crap becomes both a chore and a distinct pleasure.  A good laxative becomes your friend. The doctor gave me some stool softeners and told me to drink more water.  I told him that I didn’t have a problem pissing. With my prostate problems, I had to piss too often already.

Most medical research is focused on slowing the progression of the condition rather than a cure.  Although there is some research on biometric markers that would enable doctors to identify those people most likely to manifest the disease.

I subscribe to a number of medical newsletters, always on the lookout for new research and newly developed or discovered medications that may ease some of the symptoms and complications of the disease.  I grasp at any straw that may bring relief.  Consequently, I take a plethora of supplements and vitamins.  About the only things I wouldn’t try are eating chicken, seafood or liver and practicing homosexual sex.  I’m up for anything else that will help.  (Oh yeah, except snakes and spiders too.)

Now to get to the reason I told you all this interesting crap. Most of the literature tells me that Parkinson’s patients shouldn’t drink.  It is a muscle disorder.  Basically a person loses control of their muscles.  Arms and legs don’t do as directed and just lie there and tremble or they just freeze.  That is usually when I fall on my ass.  The medical literature tells me that as the disease progresses a person will experience falls.  I can attest to this.  I have fallen down and then fell three more times just trying to get up.

The Doctors and Movement Disorders specialists warn against drinking alcoholic beverages.  The prevailing wisdom says, “If you have PD, you are going to fall. If you have PD and drink, you are going to fall harder and more frequently.”  I can attest to this, as can many of my shipmates, who were there when I made a spectacle of myself by falling ass and tea kettle over a table and a half dozen chairs at the second Asia Sailor’s reunion in Branson. This resulted in a number of my shipmates acting as an “Honor Guard” to escort me to my accommodations. That is one of the features offered at our reunions.  A number of us have had Honor Guard escorts to our rooms. I also took advantage of an escort at the latest reunion.

After a few spectacular falls, I finally came to the realization that it is time for me to “Hang Up My Cup.” You know, abstain from imbibing intoxicating liquids.  I won’t really miss it.  Well, I will miss the beer.  Love me some beer.  And Crown; oh yeah, Captain Morgan; don’t forget Pusser’s; gin, love me some gin, although it makes me crazier than a shithouse rat; beer, love that light beer; wine, you cannot enjoy Italian food without wine; an occasional Jack; did I mention beer?

So I made the decision to join the ranks of the teetotalers.  I am dry country.  Jut coffee, water and milk for me.  The strongest thing that will pass my lips will be diet Dr. Pepper.  I quit smoking, I can do this.

Now I am not a religious person. I have friends who believe in a savior and an afterlife, others who believe that we are recycled or reincarnated, and others who believe that this is it and there is nothing but blackness beyond this life.  I always figure that we all will find out one day. Those in the first group often point to events that can only be described as “miraculous” as proof that a divine power controls everything.

Yesterday, my shipmate Jerry Juliana and some others posted an article to FaceBook that details wonderful new research that shows Parkinson’s patients may benefit from drinking beer.  I immediately did a “Tim Tebow”, I took a knee in appreciation.  As the article states there are elements in hops (let’s hear it for the hops!) that may delay or reverse the progression of the disease.  The obvious fallacy in their research was use of the word moderation.  I follow the philosophy that “if a little is good, then a lot is better.”  So I bought a modest amount of beer to begin my new medicinal routine. I am now the proud owner of ten thirty packs of Bud Light.

I do have some reservations.  I read an article once that said smoking marijuana helped with the bradykinesia (shaking).  So I scored a baggie from the local stoner and fashioned a cute little pipe from some copper tubing and other fittings.  I packed it with a bud and fired her up.

Now, I cannot say that it helped with the Parkinson’s but it temporarily solved my dislike of dill pickles. Now, there is a place for dill pickles, preferably alongside a delicious Pastrami on Rye with a side of potato salad or coleslaw. Now, I love pastrami sandwiches!  I would crawl naked over Kate Winslett’s nude body for a good pastrami on rye. That’s right, you can always make out with Kate, but it is extremely hard to find a good pastrami sandwich.

To make a short story longer, I spent forty-eight hours that afternoon watching the movie “The Comancheros” on TV while eating a half gallon jar of dill pickles. I could have fixed something else to eat but I was paranoid about missing any of the movie.  I even considered using the pickle jar when I had to pee.  I forgot that I had DVR’d the movie and could pause it any time I liked.  When the commercial came on, I would run to the head and piss for an hour or two and then run back to my recliner, convinced that I had missed half the movie because it had taken so long to piss only to find the bears still extoling the qualities of Charmin asswipe.

But to get back to the beer.  Damn, my wife says seven-thirty in the morning is not the time to drink beer.  I tried to explain that it wasn’t drinking, it was medicating.  She said in moderation, there’s that word again, two or three beers before bed.  I asked if she meant three beers before sleep.  She said yes.  I feel better now, I usually take a nap in the morning and a nap in the afternoon.  Now I am trying to figure a way to sneak another nap in to my daily routine.

What does she know about medicine?  I know much more about medical matters than her. I spent much of my childhood studying medicine and anatomy with the girl who lived down the road.

But I have a plan, I tell my wife that I am a participant in a study to document the effect of drinking beer on my PD.  All I have to do is keep track of the number of beers that I drink and the effect it has on my PD symptoms.

You know she just ain’t buying it.

FedEx brought a rush package last night.  It was frozen pastrami that I ordered from a New York deli. Maybe I can talk her into making me a Pastrami sandwich.  Everyone knows that you cannot eat a pastrami sandwich without dill pickles.

And beer!


The Weight of Our Years

The Weight of Our Years

By: Garland Davis


For a time, the old men would tell of years and wars past…

Stories and laughter among a forest of empty bottles

scattered in a graceless pack across the table.


Rain filled the darkness outside the window,

and the tables filled with memorabilia abetted the

desperation with which they yearned for those long gone days.


Reluctant to leave the companionship, once again

found for a few days at the spring reunion

and held close in that bitter pall of tomorrow’s leaving.


But, the thrill of our shared derangement, and stories

true and not that evoked both joy at remembering

and sadness, knowing that one cannot go back.


The old men remain, with their lives caving in around them,

crushed by the weight of years  and lost among memories and bottles.



My First Date

My First Date

By:  Garland Davis

Let me tell you about my first date.  It was with a girl who lived almost directly across the river.  I had known her my whole life.  We were the about the same age, although, I think she had a couple of months on me.

We played together as children.  As a matter of fact, for about six years, between the ages of five and eleven, I had it in mind to be a doctor especially when she was around.  I never missed a chance to give her a physical.   She helped me greatly with my studies of anatomy.  I worked extremely hard on the study of gynecology.  From our medical experiments I think she was seriously considering becoming a urological nurse.  About the time we hit puberty, the study of medicine became uncomfortable for her and she brought an end to my doctoral studies.  Fortunately, I had a couple of other patients who also helped me continue with my studies.

And now I was going to take the girl on a serious boy/girl date.  Her house was across the river.  The Yadkin was extremely shallow at that point and it was possible to wade across and barely get your ankles wet as long as you knew about where the two deep drop offs were.  If you stepped into one of them then you were asshole deep in muddy water.

I was supposed to meet her at her house at seven o’clock and walk her about a quarter mile to the barn where the dance was being held.  I tell you, I was as nervous as a long tailed cat on a porch with seven or eight of my aunts in rocking chairs.  I took a bath, and it was only Friday.  I had laid out my clothes for the date.  I had a pair of blue jeans that fit just right and were just the right length when rolled up about an inch.  I had a new striped shirt, just like the one Elvis wore on the Ed Sullivan show and a new half inch wide belt just like all the other boys were wearing. I shined up my penny loafers and laid out a pair of brand new whiter than white socks. With that shirt collar turned up in back I would be “knock-them-dead stylish.”

I probably used about a half tube of Brylcreem (you know, they still make that greasy shit, available from Amazon)” getting my hair just right.  I had this little curl above my right eye, you know, like Superman.  Nothing I did could make that hair stay in place. I could paste it down and within a minute it would be hanging over my eye.  I thought about cutting it off but was afraid it would look strange. Later after learning that girls thought it was cute, I accentuated it.

I liberally splashed my dad’s Old Spice on and got dressed.  The choice I had was to wade the river and take a chance on getting wet.  Those two deep holes sometimes moved. Or I could walk a mile and a half up to the bridge and then walk a mile and a half back to her house.  The third choice, I could ride my bicycle to her house and leave it there while we went to the dance and it would be available for me to ride home.  I figured if I rode slow, I wouldn’t get so sweaty and stinky before I got to her house.

I set off on my bike, pedaling slowly so as not to work up a sweat.  I got to her house about quarter to seven dry and still smelling sweet.  Her dad was sitting on the front porch whittling on what looked like a stick of stove wood, chewing tobacco and spitting off the edge of the porch.  Seeing him there, I could feel the sweat suddenly running down my spine. He yelled through the open window, “Betty, yer boy date is out here!”

He turned to me and said, “Now boy, you have her back here by ten o’clock.  Not a minute later.  She’s my only daughter, no fooling around and treat her with respect.  Do you understand what I’m sayin’ here boy?

Yes sir, Uncle Jake,” I replied.