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