Hap Hernandez, The Legend

By Jack Thomas

Hap is second from the left wearing the porkpie hat.

This story was related to me in the mid-80s by Capt. John Chamberlain, CNFJ COS, during a vigil at his quarters in Yokosuka while awaiting the arrival of Don O’Shea from the airport in Narita.

Incident at the Border crossing San Diego /Tijuana:

In the early ’60s, USS ARCHERFISH (AGSS-311) was operating out of San Diego. They were unique in that the entire crew was unmarried (single) and there was a several year waiting list of Submariners desiring duty on that boat. Archerfish was constantly deployed throughout the Eastern and Western Pacific.

One evening five enterprising crewmen, including future legend Hap Hernandez, decided to hit Tijuana for a night of debauchery. They drove one sailor’s car into Tijuana and Hap, as was his norm in Tijuana, rented a Mariachi band to follow them wherever they went and provide music.

Early in the evening, a discussion ensued as to when they were going to head back to San Diego because they were getting underway the next morning to provide target services for some DDs to do ASW exercises. The driver said if they cleared the border by 0730 he could get them back to Ballast Point by 0800, the expiration of liberty. That was greeted by cries of Bullshit but the driver insisted that he had done it before.

Finally, a $300 bet between Hap and the driver was agreed to. They headed back to the border crossing about 0700 and were in line shortly after that. The Border Patrol officer approached the vehicle and requested ID from everyone. Hap was in the middle of the back seat looking like a rotund Pancho Villa and he held both hands up and said, “No Hablo Ingles”.

The driver said, “Hap, show him your fucking ID card.”

Hap’s response was a shoulder shrug and, “No Hablo Ingles”.

The Border Police had them pull the car off to the side and herded everyone inside for further discussions. When it became obvious that there would be no way to get to Ballast Point by 0800 unless they flew Hap said “Oh, is this what you want to see?” as he pulled his wallet out.

The Border Police were pissed, but they let them go. They missed ship’s movement, of course, and enough money was scrounged up to pay the $300 bet. When the CPO Club opened about 1100 Hap put the $300 on the bar and said to drink it up. When Archerfish returned that afternoon one of the five went down to the pier to brief the C.O. and invite all hands to the CPO Club for a party.

There was no report, of course.

Just one more story in the legend that became Hap Hernandez.

Elvis is Dead

By Garland Davis

It was August 1977. I was the Assistant Commissary Store Officer at the Pearl Harbor Commissary Store. I remember it well. I was on the loading dock with an inspector from the base fire department. The motor of a cardboard compactor had short circuited and set the contents of the compactor on fire. The inspector was verifying this for his report. I was standing on the dock when an SH3 came out of the Receiving Department Office and said, “Chief, Elvis is dead.”

Elvis is dead. The words were wrong somehow. Some third world president is dead, some rock star overdosed, a blind man was killed by a hit and run driver. For some reason all that seemed to make more sense than Elvis is dead.

“The radio said that he had a heart attack.” Said the girl with the bad news.

Elvis had a heart attack? No way. Elvis couldn’t have a heart attack. He was just too young. Hell, he was only nine years older than me. I was in the seventh grade when I became aware of Elvis and his music. I remember begging my father to let me watch the Ed Sullivan show to see Elvis. My dad gave in and let me watch it. His idea of the perfect music was solidified with the Carter Family, Earl Scruggs and bluegrass.

I always intended to go see Elvis in person someday. I never made it. Me and him didn’t live on the same continents for so many years. I have seen all his movies and I have a set of vinyl records that purports to be everything he recorded.

Elvis was forty-two and had a heart attack. I was thirty three. But if Elvis was forty-two and old enough to die, what did that say about me and the generation his music had captured. Was Elvis dying a portent for me. I worried about it for a time but the Orient called and I got on with life in Westpac.

Last August sixteenth was the fortieth anniversary of Elvis’ death.

Elvis died forty years ago and I feel like shit today/

Sailors, Tequila, and the Border Patrol

By Garland Davis

I was reading an article today about the illegal immigration situation and proposed actions to limit illegal immigration. Evidently it is very easy to cross the border and once a few miles above the border an illegal is home free.

It wasn’t always that way. In the early sixties, I was stationed at NAS Lemoore. During the year I was there, I made a number of weekend trips to Los Angeles. I remember there was a Border Patrol check station somewhere near Bakersfield. Vehicles would stop and a Border Patrol Officer would simply ask, “Where were you born?” Answer truthfully and you were passed on your way.

One weekend three of us rode the Trailways bus to L.A. An Airdale friend whose family lived in the city named Jones, another Airdale striker named Gomez and me.

As I remember, we spent the weekend at Huntington Beach where I learned I don’t have a talent for surfing. The weekend ended Sunday afternoon as Jones’ sister drove us to the Trailways station. We boarded the bus and went to the rear. We had a pint of Tequila and didn’t want to draw the attention of the driver.

The bus proceeded north and eventually ended up at the Border Patrol checkpoint near Bakersfield. The officer proceeded down the aisle asking each passenger where they were born.

Jones answered, “Los Angeles.”

I answered, “Winston-Salem, North Carolina.” in my best Southern accent.

Gomez, who was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico, giggling answered, “Guadalajara, Mexico senor.”

That tickled Jones and me. All three of us in our alcoholic stupor were laughing our asses off.

They jerked us off that bus and locked us in a cell. It took us two hours to convince them that he was actually from Santa Fe and just fucking with them.

They weren’t really amused.

The Hat

By: David ‘Mac’ McAllister

Hello, I’m his hat! I spend my days now sitting on his desk, nothing more than a reminder of glory days gone by. Ah! But it wasn’t always this way; pop the top of a cold one, come along side and let me spin you our yarn.

I remember when I was just a pup, brand new, that would have been when he was initiated as a Chief Petty Officer back in 1974. Man, what a day that was. We had not met yet; however, I watched from afar as he fell in with the other new Chiefs in preparation for the reading of the CPO Creed. He was the only one there in dress blues without a hat. Standing there, he looked like a sore dick; that is until I was placed squarely upon his head by his sponsor – a gift from his messmates. Atop his head now, with pride, we grew together a quarter inch taller than anyone else in the room.

We got drunk that night, the first of many DrunkEx’s we would share over the years. The next day he was torn as to whether I should be enshrined in a place of honor as a piece of memorabilia or put to use. He decided that the best way to honor those that came before and those who had given me to him was to wear me. So our journey began as Shipmates.

He was never a ball cap person, so I was worn daily. I remember he was asked once “Why don’t you ever wear a piss cutter” to which he replied (to my satisfaction): “If I wanted to wear a fuckin piss cutter I’d either still be in the God Damn Boy Scouts or I’d get a fuckin sex change and be a Wave”. So for the next fourteen years, we were inseparable and I was his prime scraper.

I was proudly decked out with the fouled anchor of a Chief Petty Officer. Later he added the star of a Senior Chief Petty Officer. Then he really screwed with my military mind and placed an Officer’s crest on me. Got to admit that for a while that took some getting used to; I really thought he had lost the load for sure, but it all panned out, in the end.

As I aged I guess the first thing to go was my sweat band. It became brittle, cracked and deteriorated due to being repeatedly wetted and dried out from sweating during long days in the hole. One night he flipped me over and performed surgery on me. With his Buck knife, he clipped out my sweat band and threw it in the shit can. Got to admit it smarted a little but I felt much better afterwards and I sat a little lower and in a much more intimate manner upon his head.

Soon my cover stretch band started leaving rust stains on his white covers. That wouldn’t do, so you guessed it – more surgery. My stretch band was unceremoniously jerked out and joined my sweat band in the shit can. After that, my covers hung limply over my headband and gave me an appearance of a WWII bomber pilots cap with a McHalesk continence that sort of complimented a McArthurian nuance.

The piping on by bill was next to go. I guess I just couldn’t take that constant bill shaping he was always doing trying for that perfectly non-regulation look. Not being one to give up on a garment, he would blacken my exposed cardboard edges with a magic marker and, as in the immortal words of Admiral Butcher, we “Pressed on Regardless”.

My Khaki cover grew stained with oils and sweat; my chin strap lost its golden luster and took on a more verdigris appearance. My headband lost its elasticity and became droopy. With scissors, needle, and thread he performed more shipboard surgery trimming and sewing me back repeatedly to his weird perception of perfection. As the years past I was referred to as salty.

I was autographed by shipmates and became a sort of who’s who muster list: Don O’Shea, Russ Enos, Don Barnett, Gene Gain, you get the idea. Many wore off over time and were replaced with others; all indelible forever within his and my memory.

We steamed the seven seas and visited ports and places that most people don’t even know exist. We saw our way through MTT’s, PEB’s, REFTRA’s, 3M Inspections, Command Inspections and all the other myriad of shore duty shitheads that would come aboard our home and feeder to help us. We put engineering red E’s and Damage Control DC’s on ships stacks and bridge wings and then turned em gold out of spite.

I have sat squarely on his head for inspection, on the back of his head in comfortable go to hell relaxation and at a jaunty give a shit angle when ashore. We have been shot at and missed, shit at and hit and better for it. We’ve stood engineering watches, bridge watches and watched over 5,000 sunrises and sunsets. I have been the center of wanted and unwanted attentions; however, through it all, we remained the best of Shipmates.

I remember one day I was kidnapped by an XO and taken prisoner and held hostage in his stateroom. He showed up demanding my return to which this particular XO said that he was going to throw my scruffy ass over the side. I remember as if yesterday, he slowly closed the XO’s stateroom door and in a very calm voice explained that I had more time at sea than the XO had in the Navy. That we had been shipmates since he had become a CPO and if the XO was dumb enough to throw me over the side the XO had better ensure his rescue swimmers PQS was signed off as he would be going in after me. Needless to say, I was liberated post hence.

In the strictest of confidence, he has told me that when he finally crosses the bar he will be cremated in the same uniform he was born in except he’s taking me along for the ride; our ashes to be scattered together at sea by sailors that never knew us – yet sailors none the less.

Nowadays I live a comfortable existence in retirement. I sit on his desk off to one side much as I used to, when not on his head while we were on active duty. Every once in a while, late at night when the light of the day has faded to darkness and the household is asleep, whisky in hand, he will slip me on, lean back and close his eyes as we sail together once again through those days of a gone by era, with shipmates of yesteryear, across those stormy seas of war and peace.

David “Mac” McAllister a native of California, now resides in the Ozark Mountains of Southwest Mo. Having served in Asia for the majority of his 24-year Navy career, he now divides his time as an over the road trucker, volunteer for local veteran repatriation events and as an Asia Sailor Westpac’rs Association board member and reunion coordinator. In his spare time, he enjoys writing about his experiences in Westpac and sharing them online with his Shipmates.

Navy Cooks and Nutritionists

By Garland Davis

The Commissaryman First and Chief training course listed a primary duty of a Leading Commissaryman as “preparing the weekly Bill of Fare.” In other words, writing the weekly menu. He had several tools to assist in this process. The Navy Ration Law, the Navy Recipe Service (Now the Armed Forces Recipe Service), an up to date listing of food items available, a special form for writing the menu and another form on which to type the menu for the Commanding Officer’s approval.

NOTE: Sailors don’t dare say ”pass the Parkay” in mess halls and shipboard galleys. It’s against the law. Despite a trend throughout the military toward more health-conscious eating, the 1937 Navy Ration Law bans all spreads except butter from Navy and Marine Corps dining rooms. The law, kept on the books at the insistence of the butter lobby, was originally written to help ensure that seagoing sailors got enough dairy products in their diet. Over the past few years, Navy officials have tried to get the law changed four times to allow the use of margarine, but Congress has never gone along. Because government surplus butter is used, a switch to private-sector margarine would cost more. This arcane rule does not apply to the other armed services. END NOTE

When I first became a cook, the Chief wrote a new menu each week for the following week. Later the Navy Food Service Office recommended a three-week cycle menu and then a five or six-week menu. I always used a six-week cycle. A cycle menu makes it easier to plan a loadout to the menu rather than plan a menu to whatever you have aboard.

It became inherent that the Commissaryman writing the menu have a rudimentary knowledge of nutrients and nutrition. Since becoming a Chief Commissaryman and later a Mess Management Specialist I have had both a professional and a personal interest in food and nutrition.

Almost every week one can find a news article touting or condemning a food. It is cyclical. One time eggs are bad, then in moderation and later eat as many eggs as you desire. At one time or another, we have been cautioned about red meat, sugar, eggs, bacon, and all sorts of other things we enjoy eating. If we listened to health food advice we would be forced to dine on soybeans, kale, bee pollen, and various kinds of bran. Eating a diet like that would end everyone’s fear of constipation and increase sales of Charmin.

Several years ago, the Coca-Cola company suggested that people drink Coke for breakfast. I became a strong proponent of this philosophy. When you wake up in the Barrio after a night of sipping San Miguel and providing companionship for a lonely LBFM an ice cold Coke or Pepsi just seems to hit the spot. The nutritionists were faking coronaries at this. They might well have suggested one begin the day with Twinkies, Little Debbie, and a Snickers Bar. The nutritionists were aghast that someone might chase down breakfast with a soft drink.

I’ll admit that I am not a specimen of good health, but I don’t think I would be in as good a shape without my Diet Dr. Pepper in the morning. If one can become addicted to soft drinks, then I am addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper. I am usually groggy, sluggish, ill-tempered, slack-eyed, and loopy when I wake up. I start the day with two or three cups of strong black coffee and my e-mail. Shortly afterward I have the first of my daily six-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper. It used to be one or two a day, but since events at the last Asia Sailor’s reunion in Branson, I have given up the beer, whiskey, wine, moonshine, and Sterno. Diet Dr. Pepper is my drink of choice morning, noon, and night.

I once had a Petty Officer in my division who started each day with a warm Pepsi Cola. I am not sure that this practice had anything to do with the fact that he only had one tooth. But Furd is another story that I have told before.

One last thing, one of my best friends is a Texan and lives in Dallas. Texas is considered in the South. Dr. Pepper is a Texas product with deep Southern roots. I must stand against any nutritionist who would try to take my Diet Dr. Pepper away. Give them that and perish the thought, pork belly and grits could be next.

One will often read scare articles on Facebook and other social media damning Aspartame, the artificial sweetener used in most diet drinks. The people who write and pass on these stories attribute every affliction known to man to this ingredient, everything from cancer to hammer toe, erectile dysfunction, and toenail fungus. They succeeded in getting cyclamates banned and saccharin for a while until public sentiment forced Congress to rescind the ban. Ignore these people. They will only be satisfied when we are eating something raw that grows in a swamp.

Tara

By Daniel J. Decampo

Waking up is hard to do for some reason. I always manage to wake up and relieve Kim a couple of minutes late for the watch. Luckily he’s a super chill dude and is never in a rush to really go anywhere and I do cover for him if he needs it. I just feel shitty about the whole not waking up thing.

I definitely do not get enough sleep. I try but, my mind is a whirlwind of crazy thoughts. Last night I went a little crazy thinking about Tara and what the fuck ever happened to her. She was nice and I definitely took her for granted.

I first met Tara at a place called the Soundview in the lovely town of Everett, WA. We met sometime towards the end of the summer and the year was 2011. I don’t recall meeting her. I don’t even remember making the decision to go to the Soundview, being there,  our meeting, or the walk back to her place. Needless to say, I went pretty hard back in those days but, that doesn’t matter right now.

I have vague memories of fucking around with her back at her place but, no idea what time it was or anything like that. When I woke up and was aware of my surroundings, I realized I was on a mattress, on the floor, of a living room and her mentioning getting up and getting ready for work. At this time I realized that I did not remember her name at all.

The only thing I could think to do was look for mail. I found a letter with her first name on it and I was good to go. She ended up quizzing me on her name later.

We sat around for a few and she headed to work. I meandered to Starbucks and had some coffee, went back to the ship, changed and went back out for more debauchery.

We went on date a few days later. It was a restaurant called the China Girl in downtown Everett. Had a super Asian feel to it and they served really good food. The date went well, we both had a good time and I sent her on her way.

Thinking of Tara always brings up painful regrets. This was a girl totally into me, she liked to have fun, she liked to drink, she liked to fuck. She was smart and had a good job yet, I only ever went to her place to crash and fuck around. I guess I was always looking for the next best thing and that, sure as shit, did not happen in Everett.

When I left that town, I totally broke contact with her. She texted me some kind words before I left and I deleted her number. A few days later I arrived in San Diego and had a text from her, although I deleted her number, I still recognized it. It was a pretty simple, “I miss you” text; I just deleted it and carried on. I don’t know whatever happened to her but, wherever she is, I sure hope she’s doing well.

To change the subject, the morning has consisted of CSOOW watch, 0900 to 1200. Combat Systems Officer of the watch, one the “milestone qualifications” of a Sailors career on the briny blue.

In a nutshell, a CSOOW is trained to be a super knowledgeable, intrusive asshole when it comes to the maintenance of a warship’s combat systems. Getting qualified is hard and staying qualified has proved to be hard as well.

I don’t really mean a CSOOW is supposed to be an asshole, just have the attitude of not taking any shit from the technicians. Have procedures; don’t do anything dangerous, blah, blah, blah. It’s not a bad thing; I just don’t feel like writing about now.