Filling In For Davy (Garland)

By Marlin Spike Jones

I got a call from Davy (he calls himself Garland these days). He asked me to fill in for him and write his Blog post today. He says he needs a break but I think he is just lazy. I think laziness runs in his blood. He was supposedly night baker on the ship, so I am not sure if he worked or not. Most of the time I saw him during the day, he was sleeping. He would get up and watch the movie and then lock himself in the bakeshop He said locking the doors was to keep Deck Apes and Boiler Monkeys from stealing his pies and stuff.

Now I take offense being a fine upstanding Deck Ape. I never stole from the bakeshop. I merely captured cinnamon rolls that had escaped when he wasn’t looking. Being a humanitarian, I gave them a comfortable home. Now them damn Boiler Monkeys would steal their sister in law’s skivvies to use for rags.

I don’t know what Davy did at night. Sometimes I heard laughter coming from the bake shop. I know he was in there with a CS3 named Ike and a DC2 named Rendleman, whom (isn’t it amazing that a Deck Ape knows the proper use of that word) everyone called Renny like the dog Rin Tin Tin. Ike was renowned for manufacturing some quality beverages from fruit peelings, apple juice, and raisins mixed with a little yeast and Davy, the baker, had the yeast. Renny was known for drinking or smoking anything he could get his hands on.

I am still disappointed that he didn’t choose to invite me.

Davy tells you guys stories about his glories as a Chief and winning a Ney award on a carrier. I tell you, boy, that ain’t the Davy I knew. He was eighteen and would try to drink Olongapo dry. I hauled his young ass back to the boat landing a number of times. And ugly women, that boy was an ugly magnet. His hand is the only thing he ever fucked more than ugly women.

He frequented those second story wooden bars, you remember the one’s in Olongapo before the town burned down. As drunk as the boy would get, he would have been safer in the ground floor joints. You can only fall off a bar stool there instead of a fucking balcony.

The boy was a good poker player and usually had money to support his twin habits of San Miguel and UBFM’s (Ugly Brown Fucking Machines). I have met his wife. I always figure that he was drunk and didn’t notice that she wasn’t ugly. By the time he sobered up, it was too late. He was already married.

Actually, me and Davy only became friends just a few years ago. Probably because he can’t find any Snipes to pal around with. He was on good terms with the Deck Apes and the Twidgets but he ran with the Machinist Mates and the Boiler Monkeys. Hit a bar in Olongapo and find a bunch of snipes there, you could almost bet that Davy would be around someplace nearby hugged up with the ugliest, oldest woman in the bar.

Davy could have ended up on the Signal Bridge. He could read flashing light! Me, Davy, and a CS2 were sitting on the fantail having a smoke waiting for the 1900 liberty boat. One of the Oilers at anchor was sending a message. Davy was reading the letters and telling us what the tanker was saying. CS2 said, “If they find out you can read that shit, you’ll have the fucking midwatch on the Signal Bridge. I could have ratted him out, but he did fuck up ever now and then and make some pretty good bread and stuff. And maybe he was a bit more generous than I have made him out to be.

Well, this oughta be enough for a blog post. I gotta start reading the stuff that he is writing to see if he has said anything disparaging about me.

Holidays and Steel Beach Cookouts

By Garland Davis

I read in many of the ship and Navy groups where I lurk that one of the highlights of holidays and holiday routine were the special meals served and the steel beach cookouts. I will admit that I wasn’t that crazy about the steel beach cookouts. You know I was a cook. One or two during a ninety day Indian Ocean cruise wasn’t bad but doing a steel beach every Sunday or other holidays or stand down day was overkill.

I was in one ship where the XO was convinced the key to good crew morale was the number of Steel Beach cookouts we did. After the first couple, he noticed that everyone would go through the line and then return to the mess decks, the CPO Mess, or the Wardroom to eat. He became really upset when he overheard the BMC say to me, “We have a Galley with modern, perfectly good equipment. Why the fuck do you haul the shit up to the Hangar Deck and build a fire to cook every other fucking day.” After that and other bitches from the crew regarding the frequency of the cookouts the XO stopped insisting on cookouts.

We had departed Yokosuka for Subic and on to Pattaya and then into the IO. Sometime after Subic, the Supply Officer told me the XO’s plan for the weekly cookouts. My first reaction was, “Is he out of his rabbit-assed mind?” My second reaction was, “Why didn’t he let us know before we left Yoko or Subic. I don’t have that much charcoal aboard.”

The Supply Officer explained to the XO about the charcoal. His reply was, “Surely you can buy charcoal briquettes in Thailand.” So, we loaded a shit load of charcoal in Pattaya at three times the cost. The ship’s chandler and victualler in Pattaya routinely overcharged the Navy by two or three hundred percent for anything purchased. But we didn’t receive briquettes. It was big chunks of wood. It came aboard from the boats in large paper bags. Those of you who pulled liberty in that port remember the wading out to a boat which took you to deeper water where you transferred to another boat and then on to the ship. The charcoal and other stores came aboard the same way. The workers carried the bags to the long tail boat which took them to the larger boat and then to the ship.

I was ashore receiving the items and making sure they reached the boats. My LPO was supervising the working party and storage aboard. I had moved food items out of a small storeroom aft to use as charcoal storage. By the time I was back aboard, everything was stowed

Once we stopped the frequent cookouts, the storeroom wasn’t opened very often. It had been about three weeks since a cookout when the Sounding and Security watch came to me and said, “Chief, I think I smell smoke when I walk past your storeroom aft could we look in there.” I carried a master key to all my storerooms. We went aft to the storeroom. When I reached for the lock, it was hot. I touched the door. It was extremely hot. I told HT3, “We’ve got a fire in here. Call the bridge and have them pass the word for fire.” He left in a rush while I went to the nearest fire station and ran a hose to the scene and removed the lock from the door.

When the fire party arrived, I backed off as the OBA men opened the door. The charcoal had been smoldering up to that point but flamed as the extra oxygen entered the room. Water was used to quickly quench the fire. Over a half day was spent carrying buckets of sodden charcoal topside to dump overboard and clean the storeroom.

The Captain, the XO, the Cheng, the Suppo, the HTC and I were in the wardroom to determine why the fire started. I suggested spontaneous combustion of the charcoal and bags. I explained about spontaneous combustion in wet coal in coal yards and colliers in the days of coal fired ships. I told them because of the method of transporting the bags of charcoal from the beach to the ship I was sure it had gotten wet or at least damp. There was no way to determine how long it had burned. I have read stories of coal laden vessels sailing around the Horn with pockets of fire in the cargo burning for weeks..

There was really no other answer as to the cause of the fire

The XO had the BMC throw the charcoal grilles overboard and there was never another Steel Beach mentioned the rest of my tour in that ship!

I was told years later by a Chief who served in a ship where my old XO was the CO that they didn’t do steel beach cookouts and charcoal wasn’t permitted aboard.

Sunsets and the Green Flash

By Garland Davis

I was a cook and baker. I wasn’t required to stand bridge watches until they came up with the ESWS thing. Then I was made to stand underway Junior Officer of the Deck watches. This consisted primarily of monitoring bridge personnel to make sure that the watch was functioning properly. Depending on the Officer of the Deck, the JOOD could make recommendations. Some would consider your comments while it was worthless to recommend anything to others.

One of the highlights of being on the bridge or on deck is that I have seen some of the most spectacular South China Sea sunsets. The only thing I have seen to compare was the Northern Lights. The old sailor’s weather predicting adage of “Red at morning, sailors take warning; Red at night, sailors delight,” seemed to prove true more often than not.

Watches on the bridge often became hectic especially when operating in congested waters as the watchstanders on a couple of our ships have recently discovered the hard way. Those watches passed quickly often with an antacid relief for the knots in your gut.

Other evenings and nights, the only contacts visible were a floating box and a pod of dolphins pacing the ship. These were the nights when the OOD would let members of the watch duck into the Chart Room for a few quick drags on a cigarette. Then there were times when the Captain would be in his chair and say to the OOD, “Give the deck to the Chief and let’s talk about your preparations for the Commodore’s visit next week. He is particularly interested in that modification to the new equipment that SRF installed.” And suddenly, although the Captain and the OOD were right, you were in control of the ship. You could order speed and course changes. You checked the contacts to insure you knew their position relative to your ship. You went from wing to wing with your binoculars and eyeballed every one.

Often when independent steaming, the CO would give the deck to the JOOD during the entire watch. The CO would prearrange with the Chief Boatswain’s Mate to throw Oscar overboard and you would have to make sure the proper words were passed on the 1MC and make an Anderson turn. If done properly this turn will bring the ship back to a point it previously passed through for the purpose recovering the man overboard. Then maneuver the ship to pick up the dummy.

But, I digress. I started talking about sunsets. Another sunset phenomenon is the Green Flash. Supposedly when conditions are right, a green spot is visible above the upper limb of the sun’s disk. The green spot usually lasts no more than a second or two. I spent many evenings staring at the sunset but the green flash eluded me or I blinked and missed it.

Another overwhelming sight is the night sky on a clear, moonless night. Literally billions of stars so close that you feel as if you could just reach up and touch them. And those night with a full moon hanging up there were almost as clear as daylight.

I guess what I am trying to say here is that those of us who went to sea have seen the world in a way that people ashore can never experience.

Here Come The Judge

By Garland Davis

It was a Friday afternoon and all the Chiefs had early liberty. I guess I can talk a little about the initiations since they no longer do them. It was CPO Initiation day. We entered the CPO Club and found the table that BMC Garcia had been sent ahead to hold for us.

As we went through the door, I was accosted by the Master Chief who was running the initiation.

He said, “Dave, I have a problem. The Master Chief who was supposed to act as the judge called and said his daughter went into labor and he is at the hospital. He’ll not be here. Will you be the judge?”

Now, CPO initiations were a Kangaroo Court that tried all the prospective Chiefs for major and minor offensives such as. “Prospective Chief Jones slept with a First Class Petty Officer’s wife last night.”

I tried to decline acting as Judge, but there was no one else so I reluctantly agreed.

There were approximately three hundred CPO observers in the room. To raise money to pay for drinks, each observer and participant was fined a minimal amount to pay the bar bill. Anyone disrupting the ceremony by getting up and moving around the room to go to the head or the bar were charged a quarter.

As I said there were about three hundred Chiefs. There were also Commanding Officers and Executive Officers as well as junior officers who were detailed to act as defense counsels for the obviously guilty miscreants.

I took my position as the judge and looked out over the room. Right down in front was a table with some doctors and nurses from the Medical Center. One of those to be initiated was a Corpsman. Beside me was a Senior Chief Yeoman who was to act as recorder and keep track of the bar bill, in case we needed to raise more money. There were a couple of Chiefs who were acting as Master at Arms collecting the fines and escorting the guilty prisoners before the bar.

I started by welcoming everyone to the initiation. I then said, “I see a number of Chiefs wearing working khaki. You are not working. That will cost you two dollars.”

“Those Chiefs wearing dress khaki today, you didn’t intend to do any work. You get up two dollars also.”

“Those Chiefs wearing Salt and Pepper (for a short time there was a uniform of dress blue pants and white tropical shirts) get up three dollars because I hate that damned uniform.”

“It will also cost two dollars for each retiree in the audience.

“Since they are overpaid, all officers will be fined four dollars.”

“And if anyone is wearing panty hose, that will cost you an extra dollar,” while looking at the number of nurses.

A nurse Lieutenant at the front table raised her hand and said, “Your honor, I am not wearing panty hose.”

I said, “Step up here and prove that Darlin’ and I’ll give you five dollars.”

She did! I saw that Senior Medical Officer cloud up. I am sure he had words with that girl when they got back to the Medical Center.

The initiation proceeded as the miscreants were marched before the bar and examined and fined hundreds of dollars.

I had the prospective HMC and his defense counsel, an Ensign Nurse before me when I noticed observers going to the head unmolested by a MAA collecting the quarter fine for disrupting the dignity of my court.

I stopped everything and announced, “I need another MAA to stand by the head door and collect fines. I need a volunteer. Do I have anyone who will act as MAA?”

The aforementioned BMC Garcia yelled, “I’ll do it, Dave, your honor if you’ll give me back my two dollars and let me kiss that good looking head up there.”

I said, “That’s a deal. Get your money back and come kiss the good looking head.”

Garcia made his way through the tables. I saw the Nurse prepare for Garcia to kiss her. He walked past her and threw a lip lock on the YNCS who was acting as recorder.

Cracked the whole place up.  Must have taken me five minutes to restore order.

After the trials and punishments, we got down to the serious part of advancing the new Chiefs. They were lined up in their new khaki uniforms but without the CPO collar devices or covers. Wives, mothers, sisters, brother Chiefs, and some Commanding Officers had the honor of pinning the new Chiefs. A fellow Chief presented them with their CPO combination covers.  The Hat!

As they stood in a line before the room, a Chief read the CPO Creed:

The Chief’s Creed

During the course of this day, you have been caused to suffer indignities, to experience humiliations. This you have accomplished with rare good grace and therefore, we now believe it fitting to explain to you why this was done. There was no intent, no desire, to demean. Pointless as it may have seemed to you, there was a valid, time-honored reason behind every single deed, behind each pointed barb.

By experience, by performance and by testing, you have been this day advanced to CHIEF PETTY OFFICER. You have one more hurdle to overcome. In the United States Navy and only in the United States Navy, E-7 carries unique responsibilities. No other armed force throughout the world carries the responsibilities nor grants privileges to its enlisted comparable to the privileges and responsibilities you are now bound to observe and expected to fulfill.

Your entire way of life has now been changed. More will be expected of you, more will be demanded of you. Not because you are an E-7, but because you are now a CHIEF PETTY OFFICER. You have not merely been promoted one pay grade–you have joined an exclusive fraternity, and as in all fraternities, you have a responsibility to your brothers, even as they have a responsibility to you.

Always bear in mind that no other armed force has rate or rank equivalent to that of the United States Navy. Granted that all armed forces have two classes of service: enlisted and commissioned, however, the United States Navy has the distinction of having four i.e., Enlisted, CHIEF PETTY OFFICER, Commissioned Warrant Officer and Commissioned Officer. This is why we in the United States Navy may maintain with pride our feelings of superiority once we have attained the position of E-7.

These privileges, these responsibilities do not appear in print, they have no official standing, they cannot be referred to by name, number nor file. They exist because for over 200 years the CHIEFS before you have freely accepted responsibility beyond call of printed assignment, their actions and their performance, demanded the respect of their seniors as well as their juniors.

It is now required that you be a fountain of wisdom, the ambassador of good will, the authority in personnel relations as well as their technical application. “Ask the Chief” is a household word in and out of the Navy. You are now the “CHIEF”.

The exalted-position you have now received, and I use the word “exalted” advisedly, exists because of the attitude, the performance of the Chiefs before you. It shall exist only so long as you and your compatriots maintain these standards.

So this is why you were caused to experience these things. You were subjected to humiliations to prove to you that humility is a good, a great, a necessary change which cannot mar you—which in fact, strengthens you, and in your future as a CHIEF PETTY OFFICER, you will be caused to suffer indignities, to experience humiliations far beyond those imposed upon you today. Bear them with the dignity, and with the same good grace, which you bore these today.

It is our intention that you will never forget this day. It is our intention to test you–to try you–to accept you. Your performance today has assured us that you will wear your hat with aplomb brothers in arms before you.

I take a deep, sincere pleasure in clasping your hand, and accepting you into our midst.

Then all the Chiefs in the room went down the line congratulating each of the new Chiefs and welcoming them to the Mess.

Initiations were fun and, at the same time, very serious. Too bad they no longer do them in our kinder, gentler, more diverse Navy.

Being an Asshole

By Garland Davis

A certain shipmate of mine who once waved flags for a living whom I OCCASIONALLY cyber bully will tell you that I am an asshole. He pretty much has me pegged. I have always been something of a clown since I learned to talk. That happened when I was in the sixth grade. In my early childhood, I stammered. It was embarrassing so I just wouldn’t talk. My sixth-grade teacher kept me after school for a half hour every day and worked on drills that helped me overcome the stammer. No one has been able to shut me up since.

People often ask why, after thirty years in the Navy, I never advanced to Senior or Master Chief. The only thing I can say is that I often opened my mouth when I should have remained silent. I’ll tell you, one of the worst things you can do as a Chief is tell a senior Captain that he is wrong in an Officer and Chiefs meeting and have subsequent events prove that you are right. I’m sure some Captains would forgive you, but this one didn’t. He made a comment in my evaluations that I was rated number seventeen in a CPO Mess of fourteen Chiefs. My Foodservice Division had been runner up for the Ney Award which he completely failed to mention. Revenge is a bitch.

After I retired, I worked as a mid-level executive for Burger King for a while. I really wanted to work for McDonald’s but they refused to offer me a job. Their reasoning; they already had one fucking clown, they didn’t need another!

Clowning around almost caused me physical injury or possibly even death. It went something like this:

I went into a shit-kicking bar on Magsaysay in Olongapo and bumped into a group of snipes from my ship. I sat down with them and started sucking the nectar from an icy cold San Miguel when this young lovely pulled a chair next to mine, took me by the arm and said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied and then ignored her.

Finally, she pulled my arm and asked, “You don’t like me?”

“I like you fine. You’re pretty girl.” And then I ignored her some more.

“Whassa matter with you? You don’t want to talk to me.”

“Oh, yeah, I want to ask you a question, but I am shy.”

“You can ask me.” She said

Me, “Are you wearing panties?’

She slapped my arm and said, “Why you ask me that?”

“Because I am interested in you and would like to know you and about you.”

She started smiling, took my arm and pulled herself closer to me. She whispered to me, “Yes I am wearing panties,” with a smile.

“What color are they?

She slaps my arm and pulls her chair away. By this time the others at the table were watching and listening to our interchange. So, I went back to ignoring her.

She slid her chair back beside me and took my arm again and said, “They are pink.”

“Got any holes in them?”

“Whassa matter with you? Why all you want to talk about is panties? No there no holes in my panties.”

“Then if they don’t have holes, how did you get your fucking legs in them?” At that, everyone around the table cracked up. The laughter was loud and long. The girl left the table and went to the bar.

She returned with a knife in her hand. I don’t know what she was saying in Tagalog but I am pretty sure she wasn’t extolling my better qualities. A couple of waiters were wrestling her for the knife as I unassed that joint.

The night before I left Reeves and Subic for the last time, my cooks planned a little party for me at a bar on Magsaysay. I arrived a little late. I had been detained at the CPO club by a bunch of San Miguels. I went to their table and sat in the chair they had for me. As the waiter delivered a frosty cold one, this woman, who was over the hill ugly sat down by me and took my arm.

I started looking under the table and under the chairs. Finally, someone asked, “Did you lose something Chief, what are you looking for?”

“The shovel they dug this bitch up with!”

And of course, everyone laughed.

There was a metal tray sitting on the table that was used to deliver drinks. That old broad hit me on the head with it. You know, sometimes my ears still ring.

I’ve never had to work at being an asshole, it somehow came naturally.

Dungaree Shirts

By Garland Davis

A couple year ago I bought a chambray shirt very like the dungaree shirts I once wore. My wife folded it away and put it in the shirt drawer. It slowly worked its way to the bottom of the drawer. Since I am now an old fart and don’t care what impression I make, the shirt on top is the one I wear. If it doesn’t match anything else I am wearing, I don’t really give a shit.

My wife pulled the chambray shirt out this morning and asked if I wanted to keep it since I didn’t wear it anymore. Of course, I told her to keep it, I had never worn it.

I was going up to the bank this morning and decided to wear it. As I slipped my arms into the sleeves it brought back memories of the thousands of times I had donned similar shirts. The old fart in the mirror in the new dungaree shirt was not the young sailor in the old, faded, paper thin shirt I remembered. When those days run into our thoughts, we are usually clad in dungarees as well we should, we spent most of those years of our life in that uniform. We spent far more time in dungarees than in any other uniform.

I guess the first “real salty” sailor I saw was the Deck Force Leading Seaman in Vesuvius. He retired from the Navy as a BM3. He did his entire twenty years in ammunition ships and oilers. He was a sea going sailor in a faded to almost white Kleenex soft shirt. I loved dungaree shirts when they got like that.

Many of us tried to hurry the process with both the shirts and trousers by dragging them in the wake of the ship for a short while. Too long and the salt water would fray them to rags. The brown baggers would soak them in hot water and Clorox in the bathtub to quickly fade them. I’ll admit that I did that myself.

Sea stores dungarees were baggy and the shirts were all long sleeved. But they were cheap. The sailor who really cared about the appearance of his dungarees transitioned from issue to Seafarer pants and shirts. The shirts could be purchased in both short and long-sleeved varieties. Issue shirts came only in long sleeves.

Dungarees were a “working uniform.” By the end of the day most sailors, with the exception office staff, twidgets and others, looked like “Joe Shit the Ragman.” Most working sailors had “steamers” for underway and dirty jobs and squared away dungarees and white hats for inport.

Dungaree shirts had two pockets. The most one carried was a pen and a pack of cigarettes. It was important to keep the pockets buttoned. If not, when you bent over to pick up something your smokes would fall into a mop bucket or into the bilges.

I wonder if today’s sailors, with their “Blueberry,” “Woodland, Camo uniforms and their coverall “Poopy Suits” will feel the same nostalgia and pride that we do for our dungarees.

You know someday when I reach that Silver Cruiser tied up at the Golden Pier the uniform will be Seafarer dungarees and a faded, almost white soft as Kleenex chambray shirt.

Nah, as much as I loved a sharp faded, starched, and pressed dungaree uniform, I love a faded, starched, and pressed set of Wash Khaki just a little more.

As an aside, a question that has bothered me for a long time. Does the Navy deliberately design uniforms to make the women’s asses look big or are their asses just naturally that big?

Jokes and Sea Stories

By: Garland Davis

Sailors are jokers. Especially off color, no make that the grossest jokes and stories one can come up with.

Some of my shipmates call me the Asia Sailor Bard. Now I’m no Shakespeare, but I can spin a bullshit story. They usually start with “This ain’t no shit.” or “Now this is a no shitter.” They are all true. Some of the facts may be bent or slightly disremembered. Then again, they may be as the sub-title of this blog says, “Crap, true or not that has wandered through my mind.”

Back in the day, you know, before computers, closed circuit television, and pocket telephones with more games than a dog has fleas sailors played real games. There was Pinochle, Hearts, Spades, Acey-Duecy, Cribbage (I am still considered the World Champion cribbage player, Acey-Deucy Champ also for that matter) and other games. Or else they would gather around a mess deck table, drink stale coffee or tepid bug juice, smoke cigarettes and tell stories and jokes.

Somebody would start one with, “Hey Davy, did you hear the one about the LBFM and the drunk BT who couldn’t get it up?”

And that would trigger, “Hey that reminds me of the girl and the bartender…”

And then, “The farmer’s daughter and the circus clown…”

And on and on…

Then someone would start with, “Hey that reminds me of the pretty boy Radioman on the old Dicky B. Anderson who was chased all over Keelung by the bar hog who fell in love with him. He couldn’t stand her and was trying to avoid her and we all kept telling her where he was. She broke into his hotel room while he was entertaining another girl. He was busy laying pipe when the cat fight started with one of the participants bare ass naked. I tell you it was a sight to see.”

“Hey Davy, you baking cinnamon buns tonight? If you are, leave the raisins out. I can’t tell ‘em from the cockroaches.” I got the mid. If you have any rejects just send them down to the engine room. Us BT’s will take care of them for you.”

“The raisins are the soft ones, the cockroaches are crunchier.”

I’m not sure how things operate in our new, gentler, more diverse Navy. I’m not sure, but I get the feeling that a GS with a BT mentality signs his death certificate when he comes into the mess deck and prepares himself a cup from the Keurig machine and doctors it up with some Mocha Latte Flavored Coffee Mate and says, “Excuse me girls, did any of you Mother Fuckers hear the one about the LBFM who could pick up a stack of one-peso coins and give you ten centavo coins in change?”

He would be counseled, DRB’d (Disciplinary Review Board), and probably sent off to a term in mental rehab.

In our new Navy, training is conducted using CCTV, computers and a thing called YouTube (for some reason one of the other websites with You in the title can’t be accessed with government computers). I remember the days when training went like this;

The Chief Gunner’s Mate comes in, obviously sick and hungover, carrying a 45-caliber pistol and said, “Any of you assholes seen one of these? Shut up back there stewburner, I’m the only one who gets to talk here.”

“45 pistol… Holds eight rounds… Clip goes in this way… Pull slide back… Depress slide release… This will chamber the first round. This is the safety. If the safety is off and you squeeze the trigger… Loud fucking noise… Round comes out here and goes in the direction this tube is pointed and goes until it is interrupted by some object. It leaves a big fucking hole in said object.”

“Any fucking questions?”

“Good, that ends the lecture on the 45. Don’t shoot each other. Anybody heard any good jokes while we wait for liberty call?”

To today’s gentle and diverse sailors who read some of the crap that wanders through my mind, we old Asia Sailors must look like a group of unprofessional clowns. But we really weren’t, not at all. We were great at what we did. We didn’t live in Bachelor Enlisted Quarters ashore. Our hull numbers were our addresses and where we lived unless we were temporarily shacked up with some sweetie. Riding the old worn out iron out in Westpac was a full-time job. We knew our jobs… We knew our ships… We loved those old ships and wore their names on our right shoulders with pride

We laughed… We kept those ships operational and at sea. We faced the storms and dangers and afterward laughed as if it was nothing. We fought the Vietnam War and helped win the Cold War. And there was always a joke or a sea story to bring a smile or laugh.

Look at the way sailors pass jokes on Facebook and Navy websites. I hope sailors never lose the ability to joke and laugh. I hope there are still can-do guys and, I guess, gals in dirty whatever passes for dungarees these days still riding haze gray steel out on the Far Pacific Rim who come into the mess decks, draw a cup and say…

“Hey, did you hear the one about the old Boatswain’s mate and the Admiral’s widow?” And it goes on from there…

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 Salena Gomez’ nude body for a good pastrami on rye. That’s right, you can always make out with Salena, 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 anytime 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 extolling 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 into 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!

Fifty-Two Years (August 31, 2017)

By: Garland Davis

When we were children and watching a western movie and the girl came charging by in a runaway buckboard and our hero took after her on his trusty steed and rescued the girl just before the buckboard plunged over the cliff that happened to be there in the middle of a flat prairie and she batted her big eyes at him, you knew the mushy crap was about to start. You wondered what was wrong with cowboy heroes. Why did they always get sidetracked from chasing the bad guys by girls and mushy stuff?

This one will be mushy stuff. I have permission.

All stories of young love begin when two people meet. There are fireworks. Possibly angels singing. Bluebirds singing and that kind of movie crap. I met her in the Billet Office for Bayside Courts in Yokohama Japan. The Navy Housing Activity at Yokohama was comprised of four officers, fifty-six enlisted and a contingent of Japanese civilians that maintained and administered the more than three thousand Navy Housing units that provided quarters for Naval Personnel in the Kanto Area of Japan.

There were no barracks for enlisted. One building of an old Army BOQ complex was devoted to housing single enlisted sailors. She worked in the Billet Office and assigned me to a room. Room? WTF! Officers lived in rooms. Sailors lived in open bay barracks. But there it was a room. She explained to me that maid service was available for ten dollars a payday. The maids would clean your room and do your laundry. When I got to the room, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The maid assigned to me helped me unpack and placed everything in the closets. Where she wanted them.

I quickly fell into a routine of awakening, dressing, going to the NEX cafeteria for breakfast (There was no enlisted galley), and then to work at the Commissary Store. We worked Tuesday thru Saturday and were not required to stand any duty days. At approximately 1630 my shipmates and I would stroll across the street to the Yokohama Seaside Club and take advantage of the ten cents Happy Hour. About 1900 or so we would take a cab to Bayside Courts shift into civilian clothes and head for the Zebra Club downtown for a couple and then on to China Town for an evening comprised of drinks and mushy stuff.

From the day in July when I arrived there until shortly before the Navy day celebration in October, I lived this idyllic sailor’s life. The command announced a date for the Navy Day Ball at the Seaside Club. Each member was permitted to bring a guest. A group of us were in a room at Bayside drinking beer when the subject of dates for the Navy Day Ball arose. Different bar girls were suggested.

I told them, “I am going to ask the girl who works at the Billet Office.”

“Not a chance Stewburner. She won’t date sailors. Believe me many have tried and no one has been successful.” Was the consensus.

I had just enough beer, so I said, “I’ll show you just wait and see.” And off to the billeting office, I went.

I walked in, she came to the counter and asked how she could help me. I told her, “I came to invite you to the Navy Day Ball as my guest.”

She said, “Okay.” She gave me directions where I could meet her.

I went back to the room with a shit eating grin on my face, opened a cold one, and sat down.

“Struck out, huh? I knew you would. She won’t go out with sailors.”

I said, “I have to pick her up at six thirty Friday evening.”

Of course, I got the, “What did you do, lick your eyebrows? What do you have that nobody else does?”

I picked her up for our date. We had a good time. Over the next few weeks, we became inseparable.

Fifty-one years ago today that young Japanese girl and I, both of us barely out of our teens, caught the train at Yokohama Central Station for Tokyo. It was to be our wedding day. There was no preacher or organist, no best man or bridesmaid. There was just a busy office in the American Embassy Annex and a Japanese government office.

I was carrying an envelope of papers that had begun six months before as a single sheet of paper asking the U.S. Navy for permission to marry a Japanese National. The envelope contained the results of physical examinations and background investigations. Also included were interviews with a Legal Officer, counseling interviews with Chaplains and English translations of my fiancé’s birth records and copies of the investigations of her family and background. And finally a letter from Commander Naval Forces, Japan granting approval of my request.

A clerk at the counter took the papers separated those he needed and returned the remainder to me. After a time, we were given forms in Japanese and directed to take them to a Japanese government office to register our marriage and then return to the embassy. This took some time because Japanese bureaucrats love properly completed forms and placing numerous rubber stamps on them. By mid-afternoon, we were back at the embassy annex and returned the properly stamped and annotated forms to the clerk.

We waited for a time with another couple and finally were called to the counter. The other serviceman and I were directed to stand at the counter with our brides behind us. A number of forms were placed on the counter and we were instructed to sign them. A gentleman came from an inner office and introduced himself as a U.S. Consulate Officer. He instructed us prospective husbands to raise our right hands and said, “Do you swear that everything you have signed is the truth to the best of your knowledge, so help you, God?” We both replied, “Yes.” He said, “Congratulations,” shook our hands and left. The clerk gave us our marriage certificates and congratulated us.

There were no vows, no “I do’s.” Just simply completing paperwork and registering the fact with the Japanese government. I often joke that I dropped my pen, bent over to pick it up and when I stood up, the gentleman shook my hand and said, “Congratulations.”

It has been a tumultuous fifty-one years. There was the Viet Nam War, twenty-six more years of the Navy, lengthy separations and, not a lot of money during the early years. Like most couples, we had to adjust to each other. Now we are aging and dealing with my Parkinson’s disease. I guess you can say that after fifty-two years, we have succeeded.

Looking back, I wouldn’t have it any differently. She is my best friend, and I love her with all my being. As the poets say, “She completes me.”

Today is our fifty-first anniversary.