Seven Destroyers Lost at Honda Point

By:  Garland Davis

During the early years of the Viet Nam War, a U.S. destroyer, USS Frank Knox ran aground on Pratas Reef in the South China Sea.  This was attributed to poor navigation and training.

A few years ago, a Pearl Harbor based Guided Missile Cruiser grounded on a reef near the entrance to Pearl harbor.  An investigation attributed the incident to poor training and poor navigation practices.

Not very long ago a U.S. Navy Minesweeper was grounded on a reef in the Philippine Islands and was lost when the vessel had to be dismantled.  The grounding was attributed to navigational errors and over dependence on electronic navigational technology.

Earlier this year, two patrol boats were surrendered to Iranian forces, again, poor training and navigational errors resulted in the boats crossing into Iranian waters.

As any seafarer knows, navigation is an exact science. It is also unforgiving. Poor training, laxity, and inattention to detail will bite you in the ass every time.

These were all incidents that resulted in a single ship being damaged or lost.  The greatest peacetime loss of U.S. Navy ships happened at Honda Point, California (now known as Pedernales Point).  The area is extremely treacherous for central California mariners. It features a series of rocky outcroppings collectively known as Woodbury Rocks.  One is named Destroyer Rock on navigational charts.

Fourteen ships of Destroyer Squadron 11 (DESRON 11) were steaming south from San Francisco to San Diego in the late summer of 1923. The squadron was led by Commodore Edward H. Watson, on the flagship destroyer USS Delphy. All were Clemson-class destroyers, less than five years old. The ships turned east to course 095, supposedly heading into the Santa Barbara Channel, at 21:00. The ships were navigating by dead reckoning, estimating positions from their course and speed, as measured by propeller revolutions per minute. At that time radio navigation aids were new and not completely trusted. The USS Delphy was equipped with a radio navigation receiver, but her navigator and captain ignored its indicated bearings, believing them to be erroneous. No effort was made to take soundings of water depths due to the necessity of slowing the ships down to take the measurements. The ships were performing an exercise that simulated wartime conditions, hence the decision was made not to slow down. In this case, the dead reckoning was wrong, and the mistakes were fatal. Despite the heavy fog, Commodore Watson ordered all ships to travel in close formation and, turning too soon, went aground. Six others followed and sank. Two ships whose captains disobeyed the close-formation order survived, although they also hit the rocks.^[4]

Earlier the same day, the mail steamship SS Cuba ran aground nearby. Some attributed these incidents in the Santa Barbara Channel to unusual currents caused by the Tokyo earthquake of the previous week.

The fourteen Clemson-class destroyers of Destroyer Squadron Eleven were to follow the flagship USS Delphy in column formation from San Francisco, through the Santa Barbara Channel, and finally to San Diego. Destroyer Squadron Eleven was on a twenty-four-hour exercise from northern California to southern California. The flagship was responsible for navigation. As the USS Delphy steamed along the coastline, poor visibility meant the navigators had to go by the age-old technique of dead reckoning. They had to estimate their position based on their speed and heading. The navigators aboard USS Delphy did have radio direction finding (RDF) equipment, which picked up signals from a station at Point Arguello, but RDF was new and the bearings obtained were dismissed as unreliable. Based solely on dead reckoning, Captain Watson ordered the fleet to turn east into the Santa Barbara Channel. However, Delphy was actually several miles northeast of where they thought they were, and the error caused the ships to run aground on Honda Point

The main cause of the navigational errors experienced by the crew of the USS Delphy can be attributed to the earthquake in Japan and the underestimation of the resulting ocean conditions. On September 1, 1923, seven days before the disaster, the Great Kanto Earthquake occurred in Japan. As a result of this earthquake, unusually large swells and strong currents arose off the coast of California and remained for a number of days.^[] Before Destroyer Squadron Eleven even reached Honda Point, a number of ships had encountered navigational problems as a result of the unusual currents.

As DESRON 11 began their exercise run down the California coast, they made their way through these swells and currents. While the squadron was traveling through these swells and currents, their estimations of speed and bearing used for dead reckoning were being affected. The navigator aboard the lead ship USS Delphy did not take into account the effects of the strong currents and large swells in their estimations. Since the navigators in the lead ship USS Delphy did not account for the current and swells in their estimations, the entire squadron was off course and positioned near the treacherous coastline of Honda Point instead of the open ocean of the Santa Barbara Channel. Coupled with darkness and thick fog, the swells and currents caused by the earthquake in Japan made accurate navigation nearly impossible for the USS Delphy. The geography of Honda Point, which is completely exposed to wind and waves, created an extremely deadly environment once the unusually strong swells and currents were added to the coastline.

Once the error in navigation occurred, the weather conditions and ocean conditions sealed the fate of the squadron. The weather surrounding Honda Point at the time of the disaster was windy and foggy while the geography of the area and the earthquake in Japan created strong counter-currents and swells that forced the ships into the rocks once they entered the area

The lost ships were:

• USS Delphy(DD-261) was the flagship in the column. She ran aground on the shore at 20 knots (37 km/h). After running aground, she sounded her siren. The siren alerted some of the later ships in the column, helping them avoid the tragedy. Three men died. Eugene Doorman, a State Department expert on Japan, who survived, was aboard as a guest of Captain Watson, whom he had met in Japan.
• USS  P. Lee(DD-310) was following a few hundred yards behind. She saw the Delphy suddenly stop, and turned to port (left) in response. As a result, she ran aground on the coast.
• USS Young(DD-312) made no move to turn. She tore her hull open on submerged rocks, and the inrush of water capsized her onto her starboard side. Twenty men died.
• USS Woodbury(DD-309) turned to starboard but struck an offshore rock.
• USS Nicholas(DD-311) turned to port and also hit a rock.
• USS Fuller(DD-297) struck next to the Woodbury.
• USS Chauncey(DD-296) made an attempt to rescue sailors from the capsized Young. She ran aground.

Light damage was recorded by:

• USS Farragut(DD-300) ran aground, but was able to extricate herself and was not lost.
• USS Somers(DD-301) was lightly damaged.

The remaining five ships avoided the rocks:

• USS Percival(DD-298)
• USS Kennedy(DD-306)
• USS Paul Hamilton(DD-307)
• USS Stoddert(DD-302)
• USS Thompson(DD-305)

A Character I Knew

By:  Garland Davis

This is the story of a character whom I bumped to from time to time in WestPac.  Many of you know him, but I will not use his name in this story so as not to embarrass his family if one of them should come across it.  As I tell of certain events in this missive, I am sure some of you will know who I am talking about.  I’ll just call him JP for the purpose of this Narrative.

I first met JP at Fiddler’s Green in Sasebo in the early sixties.  A group of us were sitting on an outdoor patio drinking beer and shooting the shit.  I was a brand new PO3 and, if memory serves, JP was a PO2.  We sat there and watched a Japanese Papa-san push his bicycle up the hill to the club. He parked his bike near the patio and took a tool box from its mounting and proceeded into the club.  Probably there to repair something.

JP went in through to the back door to the kitchen and came back with a slab of butter and greased the brake system on Papa-san’s bicycle.  Later after a few more beers, Papa-san came out of the club and remounted his tool box, climbed aboard and started down the hill.  He was moving faster and faster, you could see him gripping the brake handles.  He resembled Evel Knevel as he jumped the benjo ditch at the bottom of the hill.  We were all laughing, JP the hardest.

A few years later JP was in Yokosuka and married to a Japanese girl.  His wife had a friend who was shacked up with a sailor.  The girl became pregnant and the lowlife abandoned her.  JP and his wife agreed to adopt the baby after she gave birth.

The girl was living with JP and his wife just prior to having the baby.  The night she went into labor, he took the pregnant girl and his wife’s ID and checked her into the Yokosuka Naval Hospital as his wife.  She had the baby and as far as the world knows, his wife had that baby.  JP registered him as a foreign American birth.

JP Jr. was a few months old and three or four of us were at JP’s house drinking beer.  Japanese houses, in those days, weren’t heated.  JP had an oil heater in the corner that provided some relief, but people usually stayed bundled up, even indoors.  JP’s wife told him she was going shopping and to watch little JP and left.  Later when JP heard her returning, he said, “Watch this.”

He opened the oven door and put Baby JP’s little carrier into the oven and closed the door. The wife come in looks around and asks, “Where is the baby?”

“He was cold, so I put him in the oven to get warm.”

She let out a scream and tore the oven door open.  Little JP was there smiling at her.  She yelled, “JP, you sonbitch.  Why you do this stuff?”

JP was in stitches laughing.

I went off to San Diego for a tour of shore duty.  I got caught in one of the “No Homesteaders” movements that cropped up from time to time.  I think there was a contingent in the Bureau who thought we were having too much fun.

After leaving San Diego, I was ordered into an old DD homeported in Pearl Harbor as a CS1 and made CSC shortly afterward.  JP was an MMC and leading MM in a DDG in the same squadron as my ship.  A story that I believe is still making the rounds.  JP’s ship was undergoing an Engineering inspection of one kind or another.  He was EEOW when one of the inspection team said to him, “Chief, you have just lost fires in the boilers, what action are you going to take?”

JP replied, “Put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

“What, why?” asked the inspector.

“If we’ve got an engineering casualty, I am going to have a lot of company.  The CO, the XO, the Chief Engineer, the MPA, the Damage Control Officer and every other mother fucking officer who can find their way down here are going to be in the way.  I figure they can have a cup of coffee while they critique my efforts to handle the casualty.

Later in WestPac, the ships were moored at Alava Pier in Subic.  My ship was outboard JP’s ship.  It was about 1400 and a group of we Chiefs was headed to the club.  We crossed to the DDG quarterdeck to find JP as OOD.  We waited for a while shooting the breeze with him until the CPO shuttle came down the pier.  We caught the van and were off.

We were starting our second beer when JP came walking in.  He grabbed a beer and pulled up a chair.  Someone said, “JP, I thought you had the quarterdeck.”

“I do,” he replied, “The shuttle van came along and stopped and I just walked out and caught it.”

We hustled his ass back to the ship.  No one ever knew he was missing.

The last time I saw JP was a couple years later in Pearl.  He came into the CPO club with little JP.  He said he was babysitting.  One of the waitresses was cooing over the kid.  JP said, “You think he is cute.  He is hung like a horse.  Show her your dick Jr.”

A short time after that I finally was able to get orders back to Japan and lost track of JP.

Just one of the many characters spawned by the Seventh Fleet and WestPac.

“Old Ninety-Nine” and Other Notorious Vehicles

By:  Garland Davis

A long time ago when I wore a Seaman’s clothes, before the Military Sealift Command took the Supply Auxiliary’s, you know, when they still had Navy crews who wore red lead and haze gray splattered dungarees.  You remember, when non-rated sailors were paid less than the guy who sweeps the stadium after the ball game.  In those days, non-rates invented creative modes of transportation.  Usually co-op ownership “on its last legs” automotive transportation.

The First Division non-rates on Vesuvius laid claim to a nineteen-fifty or fifty-one Chevrolet.  It was called “The Haze Gray Bomb,” later shortened to “The Bomb.” Someone had brush painted it haze gray. No key was needed to operate it.  The gear shift handle on the steering column was missing and had been replaced by a set of vice grips. “The Bomb” was used for weekend trips to San Francisco or Oakland.  Most days, if it wasn’t on the pier, it could be found parked near the Bank Club in downtown Port Chicago.

Being the ship’s baker and clandestine purveyor of pastries to those deck apes standing the middle watches, I was an honorary member of those invited to cram myself into “The Bomb” with a dozen or so others for one of these excursions.  A ride usually cost fifty cents or a dollar for gasoline. Yeah, gasoline was cheap in those days.

No one knew who actually owned the car, who handled the title, registration, and insurance.  I don’t know if the hood was ever raised, whether the oil or other fluids were ever checked or topped off.  It just ran.  The day I departed the ship for “B” School in San Diego, I was carried to the bus station in Walnut Springs by the Haze Gray Bomb.

I remember once at a Reunion hearing one of the wives ask some others, “Did your husband ever have the duty when the ship returned from a deployment and you ended up having sex in that old gray car after dark?”  There were smiles on their faces as one said, “I think our son, Benjamin, was conceived in that old car.”

In the mid-sixties, there was a Radioman off the “Dicky B.” (USS Richard B. Anderson DD-786) who owned one of the small three-wheeled trucks that were popular in Japan at that time.  He couldn’t bring it on base and paid the Mama-san of a bar near Shiori Station to let him park it in her alley.  Often you would see the three wheeler headed for Yokohama with three sailors crammed into the cab and another half dozen in the bed with a war club of Akadama.  Sometimes early in the morning, you would see it making the return trip to Yokosuka with a bed load of passed out sailors.  Looked as if he was hauling corpses.

Then there was the story of the convertible.  USS Mars was homeported in Yokosuka at the time.  Mars was deploying and one of the Boatswain’s Mates asked a shore duty Boatswains Mate to take care of his car and his girlfriend.  Many of you know him but I will maintain his anonymity in this story to prevent any embarrassment on his part.  As if you could embarrass the asshole!  To make a long story shorter, he moved in with the girlfriend.  One afternoon, we were imbibing a few cool ones and talking about going to the beach when someone mentioned that it would be nice to have a convertible.  Out came the fire axes and off came the top of the car.

There was an awkward moment when the Mars returned.  We were sitting in the PO Club when the BM from the Mars came in and asked the shore duty BM. “How are my girlfriend and my car?”

“Well, I kinda fucked your girlfriend.  But the good news is, you now have a convertible.”

“Damn you, you asshole.  I expected you to fuck my girl.  But you fucked up my car.  I paid a hundred bucks for it.  Oh well, fuck it, buy me a beer and then we’ll go for a ride in my convertible.”

He drove it until the next ‘Beauty Inspection” to renew his on base sticker.

There was a storekeeper who drove one of those VW “Things.”  Of course, he didn’t have a top for it. But, he had a supply of umbrellas for his passengers if it rained.  It wasn’t uncommon to see him driving around in the rain with three or four umbrellas sticking up like mushrooms.

One of the more famous modes of transportation could be seen in Subic Bay.   Charlie Fulfer had an old POS painted haze gray with a black waterline painted along the bottom.  It was seen frequently and provided transportation for many of us to and from the Barrio.

I have a bubblehead buddy who was telling me about an old sixty-two Falcon that belonged to a shipmate in USS Omaha.  It was owned by an “A Ganger.”  When the owner transferred, the car was sold to another member of A Gang.  No one would pay more than ninety-nine dollars for the vehicle and it became known as “Old Ninety-Nine.” He told me he borrowed the car and was going across the island when it started raining.  The car had the old vacuum advance wiper system.  He said that when he turned the wipers on both of them went flying off onto the side of the road.  He was out in the rain locating the wiper blades and reattaching them.  He told me another story about losing the brakes while on a date and driving back to Pearl harbor with only the parking brake to stop the car with.

Mac told me the tale of a 1968 Olds Delta 88 car in Guam.  Another homemade convertible, with no top. The owners decided it would look formidable with a racing stripe. So they used duct tape and created one one right down the center of the vehicle. It started at the front bumper and went down the center of the hood, up the windshield, down the inside of the windshield and dash, across the seats and up over the trunk of the car to the rear bumper. The trunk of the car was compartmented and equipped with awesome speakers.  The other compartment served as a beer cooler.

In the mid-seventies, I transferred to Pearl Harbor and wasn’t expected to get my car for about six weeks.  I was in the CPO Club and asked if anyone knew where I could buy a “beater” cheap that would last six weeks.  Willie Hartford said let’s go see Lippy.  Lippy Espenda had a used car lot.  He was something of a celebrity and had his own TV show.  We drove down and Willie told him what kind of car I was looking for.  He asked, “How much money you got?”

“About two hundred bucks,” I answered.

“I happen to have just da cah for you.” He took us behind the building and pointed out an early model Ford Falcon. “Dis wan exactly two hundred.”

The deal was consummated and I was given the keys.  I asked Lippy if there was any warranty on the car.  He said, “Dis cah guaranteed just so long you can see me waving goodbye in da rearview.”  I drove that car for six years.

I always took it to Lippy for the annual safety inspection. He always said, “You bought da cah heah.  Still like new.”  He just filled out the paperwork.  Hasn’t looked at the car yet.

I never once changed the oil or did any other maintenance.  I gave it to a shipmate in seventy-nine when I transferred back to Japan.  Ran into him later on.  He told me he drove it for four years and passed it on to another sailor.  For all I know, some sailor is still driving it.

Old Salts
Navy PSD
Tinker AFB Oklahoma City
June 2016
By:  Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

I was renewing my Wife’s dependent ID card sitting in the waiting room when a young sailor came up to me pointing to my old faded blue ball cap with USS Oriskany CVA-34 embroidered across the front
He asks “Hey old timer how does one pronounce the name on your cap?”

“O-Risk-Ka-Ney” I phonetically sounded

“What kind of ship was that?” he asks

“An Attack Aircraft Carrier” I proudly proclaimed

“An Attack you say!”

“Yes a WWII Essex class 27 Charlie” I added

“You lost me there mister” He exclaimed

So I began to tell the young sailor all about the old navy ships when it dawned on me, Hell I had been retired longer than this kid had been alive! The Oriskany was decommissioned in 1976 probably about the time his folks were born! It was sunk as a reef in 2006 ten years ago when this kid was just out of kindergarten. I thought, God Damn I’m an old fart.

“Man-O-Man I bet you got some old stories to tell,” he said

“Well a few I suppose”

“What war was the Oriskany in?” He inquired

“Korea and Vietnam”

“Oh yawl I had heard of that name Vietnam, when was that?” He asks

I was just about to go into my Chiefs mode when the ID card Yeoman stepped out in the waiting room and said “Master Chief Layton?”

“Here” I replied

The young Sailor gave a startled look at me. For I must have been a sight, a rotund, white haired old man dressed in Jesus sandals, Cargo shorts, and Hawaiian shirt.

“Are you a Master Chief?” he asks

“Fucking A Bubba” I shot back and departed

It was apparent to me this lad had not been thoroughly indoctrinated into the U S Navy and was in dire need of some old salt guidance.

I think back to when I was first in the Navy a lot of WWII Vets were still in finishing up their careers.
One Torpedoman first class [TM1] was a Chicago son of a German Immigrant who enlisted the Day after Pearl Harbor and was not allowed to serve on the east coast due to his German heritage he spent his WWII duty on submarines out of Pearl.

Another Was a South Carolina farm boy who joined in 1940, as a cook and served on battleships in the Pacific. After broken service, He later switched over to aviation metal smith [AMS1] in the 50’s. His stories of pre WWII battleship service on the east coast was filled with liberty in South America and the Caribbean.

A Senior Chief Aviation machinist mate ADCS who flew on PBY’s in the South Pacific and had his guts shot out on patrol.

An Aviation Ordnance Chief (AOC) shot down, wounded, and rescued over Subic bay in 1944; His tales of liberty in Olongapo in the late 40’s were right out of “South Pacific”

A Retied Aviation machinist mate Chief [ADC] who was retiring for a second time in 1971 from Pratt and Whitney after 20 years. He retired from the Navy in 1951 as a ADRC after 25 years. He had joined the Navy in 1926 and was on the first USS Saratoga CV3 in the 20’s. On Dec 7th 1941, he was a Chief Stationed On Ford Island, attached to a Catalina squadron. When the Japanese attacked he was on the last flight out to Wake Island before it’s fall on 23 Dec 1941. After 45 years of Naval aviation he retired after making a combat cruise on the Oriskany as a Company Jet engine representative in 1971.

Then there was a 4 star 7th fleet Admiral who would have this old Master chief and single chief friends over to his home on weekends and holidays for food and drinks. I can remember how his hazed over failing eyesight would always brighten up and sparkle like blue sea when telling stories of old and listening to our new ones. And you knew, YOU KNEW, you were in the presence of greatness! God bless them old Salts every one

Now I have relayed this little anecdote to tell you that–now we are the old salts! The bearers of the Tradition of the sea, wardens of all mythical description, Keepers of Nautical history, holders of the account, for we are the storyteller’s and current purveyors of Sea Stories!
The narration will live on!
AFCM Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

The Contest

By David “Mac” McAllister

It was one of those lazy warm afternoons in the Philippines; the trades gently cooling the effects of the glaring tropical Sun. I sat at an open air Nepa hut bar on the beach sharing ice cold San Miguel’s and hot sea stories with some local retired sailors I knew. It was just a thatched roof over a four-sided bar surrounding a chest freezer loaded with that infamous brew of which we had consumed quite a few. Far removed from the hustle of Olongapo, life here in the Barrio was not only quiet and reserved but free from the watchful eye and hassles of the shore patrol.  Relaxed in cutoffs, no shirt and enjoying an afternoon beer buzz with pals, who could want more. Across the road at a Sari Sari store I noticed three elderly (to me) women, purchases upon their heads, walking away down the road; their rhythmic sway reminded me of a camel caravan trekking across a faraway desert as one of the old hands remarked something about “being something in their day” thereby breaking the spell. Most of these guys had been here longer than I had been in the Navy. Their life consisted of dragging themselves out of bed and plopping it down here at this little bar every day until paralysis sent in. Collected by some form of significant other in the late afternoon/early evening, the process would start over again tomorrow. I had a strange admiration for these guys that translated into the dread of becoming one of them someday.

Eventually, the Sun, as it can only do in the tropics, dramatically extinguished itself in the atmosphere all the while twilight, in an attempt to extend the day, fought hard against the encroaching darkness. The azure blue of a darkening sky harkened the approaching dusk which, like steeping tea, enveloped and concealed the stark poverty of the Barrio. Night slowly fell and a transformation as sure as a caterpillar to butterfly commenced. As the night lights brought life to the bars, the working girls materialized and the jukeboxes revved up; the Barrio hummed into life with its own kind of primal energy. The buzzing inaudible reverberating din of those on the prowl; all searching, some taking but rarely giving in an unending ebb and flow of human desire. A consuming energy that demanded you replace what you took. A tingling soulful Kundalini energy that radiated from your pelvis to your crown while causing the hair on your arms to stand up, your face to flush and your being to become aware of itself. It was what I referred to as being in liberty mode.

The old hands were fading fast as I bid them farewell for the evening and set off for the nightlife. Bars with the names like D’ Quails Nest, Irish Rose, Charlie’s Angels, D’ Wave, Magic Glow and many more I no longer recall beckoned me. The transformation into liberty mode was complete and I was one with the Barrio. My head cleared from its foggy afternoon lazy existence and my senses were sharply tuned to my surroundings. The sight of a hot pant, halter-topped young lady caught my attention. I fell in behind her as she walked down the dirt road exhibiting more action in those pants than two cub scouts trying to put up a Sears and Roebuck’s pup tent. I was feeling better than I should, thought I was better looking than I was and felt meaner than any other son of a bitch.

I arrived at my first stop, Charlie’s Angles, just as the BMC (ret) owner emerged, like a vampire, from under the bar where he entombed himself by day. First round, vodka for him a beer for me was on the house. As we caught up on the gossip since we had last seen one another, he told me of his latest edition; supposedly a real blowjob artist. Told me if he could find a couple more like her he would be giving Marilyn’s a run for her money. After a brief introduction and bearing witness to her antics, I was convinced that she was what he claimed and was silently glad that I always consumed my beer from the bottle. Making a mental note to never trust the glasses in my good friend’s joint again, I left with him in tow.

Next stop, the Irish Rose where the owner, an ENC (ret), welcomed us to the joint with his usual hair lip grin and jolly “Hey Mac” as the girl behind the bar opened and slid two frosty beers before us. After an update and demonstration of BMC (ret)’s recently acquired XXX rated sex toys, which he rarely left home without, and a briefing of his fledgling BJ task force we eventually settled into shooting pool, reliving days gone by and reminiscing about old shipmates with the help, comfort and company of some of ENC (ret)’s finest fillies. Somebody say food?

We dined at a beach front place across the road and down from the Rose. Fresh lobsters as long as your forearm caught that day, grilled to perfection with fresh veggies and rice; washed down with ice cold bottles of beer followed by vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate and dark rum syrup. An after dinner aperitif, consisting of shots of 151 rum, and we were ready. Topped off on chow and fully armed with Peso-nality, my two retired bar owner partners and I breasted out and commenced some high speed steaming and firing runs on the local watering holes.

The night pressed on through a litany of joints and dives named and unnamed, girls and drinks too many to remember. After a while we ended up at a newly opened place that held girls boxing matches, a phenomenon just catching on at the time. As we watched one particular match between a Mutt and Jeff pair up, whereby neither opponent could be considered contenders by any stretch of the imagination, we knew not what we were about to see.

As the bell sounded and after allot of windmilling and flaying of arms the shorter of the two got a lucky uppercut in on the tall one. Now enraged with a fat lip, Legs commenced pounding on the top of Shorty’s head. With that, Shorty was working over legs midsection. I guess Leg’s stomach and kidneys were weaker than Shorty’s hard head and her poundings subsided. That’s when her feet came into play and the kicking started. Now here Legs clearly had the advantage and she went to work on Shorty with the tenacity of a cross between a Thai kickboxer and a pissed off alley cat. Soon Shorty was swooning but not before she came off with her gloves and bare handed with nails bared went for the hair.

Well, it eventually degenerated from an honorable boxing contest into a full-fledged catfight. Kicking, pulling jerking, ripping, tearing, biting and screaming the blood came in fits and spurts and the clothes came off as they rolled on the deck. Having never been witness to the myth of banshees, I can testify to the fact that they were as close as I ever care to get. Truly possessed by now, I really thought these two Luzon Lady Zenas would, in fact, dismember one another. Frighteningly, I could actually imagine and fantasize them continuing to fight as broken disembodied naked pieces; finger against toe, armpit over butt cheek, head stuffed into the pelvis.

Finally, the so-called referee, a brave man, to say the least, managed to break them up. Wisely pronouncing the contest, a draw, the prize money was split and they were best of friends once more. I have always said that I would rather fight Mohamed Ali than an enraged woman. However, there’s just something about a naked ca fight that causes a guy to cast fate to the wind, check his better judgment at the door and get that bar fine money out.

Later back at the Nepa hut bar on the beach, legs was nursing her fat lip on a cold beer bottle while I sipped on a frost encrusted hurt your hand cold beer from the freezer. While basking in the silver light of a waning gibbous Moon as it soared overhead illuminating the bay and the ebbing carnival atmosphere of the night I thought in reflection: Is everyone living this dream or is it just me? I wonder what the unlucky bastards elsewhere in the world are doing tonight. Never did I imagine, dream or the thought dawn on me, that these glory days would too soon end and become the basis of which unbelievable sea stories would spring.  As time has a habit of doing, the stories eventually became legend and now many of the legends exist only as myths; the likes of which will never be seen again.

Balls Deep
1974
VF-194
NAS Miramar Acey-Ducey Club
By: Robert “Okie Bob” Layton

It was a rope yarn Payday Friday we were given the rest of the weekend off with a pocket full of cash. An old-fashioned 72-hour Liberty.

We were all single hardcore first class liberty hounds, ADJ1 “Sleepy” Sam Wright, AMH1 William “Red” Jordan, and myself ADJ1 Robert “Okie Bob” Layton.

We were hanging out at the Miramar Acey-Ducey Club watching the Topless Go Go Girls!! Yes, you heard me right. Back in the “Good Old Navy” Before PC, real sailors like to watch naked women WOOO HOOO!!! Hell the clubs on base were all called “Enlisted men’s clubs” Let me repeat that “MEN’S CLUBS”.

The manager of the Acey-Ducey was a First Class Petty Officer RM1, this was his shore duty. He only had one right nut; he had given the left one to get this duty assignment.

Beer cost 50 cents a bottle, 25 cents a draft, cigarettes 30 cents a pack, Happy hour drinks were half price. The club had food, drinks, live entertainment, pool, pinball and shuffleboard.

Yes, sir, it was a single “Man Cave” deeeeeluxe!!, just chock-full of hard dicks——-hardly any women.

The drinking of cheap booze and watching Puppies play was a precursor warm up for better liberty down Mexico way where the “buy me drink, I love you no shit” kind of ladies we fleet sailors were used to subsided.

As we were enjoying the show, a first class at the table next to us was trying to sell his car to another shipmate. Overhearing his asking price [200 dollars] I leaned back and asked: “Where is the car located?”

He said “The parking lot”

We walk outside where he had a 1959 Ford Galaxie 2 door hardtop with brand new tires and mag wheels. I bought it right-on-the-spot put the keys in my pocket went back inside.

About that time the “Mammary Matinee” was wrapping up and it was time to pull chocks.

Sam spoke up “Hey Okie let’s go down south and see some Senoritas”

“What you got in mind,” I ask

“Well I know of a little bar in Puerto Santo Tomas Just South of Ensenada,” Sam said

Red added “Yeah come on Okie let’s go to Saint Thomas”

“Ok let’s go” I said and with that, and one more picture of beer we were on our way!

Sitting next to us was a shore duty boot second class with a football jersey on “Number 82.” He asked if he could go and we said sure no problem. We didn’t even know his name; Sam just started calling him Number 82.

So out the door, we four went. Red had ridden in with me in my TR3, Sam owned a ‘57 Chevy station wagon on its last leg and Number 82 didn’t own a vehicle at all. Having just purchased the ‘59 Ford and not knowing a frigging thing about it, I thought what better time to take it for an inebriated test drive.

We all piled in my two tone Green and white Ford. Red and Sam never questioned my driving proficiency or my ability to repair any broken Auto-Mo-Bill. What they usually did was fight for that grand “Shotgun Position”, which Sam won this time by being the self-appointed Navigator for this trip. The old Ford fired right up, we stopped at the navy gas station, filled her up, checked the oil and headed out for Mexico. Number 82 had fallen in with “Bad Company.”

There always was that sense of “wild party” on entering the Republic of Mexico. However, this time in my ‘59 Green Tank it felt more like invasion/liberation as I passed through the back streets of Tijuana. We pulled up to an old familiar bar: The Chicago Club. Sam and Red were gone before I could lock up the Tank, Inside, awaited the alluring Senoritas that Sam loved to romance about.

After a quick “Buy me drink protocol” the rental price for sex was negotiated and off to the rooms the liberty party went. Thirty minutes later we were loading up again headed for Ensenada.

Comparing notes on our latest escapade it was revealed that Number 82 had failed to get serviced!

Red pipes up “Hey 82 if you’re going to be a hanging out with us you need to get with the program”

82 replied, “Well fellows I have never been to Mexico before…”

We all kind of sat there in silence looking at one another thinking “Have we got a cherry boy on board?”

Sam spoke first “you like girls don’t ya?”

82 “yes, yes I do”

Sam “You got money don’t ya?”

82 “Yes I just got paid”

Sam “Well dive on in and get your feet wet”

82 “What do I say?”

And with that question Number 82 was properly schooled by the fleets finest during the 107 mile drive down to

Ensenada.

On arrival in Ensenada, I park the Tank, pay a Mexican Kid to watch it, and away we wandered, drawn to the Mariachi Music and high-pitched laughter of Senoritas. We were pulled toward the festivity like a mosquito to a bug zapper. We enter the first Cantina.

Our primary mission at this first stop was to get Number 82 “Balls Deep in Bugger.” The Cantina had a small stage made for some kind of show. We were seated at a square table next to the stage with 82’s back to the stage and the lights turned down really low. The saloon had a few locals but mostly Gringos.

The Juke box started–the curtains parted–and out stepped “Consuela the veiled princess of Baja”. As she went into her belly dance gyrations it was apparent to us three Westpac sailors Consuela was packing too much gear for our taste in women. Old 82 being the boot that he was, just ate it up.

Having come out of his shell after our pep talk and braced with shots of Tequila and Tecate he was in with both feet interacting with Consuela. Sometimes you just have to let something fail for people to learn, and for 82 this was one of those times. After the dance, Consuela slipped behind the curtains leaving 82 alone.

Red turns to 82 “Hey 82 what do you think about the dancer?”

82 “She’s pretty neat”

Red “She’s a dude man”

82 “What?”

Sam “Benny Boy”

82 “What’s a Benny boy”

Red “Boy you’re about a boot camp mother fucker”

Sam “Consuela is a man”

It took a few minutes to sink in before 82 got the arrangement! We were drinking our beer when Consuela comes out of the curtains and heads straight for 82. Consuela had changed into a long nightgown she pulls up a chair and sits next to 82. Old 82 sits frozen stiff, has a beer in his hand and with pleading eyes, he is looking straight ahead at Sam.

Sam bails him out

Sam “Consuela go on now our boy’s not interested”

Consuela “He no buy me drink?”

Sam “No he is broke.  Nooo Money”

We drink up and head for the next saloon, 82 is getting the education of a lifetime.

The next place was a straight up “buy me drink, I love you long time” clip joint. Time for lesson two for the “Green Gringo 82” We sat down and were waylaid by a bevy of over the hill seasoned lady hostesses. 82 immediately bought his Bar girl a ladies’ drink [a 5 dollar watered down tea] that she slammed down then pressed herself against him and cooed “Buy me another” In record time he had broken all hardcore liberty hounds code of conduct by buying 2 watered down ladies drinks in a matter of just a few minutes.

We three had turned down all offers of buy me drink and the Bar girls still remained. It was a game played out worldwide in all ports of call, “you buy me drink?” or I’ll stay here until you do, bugging you, which they would. Until you told them to leave, you were not going to buy drinks. We finished our drinks and departed for greener pastures.

Outside Number 82 got a good drilling about don’t buy drink after Bar drinks for the Girls. The next Bar was a lot better it had younger girls that had not yet exceeded their expiration date. But this time, our lesson was taken to the extreme as he failed to buy a very good looking gal a drink resulting in her departure. 82 possessed not an ounce of cool. His failure to negotiate a Mexican bar hooker put him in the Hayseed bin. Sam and Red once again came to his rescue.

Sam “Hey 82 what’s with the girl”

82 “Well you said not to buy em any drinks!”

Red “Yes but she’s a keeper”

82 “Yes she was pretty”

Red “So what’s the deal?”

82 in his best Gomer Pile mode “She was a lot better looking than the last ones just like Consuela was, I just didn’t want any Surprise Surprise”

Sam “She’ll do–she is a good girl–I know her sister”

Sam locates the girl from across the room and waves her back over to our table. She sits down, 82 buys a drink for her, and phase two of “Operation Balls Deep” commences.

There is an old saying in the military “You grab-em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow.” That night in Ensenada Mexico Number 82 experienced the old saying literally when his bar girl took the situation in hand and led him up the stairway to heaven. 10 minutes later 82 was sitting before us fleet sailors a duly initiated world sailor!

Satisfied with the outcome of “Operation Balls Deep” Sam, Red, and Myself commenced to enjoy our own individual undertakings. I wound up in a room upstairs down the street, Red was in the same Hotel somewhere, Sam left with a Senorita in tow someplace and Number 82 was sitting at the table with his new found love. It was all agreed upon to muster at the bar in the morning.

I awake, roosters crowing, car horns beeping. I go on down to the last bar we were at, no one there. I sat and have a Tomato beer. Red arrives he drinks part of my red beer and orders us a bloody Mary–now that hit the spot! We leave and go looking for Sam and 82. We check in the bars, pass by a hotel and holler in the street for Sam or 82—

Nothing! A few streets down as we were walking next to a café with a big picture window when we hear Sam yell out “Look at the Gringos” we slip inside meet up with Sam and have a Mexican breakfast “Menudo with hominy” the cure for a hangover that didn’t work! After our meal, we three split up to canvass the town looking for 82. We all meet back up no one had seen 82. Having walked about 5 miles and partly dehydrated we started back on our liquids. Afternoon time we call off the search and rescue put 82 in the MIA list and make preparations to get underway.

We stop at a roadside store on the south of town to get some beer for the supposed short trip to Puerto Santo Tomas. Now this was back in the day when roads south of Ensenada were fairly rough and the road signs were scarce. Our turn off should have been about 42 miles south of Ensenada, I had never been there, Red had never been there, Sam claimed he had been there and knew the way, we possessed no map and GPS had not come about in 1974.

I ask Sam “Hey where is the turnoff”

Sam replied as we left the outskirts of Ensenada “It’s just around the corner”

20 miles later I ask again “Where is the Turnoff”

Sam “Don’t worry Okie It’s just right around the next Bend”

At the 30-mile mark “Where is the Turnoff”

Sam “It’s just right around the Bend”

Sam had given me the false impression that it was just right out the city limits of Ensenada when in reality it was 42 miles south and 25 west of Ensenada. I just kept trucking and drinking that Tecate.

I continued asking Sam for the turn-off and he just kept on saying “Oh it’s just right around this next bend”
Sam was getting sleepy and was living up to his nickname.

Sam relinquished his navigational duties and retired to the back seat for an afternoon Siesta. About the 80 mile mark we pull into San Vicente, we stopped at a gas station for a fill-up. It was there Red and I felt we had gone too far for the locals wanted Pecos instead of American greenbacks. We exchanged some American money with a local, Iced up the beer and headed on south still looking for Sam’s mythical Puerto Santo Tomas just “Balls deep” lost in Mexico!

Another 100 miles later we pulled into San Quinton it was getting near dusk, time for us to “Bar up” again. We find a small local Cantina that served food and beer and made an evening of it just relaxing and soaking up the colloquial ambiance. We spent the night sleeping in the Ford, awoke early and started driving back. 250 miles into Mexico! By the time we backtracked to the USA it will become a Baja 500!

It was a long hung over drive back we would stop now and then at a roadside bar and consume some liquor. 42 miles south of Ensenada Sam spots the turnoff to Puerto Santo Tomas having gone about 300 miles out of the way we take the turnoff, it was 25 miles of “Bad Road” no payment just a ungraded trail across the rocks and dirt. The whole 25-mile trip took about an hour and a half. At the end of the road, there really was a Puerto Santo Tomas. A sleepy little fishing village with grass hut cottages, an open grass hut bar and a boat rental for deep sea fishing the villagers still remembered Sam! We spent the rest of the day until late afternoon and departed several hours before dark.

We get on federal highway 1 and head north. We stop by the bars in Ensenada once more looking for Number 82, no luck. In Tijuana Sam wakes up and wants to be let out, Red and I once again in-chop the USA and retire to our old watering hole “The Jet Center” for a wine cooler!

The next week Red and I are at the Acey-Ducey Club for a noon beer… in walks 82.

Red jumps up and hollers “Hey 82!”

The guy pays no attention to him—he must have forgotten his name! “82”

Red goes over and grabs the guy by the arm pulls him back to our table

Red quizzes “Hey Mother fucker where did you go last week?”

82 “After Y’all left I went upstairs again with the girl”

Red “Yes but you were supposed to meet us back at the bar in the morning”

82 “I didn’t have enough money on me to keep going up and down the rest of the night”

Red “You dumb fuck! you were supposed to arrange a long time not keep paying for a short time over and over, Jesus H Christ”

82 “I didn’t know that, so I hopped on a bus back to Tijuana”

Red “Really”

82 “Then I walked across the border and got a bus back to Miramar”

Red ‘We spent a Day looking for ya”

82 “I’m sorry”

Red hands him our meal ticket “Here take care of this”

And we get up and walk out— back to work— for we were “Balls Deep in broke-dick planes” —-another story!!
Okie Bob

The Nasty City Snake Ranch

By:  Garland Davis

Most sailors understand the term “Snake Ranch.”  Many of us were involved as either renter, co-renter, shareholder, or tolerated as a visitor at a “Snake Ranch” one or more times during our Naval career.  They were usually located within a reasonable distance of the base with a NEX Beverage Store or a liquor store located on the direct route between the base and the Ranch.  Most were located in areas that were prime cross-pollination areas. If you couldn’t hook up and get laid out there you were one ugly son of a bitch or had major halitosis or hygiene problems.

I am reminded of an especially memorable Snake Ranch in National City.  Now “Nasty City” was the chosen hunting ground for Navy wives whose husbands had the duty, WestPac widows, ex-Navy wives, and every girl hoping to become a Navy wife, often known as National City Purty Girls.  Many homely girls, and some downright ugly ones, not to mention the heavyweights, with a tube of lipstick, two pairs of clean cotton skivvies, and a bus ticket eventually found their way to the environs of National City. Mecca of the First Fleet.  Right outside the main gate of 32^nd Street Naval Station, a bastion of the largest per capita population of totally irresponsible sons of bitches with resources of disposable income, and a monumental appreciation of sexual commingling.

The National City Snake Ranch was, to put it mildly, a dump. Not an ordinary dump, but a spectacular dump, with a record-breaking backyard collection of empty beer bottles and cans, as well as, a co-ed bathtub used more often for hanky-panky than actual bathing.

The house was furnished in a hit and miss fashion. What passed for the dining room had a wire spool for a table surrounded by three or four three-legged stools.   The table was usually cluttered with the Colonel’s buckets full of gnawed bones and sacks from the Jack in the Box on the corner.  The kitchen had a stove and a frying pan.  There were no plates of utensils.  I don’t recall anyone ever trying to cook anything.  The kitchen sink was used to give the dog a bath. The living room consisted of a couple of sofas and some stuffed chairs with sprung springs.  There was a big God Damned anvil where a coffee table would normally be situated.  No one had any idea where it came from, why it was there, or who thought it would enhance the ambiance of the room.  I guess it stayed there because it was too damned heavy to move.  Oh yeah, the beer reefer was along one wall of the living room.

The house mascot was a mutt dog who answered to the name Son of a Bitch. He drank beer, ate Fritos and farted.  He tolerated cats.  He was so lazy, he just let them wander in and out.  All he did was lay around, lick his nuts and ass, and fart.  He seemed to just fit in with the occupants of the Ranch.

The rules were pretty straight forward.

1. You had to be single.
2. You had to be a Petty Officer. No non-rated and No Chiefs.
3. No parking your cars in the yard.
4. When you contributed beer or booze, log it in. The log was checked to see who wasn’t contributing.
5. When the rent was due, pony up your share or you are out.
6. Don’t throw beer bottles into the backyard from the second-floor windows.
7. No goddamn phone. (We knew if there was a phone, the number would get out.)

No Chief or Officer could ever know about the Ranch.  If your mother was being tortured by the Commies and your sister was raped by Marines, you were dead if someone showed up to tell you.  The Ranch was a serious Monastic Brotherhood dedicated to fermented beverages and porking ugly damsels.

The house had three bedrooms.  Someone had rescued about fifteen mattresses from Navy Salvage and they were distributed between the bedrooms.  There was always someplace to crash when, after drinking beer for twelve or sixteen hours Old Morpheus hit you over the head with his sack of sand.

Over the years a number of different sound systems had been installed in the Ranch. There was often a battle between Rock and Roll and Shitkicking music being waged between different rooms of the house.  There was no problem from the neighbors as they were drunks and derelicts of whom the female members were often in attendance at the Ranch.  After all ,it was a “Snake” ranch and we tried to be good neighbors.

You would think that a First Class Electrician and a Second Class ET would know the danger of running six or seven cheap extension cords in a daisy chain to power the stereo.  Luckily with our Damage Control training, we were able to put the fire out with a couple cans of beer and one asshole pissing on it without having to call the Fire Department.

Somebody had drug home a glass fronted refrigerator that was emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo.  It didn’t work, but the AC&R MM from the ship brought his gear and Freon tank and got the bitch working.  He tweaked it until the temp was between 33° and 36°.  Cold beer!  It would hold a hell of a lot of beer.  Seven or eight cases.

We did have a TV for a while, but there were too many arguments about what to watch.  Guys would get pissed off when they were watching something and everyone would vote to switch to “I Dream of Jeannie.”  A Boatswain’s Mate got pissed one night and threw the TV through the back window into the backyard where it rested among the beer bottles.  It was still there when I transferred and relinquished my share of the Ranch.

For all, I know the Nasty City Snake Ranch is still going strong.  When I returned to San Diego with a wife, I never went to check.  I knew I wouldn’t be welcome. I had violated the first rule.

The only other Snake Ranch I know of that was more depraved and debauched than the Nasty City one was located in the Barrio, but that is a story for another time.

The Non-Rated Mess

By:  Garland Davis

Remember the days when you were fresh out of boot camp, a Seaman Apprentice or maybe even a Seaman.  It seemed as if everyone with a crow on their arm was convinced that you were the dumbest son of a bitch ever born on the continent of North America.  They used you like a tool, abused you, and everyone told you that things got better once you “learned the ropes.”

There was a place where you could meet with your counterparts from other divisions and other ships.  It was a place that belonged exclusively to non-rates. It was a place where you could, whine and bitch about the Petty Officers, the Old Bastards, the lifers, the Chiefs and other assholes whose sole entertainment in life seemed to be making your lives hell.

The dumpster area on the pier was the place where we congregated to dump shit cans, smoke cigarettes and compare notes on who worked for the biggest asshole.

“Christ man, what’s it like on your ship.  Do you have a bunch of gut heavy old farts who sit around all day drinking coffee and talking about old decommissioned rusty assed Fletcher class tin cans that they used to ride? Old brain dead bastards.”

“Yeah dude, we got ‘em.  And a bunch of brown baggers who just try to get you qualified for watches so they can get you to standby for them on duty days so they can go home and poke the Old Lady.  They show you pictures of their kids and the cheap bastards only want to pay five bucks for a standby.”

“When you joined the Navy and got orders to a can, did you think it would be like this?”

“Hell no, I was looking for adventure. I expected to be in a gun mount instead I get to drag a fuckin’ 2 ½ fire hose up and down ladders during the day and then I have to stay up all night baking bread, sweet rolls, and cookies.  I hate baking fuckin’ cookies.  Soon as I get ready to hit my rack, we go to G.Q. and I got that fire hose again.  Maybe they’ll let me sleep in one of these days.”

“You ever see a recruiting poster with a smiling sailor holding a chipping hammer and a wire brush?  A dirty apron? Hauling heavy-ass shitcans a half mile down the pier to the dumpsters?  I don’t think it would hurt them to space the dumpsters out, like one for every couple of berths.”

“Those things always show some First Class Gunner’s Mate buying flowers for some good looking virgin in some exotic port or guys in whites riding Rickshaws in Hong Kong grinning like Cheshire cats.”

“Life on these old cans suck.  The AC and ventilation suck.  The chow is worse than my step mothers and she couldn’t boil fucking water.  No offense Davy.  Man, I think they stuck us in the bottom of the barrel.”

“Yeah! When you’re aboard on a non-duty day because you are broke, the Jackasses find shit for you to do.  Davis, Johnson, Bennington, and Sparks, the can behind us is getting underway and you got line handlers.  Muster on the Quarterdeck at 1615.”

“Fuck man! We’ll miss chow.”

“I’ll tell the cooks to save something for you.”

“Shit, that means Ham and Cheese or Horsecock sandwiches and leftover Brussels Sprouts.”

“Sounds like you been reading my diary.”

“See that new DLG over there?  I hear that it is air conditioned, has modern Galley equipment, plenty of storage space.  They even have little blue privacy curtains on the racks and a built-in reading light.  That way you can read a fuck book and beat off in privacy.”

“You’re shittin’ me?”

“No shit. They are cool and clean.  I hear they smell like a high school cheerleader’s skivvy drawer.  Everything is bright and new.”

“Anybody going to L.A. Friday? I’m looking for a gas sharing ride.”

“Anybody got a smoke?”

“Damn man, you quit buying them and took up bumming?”

“I’ll pass on the sermon, Davy.  I notice you don’t have a problem helping drain beer pitchers when you are short of coin.”

“Screw you!”

“Gimme a cigarette.  Man, you need to smoke something besides these strong ass Chesterfields.  Got a match?”

“Beggars can’t bitch. What are you a pussy?  Can’t handle a man’s cigarette?”

“Good evening gentlemen.”

Good evening sir.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just dumping trash sir, smoking cigarettes, cussing our Petty Officers and swapping Bible stories.”

“Well then, carry on,” the Lieutenant says as he moves on down the pier.

“Aye, Aye sir.”

“You know that guy?”

“Nope, probably off that DLG. I think they are SOPA.  Probably inspecting the pier.  There’ll more than likely be some shit come down tomorrow about hanging out at the dumpsters.”

***********************************************************************

A year or two later we were all sitting around our respective work centers, drinking coffee and ragging on the non-rated men.

“Hey, tool! Yeah, you kid! I wish you would hurry up and get signed off on Sounding and Security watch.  I need a standby.  I give you five bucks. I think that new barmaid at the P.O. Club is ready to give me some pussy and I’d like to be there when it happens.

We had become everything that we had bitched about.

An End to Innocence

By:  John Petersen

Ahh…those were the days…
Freedom at last! You’re North of the ‘Gate’.
The evening is early, your night in the hands of fate.
Made your first stop for a few primers and grub,
After politely excusing your lap warmer, it’s off to the next pub.
As you look down this avenue, full of people, traffic signs, and lights,
things seem overwhelming, overbearing, your brain cells in constant fights.
“Which way do I go? Which door do I enter”?
Seems every establishment is slightly off center.
Chief laid the order, to my LPO in charge of my first night,
“Bring him back in one piece, free of the clap and without a fight.
For if this young booter, who’s life you are entrusted,
Comes back spoiled or soiled, your ass is busted”!
Let him sweat bullets, you think, as this is your night to explore.
‘Omaha ain’t nothing like this, oh God gimme more’!
One after another gotta try each dimly lit and noisy place,
If you could put them all in alphabetical order, it would only slow your pace.
Olongapo, the Barrio, amazingly the choices are endless, yet so many treats,
But cross the line into Subic City young and wise Cherry Boy,
And you’ll find an adult Disneyland, for before your eyes a deviated feast!
The debauchery, the deviousness, the seemingly endless show of skin,
The more San MaGoo’s you plow down, the more of the Peso’s in that stack you put in!
The night goes on, everything happens so fast, time flies like the wind,
And somehow, some way, you’ve made your way back to where it all seemed to begin.
You’ve tried just about everything from Mojo to Bullfrog both red and green,
And the bet is on that no one back home will believe anything you’ve seen.
Heading unsteadily back to the gate, it’s very dark, LPO got lost, but wait, hold up!
Food! Oh God, how you need it, something to fill the gut is required, Ayup!
Your prayers are answered, river queens replaced by BBQ carts, the smell is commanding,
You haven’t had a thing to eat in hours, the body is demanding.
Sustenance is needed and no question to that fact,
You’ve still got a pocket full of coin, and now is the time to act.
Absolutely no idea as to the origin of this meat,
All you know is it hits the spot, fills the void that the night has demanded to defeat.
Made it through the gate, no strip searches this time around,
You’ve made it back to the ship oh heroic one, your rack you actually found!
As you pour yourself into your private place of slumber, oh inebriated one,
Don’t forget the alarm clock as quarters are soon to come!

Louis L’Amour Shitkickers and Skin Books

By:  Garland Davis

I know all of you will remember reading just to pass the time.  There were Louis L’Amour shitkickers, Shell Scott, and Travis McGee adventures along with semi-pornographic literature with titles like Swamp Woman, Boarding School Babes, or Dixie Darlings that set one looking for an odd sock after taps.  Those of us in the Asia Fleet were hooked on a series of “Kill Me in ______” detailing the Japanese exploits of Karate Master Burns Bannion.

I’ll tell you that no one ever ran into a John Steinbeck or Herman Melville novel that was in as much demand as Showdown at Laredo, The Running Gun, or Pink Pussycats.

The Chaplain had pocket-size New Testaments available.  Anyone could get one. You would see one or two before Easter or Christmas and on Sunday mornings when Divine Services were conducted aboard.   I’m sure some guys read them regularly, but they didn’t berth with the cooks or snipes.

Let’s face it, we read worthless “no literary merit” paperback trash.  At sea, U.S. currency had little value except as counters in the various games of chance.  Horse trading took place in a barter system involving smokes, razor blades, and fuck books.

How many of you have ever started a book and discovered the last dozen or so pages were missing?  Some guys tore books in half so they could pass on the first half to some other idiot waiting for it while they finished the second half.  I still have no idea how some books I started ended.

I remember a book that was making the rounds on one ship.  Don’t remember the title, if I ever knew it. It had been well read; some of the pages were even stuck together for some reason.  It was about a Navy pilot who was shot down by the Japanese and bailed out over an unknown South Sea island.  When he landed, a tribe of two hundred beautiful sex-starved Amazons with perfect large bust development captured and subjected him to a myriad of sexual perversions.  By the time he was rescued by some Baptist missionaries in 1948, he was down to eighty-five pounds, was blind and had been promoted to Commander with six years back pay accumulated.  We always figured that it took the plastic surgeons at least a year to get the smile off his face.

Sailors will read anything just to fill time.  I was being facetious when I said it was just shitkickers and fuck books. I served in one ship where Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire was passed around and read by many of us.

It sometimes got to the point where we found ourselves reading the printing on cereal boxes at breakfast or the labels on the catsup bottles.  You hit the high point of desperation for something to read when you resorted to reading the dry cleaning instructions sewn in your peacoat.

Ships contain miniature societies.  Little municipal jurisdictions afloat on the seas.  Libraries of books were stored under mattresses, in lockers, bunk bags, and in overhead nooks and crannies.  You didn’t need a library card.  All you had to do to scare up a trade was yell, “Anybody want to read Snow White and the Horney Dwarf or Goldilocks and the Sailor?