Sea Island
© 2001 George
R. Berman
"Take her in, Mr. Berman."
The skipper was sitting in his chair on the bridge of the USS Kingbird, the usual cigarette hanging straight forward at a slight downward angle. It made him look like a kid with his first smoke. On this Friday of Memorial Day weekend, all ships of the fleet were dispersed to various ports, open to the public. Kingbird was assigned to Sea Island, Georgia, where only shallow-draft yachts and minesweepers could reach the pier.
"Right standard rudder!" I called into the voice tube to the wheelhouse. "Rudder is right standard," came the reply. The ship’s wake widened in a graceful curve as she headed toward the coastline.
Earlier in the day I had commanded full rudder when I thought it necessary, and had been raked over the coals by the Old Man. Now, he had a new bone to chew.
"That’s not what you did this morning," he shouted. "You’re not consistent, Mr. Berman."
Another trap. If I did it my way I was over-ruddering; if I did it his way I was inconsistent. I chose silence. I was, in today’s parlance, between a rock and a hard place.
"I said you’re not being consistent, Mr. Berman. What do you say to that?"
Silence.
"Godammit, I want an answer."
I felt a hot flush rise up my neck and across my face. In as level a tone as I could muster, I replied, "Captain, a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."
George Hatcher’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out whether I had dared to be insubordinate — yet again. "That’s a quote, I bet, Mr. Berman. Who said it?"
"Ralph Waldo Emerson, sir."
Captain Hatcher sprang from his chair. Leaning into my face he stammered, "Don’t you quote any goddamn Communist crap on my bridge! When we get in, you’re restricted to ship."
Larry and I were placed under the Navy equivalent of house arrest so often, we had it down to a routine. The restricted officer simply exchanged duty nights with the unfettered one.
I lined the Kingbird up with the pier about 20 degrees off the starboard bow. We had 500 yards to go. Frequent readings assured that the bearing to our assigned berth remained constant — we were on a "collision course." The angle of the ship indicated a slight current setting us onto the pier. Played correctly, this would help in making a smooth landing.
"Port engine stop." "Port engine is stopped, sir." I had slowed the ship to an almost imperceptible crawl. Still the bearing held. In the silence, I could hear the water hissing softly under the curve of the bow. The dark, glassy water lay spread before us, to where it met the pier.
I turned to the telephone talker.
"Get over a forward spring line," I dictated, and listened as he relayed the order to Larry on deck. A crewman hurried forward to rig a large mooring line through an open fitting near the bow. An old man appeared on the pier, wearing khakis and a dirty yachting cap. He would secure the mooring line to a bollard aft of our berth. The spring line, trailing behind us, would transform the forward motion of the ship into a lateral motion that would neatly bring her alongside the pier.
The boatswain’s mate tossed a light line to the old man, who pulled across the eye of the large mooring line and dropped it over the bollard. Now, the ship was a mere ten feet from the pier. The line tightened, and our forward motion stopped. The stern was still sticking out at a slight angle. "Port engine back one-third." A swell formed on the left side of the ship, the spring line eased, and the Kingbird’s stern swung in parallel to the pier. Six feet to go. The onsetting current finished the job, and we settled soundlessly against the pier.
"All engines stop," I ordered. A cheer went up from the pilot house. It was a "two-bell landing," meaning I had given only two commands to the throttleman to bring the ship alongside the pier, tantamount to pitching a no-hitter. When I looked around, Captain Hatcher had left the bridge, without a word. The bastard could restrict me to ship, but he’d never in his life made a two-bell landing. On my way down from the bridge, I told Larry I’d be taking his watch tonight.
Having checked our moorings, I went to my stateroom to finish a novel I was reading. Larry headed over the brow in civvies to explore this high-rollers’ hideout up close. The rest of the crew, including the Captain and the Executive Officer, had followed, leaving me with the eight men of the duty watch, including the cook and Walters, our steward.
My reading was interrupted by the quarterdeck watch. "I think you better come topside, Mr. Berman. There’s a bunch of people walking down the pier." I was a bit alarmed. The ship would not be open to visitors until noon on Saturday, and we had some final spit-and-polish work to do.
Arriving at the top of the gangway, I was surprised to see two men approaching the ship, with a dozen southern belles in frilly frocks. The taller man stepped up the gangway.
"We’ve just held a beauty contest, for the Memorial Day Queen of Sea Island," he said. "The local paper would like to get a few photos. Could we just stand near your ship?"
"Sure, that’ll be fine," I replied. "How about a shot with all the girls," I surveyed the array of frothy beauty on the pier, "lined up on the gangway?" His faced lit up, and the photographer moved off to get a good angle. "As long as you put the Queen up here with me," I added.
Well, no sooner said than done. A radiant brunette in a pink flowered summer dress stood beside me, with her entourage flowing down the gangway amid little titters of excitement. I put my arm around her waist; The flashgun popped…once, twice, three times. "Thank you so much," said the Chamber of Commerce.
"Would you like to have dinner on board with me, Jan?" I asked, having already obtained the royal first name. "Oh," she breathed, "That would be just wonderful."
I seated her in the officers’ wardroom with a few magazines lying about and excused myself. Outside in the passageway I grabbed Walters. "Tell Cook we have a guest for dinner this evening. Do we have any of Mr. Collamore’s orange juice on board?" I asked. "Oh, yassuh, we sure do, Mr. Berman," came the reply, and the steward rushed off to the galley, grinning broadly. I closed the door to my stateroom and changed into dress blues.
Several weeks before, the cook had served a steak dinner in the wardroom. The Captain called on Larry, who was the supply officer. "Mr. Collamore," he said, "It is my understanding that steak is not on the list of approved supplies." "Yes, sir, you are correct as always," said Collamore. "This, however, is not steak. It is orange juice."
"What do you mean it’s orange juice? It’s not orange juice."
"Oh, you must be mistaken, Captain," argued Larry. "I ordered orange juice and this is what came."
A light went on. "How much orange juice did you order?"
Sheepishly, Larry confessed, "40 gallons, sir. Would you like the ketchup?" The Navy would be unworkable without the practice known as "cumshaw," in which one trades a useless commodity for something of inestimable value, the currency being perceived exactly in reverse by the other party.
Somehow, we had been assigned a Warrant Officer cook, though our complement called for a third-class. Within a few months the cook would be re-assigned to the Admiral’s mess, but for now we ate very well. In short order, we had a first-class meal, with a salad, surf-and-turf, hot rolls, and bread pudding.
What a charming woman Jan turned out to be! We talked of life in general, life in the Navy, life in Sea Island, future plans, the whole singles conversation gambit. We found we had a great deal in common. We made a date to spend Saturday together, and I walked her to the gangway. It was still light out, and she didn’t mind walking home by herself. With a warm sense of the goodness of life, I took a turn about the deck and then rolled into my bunk..
Restricted to ship! The unfairness of it came over me as I returned to my novel.
