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HOME FROM THE SEA
By Jimmie von Tungeln
Tim Hinson,
Boatswain’s Mate Third Class of the United States Navy, leaned against a
bulkhead watching the shoreline drift by as if it were a movie set. A short
while earlier, he had stood on the fantail as the ship sailed between forts
Sumter and Moultrie, the scene oozing history into the morning’s light. It
would be his last view of the harbor, the end of an era that had begun four long
years ago, in 1966—an eternity earlier.
“Your last?”
a voice said, breaking through the sounds of the wind and the ship's deep rumble.
Hinson looked to see a young Seaman Apprentice at his side and recognized him
as one of the new arrivals to the after deck section, the group that cared for
the ship’s rigging and operated the small craft assigned to the vessel. He was
a curious young man, completing his first time at sea. His face pleaded for a
friendly word.
Hinson
said, “Don’t you have something to do?” He walked to the rail and rested his
arm. The two were amidships, away from most of the activity and out of most
direct lines of sight.
“I’m
supposed to be fetching some ‘water line’ but I’ve fallen for that one before,”
the youth said. “Can’t you cut me a little slack, Boats?”
“Have they
told you to bring them the vertical windlass yet?”
“Oh yes. I
even stood the ‘Mail Buoy Watch.’ I went five places looking for ‘bulkhead
remover’ and tried all afternoon one day to find Charlie Noble.”
“Screw it,”
Hinson said, smiling. “Just don’t tell anyone I said you could lollygag.”
“Someone
comes, I’ll ask them where the waterline locker is and skedaddle.” He eyed
Hinson with suspicion. “You gonna sail
your hat off?”
“Now what
business could that possible be of yours?” Hinson said. “Did Chief Zelmer send
you to spy on me?”
“There’s a
bunch of guys on the …,” he stopped, opened one palm, then the other, chose the
left, and said. “uh, port side that are going to sail theirs, if they don’t get
caught.”
“Good for
them,” Hinson said. “Maybe if I don’t throw you overboard you will live to sail
yours off someday.”
“Weren’t
you in ‘Nam’ before you came here?”
Hinson
turned to look at him. “You got something against that?”
“Oh no, not
me,” the young man said. “But there are some NCOs, officers too, that really
resent you.”
“What makes
you think that?”
“I hear
talk,” he said. “They say they give the guys who come here from Vietnam the
shittiest jobs on the ship to show them their place. Do you think that is
true?”
“Well, they
did make me work with fender-heads like you.”
“Oh, come
on Boats, I’m just trying to pass the time.”
“Sure,”
Hinson said. He unzipped his bluejacket and reached inside. The white sailor’s
hat rested against his body rolled neatly into a saucer shape, ready for
sailing.
The youth
noticed and said, “Is it really an old Navy tradition?”
“What, to throw
a nosey seaman overboard?”
“No,” the
lad said, “to sail a hat off the ship and into the sea when you come in from
your last cruise.”
“That’s
what they tell me.”
“And,” the youth
continued, “you write the names of all your home ports on it?”
“Yep, of
course some have more than others.”
“How many
are on yours?”
Hinson regarded
the other. “Just three,” he said. “Waiting for Vietnam, Vietnam, and two years
on this old girl serving with over-inquisitive seamen.”
“Aren’t you
the Coxswain for the Admiral’s Barge?”
“I was.
Next week I’ll be a civilian and they don’t let civilians drive the Admiral around.”
“Did you
ever think of re-upping?”
“Do you
really have shit for brains or is that a look you have practiced?”
“Actually I
have two years of college.”
“Well good
for you,” Hinson said. “The Navy needs educated men. You know what Chief Zelmer
says about Bosun’s Mates, don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“He says
that once there was one on board who was so dumb the other Bosun’s Mates
started noticing it.”
The youth
laughed. “He’s funny, ain’t he?”
“Sometimes,”
Hinson said.
“You know
what he yelled at us when we were trying to get underway?”
“I can’t
imagine.”
“He said we
looked like a bunch of monkeys trying to [$#@*] a football.”
Hinson
smiled. He leaned over the rail and watched as the spans of the two giant
bridges, the Silas N. Pearman and the Grace Memorial, seemed to move closer.
“A
civilian,” the youth said. “That must be nice.”
Hinson turned
and said, “Lad, would you like some advice?”
“Sure,” the
youth said.
“Don’t be
thinking about civilian life. You’ve a long time to go and that sort of
thinking will drive you crazy. Try to enjoy this man’s Navy.”
“Did you?”
“At times,”
Hinson said, “after I quit fighting it 24 hours a day. Want to know something
else?”
“I suppose.”
“Don’t look
for gratitude because it won’t be there.”
The youth
looked stricken. “You mean they don’t appreciate us out in the real world?”
“Only in
the abstract,” Hinson said. "Oh, they'll brag about you on the 4th of July but make you sit you at the back table in a restaurant. He stopped and seemed to relish a memory. “There
was one time recently that was different, but just one since I've been aboard this bucket..”
“When was
that?”
Hinson
said, “Have you heard the crew talk about when the ship docked at Fort
Lauderdale?”
“Oh man,”
the youth said. “That sounded like some real fun.”
“When we
were coming up the canal to our berth,” Hinson said, “there were huge
condominiums lining the banks.”
“And?”
“It was as
if people were telegraphing ahead as the ship moved along. Flags started
appearing on the balconies and people started waving at us. Of course they were
all old farts. One old guy on our side even saluted us.” He stopped and looked
away. “That was nice.”
“So they
did appreciate you … us?”
“Lad,”
Hinson said, “that was the first time in three years that I had received kindness
at the hand of strangers, and it would be the last of my military career.”
The youth
stared into the water. “The only time?”
“No,”
Hinson said. “There was one other. Long before, when I hadn’t been in much
longer than you have.” The ship veered a point or so to port as it started its
passage beneath the bridges. “Now,” said Hinson, “if you will excuse me, I have
something to do.”
With that,
he reached into his jacket and drew out the rolled hat. With one swing, he
sailed it into the harbor as the shadow of the first bridge moved athwartships
toward them. It spun itself into a high arc and settled with grace and
solemnity on the surface. Simultaneously,
dozens of other hats sailed forth until Charleston Harbor was dotted with white
circles dancing on the waves like the stars of a flag waving in the wind.
Hinson
turned to the youth. “One other thing,” he said.
“What’s
that?”
“Be careful
in this city. They hate service men, especially sailors. The cops will beat the
hell out of you for looking at them funny.”
“Don’t the people
here appreciate us?”
“Not
particularly.”
“They’re
not patriotic?”
“Doesn’t matter,”
Hinson said. “As my mother used to say, familiarity breeds contempt. And, as I
have learned, contempt overrides patriotism any day of the week.”
The youth
looked stunned.
“Don’t
worry,” Hinson said. “It will be just fine. Someday they may even build a
monument to us. Just stay away from the officers, go on liberty every chance
you get, don’t catch the clap, and don’t volunteer for anything, ever. You will
do just fine.”
The youth’s
face broke into a smile. “Thanks Boats,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me.
You’re the first one who has … I mean … man to man.”
“My
pleasure,” Hinson said, “Now get your ass back to the fantail and let’s moor
this ship. America needs us, whether she knows it or not.” As he spoke, the
fantail of the great ship passed beneath the second bridge and the lady was home from the sea once more.
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| The proud old lady Rolling home. |
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