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 ships 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 bucket 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 fuck 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. He stopped and seemed to relish a memory. “There
was one time recently that was different, but just one since I came aboard this ship.”
“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
stern of the great ship passed beneath the second bridge and the grand old
lady was home from the sea once more.
And
so it begins …
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