Windy as Balls

Some familiar sound stirred me from my slumber. I had been sleeping so well. 4 hours of beautiful, deep sleep. My hand lazily searched under my pillow for my phone. The bright, happy colors of the alarm screen blurred in and out as I blinked sleep from my eyes.

1245.

I had the Rev. Midnight (or as we so lovingly called it, “balls”) to 08. Plus quarters where Chief would talk about the plan of the day, DivO would repeat everything chief just said, only in a softer, more nervous voice, and then EMO would talk about upcoming port visits and the alcohol that you could get there for cheap – plus how far the red light district was and if it was off limits.

I swiped the alarm off.

1246.

Why? Why was I awake?

Underway replenishment (UnRep).

We were to be re-fueled by a Spanish supply ship in the middle of the ocean. I had never seen one before, but I was on the watchbill to help. If what I was told was right, it would only be an hour or two process then I could go back to bed.

I curled to the foot of my bed, unable to sit up fully without hitting my head on the overhead piping or my light. I grabbed my flip-flops and attempted to put them on. The right one slipped from my fingers and fell to the ground with a slap. I let out a sleepy whine.

Was I really necessary for this? I wasn’t even line-handler qualified. Maybe they would cancel it. Did we really need fuel, anyway?

My foot searched for the little foot-rung below. I twisted my body down, clinging to the metal frame so I wouldn’t plummet to my death. My bare feet hit the floor. I shuddered and quickly slipped my flip-flops on. Did the five-second rule apply to athletes’ foot? Or leprosy?

After a quick morning routine I trudged aft to our shop. I sank into one of the broken chairs and stared at the Keurig longingly. But, I knew better. Only an hour or two and I’d be asleep. I just clung to that hope.

A whistle blew over the 1MC (intercom system of sorts). “Good afternoon. This is your XO speaking. The Spanish ship we were supposed to get our unrep from is having a delay with another ship. We should be able to start in about an hour-and-a-half. Stand by. XO out.”

“Sweet,” I said. It was half a croaky groan and half true enthusiasm. “I’m going back to bed. Beaves, could you wake me up when it’s time? Just in case? Or just facebook message me. I should hear it.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she said.

I shuffled up two decks and forward, back to my berthing. As I peeled off my coveralls I realized something: my cell doesn’t have internet. I really hoped she’d realize that and not just try to message me. I shrugged it off and took another nap.

Exactly 90 minutes later Beaver was at my side. “It’s time.”

We made our way topside. The break was filled with people putting on blue and white construction helmets and bright orange life jackets. By the time we made it, however, there were no helmets left.

“You, without the helmets, you’ll be faking out the lines,” Boats 2 called to us. Beaver and I exchanged a look and shrugged. He rambled off a series of instructions and safety warnings so fast I couldn’t hear it.

Thanks for the tips.

The wind whipped about us as we stood on the bow of the ship. My curls were everywhere. They threatened to blow clear off my head. FC3 Q lost her cover. It blew straight off her long, straight black hair. It stuck to the safety lines, then somersaulted over the side. Now I wasn’t the only one.

It took us about 30 minutes before we caught sight of our replenishment ship. Another ship was still attached to it.

“So, turns out they’re having an issue with their probe,” BM Chief yelled out. His voice was surprisingly loud, even over the gales and waves. “It’ll be about another hour before they’ll be ready for us. So everyone just stand by.”

Beaver and I let out a mutual sigh and slid down the missile platform. Using our life jackets as pillows, we napped in the sun. The sun kept us warm while the wind kept us cool. Occasionally the sound of helicopter blades would cause my eyes to flutter open. They flew right off our bow, their door wide open. They were so close I could almost touch them, if I leaned over the side of the ship. My eyes shut again. The wind muted out all other noise.

“Alright! Man port!” BM1 called out, his voice not nearly as loud as BMC, despite the fact he was twice the size.

Everyone scrambled to port side. We lined up in a single file, hands clasped behind our backs. We pulled alongside the ship. It was long and grey, its middle stretched on and on like a limo; a limo with thick tentacles of fuel lines. On one of the higher levels, a man laid out in a blue lawn chair. Whether or not he wore pants, I couldn’t tell. His chest and legs were bare.

As soon as they determined we had rendered honors long enough they called for us to man the lines. Everyone scrambled to position. Me, Beaver, and a couple others without helmets took to the rear.

One long whistle. Then, a deeper, strange-sounding whistle replied three times. Pop! Pop! Ropes were sent flying across the sea to the other ship. The wind caught it; the line arced from the bow to the middle of the ship as they reeled it in.

We ran the line back and forth as it came. A dozen or so people pulled it, they heaved, leaning back into the weight of the rope. BMC screamed at the top of his lungs. “Two from the back!” “Hold!” “Heave in unison!” “BM1 what do you think you’re doing!? Don’t make me come up there myself!”

Then we stopped. We waited for the thick black tentacles to make their way from the Spanish ship to ours. We waited. And waited. Then…

“Goddamnit! Release the lines!” BMC screamed. “They gave us the broken probe!”

Everyone groaned as we eased the line back over and then took shelter as our ship pulled about. Another hour later, on the opposite side of the ship, we waited to re-man the lines.

“It’s windy as balls out here!” Beaver yelled to me. She thought about it a second, the wind blowing strands of hair out of her bun. “Because…you know, balls are super windy.”

My own hair was threatening to become something the 80’s would be envious of. It was being environmentally teased into a frizzy, white-girl afro. I cocked an eyebrow at her as I attempted, in vain, to push my hair out of my face.

“Could you even imagine?” I asked.

We exchanged a look. Then, simultaneously, thrust our hips out and made wind noises with out mouths.

“Give you a blow job,” she said, laughing. “Whoosh!”

“Whoooosh! Ha! Ha!” I added.

FC2 Q cast us a curious look. Just then BMC called us back to the lines. This time, we pulled everything over and attached the fuel probe to the side of the ship. It was 1900 before they released us to dinner. My stomach growled. A quick meal of mashed potatoes and chicken covered in sweet breading (I mean, seriously, who breads chicken with sugar?) and then I crawled back into my rack. A few more hours of sleep…that’s all I wanted. A few more hours of sleep.

I Never Want to do Colors Again

We were anchored just off the French coast. Our big, grey, floaty thing spun around leisurely off its forecastle. I stood there, on the very front of the ship. The water mirrored the setting sun. Purple faded into blue; orange splashed sherbet streaks across the waves.

A cool breeze blew my hair beneath my combination cover. I placed a wary hand on its brim to stave off the embarrassment of losing it to the Mediterranean, too.

Yachts the size of cruise liners speckled the bay around us. Their owners sat along the sides, their naked bodies freckled by the sun. They watch as our speakers blared, “first call. First call to colors.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes to go.

.

I craned back my head; the Jack fluttered red and white stripes in the wind. The snake across its front danced and writhed. It was almost time for bed, Jack.

A sound behind me caught my attention. I glanced back and found a small child running towards the enormous gun sitting dead center on our forecastle. Behind him came a group of people, most of which I didn’t recognize. The boatswain mates followed my gaze from their camping chairs next to the anchor. The Captain and Master Chief were amongst the group.

My heart froze.

This was my first time doing evening colors. I was alone on the bow of the ship. At least two people retired the Ensign, they had each other to rely on. I had no one. No senior shipmate to give me guidance.

“Pssst!”

Boats 2 looked at me in a panic. He motioned with his hands in a circling motion. His lips moved soundlessly at me.

“Untie. The. Rope.”

The large group of spectators were distracted by guns and the ocean. I quickly turned back to the Jack and undid the rope I had tied this morning. My hands trembled. I had no idea what I was doing. What if I screwed it up? The Captain would be furious with guests on board.

I glanced back at my watch. Still two minutes to go.

What if I wasn’t holding the ropes right? Was I supposed to be at attention? That sounded dangerous. With the wind, the rocking of the ship, and a giant hole right beneath my feet, that sounded like a bad idea. What was that hole for anyway? It was more than wide enough for me to slip through. I widened my stance a little further – just to be safe.

A whistle echoed through the air. I swiftly brought the Jack down, glad I pulled the rope the correct way. With still unsteady fingers I unlatched the flag from the tethers, careful not to let it touch the ground.

Once nestled into the crook of my arm, I attempted to get the rope back around its hook. It was too short. I tugged and pulled, attempting to stretch out the rope. The clasp wouldn’t reach the ring.

Three more whistles popped out in quick succession. Carry on.

I glanced over my shoulder. The Captain and his party were sure to turn around and see me struggling any moment. I caught Boats 2’s eye.

“Help!” I mouthed.

He looked at me funny, his head cocked to the side.

“Help. Me.” I mouthed again.

He heaved a heavy sigh. He made his away around the anchor chain. Why did it have to be so big? And then made his way towards me. I kept trying with the rope. I tried clipping it and then stretching it around the hook. I tried unclipping it and clipping it underneath. Nothing seemed to work.

“I can’t get the rope,” I said as he came up beside me.

“Hold the Jack and for the love of God don’t let it touch the ground,” he said, casting a wary look over his shoulder.

Despite being an inch or two shorter than I was, he managed to reach the hook over his head without issue. His tatt’d biceps bulged with effort as he stretched the rope with all his strength. The metal ends shook with effort. Then they latched. Barely.

“Want me to help you fold it?” he asked, nodding to the Jack.

I kept it close to my chest, like a baby bundle. I shook my head then glanced over at the Captain.

“I’ll do it at the quarterdeck,” I said.

He laughed.

As we walked back, me with my head as high as I could managed, I heard laughter to my right. Boats 1 guffawed at my expense.

“Poor little girl couldn’t manage a little rope?” He called out over the chain. His large belly rolled with every laugh. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.

I harrumphed and made my way around the gun, so as not to run into the group touring the ship – and not to give the Captain a chance to yell at me for screwing up colors.

“Never do that to me again,” I said as I reached the quarterdeck. NC1, who was acting OOD, stared at me, his dark hand up to his ball cap in a salute.

“No?” he asked, keeping his salute.

I stared at him dumbly.

“Colors have been properly executed in accordance with the plan of the day, aye,” He said and dropped his salute. He grabbed one end of my bundle from my arms, in an attempt to fold it.

“It was terrible,” I said as I folded my two ends together. “The Captain was up there. Boats made fun of me. Boats 2 had to help me. My neckerchief is all screwed up…”

“Mmm.” He shook his head.

“Next time we should switch,” I continued. “You do colors, and I’ll be OOD.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You aint even gun-qualled.”

“Not the point.”

He laughed and left me, the Jack now in his arms.

“Permission to lay below?” I called after him.

“Oh, you know that part,” he called back. “Permission granted.”

With that I hurried into the skin of the ship, eager to take off my Whites and hide my face. And to tell everyone I knew how terrible colors was before they found out about it from someone else.

Woah, I'm Bleedinng

"Today I am taking your aloft virginity," ET2 Bodybuilder said to me and the only other female in our division, ET3 Beaver.

I was excited. I had wanted to go up the mast since I decided to enlist. I had images of me climbing up a rope ladder, knife between my teeth, until I got to the top where I would have to inch along the yard arm to my radar antenna. I was so ready!

We donned our harnesses, got our hazmat, and began our treck to the mast. ET2 Bodybuilder, thankfully, took the aloft bucket full of hazmat. Carrying that thing from our aft shop to our forward shop was enough for me. Taking it all the way up the mast would have killed me.

Behind the pilot house were metal rungs built up the wall leading to what I would have considered the roof. Beaver went up first with me just behind her. As I went up, climbing at an awkward angle, I felt as if I should start rock climbing more. Perhaps it would make this easier. At the top were a couple antennas, neither of which we were concerned with. ET2 maneuvered around us, the bucket attached to a rope and looped across his chest.

He walked up to the base of the large metal mast. A few turns of some latches and a door swung forward. Beaver and I peered inside. A ladder was set against the aft wall of a dark tunnel leading upwards. Metal grates separated each level. ET2 went first, disappearing into the darkness above. Beaver went next and then I followed, leaving the door open for light.

I looked above me. There was a clunking noise, then a creek. A tiny sliver of light appeared above me. ET2 had opened a door to the next level up. But he kept climbing. We continued up, stopping at each level, the clunking of latches and squeaking of corroding hinges breaking up the consistant metal twangs of boots on steel. Each door let us see the tunnel we were climbing up -- not that there was much to see. Wires tracing up the length of the mast and dusty metal was all that there was to the belly of the mast.

We stopped again. ET2 braced his feet on the inches of metal grate that lined the sides of the mast. Metal scraped against metal, he grunted with effort as he lifted a narrow, circular scuttle door up. Rays of bright sun shone down and illuminated the entire tunnel within. He climbed out, disappearing to whatever lay above. Beaver went next.

My head popped through to the fresh air. A platform surrounded by steel railings and containing a few different antennas topped the mast. One looking like a long rollo topped with other rollos was to my right. A large, dull-grey dome stood behind me. I grasped at the air, looking for a way to pull myself up. I grabbed a hold of the antenna closest to me and heaved. Luckily it didn't give way.

Staying hunched over I clipped my safety harness to the railing and stood up, ready to take in the sights. A loud thud reverberated through my head as sharp pain erupted. I fell back to my knees and clutched at my head. A square plate attached to the antenna I had just been holding attacked me. It's corner now tinged red -- and it wasn't from rust.

"You okay?" Beaver asked me.

I hissed but nodded. "Yeah, yeah I'll be fine. Just a bump."

But my mind was swimming with the possibilities of concussions and internal brain hemmoraging. I slowly stood back up, making sure to stay away from anything that would hurt me. Standing up, I finally had the view I wanted. The pain dulled as I looked at Souda Bay below me. Olive trees scattered across the mountains on all sides of us. The tug boats looked tiny in the distance. It was beautiful, with a lovely gust of wind that blew the smoke stack's fumes right into our faces. If it wasn't for that, the moment would be perfect.

ET2 took a few moments to point out each antenna and tell us what they did. Then he broke out the rags, gloves, and HAZMAT and we began cleaning the dome and oiling its hinges.

Afterwards he lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing.

"When you get the chance to come up here, you can't just do your maintanence and leave," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "You have to take a few minutes and soak it up. Ain't nothing like this."

Beaver and I leaned over the sides to watch the drills going on below. Someone had just been simulated as being shot, their body sprawled out across the quarterdeck. I couldn't tell who it was though, we were too high up. But it was fun to watch them train, anyway.

Standing at the top of the ship with a couple good friends is one way to just let the world go.

I ran my fingers through my hair, pain radiated through my head as I passed over one particular spot. I winced and pulled my fingers down. Blackened with whatever had latched onto the ladder wrungs, with grease and dust, and now tinged red with blood.

"Woah, I'm bleeding," I said as I stared at the blood.

"You really hit your head that hard?" ET2 asked as he leaned over to look. His blonde eyebrows knit over his eyes. He had a look of being half impressed and half annoyed.

"Apparently," I said.

"Just don't tell anyone you hit your head your first time up here," he said. "They'd never let you come up again."

I nodded, my head pounded with each movement. "Of course, I hit my head in berthing on my rack."

"Good girl," he agreed. He stomped out his cigarette and opened up the hatch. "Now let's see what's on the other levels."

Hunting

I stalked through the narrow and cluttered passageways of the ship. My eyes were peeled. I would find my prey. I would pounce.

Hull Technician Chief (HTC) had been avoiding me for days. I had finally gotten my claws on his henchman, HT2 Ginger, but Chief had been elusive. I needed to sick my teeth into him. I needed him or else I would continue to be useless to my department. My entire existence on the ship depended on me hunting down this one man. I wouldn't fail. I refused.

My fingers clenched the dirt-filled rim of the scuttle just beneath HTC's office door. I rose up and peered inside. Empty. I climbed out and slid around the corners, heading for the galley. I figured he had probably taken to hiding in engine-spaces or some other hot, dirty place I had no interest in going. But that day, I would search every inch of the ship if I had to. I was ready for him.

I found a little DC3 talking to one of the cooks. Engineers are engineers are engineers. They stick together in a pack. DCs with HTs with GSEs with MMs. Maybe she knew where I could find HTC. If anyone did, one of the pack-members was my best bet.

"Hey, have you seen HTC around?" I asked her with a deceptively sweet smile.

She looked me over, obviously wondering what a topsider would want a HT Chief for. Not just an HT, of which there was one other, but a chief. Her eyes glanced down the hallway, along the mess line. I followed her gaze. There, in sagging coveralls, dingy and faded, was HTC. He towered over LtJg. DCA, a tiny black woman who was always smiling. Perfect.

I pivoted 90 degrees and stalked towards him. He sensed my presence. He turned towards me. His eyes widened, the fear showing for a brief moment. I grabbed DCA by the elbow and led her away from me. She followed him without question. Whatever warning he whispered into her ear, I didn't hear. All I heard was the thudding of war drums.

Adrenaline coursed through  my veins as I neared my target. My mouth salivated. I was ready to attack. I would complete the initiation into my division, my own little pack of hyenas.

He turned strait into a hatch. The door was closed due to the A/C being broken. He had initiated an all-doors-closed initiative. This was his own undoing.

He un-dogged the hatch as quickly as he could. He shoved DCA through. The door began swinging shut. I lashed out and grabbed the handle. Our eyes met through the tiny, round porthole. It was like the sight on a rifle. He knew he was done for.

"HTC," I cooed, a wicked smile plastered to my face. "I'm so glad I ran into you."

"I'm kind of in a hurry," he grumbled. His eyes whisked to DCA for help. She watched the scene, clueless.

"I'll only be a minute," I assured him. His death would be quick. "I was hoping to get my craftsman test from you."

His frown deepened.

"Didn't you promise her yesterday that you would give it to her today?" DCA said, giving him a knowing look.

He was mine.

"Fine, but lets get it over with," he growled.

I won. I got it. Hell, I even passed the damn test.

Next time someone wants to keep me from my quals, they should think twice.

ET3 out.

FNG

A line of sailors traveled up the brow, across the wind break, and down into the depths of the food store room. Boxes were tossed from the pallet and all the way up the chain. The wind kept me cool as I passed crates of energy drinks and cartons of cigarettes from FC2 to my left to ET2 on my right.

ET2's blouse had been tossed to the ground. His brow was beaded with sweat, his face was red from heat. FC2 kept rendering smart-ass remarks down the line at a few chiefs who happened to join us on the brow for the working party. He tossed the boxes as if they were feather light. I received them with a muffled "ooph."

First day actually on the ship. Despire the labor, I was filled with joy. I had survived the evils of Great Lakes, IL. I had survived terrible legal accusations. I had thrown it back into those bitches' faces when I got my orders to Rota, Spain. There was no reason not to be happy. I was wearing my command ball cap with pride.

I wore that ball cap for a total of 4 hours and 16 minutes.

A gust of wind blew inland. My curly hair blew back. My beautiful ball cap flew off. I followed it with my eyes, my neck craining to follow it. The case of Monster's in my arms was forgotten. It fluttered off the brow, along the side of the ship, and fell with an unceremonius splash into the water below.

"Noo!!!" I screamed as if I had just found out that Darth Vadar was my father.

ET2 grabbed the Monsters from my arms and tossed them to the next guy.

"Good job, FNG," he said.

FNG. F-ing, New, Guy Girl. That was me. Way to go, me.

"We have search and rescue swimmers don't we?" I pleaded as FC2 shoved another case into my hands.

"Search and rescue swimmers?" ET2 asked, his eyebrows raised. I passed him the case, looking over my shoulder as I did so. The ball cap was becoming ladened down with water. It would sink soon.

"To rescue my ball cap," I said.

"It's lost," FC2 said, "Forget about it and buy a new one"

My heart sank. That was my first ball cap. The one I would cherish forever and ever. I had stenciled my name into it in bold, silver letters. I glanced into the water again. It had disappeared beneath the murky water.

Hours later I found myself in the Aft Shop. I settled down next to ET3 Radar on the floor. The half dozen of mis-matched, broken chairs were already taken up by the senior members of the department: IC2 McMoney, IC3 Doesntshower, IC3 Kidstache, ET2 Bodybuilder (the one from stores onload), ET2 Kermit, and ET2 Seriousface. And that wasn't even everyone.

"Hey, you're not that new girl, are you?" ET3 Radar asked me.

I frowned at him. "What new girl?"

"The curly-haired one who lost her ball cap on the first day," he said.

The conversation stopped just for that second. Of course it did. All the guys turned and looked at me. ET2 Bodybuilder grinned mischeviously.

"Hell yeah she is," he said. "Right off the brow and into the water."

The room erupted in laughter. Laughter and teasing and pointing. The story of how I lost my ball cap travelled around the entire ship and back to the division within only a few hours. I hoped that wouldn't foreshadow my stay on the ship.