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.