Coming together

I don't know what was up with me last night, but I got a little emotional. The day itself had been really good. I got mail (care package from my lovely boyfriend with love letters and Samoas), lots of laughter, and an easy day overall living that crank life.

In the galley (the kitchen) we wear paper hats -- the little white ones you see in old movie soda shops. I don't know exactly what the point is, I doubt it actually keeps any hair from falling (and as females, our hair is pulled and pinned back anyway). But to make things more interesting, a lot of the cranks like to decorate them with designs or motivational quotes. I've been doing portraits.

It sounds a bit excessive, but it's not as much as it seems. I don't do a full shaded, pristine life-like portrait on a disposable hat. It's a sketch based on a picture I take of the person. It typically comes out looking quite a bit like them (in a comic booky way, because that's just my style, Bro). And lately I've been getting requests (one of the Chief's Mess cranks still wears the one I drew of him last week). One of the Fire Controlmen (FC) asked me to draw one of him, and he posed all silly-like for the picture.

I took a full 5 minutes to sketch out his likeness on my hat. I had one girl (who does nothing other than sit on the mess decks and watch movies ALL DAY LONG) critiquing me as I went.

"You should show his dimples mo'e," she'd say in her Jamaican accent. "His eyes should be biggah."

I got encouragement from the other side of the table.

"Wow, that's really good," my fellow crank would say. "It really looks like him."

Then, when dinner was called, I skipped away into the galley to start throwing slop on some trays (really, it was Chicken Cordon Blue or Roast Beef). That's when the critics rolled through.

"He looks evil," one guy said.

"It does kinda look like him. But it looks more like _____," another said.

"Why does he look black?"

Then LS3 F came up. He squinted at the picture, cocked his head to the side. F and I are friends in a not-hanging-out-at-work sort of way. We tease each other. We harass each other. Normal navy friendly relationship. And he's dating the girl who sleeps below me, who is also a crank.

I don't even remember what he said, but it just tipped me over the edge. I glared at him as icily as I could. He laughed, took his meal, and wandered off. One glance over his shoulder to narrow his eyes at me, chuckle, and continue on.

He passed by once more, to taunt me, to see that I had removed the hat and put on a clean, unmarked one. He chuckled again, threw another tease at me, and left. Down the passageway, down the ladder, to his space. My heart when icy. I was so mad. I had also burnt myself just a few moments prior, and everyone asking where all the chicken was was getting on my nerves.

No more happy-go-lucky Nosek on the line.

F's girlfriend came up to the line to replace our bowls for soup. I told her what had happened, eyes rimmed red, trying to hold myself together. It wasn't even that big of a deal. It wasn't anything more abnormal than our usual banter. I hadn't spent any significant time on the picture. I was hardly even friends with the dude. I didn't know why I was upset, just that I was.

Flaw in my system.

But then, this morning we had drills. We're both involved in the medical training evolutions. We're both stretcher bearers. They called away a quick fire drill.

"Exercise exercise exercise," the Captain calls out over the 1MC after breakfast. "Quick draw, quick draw, quick draw!"

All the gunner drop what they're doing. My friend, fellow crank, and fellow ET runs topside. They have to man all the weapons, all the guns, and now. They have 4 minutes. GO!

Not long after we get word of casualties. The gunners have been shot. Two down on the forecastle.

"stretcher bearers lay to main medical!" they call out.

I drop what I'm doing and hurry to medical. It's my first time acting as stretcher bearer. My qualification was only just routed, I'm pumped. Medical is packed. The yeoman (secretary) is manning the net (phone network used to communicate with the controlling station). They're closing valves and  getting ready for the casualties that will inevitably arrive. And then, no one does anything.

The corpsman sits on her computer, browsing her email, as more casualties are called.

The stretcher bearers are glancing nervously at each other. No one is giving directions. Murmurs go around about whether or not a team has been sent. No answer is given.

I rock on the balls of my feet. I glance over and F is there. Sitting on the bench, waiting for direction just like me. Our eyes meet, only briefly, then we both look away.

"Actual medical emergency, port midships. Send stretcher bearers most direct route," comes over the 1MC.

We jump to action. Me, F, and two other guys hurry to the nearest stretcher. We don't need direction for this. We aren't going to wait for the corpsman to tell us what to do. This isn't a drill. This is real life.

We grab it and go. Running down the passageway, aft towards the easiest airlock.

"Make a hole!" F yells, those not involved jump out of the way.

The sun assaults us as we hit the flight deck. Warm salty air, a light breeze. The gun fire has ceased.

We make a quick U-Turn, run up a flight of stairs, and dance around some gunners, cleaning their mounts. We've got lives to save (or, more realistically, someone twisted their ankle during the drill). We come up to the port break, ET3, my friend and fellow crank, lays unconscious on the ground. We drop the stretcher and hurry to the victims.

I shake him. "Tay! Tay!"

He doesn't respond.

He's breathing, no signs of blood, he has a pulse. Then, a sudden thought hits me, a memory from when I was in CNA school...I lift his arm up over his head and drop it. It lands safely several inches from his head, magically diverting its course.

Me dropping his hand to check if he was actually unconscious

"You're faking it!" I shout.

Doc walks up and tells us that they've got no heart beat, no breath. They're expectant or already dead. Triage color black.

I swallow the little bit of anger, the spike of adrenaline, that comes with the fact that this was not an actual medical emergency.

We hurry on to the next casualty.

Me wrapping up a "jaw wound" with some help

After we bandage, triage, and carry them down to the messdecks, F and I come together. He looks at me, his warm brown eyes sad, and says, "We okay?"

I nod and let out a sigh. "Yeah," I say.

We fist bump, and go our separate ways.

I may have been mad at him, he may have hurt my feelings, but when it came time to save our shipmates, we came together. And that's what it's all about. You don't have to like the people you work with, you just have to be able to do what needs to be done. But really, after you accomplish something together, each person putting everything they have into it, it's hard not to appreciate them for it.



 

When You Want to Punch Someone in the Throat

I've been actively trying to stay aware of myself. There are times when I get a little...crazy. I suppose that is normal, we all have crazy days. But I'm being more perceptive of these times in order to reel myself in and focus my negativity. I ask myself a few simple questions:

1) What am I feeling?

•  I try to go beyond just "mad" or "frustrated." I think it's essential to really figure out what it is you're feeling. I have a friend who constantly talks about how "pissed off" he is. So I challenged him not to say "pissed" for one day. He realized that a lot of what he was feeling wasn't really "pissed off," sometimes is was "mildly irritated" or "frustrated" or even "inconvenienced." How we articulate what our emotions are goes a long way in how we decide how to deal with them. That day he found himself much happier because instead of saying he was "pissed off" (which then lead to him being pissed off) he was able to be like "I guess I'm just annoyed." and then he moved on.

2) What is the cause of this feeling?

• Feelings suck. Sometimes there is no real reason you feel a certain way. Sometimes it's just "that kind of day." But a lot of times you can find a cause for the negativity you feel. Maybe you are frustrated due to traffic. But then you need to ask "why am I frustrated by the traffic?" Are you in a hurry? Are you running late to work/school? Or do you just want to keep moving? Are you stressed out because of the increased risk for an accident? Once we point out why we feel the way we do about a situation, we can begin to identify whether or not it is even something to feel negatively about.

3) Can I do anything about this situation?

• Uncontrollable events happen. They do mass lay-offs at work, and unfortunately you were chosen as tribute. Or maybe you are stuck in a traffic jam on your way home from work. These are situations you have little to no control over. So, what's the point in getting upset by it? What is being upset by it helping? Absolutely nothing! You are only hurting yourself. 
• If you can do something about it, then do it. Say someone is taking their bad day out on you. They are being a royal jack ass and it happens to be aimed in your direction. Sometimes all you have to do is kill them with kindness. Other times, you just need to separate yourself from the situation and let them calm down. If you are stressed out about grades, then find a study method that works for you. Change your negativity into something productive. You feel a certain way, so fix it. 

As I am getting myself into the habit of reflecting on my emotions in this way, I do stop and ask myself these questions. It may sound dumb, and sometimes, in the moment, you just want to tell yourself to eff off. But that's not productive. It doesn't help anyone, and you are only bound to hurt yourself and/or others (hopefully not physically).

This morning, I was working the messdecks for breakfast. I was running between the scullery (dishwasher) and stocking silverware/trays. As I was walking towards the silverware to check them, I watched as DC2 poured milk in her oatmeal with the help of a new HT. The milk was full (I had checked it not too long prior) but he was still needing to tilt it for her to get it out. As I grabbed the fork holder to refill it I overheard her say, "These FSAs are garbage" to HT2.

Now, I have no idea what brought this on. We had milk. We had silverware. The coffee mess was cleaned, sugar full. We didn't have any cereal, but that's because people ate it all already. I couldn't figure out what we (I) had done to upset her. What I had done to be lowered all the way down to "garbage."

I raised my eyebrows in her direction and walked back to the scullery where I could hide. Once there, I scrubbed the dishes with a new vigor.

"Oh man, what I should have said to her," I thought. "Next time I see a firestation with dust on it, I'm going to tell her all the DCs are garbage!"

These negative thoughts brought me into a downward spiral of anger. I was so mad at her. I was hurt she called me garbage -- obviously she was referring to me since I was the one working the messdecks! I wished I had confronted her at the time. Asked her what I had done to offend her so greatly.

Then after about 5 minutes of scrubbing the bahjeezus out of some trays, I took a deep breath and refocused. 

1. Why was I feeling? Mad. I was feeling mad. And a little hurt. I felt like she had targeted me for a reason I wasn't even sure of.
2. What is the cause of this feeling? I felt this way because I am a hard worker. I take pride in what I do. When someone targets me in a hostile way, I take offense. I took the situation personally, even though it probably wasn't meant that way. 
3. Could I do anything about the situation? At the time my choices were either a) let it go or b) confront her. While part of me wanted to confront her and tell her that next time if she had an issue to let me know so I could solve it, I decided to let it go. Stewing on it wasn't helping me achieve my goal of positivity and motivation. It was only bringing me down and causing me to feel a way I didn't want to feel. 

Once I reasoned with myself, I was able to let it go. I broke out of the cycle. I think it's important to realize your faults, your flaws, and your feelings so you can learn to take them and turn them into something positive. Be constructive with your behavior. Think happy thoughts.

We Rollin' Hard

Petty Officer Indoc is a wealth of knowledge. It is a fountain of information meant to give you the building blocks necessary to become a well-rounded leader.

It is also death by power point.

All of the prospective Second-Classes were gathered on the Mess Decks. We had been going through Power Point after Power Point for hours, with meal breaks in between. Some of the presenters were funny, energetic. Some...not so much. It was nearly dinner and our focus was waning. One-and-a-half topics to go.

The ship rocked back and forth, swiveling us in our chairs. Eyes half shut, Monsters half drank, we listened to CTT1 talk about motivation. The GM3 behind me grumbled "mine is dead." I tried not to agree, to keep the focus and enthusiasm I had garnered since becoming a FSA. But as the ship gently rocked me to sleep, I couldn't help but agree.

Then the ship rolled. Metallic crashes banged from the galley. CS1, who had been the desginated Power Point clicker, scurried off to check on it. A moment later she came back and told all the FSAs to hurry to the galley with swabs and brooms in hand.

It was a disaster. 

An entire pan of zucchini had been overturned, the half-moons soggy and clumped to the floor and walls, the juice leaving a slippery trail behind. Wrapped and boiled turkeys were stuck under the oven and counter tops. Carrots and bread crumbs littered the deck. We stared in awe for a full minute before moving to action.

The ship tossed again. CSSN C slipped on the zucchini water at the same time FC3 Crankette stepped on a fallen-over box of powdered sugar. CSSN C ended up being powdered and greased like french toast.

We burst out laughing even as we stumbled and clung to anything we could to keep upright.

Then in the middle of our laughter -- of course -- the ship rolled again. I slammed into the fridge door, foxtail and dustpan in hand. Not a second later, MMSN Crankette -- who had been 6 feet away from me -- slammed into me. Oof!

Thankfully she was small.

"Oh mah gawd, are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah! Are you?" I responded.

"Of course. Are you?"

This went on for a full minute before we were sure that neither one of us were injured.

The whistles to alert us to an announcement from the 1MC  sounded above us. "This is your Junior Officer of the Deck speaking. I just wanted to give you a heads up to stand by for heavy rolls---"

"Now he tells us!" We scramed.

The bitching, laughing, and throwing of floor-fallen food started, drowning out the rest of his announcement.

Finally, after pulling out the turkeys and tossing all the fallen dinner into the garbage, we were allowed to return to our lesson on motivation. Thankfully, after all that, I was much more awake and attentive to the end of the lecture. 

What I have learned though, from my time at PO2 Indoc and my time cranking, is that leadership and who you work with really do affect the work environment. In the culinary division (S-2) everyone is always laughing. The sea state is bad, the ship rolls, half of our dinner ends up on the floor and everyone laughs about it. They clean it up, they carry on.

In my real division, if something (one tool, one book, one piece of paper) hits the deck during heavy seas, it's because we weren't doing our job and we get punished. It's really given me a chance to step back and look at leadership styles and how I want to be as I advance through my career.

I like being in an environment where things get done, but not everything has to be serious. You can be a strong leader without being harsh. No division is perfect. No leader is perfect. But now I know what I want to aim for. Now I have an idea of what kind of leader I want to be, and what I definitely don't want to be.

Picnicing on a Steel Beach

            I hadn’t been topside in days.

            Work had kept me down. Transferring from troubleshooting my radar equipment to working in the galley as a crank (or to be politically correct “Food Service Attendent”) had kept me busy. Not to say I hadn’t had downtime –I had, but I had better uses for it than seeing the sun.

            But as we sat on the mess decks watching Anchorman 2, waiting for our next tasking, the Commanding Officer comes over the 1MC:

            “Good afternoon! It is a beautiful day outside today – and I mean it this time, unlike yesterday when it turned out to be overcast and cold! Well, we have Jose and Bulldog in the water and we’re about to race them against the ship. Come on topside and see which is fast. C.O. Out.”

            We glanced at eachother briefly. There was an unsaid thought that passed between all the cranks on the messdecks. Then we popped up, turned to CS1 and peaced-out. We half-walked, half-ran down the passageway to the flight deck. We were excited for the chance to watch a big ass destroyer go up against two little motorboats in the middle of the sea.

            The sun glimmered on the water – it was so blue! A deep, cobalt blue. A few fluffy clouds floated about the sky, and a light breeze settled over the ship. It was gorgeous. I had been so used to the weather over our last two months of patrol, that I hadn’t even considered the outside could be so nice. It had been rainy, cold, and windy all the other times I had ventured out.

            I leaned against the torpedo tubes and watched as the rhibs dashed across the water and left over waves larger than they were. Then the CO popped on and shouted for them to get to their marks, to get set, and GO!

            The rhibs took off, Jose in the lead. Their passengers clung to anything they could grab ahold of. We sat there.

            I looked to my friend in question and she just shrugged. Then the stacks spouted a puff of white smoke. The ship vibrated.

            We were about to go into warp.

            We began to move.

            Slowly. Ever so very slowly.

            The engines whirred. The rhibs were so far ahead of us. We could see them looking back, wondering if we had forgotten that we were also in the race.

            But we gained speed. We gained and gained until the whoops and hollars of the gawkers could no longer be heard over the hum of the engines and the roar of the wind. We gained on them. We kept on gaining until we were side by side. Then we were gone, left them in our wake.

            Our gorgeously azure wake.

            The CO announced our win and the ship came to a stop. Everyone was laughing and resumed their games and lounging. A football was being tossed around on the missile deck, meanwhile another football was being tossed between the rhibs. At one point it was fumbled into the water and we enjoyed countless minutes of watching them attempt to recover it.

            This slid seamlessly in with the picnic the First Class Petty Officers were throwing for us on the flight deck. Music was playing as the smell of barbequing drifted across the weatherdecks. People were out lounging, playing, and dancing in their civilian gym clothes. Tanks, shorts, leggings. It was all good. We sat crosslegged on the deck as we ate off paper plates to our fill.

            Fishing poles were cast off the back as people leaned against the safety lines and smoked what they had – vapes, cigarettes, cigars. It was a great day. The entire ship came out to enjoy a beautiful day together. We sat in large circles on the ground, officer, enlisted and Midshipmen. We danced the cha cha and watched as our Command Master Chief did the nay-nay.

            It’s days like this that you look out to the horizon, to that place where the sky meets the sea, and you have to say, “this is why I joined.” There are shit days. Every job has shit days. There are shit bosses, shit months, shit tasks. But then there’s a nice day where you can laugh with your friends in the sunshine, eat a hotdog made for you by someone higher ranking than you, and just be okay with the world.

           

Gotta Stay Happy

I am happy.

I haven't been lately. Not at work at least. My life, as a whole, is good. I have a fantastic boyfriend. I live in Spain. I've been blessed to travel Europe -- have so many more places I want to go! I have supportive parents and great friends. My life is good.

We have just wrapped up our first half of deployment. We went to Corfu, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and a quick stop in Germany (I don't really count it because I never set foot on German soil). The ports were great, the weather was cold. It was windy and rainy and miserable despite it being well into Spring (I don't know about most places, but Arizona is warm and lovely in its week of springtime).

I don't want to dwell too heavily on the negatives. But, there were tears shed, angry words shouted, and write-ups had. It was sleepless, hard, and without direction (not shipwide, just within my division. My ship is great).

Instead I want to focus on happiness.

Being back home has made me realize that all the bullshit I went through over the past couple months doesn't compare to the contentment I feel as a whole. The weather is warm, there is a light breeze carrying the smell of flowers on it, the beach is inviting and the sangria never stops flowing. I have a room which is slowly filling with artwork and trinkets collected from countries I had only dreamed of visiting. Whatever I went through on the first half of patrol is fleeting. It is temporary.

In the moment it can be hard to think beyond the frustration and anger and resentment. Emotions are chemically made and sustained further by negative thoughts. Once you start in that negative downward spiral it's hard to get out. Sometimes even resetting yourself with sleep doesn't work.

I don't want to end up in that spiral again. I don't want to become so angry and resentful I shut down again. I had been so angry at my chain of command I stopped working for myself. I stopped trying. I did the bare minimum so I wouldn't screw over my coworkers, and that was it. Everything I had been working towards came to a sudden halt.

Why?

Because I didn't feel appreciated.

It's so simple and minuscule, but powerful none-the-less. To not feel appreciated by your supervisors can be one of the most degrading things to feel as a subordinate. I had worked my ass off, for what? I didn't even get the dignity of a straight-out "we didn't pick you." I got word second-hand because the guy I was competing with was gloating. That was how meaningless I was to my Leading Petty Officers.

But all that resentment and anger I felt only hurt me. It may have frustrated them. It most certainly annoyed them when I changed the locks to their spaces and didn't give them access until they asked for it nicely. But, it only fueled my own self loathing.

So, that's why I'm going to try to bottle up this happiness that I feel. I want to remember that I have all these amazing things to be grateful for -- I don't want my self-worth to live in someone else's hands -- least of all people who loathe themselves or people who can't see the worth of others.

I am fantastic.
I am beautiful.
I am smart.
I am creative.

I'm going to write these things down. I'm going to write down all the wonderful things I am happy to have in my life and I'm going to hang them up in my rack. I'm going to look at them and remember that my life is pretty awesome.

Leaders will come and go.

Rough seas will mellow out.

Winter will turn to Summer.

Home port is only a short ways away.

Keep happy. Remember the good things. And pass it on to others. Everything will be okay.

And Then There Were Bears

I roll out of my bed a full hour-and-a-half before my usual, lazy time. My muscles don’t ache anymore. It’s been too long since my last workout. I wheeze as I clamber down the coffin racks. The Undes girl who sleeps below me is already gone for the day – thank the gods.

I hack up a lung before I get the chance to brush my teeth. I push my face into my towel, hoping to both muffle the sound and prevent the spread of this terrible plague. The girl who sleeps across from me whines in her sleep.

I arrive on the mess decks and grab a bowl of cereal. I need at least some form a brain food. All the other third-classes are already there; plates of eggs and pancakes already devoured. I settle across from my division mates at the combat-systems table. They glance up at me with bleary, sleepy eyes.

“You nervous?” FC Chief asks, slapping a hand on IC3 Childstasche’s shoulder. He looks at the group of us. Beaver sips her coffee, grimaces, but refuses to respond. IC3 plasters one of his usual I-give-no-fucks smiles on his face.

“What’s there to be nervous about?” he asks. A too-giddy laugh escapes him, revealing the truth.

FC Chief looks at me, questioning me. I cough into my already snot-covered coveralls. His nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Well, good luck, you guys,” he says, shaking everyone’s hand but mine. I don’t take offense – I wouldn’t shake it either.

The mess deck slowly fills. As the first classes and chiefs separate divisions and friends so they won’t cheat, nervous eyes begin to dart around the room. The guy who took Beaver’s seat’s leg bounces as he watches the minutes tick by. IC3 lets out another nervous laugh and his head twitches to the side.

I feel nothing.

I feel nothing other than the annoyance of my persistent cough. My napkin is practically shredded from use by the time they start reading out the instructions. I’ll need someone to get me more. More annoyance. Nerves? Nothing. I have total apathy for the advancement exam.

I have no intention of passing.

It’s a hard concept to explain to people. My scattered, foggy brain keeps thinking about bears in the Russian launching tubes. Not that there really is any (so they want us to think), but it would be an interesting concept. How terrifying would it be to have an enemy cannon shoot a bear onto the flight deck? So, with these thoughts coursing through my head, explaining that as a new arrival to the fleet, I shouldn’t be making rank, well, that’d be nearly impossible.

The argument of, “Don’t you want more money?” keeps cropping up. Of course I do! Do I think we have ranks for a reason? Yes. As a brand new, fresh-out-of-the-box ET, being a second class would completely undermine the system. As a second class you have a little bit of power. You are no longer bottom of the food chain. You are expected to be a leader. I barely know my own gear at this point, let alone everything I need to know to be a supervisor.

As a second class, you have E1-E4s looking up to you. They see your crows and expect you to know a thing or two. If you are a second class and you know nothing, all respect for you is gone (trust me, there are a few of those here already). I would rather be a third class for a little longer and earn my way up, than be one of those good test takers who make it on their first go.

As I am still sick, this may still only make sense to me.

After the test, after comparing notes and trying to figure out just how many we all got wrong, we throw our legs up and relax. We chit-chat about whatever when the subject of the Russians comes up. Or possibly, it only comes up in my head.

“You know, they still use typewriters on the Russian ships,” I say, my words slurring. “And they don’t have email, they have carrier pigeon. And instead of tomahawks they have bears in their VMS…VLS….tubes…”

“What?” Beaver asks.

“You realize most of what you said makes no sense, right?” ET3 Bodybuilder says (he was busted down).

“Why would they have bears?” Someone else asks.

“Think about it,” I grumble.

I trail off, no further explanation given. Although, in my mind, no further explanation should be necessary. Why wouldn’t the Russians have bear missiles?

“She’s dying,” ET2 says, waving off the others. “Let her be.”

And with that I coughed and have no idea what happened from there. Probably more coughing. At some point I went to medical.

It turned out that the last ship that went to the Ukraine got super sick too.

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.