File #990: "Mosaic_Spring2008_10.jpg"
Description
Ya Work Hard; Ya Play Hard
Harrison Todd Wilson
Rhudy Carreon pointed his stubby finger at our station. "Git your asses on that line and bring it in," he barked. "That line ain't gonna pull itself, and we gotta git." His finger stretched out from his fat, softball-sized fist. He pierced me with black daggered eyes, because I held jurisdiction over of this assembly of men pulling in rope from the dock.
"Boats" was leading Petty Officer over the back section of our ship. Everyone onboard called him that. The name honors the most ex- perienced, or maybe loudest, Boatswain mate First Class Petty Officer on a ship. He epitomized the stereotypical Navy enlisted.
Boats hailed from the Hopi nation in Arizona. No taller then a horse jockey, he still loomed as tall as a building. He filled out his uni- form completely. With shoulders broad as a barn, it was obvious he had eaten many good meals. His desert red skin glowed in any light avail- able. He was not a particularly handsome man, but he always com- manded attention. His greasy, work cap hid most of his raven-blue hair. He must have loved that old cap because military precision normally creased his uniforms and that hat just would not conform. He appeared older then his young 38 years. I guess years at sea will do that to a man. I came to know him before I became a Petty Officer. I hardly knew anyone onboard. It was my first command. The personnel office assigned me to First Division, a division dedicated to the mundane tasks of ship upkeep, and the same tasks daily faced by homemakers every- where. I didn't know much about ship life at that time, other than the minuscule education taught in boot camp.
Boats administratively commanded Second Division. However, all men onboard the ship were his proverbial "Sons," and he fathered us. We were his "tribe." His uneducated tongue never prepared us for the wisdom that appeared out of thin air. To those outside our enclosed world, he appeared yet another ill-mouthed, bad-tempered man unable to hold a job outside the Navy, but to those on our ship, he espoused Rock of Gibraltar stability.
My first experience at sea branded itself into my memory and became my first encounter with Petty Officer Carreon. I had only lived on the ship two weeks before I found myself waving goodbye to land. Our mission provided replenishment support for other ships in the form of fuel and ammunition. We were a floating warehouse. I studied ele- ments of Underway Replenishment in my boot camp class, but my young mind never grasped the dangerous possibilities this operation could incite.
The water showed whitecaps as we bulldozed into our second day at sea. The air refreshed my stale senses, and the immersed blue sky overpowered the clouds into nothingness. The sea shot out diamonds from the sun's reflection. The water loped us to one side and gently rolled us to the other. I contained my excitement inside as I saw the U.S.S. Cleveland looming behind us and waiting to pull along side home at sea. She was gaining on our position. I could see at once that she dwarfed my floating abode.
"AHOY, U.S.S. SHASTA! THIS IS THE NAVAL SHIP U.S.S. CLEVELAND! PREPARE TO TAKE US ALONGSIDE," boomed from loud speakers on the Cleveland.
"AHOY, U.S.S. CLEVELAND! THIS IS THE NAVAL SHIP U.S.S. SHASTA. WE ARE PREPARED. COME ALONGSIDE WHEN READY," we bellowed back.
The Cleveland came in too close. Suddenly, an alarm sounded over our ship's loudspeaker. The dreaded crash alarm blasted. "ALL HANDS PREPARE FOR CRASH! -- CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!"
The Cleveland cut across our bow. We were two slow-motion elephants vying for position. I stood there petrified. My eyes glued to this awful scene as the collision manifested. Our hull shrieked in agony as the Cleveland raped our metal into a jagged four-foot gash. Then, waking from this nightmare, I heard "Hey, Boot Camp, you wantin' to drown! Git your ass down there and check that forward compartment before we're all swimmin' with the fishes. Now git!" His calm urgency dissipated my horror to what just happened. I checked that forward compartment, and all was okay.
We became fast friends. He invited me out drinking on most nights with his group of pals. "Ya work hard; ya play hard" was his constant mantra. He would always shrug this phrase to our hung over, sleepy conditions.
They reassigned me to Boats' Second Division upon earning Petty Officer Third Class. One of my early assignments was a detail of three men. I oversaw the cleaning and repainting of one side of the hanger in the rear of the ship. Orange rust seeped through the haze gray camouflage painted on all Naval ships. The men were good men as far as character goes, but they enjoyed conversation a little more then they enjoyed work. As the day drew into afternoon, I knew the work had no
Harrison Todd Wilson
Rhudy Carreon pointed his stubby finger at our station. "Git your asses on that line and bring it in," he barked. "That line ain't gonna pull itself, and we gotta git." His finger stretched out from his fat, softball-sized fist. He pierced me with black daggered eyes, because I held jurisdiction over of this assembly of men pulling in rope from the dock.
"Boats" was leading Petty Officer over the back section of our ship. Everyone onboard called him that. The name honors the most ex- perienced, or maybe loudest, Boatswain mate First Class Petty Officer on a ship. He epitomized the stereotypical Navy enlisted.
Boats hailed from the Hopi nation in Arizona. No taller then a horse jockey, he still loomed as tall as a building. He filled out his uni- form completely. With shoulders broad as a barn, it was obvious he had eaten many good meals. His desert red skin glowed in any light avail- able. He was not a particularly handsome man, but he always com- manded attention. His greasy, work cap hid most of his raven-blue hair. He must have loved that old cap because military precision normally creased his uniforms and that hat just would not conform. He appeared older then his young 38 years. I guess years at sea will do that to a man. I came to know him before I became a Petty Officer. I hardly knew anyone onboard. It was my first command. The personnel office assigned me to First Division, a division dedicated to the mundane tasks of ship upkeep, and the same tasks daily faced by homemakers every- where. I didn't know much about ship life at that time, other than the minuscule education taught in boot camp.
Boats administratively commanded Second Division. However, all men onboard the ship were his proverbial "Sons," and he fathered us. We were his "tribe." His uneducated tongue never prepared us for the wisdom that appeared out of thin air. To those outside our enclosed world, he appeared yet another ill-mouthed, bad-tempered man unable to hold a job outside the Navy, but to those on our ship, he espoused Rock of Gibraltar stability.
My first experience at sea branded itself into my memory and became my first encounter with Petty Officer Carreon. I had only lived on the ship two weeks before I found myself waving goodbye to land. Our mission provided replenishment support for other ships in the form of fuel and ammunition. We were a floating warehouse. I studied ele- ments of Underway Replenishment in my boot camp class, but my young mind never grasped the dangerous possibilities this operation could incite.
The water showed whitecaps as we bulldozed into our second day at sea. The air refreshed my stale senses, and the immersed blue sky overpowered the clouds into nothingness. The sea shot out diamonds from the sun's reflection. The water loped us to one side and gently rolled us to the other. I contained my excitement inside as I saw the U.S.S. Cleveland looming behind us and waiting to pull along side home at sea. She was gaining on our position. I could see at once that she dwarfed my floating abode.
"AHOY, U.S.S. SHASTA! THIS IS THE NAVAL SHIP U.S.S. CLEVELAND! PREPARE TO TAKE US ALONGSIDE," boomed from loud speakers on the Cleveland.
"AHOY, U.S.S. CLEVELAND! THIS IS THE NAVAL SHIP U.S.S. SHASTA. WE ARE PREPARED. COME ALONGSIDE WHEN READY," we bellowed back.
The Cleveland came in too close. Suddenly, an alarm sounded over our ship's loudspeaker. The dreaded crash alarm blasted. "ALL HANDS PREPARE FOR CRASH! -- CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!"
The Cleveland cut across our bow. We were two slow-motion elephants vying for position. I stood there petrified. My eyes glued to this awful scene as the collision manifested. Our hull shrieked in agony as the Cleveland raped our metal into a jagged four-foot gash. Then, waking from this nightmare, I heard "Hey, Boot Camp, you wantin' to drown! Git your ass down there and check that forward compartment before we're all swimmin' with the fishes. Now git!" His calm urgency dissipated my horror to what just happened. I checked that forward compartment, and all was okay.
We became fast friends. He invited me out drinking on most nights with his group of pals. "Ya work hard; ya play hard" was his constant mantra. He would always shrug this phrase to our hung over, sleepy conditions.
They reassigned me to Boats' Second Division upon earning Petty Officer Third Class. One of my early assignments was a detail of three men. I oversaw the cleaning and repainting of one side of the hanger in the rear of the ship. Orange rust seeped through the haze gray camouflage painted on all Naval ships. The men were good men as far as character goes, but they enjoyed conversation a little more then they enjoyed work. As the day drew into afternoon, I knew the work had no