Driver, T. C. (2 page)

I had daily access to shore leave during this time, over nine months in all. The ship lingered here so long, I wondered if we might ever put to sea again.

I met my girl Josie during this stay, but could never convince her to join me aboard ship. Josie would stay behind when our sail date did finally come. She was “all girl” and not ashamed of it. Not conflicted as are so many western women. We spent many good times together; a needed break and sanity check from life aboard The Ark. A store in town named “Kelly's” sold great cuts of meat. Kelly's and grilling out was my constant path. We often went bowling or lizard hunting in a local stream near Josie's place. What they did with the lizards I could not figure. Sometimes you just don't know.

For a fourteen week summer season, the ship's flight deck was taken over by students in open-air, ultra-light, one man flying crafts. They would buzz the long beaches toward the city; where “the action” was! Their brightly colored wings filled the bright sky. Our beautiful dock was near, but not in, a town that was a suburb of Atkins, Brazil. Even the ultra-light planes could make landings to one other town. It sounded like Sao-Luis. I always pronounced the name as Saint Louis just to aggravate Josie and her family. My Portuguese language skills were close to zero and I simply did not care. People should speak the Queen's English or nothing (ha-ha). Our ship was out of sight of most locals and tourists alike.

I had always thought Brazil was covered with thick tropical rain forest or farm land; there was none of that here. This area of Brazil was covered with sand dunes, just like the Sahara desert; only wet, with puddles everywhere. If this sounds crazy, a big wet desert, I apologize, but truth is, Brazil is sand dunes as far as the eye can see. Some students would land on these sand dunes and have trouble getting back into the air. Like the Outer Banks at Kitty Hawk, this sand was a good place for foolish horseplay and dare-devil flying. Sarah and I would take off with the other men from our crew, but not with the students. Our small group would stay to ourselves, and soon started playing with large, brightly colored beach balls. Dropping the balls and catching them with the wing-struts of our plane before they hit the sand below. This game of catch became so popular that there was a local shortage of beach balls. The endless sea of sand hills, often with water puddles, was a strange and eerie sight. Some students, each day needed rescue, but most found their way back to the ship with stories of valor to last them a lifetime; all without serious injury.

One funny day I remember well, Sarah landed on a moist, hard section of sand to pick up beach balls, and a herd of wild goats moved in front of her plane, blocking take-off. These animals took a liking to Sarah and would not leave, even when she tried her mean face and screaming, she was stuck.

The other four ultra-lights in our group flew around her laughing so hard that we ran out of fuel before getting back. Running out of fuel was frowned upon and “against the rules”. Refueling by another ultra-light was a fairly common practice and easy to do. We used five gallon fuel plastic fuel jugs and had plenty of places to land in the hard, wet sand next to the surf.

One particular hot summer day that season, a loud mouth, goofball, showoff student named Anthony Strange got slaphappy and splashed down his ultra-light in the harbor on take-off. His little open-air, ultra-light was over loaded with party ice bombs. He was famous for buzzing friends on campus and on the beach, often hitting an open cooler with ice. Joe and Chief of Staff Friday would raise hell and lock him in the brig; all to no avail. This tall, thin, likable, “mule stubborn”, loud, young, black man was uncontrollable and a constant entertainment. Haley, the younger and slightly better looking of the Coe sisters, dove off the flight deck into the harbor, getting to the young man, Anthony, and unbuckling him quickly before his plane sank. She was credited with saving his life. Joe Coe scolded Haley for her daring technique, but hey, it worked! Why fuss?

“Don't expect this old man to dive off this ship's flight deck! That dive is over fifty-five feet” I called out to young Haley.

Haley was a rare combination of beauty, strength, brains and humor, a pleasure to know. She was an Army officer from the now closed West Point, a part-time model and a combat hero in Afghanistan before the Chinese moved in. Haley, still in her twenties, had been through a lot in life, but was still Joe Coe's baby girl. Sarah; twelve years older and by Joe's first wife Gloria, I was always closer to. Sarah often felt upstaged by her perfect little sister. Joe had a middle daughter back home named Blair and both a younger and older son. The older son was also from his first wife, Gloria. I learned quickly that their sissy, older brother was a family disgrace and was not to be mentioned around Captain Coe.

That summer, I often joined up with Sarah's boat for a ride into town. Sarah would buy clothes, and I would see Josie and buy beer. We often waited for the others in her taxi run. That's when Sarah and I started sharing time together on the huge, white sand beaches.

Those beautiful beaches were endless. There were people everywhere, but the beach was way to majestic to become crowded. When we sat on the beach, we could watch the slow, colorful ultra-light planes coming and going from the ship on the far horizon, but we could not quite make out the ship with the naked eye. College students loved buzzing up and down the beach and landing in a grass field by the college in town. Illegal sound systems were often put on these little craft, and tickets by the local police had become a common embarrassment to the Great Ark and Captain Coe. Our spoiled little college brats were “going wild” and having the time of their lives. A sign-up list kept all one hundred forty-four of these open-air, one seat fold up flying crafts in use. They were a graceful, ever present, beautiful sight. Their colorful wings and the drone of their little motors filled the blue sky.

Sarah Coe, one hot summer day, in her only slightly modest, two piece swimsuit was just about all this old Granddad of two could suffer. I wondered how foolish I was to sit in the sand, enjoying her company, us both flirting back and forth.
Don't
play the old fool
, I kept telling myself. She seemed to light up around me. Often I stayed clear of her just to keep my sanity.

The Great Ark started taking on supplies at an increased rate. I knew setting sail was coming soon. I had worked B time in the purchasing office. Over ten million dollars of supplies came aboard that last month, plus four and a half million dollars in aviation fuel alone. The ship made fresh water and also hydrogen fuel, none of this fuel we had yet used. This large volume of cold hydrogen fuel would make sense as time played out.

The ship was powered by a U. S. Navy nuclear power plant by B & W, but Indian Navy, Israeli, French, Italian, Russian, German, American and Japanese “nukes” were in and out of our “dungeon” power plant at different times, rotating in four groups of six each time. Always one group from VPI in Blacksburg, Va. VPI and the VPI of India seemed to be both experts on the power plant. They could have their ole dungeon; I loved the high perch of my
  
cabin (and fresh air.)

That evening, on my high deck railing outside my cabin door, I was relaxing before going to bed and sipping three fingers of red wine. (It's good for the digestion) I was looking down the length of our beautiful cement pier. I always enjoyed its hundreds of lights reflecting on the sea. This evening was a treat; for oh what a tranquil sight. The most beautiful sailing yacht I had ever seen! This yacht was parked between the Great Ark and the beach. The majestic contours of this yacht anchored just below me brought to mind the open sea. Wow, I thought about having my own boat; being my own Captain. Hanging over the bow of this large sailboat was a pig; like the ones some barbeque places have.

“Hello, sailboat,” said I, “God speed!” I stood on my deck railing dreaming of just sailing away.

“Time for bed, Cornelius”
a voice said, for I had started to doze. The next night we did leave Brazil. Our departure was uneventful; without fanfare. At sea the next day, a spirit of adventure filled the big ship. Our two helicopters, that I had never seen fly (too fuelish), were both pressed into hard service. All females had been tested and all pregnant girls were being shuttled to shore by, I suppose, Friday and Edison Oiler, the only two men I knew who flew the birds. Haley's friend Lisa St. Stevens was on the list. Captain Joe stood firm on his orders; no favorites; no exceptions. Haley and Sarah put ole' Coe through hell. Their screaming was heard throughout the ship. This was a humiliating embarrassment to Joe. Five or six gals would go on each chopper trip depending on how much junk each girl had. Eighteen or nineteen trips were made, so at least one hundred of our nine hundred coeds had gotten knocked up in Brazil. The girls in dorms A, B and C were different, or special. These ABC girls were very “popular” and “friendly” with both staff and crew. Not much like real college girls at all. These gals were much too sleazy for the college girl natural law of averages. I suspected that many were “pros” or that a “girl’s gone wild” video was being made on ship, but I never did ask about it. Our older staff and the young bucks alike were as “fed horses in the morning” with these girls. They seemed to enjoy their work; or study (ha-ha). Someone in personnel knew how to pick em and was evidently trying to keep the mostly male crew happy. These girls were not picked for brains or serious college study. Most did not even attend class. The sick, torrid display of immorality was constant and overbearing. Often my comrades did not bother to “get a room” and would take their dates to secluded parts of the ship, not caring if you walked up on them or not. This ungodly behavior was so open that I often wondered if the poor young women were not being drugged.

I had my girl Josie back in Brazil. We had grown close. I had paid her rent ahead for a year thinking she might come with me on the Ark, but alas, I was on my own once again. Another “ex” to send Christmas cards to, I guess. No woman in her right mind longs to be a lonely sailor’s wife and no one can blame them. Ask my lovely ex-wife Patty, back in Virginia. She has always been the true love of my life. I missed her so much. I called Patty that night, a few days away from or first port of call in South Africa. We talked our usual fifteen minutes. I was close to being late with my monthly payment to her. She seemed glad to hear my voice.
Patty and I back together again one day?
I wondered if that could be. It's odd; often in this life one just doesn't know! Most people who do claim to know are fakers. Really, they're just as dumb as the rest of us. You and I, my friend, you and I!

The South Atlantic Ocean was unusually calm and cool for this time of year and land was on the far horizon. I sat in on a college lecture lured by the title, “The Cost of Freedom”. This professor quoted Bill Ayers often and talked about “the good of the many outweighing the rights of the few”. The greater good for mankind, he called it. I got so mad that my greater good was to leave early. I stormed out and the anti-professor was born. The ship's young college students listened closely. They were content to soak up the poison poetry and the abject stupidity of their idiot teacher's classroom remarks.
Someone has to tell these kids the truth. Tell them the truth of God's word. Shut up, Cornelius,
I heard myself say.
Mind your own business.
  
But no, I would not listen. God was calling me to act. Why would God use a person like me? Why not a minister? Sometimes you just don't know.

In South Africa we docked again and took on even more supplies. Some change in personnel also; about two hundred men added. They looked like military types, but without the uniforms. The ship's top six student pilots finished up their first two hundred hours of flight training in B44s at an airstrip nearby with very poor conditions; not like our beautiful base in Brazil. We instructors got more flight hours also and our first live firing range practice. Our cannons were very impressive. These new, larger caliber cannons were very destructive and affective weapons; tiny smart bombs really. I judged the cannons to be triple effective and triple range compared to the old U.S. Navy. Shore leave was rare during this stay at port. We pilots took advantage of our B44 training to grab some R&R, but official shore leave was cut off. So was all horseplay out of the back of the ship; no jet skis, swamp boats, etc. Our twelve single engine sea planes did operate in heavy service taking grad students into the interior of Africa. Two professors had mapping projects which included the dropping of sensors; this was all funded by a US government grant. Very odd; America had shut down her military bases and operations. Washington was broke. The old U.S. Navy was shut down. These professors must have top priority; this “save Africa from the world” pipe dream. One trip, which required camping and refueling on a remote fresh water Lake was much talked about by our energetic and excited students to anyone on ship who would listen. And of course, all of us “old timers” wanted to tell stories of “back in the day”.