Three Knots to Nowhere (22 page)

Having finished my business in the bathroom, I went to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door and scanned the contents. The first thing that caught my eye was a plate piled high with golden cream puffs oozing with Mom's homemade egg-custard filling. Resisting the urge to eat one then and there, I refocused on what to drink with dinner. A glass of fresh milk with ice cubes was an easy choice.

John had permission to stay and eat with us.

Dinner consisted of fried chicken and potato salad. Mom's homemade cream puffs rounded out the meal. It was John's and my favorite meal.

After supper and polishing off two cream puffs, John walked home in the failing light.

While my dad set up the movie projector and screen, Curt demonstrated his trombone prowess. He had improved greatly and impressed me with his virtuosity. We spent the remainder of the evening watching home movies.

I went to bed. As I snuggled in freshly laundered sweet-smelling sheets, my mind started organizing some of the things I would share with my family about submarine life.

Although everyone in the
Clay
's crew got grumpy now and then, it was hard to stay that way. The submarine's crew was great, especially the nucs. They were bright and witty. Somebody was always joking around. It was hard not to be amused with their antics, although a lot of it was sick and sophomoric.

The secret to survival on a submarine was maintaining the proper attitude. The sooner you learned to take whatever treatment your crewmates dished out, the better. There wasn't any future for someone who was sensitive. A valid reason existed for the madness. The safety of the submarine is dependent on everyone maintaining his composure. Every so often, we found a chink in someone's armor. If the man could not adapt to the grueling life style of a submarine sailor, the individual earned a transfer to the surface fleet.

Regardless of rank, as soon as a new man reported aboard a submarine he was under constant scrutiny. We needed to determine if he was worthy of becoming a submariner. The behavior also diverted our thoughts from the stress of our ominous purpose.

If someone didn't stay alert in the engineering spaces, a nuc would try to fill the man's poopie suit pockets with water. I always had a small plastic bottle filled with warm water. If it wasn't warm, the person getting his pocket filled would feel the coolness. Warm water lets the pourer sneak away before the victim realizes what happened. We also tried to fill as many of the victim's pockets as possible. That really increased the chance of being caught. That almost happened to me once. I was the throttleman and a forward non-qual was in the engine room studying a system. We were able to convince him the electrical operator was very good at teaching the system. The electric plant control panel is the furthest into maneuvering. This allowed me to flank the non-qual under the guise of providing useful information. The electrical operator occupied the man's attention while I did the deed. I had just filled his right back pocket when the non-qual stepped back and bumped into a radiation monitor. He felt the wetness and then saw the radiation sign. The look on his face was sheer terror. We asked him if he touched the radiation monitor and all he could do was nod his head yes. Fortunately for us, he did not understand the monitor could not contaminate him. We had him put on bright yellow anti-contamination clothing. Then we sent him for radiological decontamination.

I laughed to myself. The engineering officer of the watch, Mr. Hawthorne, let us pull off the ruse. He was as amused as we were. Besides, the non-qual was not in jeopardy. Understanding all aspects of the submarine or having to pay the consequence is part of submarine culture. We felt he was taught a valuable lesson.

Mr. Hawthorne's behavior during this bit of fun inspired additional respect for him. Although exceptionally competent, he was very youthful-looking and had earned the nickname of Baby Bobby.

Nicknames were commonplace. Any anomaly associated with body shape, physical characteristics, mannerisms, or attitude would inspire a nickname. Some were benign. Greg Metzgus is from California and good-looking, so we called him Hollywood. My best friend on the boat, Bob Southerland, has red hair. We nicknamed him Red. Another man is Payload, because he is really a hard worker. An additional category is a nonsensical play on a person's name. Rich Treptow became Tree Toad. Some are derogatory. One of our heavier electricians is Hogbody. Another guy, who is Italian and gets easily seasick, earned the moniker Green Ginny.

Anyone acquiring a nickname has to accept it. He does not have a choice in the matter. How someone reacts is the most important. If the sailor embraces the name, there's hope of acceptance. Guys called me Eaglebeak. Up to that point in my life, I'd always been self-conscious about my oversized snout. Initially I really hated the nickname. Regardless of how much it originally hurt, I refused to display my feelings and accepted my fate. There was an upside. I learned that attitude is more important than any self-perceived physical fault.

I rolled over in the bed. The action sent a wave of sweet-scented clean bedding up my nose. I inhaled deeply. Compared to upper level engine room's harsh steamy smell and lower level engine room's distinct lubricating-oil aroma, it was like breathing in Heaven. There was one favorite smell when I was on the submarine. Occasionally, one of our cooks made donuts. They were just like my mom's. Their scent was heavenly. When he cooked them, the
Clay
's ventilation system distributed their fragrance throughout the boat. The engine room was one of the first places it reached. We were mesmerized by the thought of eating them and couldn't wait to get off watch.

I awoke the next morning refreshed. The rest of the week flew by. I filled it with regaling my family with stories of our submarine exploits, having fun, and mostly relaxing.

The restful visit with my family ended with them seeing me off at the airport. In contrast to the day I arrived, it was cold and overcast. Snowflakes fluttered in the air.

The destination awaiting me tempered the sadness of the emotional farewell. My clothing was a reminder that I was heading to a tropical paradise. The standard Navy dress white uniform with short sleeves did not afford much protection from the bitter winter elements. At least it didn't have that submarine smell. Several trips through the washing machine had removed it. Mom, bless her heart, insisted I wear one of Dad's winter coats, even though it was a couple sizes too large. I was grateful. Without the garment, the walk to the terminal would've been miserable.

When it was time to board the plane, I handed the coat to Mom and winked. We hugged.

Dad and I exchanged a warm hearty handshake.

Curt, in transition between boy and man, acted as if he wanted to hug, but stood awkwardly off to the side, waved, and simply said, “Bye, Ted.”

My sister couldn't contain herself and ran to me. She wrapped her arms around my waist like a vise. With a tear-streaked face, she sobbed, “I wish you could stay.”

I tousled her hair and reciprocated the hug. Fighting back my emotions, I said, “Hey, if I don't go, how am I going to find exotic sea shells for you in Hawaii and Guam?”

Teary-eyed, she relaxed her grip. I maintained my composure by quickly exiting the building.

A snow squall was in progress. Glancing to my right, I saw the crocuses, which were reaching for the sun when I arrived, were now drooping as flakes accumulated. It was eerie how the flowers mimicked my mood on my arrival and while leaving my family.

Yes, I was continuing my adventure. Unfortunately, the emotions stirring inside me proved what price I had to pay.

As I walked briskly to the plane, goose bumps coated my bare skin. Clouds of condensation formed with every exhalation. I scrunched my shoulders against the chill. At least I would not have to endure these conditions in Hawaii.

My uniform made me stand out like a sore thumb on the plane. A stewardess led me to my seat. To my surprise, it was in first class. That was one of the perks of flying military standby. The airline assigned me whatever seat that was available. The downside of flying at half price was taking the chance that the flight did not have any available seats and I would have to wait for another plane. I was the only one in military attire. Most of the passengers ignored me. Across the aisle were a couple of young men with unkempt shoulder-length hair. They shot me dirty looks.

I wanted to say, “Excuse me, your immaturity is showing.”

I refrained. Even though they had to come from well-to-do families, they were not worthy of a retort. I flew military standby because I could not afford to fly full price. My monthly pay was $450. That included $12 of sea pay and $75 for submarine duty. When on patrol, submarine sailors were constantly on duty. Even sleeping crewmen had to wake up and respond to casualties and battle stations. Given those circumstances, my $450 equated to $0.625 an hour, even on Christmas.

Besides, I did not care what these privileged, haughty young men thought. Those who knew and cared about me understood my sacrifices and the dangers I endured. They also realized that I was maintaining the freedoms enjoyed by everyone in the USA. My family and friends were the people who mattered. I hoped the rude fellows would eventually understand. Maybe not. I patted my Dolphins and patrol pin. They were physical reminders of my contribution to maintaining American's freedoms. I felt good about myself.

By the time the plane arrived in Hawaii, the sadness of leaving my family was waning. Replacing it was the excitement of being on the island of Oahu. A view out the aircraft's window revealed a lush green island sprinkled with houses. The mighty metropolis of Honolulu loomed in the distance.

While I was exiting the plane at Honolulu International Airport, heat rising from the tarmac engulfed me. I stopped for a moment. Compared to the weather back in Hickory, it felt like an oven. My discomfort quickly passed. This was Hawaii. What was there to complain about? A breeze swept over me. I basked in the warmth. Goldilocks came to mind. The weather in Hickory this time of year was too cold. The engine room of the
Clay
was too hot. This was just right.

After entering the terminal, I located a pay phone. I placed a call to the Honolulu apartment where I would live with Southerland, Tommy Lee Connell, and Joel McCann. They'd already moved in. I didn't have a key and needed to ensure someone could let me in.

Southerland answered the phone. After verifying I knew the directions, he assured me he would be waiting.

A taxi transported me to the building on Atkinson Boulevard. Exiting the vehicle, I retrieved my Navy issue sea bag and small handbag from the trunk. Hefting the larger one onto my shoulder, I excitedly walked to the building's front door.

After a short walk, I was at the elevator. I pushed the button for the tenth floor. When its door opened, apartment 1007 lay ahead. I knocked. After a short wait, the door opened; Southerland greeted me and grabbed my big bag.

I followed him down a short hallway. We entered the living room. I saw a couch directly in front of us. It was facing to my left. On it was Connell. He was lying on his back, fast asleep. An open
Sports Illustrated
was face-down on his slowly heaving chest. He looked too peaceful to disturb.

I gave Southerland a what-is-up-with-him expression.

He explained how they named it the magnetic couch. It was Connell's typical spot. It had a captivating power over him. Just about every time he walked past the couch, it attracted him like a magnet. Once Connell sat down, the progression was inevitable. He would pick up something to read. Then he'd recline, with his feet propped on the couch's back. Finally, gravity exerted its force on his eyelids and what I saw was the result.

We turned and left and I followed him past the kitchen, which was to our left.

As we walked, he extolled the virtues of the apartment's location. I looked through the glass door ahead of us, and beyond the dining room table was the Pacific Ocean. Through the sliding glass door on the adjacent wall to my right, I could see a huge building covered with room upon room. It was on the opposite side of the street. Southerland said it was the Ala Moana Hotel.

While I was gawking at the sights, I wondered how long I could stay in this wonderful apartment. The Navy was supposed to transfer me off the
Clay
before the next patrol. I'd live here as long as possible. Maybe the Navy would send me to a submarine home-ported in Pearl and I'd be able to continue living here. The Navy was always looking to cut costs.

He led me to a bedroom on the ocean side of the apartment. The carpeted room had a double bed, two dressers, and one closet. I wandered to the glass door and gazed out.

This was certainly nicer than berthing on the boat.

I slid the door open. We stepped onto the balcony. Southerland informed me that the Hawaiian term for balcony was lanai. Being on the tenth floor gave us an excellent view of the Pacific Ocean and Ala Wai Yacht Harbor. The height muted the sounds of the busy city streets.

We exchanged glances. Filling his face was a wide grin.

“Not bad, huh?” he remarked, and added, “This pad's in a terrific location. The hotel across the street has a great nightclub: the Hawaiian Hut. We can walk there and stagger back.”

He filled me in on some other facts. On the other side of the hotel was the Ala Moana Shopping Center. Between the hotel and yacht club was Ala Moana Park. We could walk to the beach in about five minutes. A tall building to the left was the Ilikai Hotel. It was right on Waikiki beach. Jack Lord, the star of the TV show
Hawaii Five–0
, lived in the penthouse.

I could hardly believe a country bumpkin like me was living in a high-rise Waikiki apartment. I wasn't going to think about transferring off the
Clay
. There were still almost three weeks of R & R to enjoy. I'd make the most of it while it lasted.