After a long, distinguished, career, my first ship, USS Oriskany, was eventually retired and stripped to the bare bulkheads and hull, then towed out to sea to be sunk as an artficial reef. Always kinda wished I could have been a member of that final crew.
Imagine a 19 year old Sailor (me) in early June, 1967, less than a year off the farm...fresh and new and just off the bus from boot camp and Navy Radioman school, standing on the pier looking up at this HUGE aircraft carrier in all it's intimidating glory. Then imagine my feelings nearly 50 years later as she was towed to sea for her final voyage...putting to sea, or as a sailor would say...."underway" for the last time. This is a true story.... mostly.
An early morn departure then
her final time to sea.
I’m lost for words to tell you, mate,
just what that means to me.
She wasn’t mother, wasn’t home,
she was a thing to fear
the first time that I saw her from
that Alameda pier.
The likes of Halsey, Doolittle,
had graced the concrete where
I stood in indecision, scared...
half witless with despair.
Though near to fifty years have passed
I can recall it still
as if it happened yesterday.
It took near all my will
to climb the brow, to step aboard
and face that grizzled chief
who took my papers, sized me up
and offered no relief.
“Hold on a minute son, stand fast...
we'll sort this here sh** out”
“I’ll call the watch in radio.
Does Mom know you're about?”
“Come down and get his a**”, he yelled
into the duty phone,
“Ya better hurry, mate, he's much
to young to be alone.”
A Chief was near to God above
to this, my younger self,
but I’d survive, report aboard
and find my rack, a shelf
up near the metal overhead,
with fondness, I recall--
I slept in Sailor heaven twixt
a steam pipe and a wall.
A “bulkhead”, not a wall, I know,
at least I know it now.
I learned this fact and others but
don’t ask me when or how.
The days turned into weeks and years
and salty sailor tales
in ports of call I can’t recall--
or won’t. It never fails
to fill me with amazement that
the lad who felt that grief
would don a khaki suit one day
and be, himself, a Chief.
But I digress, I lose my point,
I only meant to say
I’d give my all, my broken heart,
to join her-- underway.
her final time to sea.
I’m lost for words to tell you, mate,
just what that means to me.
She wasn’t mother, wasn’t home,
she was a thing to fear
the first time that I saw her from
that Alameda pier.
The likes of Halsey, Doolittle,
had graced the concrete where
I stood in indecision, scared...
half witless with despair.
Though near to fifty years have passed
I can recall it still
as if it happened yesterday.
It took near all my will
to climb the brow, to step aboard
and face that grizzled chief
who took my papers, sized me up
and offered no relief.
“Hold on a minute son, stand fast...
we'll sort this here sh** out”
“I’ll call the watch in radio.
Does Mom know you're about?”
“Come down and get his a**”, he yelled
into the duty phone,
“Ya better hurry, mate, he's much
to young to be alone.”
A Chief was near to God above
to this, my younger self,
but I’d survive, report aboard
and find my rack, a shelf
up near the metal overhead,
with fondness, I recall--
I slept in Sailor heaven twixt
a steam pipe and a wall.
A “bulkhead”, not a wall, I know,
at least I know it now.
I learned this fact and others but
don’t ask me when or how.
The days turned into weeks and years
and salty sailor tales
in ports of call I can’t recall--
or won’t. It never fails
to fill me with amazement that
the lad who felt that grief
would don a khaki suit one day
and be, himself, a Chief.
But I digress, I lose my point,
I only meant to say
I’d give my all, my broken heart,
to join her-- underway.