Oh, A Submarine!

Oh, a submarine!

THE BUS FROM Hickam AFB deposited me and my seabag at NAS Barbers Point (a bit Ewa of Pearl Harbor) in early January 1960, less than five months after Hawaii became the 50th star on the US flag. I was stationed there until November 1961, when I was transferred to NAAS New Iberia, Louisiana.

I must confess that I wasn't sad to leave the island paradise. It wasn't the most hospitable place for a young haole sailor with limited spending money, and it always bugged me that I couldn't travel more than half an hour in any direction without running into the ocean—I was accustomed to wide-open spaces (cue Don't Fence Me In). We called it Rock Fever.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the place, Hawaii gave me some memorable experiences. Item: One June Saturday morning at the chow hall about half-way through my first year there, a Second Class from Tyler, Texas (Pete something) who'd been there a couple of years, asked me if I'd heard about co-ed season. I could almost hear the echo chamber when he said Co-Ed Season.

No, I said, but it sounds interesting. He explained that every summer, college girls—not women, this was 1960, remember—would come from the mainland to UH for summer school, surfing, sunbathing, and socialization; further, they were eager to meet young men similarly inclined. When he asked if I wanted to join him that afternoon on a visit to the women's dorm, I didn't even bother to feign uncertainty.

He had a '49 Chevy convertible, which wasn't exactly a chick magnet but great for cruising up the Manoa Valley (even when it was raining; somehow the rains that came at least a dozen times a day didn't seem to get you wet). Rest assured, he told me, all we have to do is show up and choose our companions.

We marched—not really, we strolled, affecting insouciance—and he headed us for the vacant ping-pong table. We started playing, and within 5 minutes at least a dozen young ladies had gathered around to watch. I couldn't believe it. Being much older and more experienced than I (he must have been at least 25 or 26), he cut a tall young lady (for him) and a short one from the herd and asked if they'd like to go for a ride and see some of the sights of Honolulu.

I winced at such a cheesy line, but they eagerly agreed and off we went. After cruising around Honolulu for half an hour or so, the tall one said her father had been stationed at Pearl Harbor during WW2 and could we go there? Well sure, except there was a problem: Pete and I had changed into jeans, and they were verboten off the base for enlisted pukes. Officers could slum around in denim, but we had to wear khakis or slacks or Bermuda shorts (never cutoff jeans, of course), so we were out of uniform. Oh well, in for a dime...

The Marine gate guard at Pearl waved us through thanks to the Barbers Point sticker on the bumper. Pete and I hid our sighs of relief, little knowing that much greater tension lay ahead. The young lady sitting with me in the back seat (Cordelia Ophelia Grantham, of the Tulsa Granthams, whose Daddy was in the oil bidness) asked if we could drive down to see the ships. Sure, sez our chauffeur, Pete, and we headed that way. A few ships were anchored out a ways, but unfortunately the only vessel actually tied up alongside the wharf was USS Blackfin, a WW2 fleet sub. A young sailor was standing deck watch about 30' away.

"Oh, a submarine!" the girls exclaimed. "Do you suppose we could see it?" They may have fluttered their eyelashes. Oy vey! We certainly wanted to impress these young ladies, but Jeez...

Pete, being the ranking enlisted aboard, "suggested" I go ask the nice young man if these two young ladies could walk around the boat. I couldn't respond the way I wanted to (extending at least one middle finger). I couldn't think of a way to decline without looking like a dope, so I got out, walked to the edge of the wharf, catching the attention of the deck watch. He walked over opposite me and said "Can I help you, sir?"

Oh shit! Blue-water sailors had the same clothing restrictions as airedales, and since I was wearing jeans he assumed we were officers, not out-of-uniform enlisted. Wondering whether I was headed for Captain's Mast or Court Martial, I replied that the young ladies would like to tour the boat (at least I knew it was a boat, not a ship) but I was pretty sure that wasn't possible (hope hope hope).

"Just a moment, sir, I'll ask the OOD." He disappeared down a hatch. Shit shit shit!

A couple of minutes later he pops up, trailed by an Ensign who looked even younger than my 20 years. For a moment I was afraid he was going to salute, but he just apologized(!) and said the starboard liberty crew was getting ready to hit the beach after a two-and-a-half month deployment and might not be ready for inspection. When he concluded with "sir" I panicked even more (can you say "Impersonating an officer?"), even though it looked like he was fighting a smile.

Well, hell. I just knew we were destined for some sort of less-than-honorable discharge, but there was no way out. I waved Pete and the young ladies over to the gangway. Pete was savvy enough to request permission to come aboard and acknowledge the ensign (the flag, not the OOD) flying astern without saluting (we weren't covered). I'm pretty sure my pulse was at least 150 and my bp near stroke territory, but managed to offer a supporting elbow to Cordelia as we negotiated our way aboard and aft on the deck to an open hatch.

Those hatches aren't very big around and the ladder's pretty skinny, but the OOD plunged down (the show off). I followed him much more slowly and carefully (which was excusable, I wasn't a real sailor, just an airedale). The ladder led down into the forward engine room, so it wasn't spotless.

At this point I should describe the scene: a Machinist's Mate (not sure what rank, no insignias on his greasy T-shirt) was lying on his back attending to the V-16, holding a huge spanner and grinning from ear to ear. Ophelia was gingerly descending the ladder wearing fairly modest Bermuda shorts that were nonetheless clinging to her cute little derriere, displaying her nice legs. She was followed by the taller girl (can't dredge up her name) whose short shorts were fairly tight, her nice legs much longer. She seemed to be a bit uncertain and took longer to negotiate the ladder. No one complained.

The OOD rattled off his pitch about the engines and herded us through the aft engine room, where we waited as he preceded us into the aft torpedo room, then waved us on in. Oh my. Turns out some of the crew shared sleeping quarters with some of the boat's complement of torpedoes. The sailors' narrow racks were along both bulkheads, between the long, skinny underwater bombs. I resolved never again to complain about my standard-width bunk in a cubicle with five other sailors.

The starboard liberty crew were indeed getting ready to hit the beach. The young Ensign had gone before us to make sure that none was in his skivvies (or less); most of them were in white bell-bottoms and T-shirt, hadn't yet put on their jumpers or neckerchiefs (it was pretty warm). A few were still shaving or touching up the shine on their shoes.

Without exception they were very attentive, but thanks to the presence of an officer they refrained from any vocal or obvious visual appreciation of their winsome young visitors. I later learned that the "deployment" had nothing to do with the Cold War, but was an extended PR tour of Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, and Victoria.

After a (probably abbreviated) discourse on torpedoes and torpedo tubes, our guide led us back through the engine rooms and into the galley. It consisted of a range, reefer, and picnic-table sort of seating that could accommodate maybe 10 (the boat's complement was 8 officers and 71 enlisted). The whole compartment couldn't have been more than 10x18, or even less. Officers and Chief Petty Officers rated separate messes.

The OOD had seemed to be struggling to hide a grin as we hauled ass through a pig boat full of horny sailors. He apologized that were weren't allowed in the control room, and told us that further forward were quarters for officers and Chief Petty Officers, and the forward torpedo room. We then returned to the forward engine room and ascended the ladder to fresh air and sunshine.

Oddly enough, this time there were three grinning sailors lying on their back attending to the engine. And our departure.

After a bit more driving about Honolulu, we went back up the Manoa Valley to return the damsels to their quarters. Pete didn't follow up with the tall young lady; though I had no car, thanks to buses I managed to see Cordelia a few more times. All that ever came of it was sitting and visiting in the girls' dorm lounge (remember, the norm then was in loco parentis) or sharing a Coke on the patio of the student union.

(It was always interesting to watch a small rain cloud form at the top of the valley, grow somewhat larger, then move down across the campus toward the ocean—"mauka showers drifting makai". The rain showers never amounted to more than a heavy mist, so we never had to dash inside.)

That was the first, last, and only time I set foot on a naval vessel, but even after 60 years I remember it quite clearly. I think fear has a lot more to do with my powers of recollection than lust, although I still sometimes wonder what happened to that young lady from Tulsa.