It was on a bitter, cold and snowy day in early January we left the all too familiar Port of Norfolk, Virginia bound for Miami, Florida. It was the storm of the century, and throughout Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia it was to wreak havoc in the form of power outages. It was this day, though, that stands out in my mind. I can vividly recall the Navy p-coat and watch cap I was wearing that day, as I hurriedly trudged through the knee high, new-fallen snow. With my collar rolled up, and a fresh unauthorized beard to boot, I must have been the quintessential poster-boy for a sailor from a bygone era. My ship’s whistle was blowing, as it prepared to get underway, my only concern at that time was not being left behind. Thankfully, I made my arduous journey in just enough time to be the last man to make it aboard.
Not long after leaving that depressing port of concrete and water, I could only reflect on why I hadn’t gotten a ship in Mayport, Florida or San Diego, California. Looking back, it was just the sort of worries that goes with the rank. It was the familiar rocking of the ship as we approached the Gulf Stream that brought me back to the present, as the ocean ceased to be my reflecting pool. It was back to the duties at hand, and for now I was about to go on watch. My job was a Quartermaster on a destroyer. Unlike in the Army where the acronym QM entails the distribution of clothing, in the Navy we followed in the ancient legacy as one of the oldest jobs on a ship; that of Navigator, but that designation was reserved for our Navigation Department Officer, who we just called “Nav.” One of the more basic rules of our trade was to never use the word map, as it was always referred to as a chart. We advised Captain Pandolfe on our weather predictions, and plotted with compasses the safest course to take. We plotted by celestial and the GPS or Global Positioning Satellite as well. I think it was this convenience that most distinguished us from the Quartermasters of old. Besides that, the job had changed very little in hundreds of years.
It was back to work, and we were soon to approach the Old Chesapeake Light, which I used to call “Old Chez.” It being a very large water-bowie, for years it has been the first sight of home for many a returning sailor. On a clear day, and upon first glance through binoculars, it almost looks like you’re looking at a deer through a rifle scope, with its’ steel legs supporting its’ slender body. Out there it stood solitaire and lonesome, yet sturdy and confident against the vastness of the Atlantic.
The ocean to me held peacefulness, that is, something man had failed to influence or conquer. I can remember waking at sunup and watching the whales with their calves roll effortlessly against the swells from our ship, as they were often known to follow along the bow. You could sometimes feel the occasional thud, as a whale would collide with the boat. Surprisingly, no damage done to the whale, for you could watch her swim away as though untouched.
As we crossed the invisible oceanic boundary line between Virginia and North Carolina, you could suddenly feel the air warm several degrees because of the outer curve of the Gulf Stream. The water increasingly became a beautiful turquoise, mixed with seaweed floating here and there in the ocean calm. Schools of dolphins by the dozens escorted us into port, and a beautiful sight it was after so many days floating around in the middle of the Atlantic. After my naval experience, entering a city from port is the only way to go. As you approach by land, the sights and smells grow stronger and stronger, with people greeting you from the shore. It truly is a warm welcome unlike any other. The time I had that day in Miami is a book of its’ own.
The ocean’s mood is ever changing. The vulnerability and isolation one feels in the middle of the ocean, I suppose is overwhelming to some, but to me weeks ran together as if only a few days. To me it holds some of the more bitter-sweet memories of my life and they are never to be forgotten
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