I do Regret My Profound Stupidity. “The She Marine” And Yes, I Am Painfully Aware: I’m An Idiot Moron. No Need To Verbalize it–Beat Me Over The Head With It. Fuk U Word-De-Pressed

I am struggling, struggling, to catch up.
To Catch up With My Life.
It seems to be running away from me.

As Fast as it can,

Not Un-Like A Scalded Rabbit

***

I still love her And Always Respect Her

Unlike…

Not too pretty

But a beautiful smile…

“Outside the sun is up

And the wind blows me like a paper cup

Down the Highway”

***

Hazel eyes…

I still love her

August 26, 2021

From my recent posts on facefuck:

I have been asleep for the past eight hours. I am scrambling to catch up. Marines are dead? WTF has happened?

Marines are dead? What happened? Sailors (Me) and Marines (them) oil and water. But Gd’damn it! Brothers/ sisters in arms. Fuck happened? I am struggling to catch up.

Transcribed from a Facebook IM Chat session I recently had with my best (perhaps only) Friend:

Talking to you about Great Mistakes Naval Training Center reminded of a pleasant memory…

Of A Woman—I know—difficult to fathom while listening to all my other ‘Sea-Stories’, but this one is a ‘no-shitter.’ Just trust me.

There were no less than two-thousand sailors stationed at Great Mistakes… but only one Marine: a beautiful young She-Marine.

She stood out!

Far From The Madding Crowd!

Easy to spot from half a clik away—she wore camouflaged fatigues.

Now, you can only begin to understand the fascination this young She-Marine held for the rest of us…

(I may need to write more on her Odyssey. She was the quintessential elusive butterfly—two thousand sailors just wanted to get close enough to speak to her—during the six months she was there—I hope she landed well)

To my knowledge, no one ever got close enough to discover her name; we just always called her “The Marine.”

No one, and I mean no ONE, ever accosted her.

For if someone ever had, that moment would have been his last.

For you see, we were all very protective of her.

And she was protected.

Very well protected, even if she didn’t know it.

(Turns out, she finally did–come to know it–thanks to a moron.

Which moron?

I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re only gonna need one)

None of us harbored any vain fantasies regarding her.

She had become everyone’s…

To respect and keep safe & sound & sheltered…

From an always respectful distance.

****

On my very last morning at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, before I was to muster out and ship off to San Diego/Coronado for BUD/s – SEAL training, I found myself in the Chow Hall for one last ‘delicious’ Navy Breakfast.

If memory serves it was about 0630 hrs.

I went through the cow, er.. Chow- Line, grabbed a cuppa Joe, or Fred, or Jane—don’t matter—it all tasted the same.

Walking about, looking for a table, I spied MS Marine, seated all alone, laconically, rather absent mindedly, stirring her scrambled, powdered eggs (a Navy delicacy).

I Thought, ‘What the hell?’

Walked over to her table and asked, “May I join you?”

She looked up and said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*****

Now, please allow me to explain something.

At this point in my life, I had already been around the world.

I had seen, loved, and un-loved more women than it may be prudent for me to admit.

But this one, this Lady Marine—actually not much more than a girl—full of hope and promise, was not terribly beautiful, but she had that ‘certain charme’ –en Francais.

Kinda semi-short blonde locks, ‘bout five foot nothin’, wonderful blue eyes, and she smiled at me.

She smiled at me!

****

I took a seat across from her, set my tray down, extended my hand and said,

“My name’s Lance.”

She took my hand, smiled again and said, “My name’s Mandy.”

(Of course it is, I thought—fits my ‘Mandy’ Profile—see my ‘Mandy Post’ for read –more-about-it-info)

“Nice to meet Y’all Mandy”

Yeah, I like to dazzle ‘em with my Texan-ness—My only claim to fame.

I continued, “Mandy, pardon me for being so bold, but I am compelled to ask you something, if I may.”

She picked up her coffee and said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

“First of all, you do realize you are unique here, yes?”

“Not sure I get your meaning,” she replied.  “I am not the only female stationed here.”

“This is true Mandy, but you are the only Female Marine stationed here.”

“You said you had a question?”

“Uh, yes…” (I could tell ‘The Corps’ had already installed into her a very good, state-of-the-art, ‘Bullshit Detector’—and little patience for doe-eyed Sailors)

“Uh…yeah. I… just, it seems… uh, it seems you are a bit ‘down’. Why?”

She looked me dead in my eyes, and as any good, steely-eyed Marine would, with nothing to fear said,

“You said I was unique here. I concur. I am. I am ‘unique’ in the fact that none of the men ever talk to me here—for six months—I am a normal girl. Nothing wrong with me. I see the sailors talking to all the female Navy Corpsmen Students. Laughing, carrying on. Yet I am left alone. Why?”

This is when I realized that by worshiping this young girl from the distances, we had done her an unkindness, or worse.

I tried, poorly, to explain how all that had happened.

She glared at me, briefly. Then I caught a trace of tears in her eyes.

She picked up her coffee once again, took a sip, set it down, abruptly stood up, grabbed her tray and said,

“Thank you for telling me Lance, but you should’ve told me months ago. Good luck with your Naval career. Oh, and by the way, I noticed you many times. You seemed to be a leader, with some maturity. I often wondered if you would ever come and speak to me. Guess you were never in a hurry to do so.”

I stared at her back as she was walking away.

And I was suddenly saddened.

We, all of us, had done this wonderful young woman a horrible disservice.

To this day, I still remember her lovely face and her brief smile at me.

And the way she carried herself so well.

And her piercing parting words as she disappeared forever,

Except from my memory.

*****

There must be a lesson somewhere to be learned here.

******

This could’ve been my fulfilled vain fantasy.

With Mandy-the-Marine

If I had just opened my eyes.

For a moment.

***********

Doesn’t really fit my narrative.

But it could.

If we had hooked up.

****

Flash forward ten years:

She still young at heart and still a Marine.

Me, older, not still a Sailor. And boring to her.

Linda, “Hasten Down The Wind”

**********************

Addendum, final thoughts,

and…

Bonus ‘Added Value’:

First, I love MY Country.

Second, I was honored to Serve My Country

Third, Even though Marines & Sailors mix like oil and water, there is a mutual respect shared there.

Fourth, I never let any Marine I ever met forget that the USMC ‘works’ for the U.S. Navy.

(Got my ass kicked more than a few times for relating that paralyzed fact)

Go Navy!

Beat Army!

“Hey Jarhead! Fetch me a water!

With true Marine efficiency, I got three, count ’em, three bottles of water immediately bounced off my dome ever’ time I said that.

(And from three different directions!)

But, I’d keep sayin’ that!

“Uh… If I Keep[ Re-Posting Shit It Is Becase I Am Drunk And I Want People To Read It. Different—

Anybody Got A Match?

Same Title. I Have No Creative Writing Skills…Sorry, Anybody Got A Match?” Oh FU WordPress. I Give Up On The Editing Process. You Win!Yeah, I got a match:
Bogie and Bacall.


Bertie Higgins – “Key Largo”

“We had it all”

Then I Promptly Fu*ked It UP

Could be rightly said of ALL My Relationships with Women I Have Loved & Lost

I have ‘swerved’ once more into my love of Lauren ‘Bacal’ (Jewish spelling of her name before Hollywood COERCED her into changing it) and Bogie whirlwind of late.

****

Lauren Bacall, who died Tuesday (Aug. 12) at 89, had mixed feelings about her Jewishness. In “By Myself,” her autobiography, (Which I have read, cover to cover–twice)) she wrote that she “felt totally Jewish and always would,” yet chided herself for not being more open about her Jewish identity.

Below, five facts about Lauren Bacall’s Jewish life and — in her own words — how she felt to be Jewish:She was born Betty Joan Perske.

Bacall was born in Brooklyn to a Jewish family, but her Jewish-sounding name just wouldn’t cut it in the Hollywood of the 1940s and ‘50s. She changed it to a version of her mother’s family name, Weinstein-Bacal.

“It was a period when people believed that you demonstrated your Americanization by Americanizing your name, and very frequently, Americanizing your nose,” said Jonathan Sarna, professor of American Jewish history at Brandeis University.

“She did not hide the fact that she had these Jewish origins, but it was expected in Hollywood at the time that you would have an American name and persona,” he added.

***

Fun Fact:

I once wrote a term paper for the head of the English Department at ETSU. Unbeknownst to me, he was writing an autobiography on Humphrey Bogart at the time. Had I known this, I most probably would not have written my term paper on Bogie and Becall.

But then again, I probably would have anyhow….

And I received an A++ on my paper.

My Prof loved it.

It was a great paper.

Took me 45 minutes to write.

That is how I ‘rolled’ back then.

Always waited until the very last ‘minuet…’

***

Video credit: HollywoodClassics33 Returns

Great article. link below:

***

Just For Some “Further Reference:”

https://www.biography.com/news/humphrey-bogart-lauren-bacall-relationship-marriage?fbclid=IwAR29mwY13msWcV5Sa5zof3mvbl-Lopb1AbsIYVx_QBGWABi5ItfIV1oGapYhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7uy9R3ukJ64

I Have Offically Lost My Mind. But I Found it. FOUND IT! “How Little They Know”

Ferret’d Away Under My Mattress. HAHAHA! Older Version, But Who Gives A Flyin’ Fuk At This Point? This Begs A ‘Re-Look’ “Anybody got a Match?” A Lit Match To Torch This Stupid Post

Bertie Higgins – “Key Largo” 

I Had It All, But As Usual, I Somehow

Managed To

Fuck Things Up

Lauren Bacal

So Stunningly Drop-Dead Beautiful

“Anybody got a match?”
Yeah, I got a match:
Bogie and Bacall.

I have ‘swerved’ once more into Lauren ‘Bacal’ (Jewish spelling of her name before Hollywood COERCED her into changing it) and Bogie whirlwind of late.

****

Lauren Bacall, who died Tuesday (Aug. 12) at 89, had mixed feelings about her Jewishness. In “By Myself,” her autobiography, (Which I have read, cover to cover–twice)) she wrote that she “felt totally Jewish and always would,” yet chided herself for not being more open about her Jewish identity.

Below, five facts about Lauren Bacall’s Jewish life and — in her own words — how she felt to be Jewish:She was born Betty Joan Perske.

Bacall was born in Brooklyn to a Jewish family, but her Jewish-sounding name just wouldn’t cut it in the Hollywood of the 1940s and ‘50s. She changed it to a version of her mother’s family name, Weinstein-Bacal.

“It was a period when people believed that you demonstrated your Americanization by Americanizing your name, and very frequently, Americanizing your nose,” said Jonathan Sarna, professor of American Jewish history at Brandeis University.

“She did not hide the fact that she had these Jewish origins, but it was expected in Hollywood at the time that you would have an American name and persona,” he added.

***

Fun Fact:

I once wrote a term paper for the head of the English Department at ETSU. Unbeknownst to me, he was writing an autobiography on Humphrey Bogart at the time. Had I known this, I most probably would not have written my term paper on Bogie and Becall.

But then again, I probably would have anyhow….

And I received an A++ on my paper.

My Prof loved it. Probably ’cause he was a Russian Jew.

Or Maybe not.

It was a great paper.

And he loved it.

(Of course I was drunk when I wrote it)

Took me all of 45 minutes to write.

That is how I ‘rolled’ back then.

Always waited until the very last ‘minuet…’

Bogie was forty-five when he met Bacal.

She was nineteen.

Perhaps there is hope for me yet…

Bogie an’ Baby

If there is just one thing the Navy taught me, it is this:

“No never means no”

“Nothing is ‘written’.”

This is how I got back into SEAL training when I was two years too old…

***

Oh

My

God!

She was/is beautiful!

***

One last ‘fun fact.’

In her book, Lauren described how she came up with

“The Look.”

She recounted of how she was so nervous…

when she played along side Bogie, she had to keep her chin tucked into her chest to keep from shaking uncontrollably.

She also tells the story of how the director, Howard Hawks told her she would have to sing in the movie.

She was mortified.

Lauren cannot sing.

She knew this.

But she did it anyway…

It was in the script.

And she was charming.

***

Video credit: HollywoodClassics33 Returns

Anybody Got A Match?

Great article. link below:

https://www.biography.com/news/humphrey-bogart-lauren-bacall-relationship-marriage?fbclid=IwAR29mwY13msWcV5Sa5zof3mvbl-Lopb1AbsIYVx_QBGWABi5ItfIV1oGapY

Must watch this below.

It relates!

Here is a clue

And some Nickles:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7uy9R3ukJ64

***

Had to Add:

Street Cred for Vid: Somewheremaybe

I Cannot B’Leave I Re-Run. Yes, I Am Drunk. Next Question. “How Do You Hold A Moonbeam In Your Hand?” Here’s a Clue: You Cannot.

wrote This Buu-

shite-It is a Goddamn Pity-Party!

I still miss her.

“Maria” (And some guy)

Madelyn & Me!

Me & Madelyn!

On-The-Stage!

Stars!

She & Me!

Me & She!

We had to share The Spotlight, but

“The Play”

Was always about

HER

Not Me

As it should be.

*******

She ‘Maria’ to My ‘Cap’n Von Trapp’

“Sound of Music” HS Play: Circa 1975

(Every so often, Script demanded we ‘kiss’—We never did during rehearsals.)

During one rehearsal, when the script DEMANDED a kiss, and RIGHT NOW!

We didn’t. We did not kiss.

Some fellow ‘actor’ shouted, “Hey! Y’all didn’t do the kiss! How are Y’all gonna do a believable kiss on stage if you don’t rehearse?

Madelyn didn’t miss a beat and coolly replied,

“We rehearse our kisses every night.

When we are at home.

Alone.

So don’t worry.”

Opening night, we kissed, not unlike two horny teens. It was painful. (For her. Not for me! I had been waiting for years to kiss her!)

And right before we kissed, live on stage, in front of about three hundred audience, she whispered to me,

“You better not slip me no tongue.”

So… guess what I did?

Yep.

C’est Française, n’est-ce-pas?

She was NOT Amused, but she pulled it off, non·plussed

As if nothing untoward had just happened.

*********

OK. I am sober now. Slept off my drunk.

Easy.

I have Slept Off thousands of drunks in my day.

Got that routine down pat.

Could not sleep off my sorrow over losing my

MY

My Dear Madelyn:

New unchartered waters for me.

Never have I lost a sister.

My heart is broke, but this is not gonna be about me.

Lord knows I write too much about me and my narcissism.

This is about My Sister, My Madelyn.

My intent is to write and write and write about her for the next few days until I run out of virtual ink in my virtual pen.

Some of you out there in ‘Radio Land’ knew her.

If you have any memories to share, now would be the time.

This may come across as ‘sick’ to you, read in the harsh light of present day:

But, if I am being honest with my feelings, I must write them.

Since Madelyn and I were not actually ‘blood relations’ there were more than a few times when we were tempted.

Tempted to be much more than step-brother and step-sister.

There for damn sure was a mutual physical and cerebral attraction.

But… we were ‘mature’ enough, even back then, mature enough to understand that we could not go there, however much we, at times, desperately wanted to.

We wanted to ‘go there.’

Oh My God!

How we wanted to ‘Go There’!

But We didn’t.

It would have been so easy.

We had the entire third floor of Marcom Manor to ourselves.

The parents were often gone for days at a time.

Leaving us to ‘fend’ for ourselves.

For the sake of ‘The Family’… we didn’t.

Go there.

We didn’t go there.

Some small part of me wishes we had.

But if we had, this would be quite a different post than the one I am writing right now.

Over all the years there were so many things I wanted to say to Madelyn, but shit always seemed to get in the way.

Now, my mind is racing with all those words left unsaid.

Never to be said, at least not in this place, this alone place I find me in.

I suppose I can just cast this one out into the ether:

“Madelyn, I love/loved you!”

But she cannot hear me now, can she?

“How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?”

********

This Song very well, and very accurately, describes Madelyn.

She was always a ‘Problem.’

But!

She was SO Fucking charming!

Could NEVER be angry at her.

Never!

Not for a moment!

She could melt / play you with a smile.

(And she knew this power she had)

And trust me Folks,

She wielded it.

With reckless abandon.

(Much to my chagrin at times)

I could never get away with shit.

Madelyn did.

Every day!

Every-Fucking-Time!

**********

I cannot continue this.

At this moment.

But I will come back.

And sooner than later

***********

Gretchen:

“Madelyn had a horse once: a cross between a Shetland pony and a Welsh mare. Now, I really don’t know much about horses and during that time I knew even less, but I really did want to play cowboy, so I decided to make friends with the local “real cowboy” and have him teach me how to ride this animal. I was about twelve going on thirteen at the time.

The problem with this horse was that it was a pet. Madelyn had talked my father into buying it for her not long after she and her mom moved in (I was not yet on the scene; was still living with my grandparents.

I suppose I arrived some months after the horse). Anyway, she soon lost interest in Gretchen (is that a proper horse name?) hence, she (Gretchen) never ever got ridden; (I cannot speak for Madelyn.) This will become important later in my story.”

***

Leroy:

First he was taken by Kim. Kim got bored with him and gave him to my step-sister Madelyn. She thought he was just the coolest thing ever!

For about three days…

His coolness factor having for her it seems, a very short half-life, I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse for her coon: Cash Money. Money’s coolness factor has no half-life. She was only too happy to surrender Leroy to my care for the tidy sum of thirty-five bucks. Quite tidy indeed to an unemployed High School girl in 1974.

********

My heart is broken.

I miss you Madelyn!

You were so much more than my sister.

I was so forever in love

With

You

With You

OK. Now I am Drunk again.

Seems I have come ‘Full-Circle.’

I am gonna stop fucking around with this post and just wallow in my grief.

I miss My Sis

Running in Soft Sand: SEAL Training Part Three. But Truthfully More Alternate Stuff (I’ll Write Another ‘Proper’ BUD/s Post Soon)

I actually know this meme-guy: he was an Instructor in BUD/s Class 158. I Know. I was there.

 

 

A BUD/s Instructor, i.e., a ‘Demigod’

 

Or…

Alternate Titles:

“Lance’s Ramblings from his 115th Dream Stream”

(Sorry Bob)

“Call me if they die.”

‘Semi Consciousness Streams of Conscientiousness’

 

Raining upon My Hit Parade’

‘Nights in White Satin’ – that one makes no sense. That is why I put it in.

Vid Cred: Redbaron863

Or, last and least perhaps: “I have become my Grandfather, or How I became Andy Rooney in One Thousand Words or Less, an essay.”

Gentle Readers, it has not escaped my undying attention that I tend to lean heavily toward the overly-dramatic. The ‘trauma drama’ effect even. Call it a ‘crutch’ if you will.

Yep. Call it that.

This I do know. Therefore, I have (Through my magical powers derived from watching old re-runs of ‘Dragnet’—“Just the facts Ma’am. Just the facts.”—decided to ‘come on back down to Earth, Son’.

–Boz Scaggs: Lowdown)

My (solely appreciated) goal here is to present just ‘them’—just them facts.

I hope I am successful. For y’all’s sake.

When last we left our hero, he was leading his class to their first BUD/s workout. Well, you cannot really call it such: more like a medieval (‘I’m gonna get medieval on your ass’) torture session.

Whatever

 

Even at zero five (‘Zero Dark Thirty?), The Grinder was a hot, miserable place to be, especially NOT designed for yoga or even step-up aerobics, and / or certainly not Pilates. (Gay Pirates?) No. ‘Twas Wasn’t. There is a reason they (Navy) call it ‘The Grinder.” You go ahead and figure out the obvious.

But this day I do not wanna write about Those Lazy Crazy Hazy Days of Summer…

I want to write about this:

I think. I think I am. Therefore I am… I think.

–Moody Blues, With apologies to René Descartes

***

Now Y’all, much of that I wrote late last night. (Under Some Influence)

Didn’t publish. (Thank Baby Hey Zeus). But I woke up this morning

(Praise be to Allah—Ah Ha!) And you, yes you! (My Human Friends) were on my mind:

To MORE BAD News Stories. I shall list them below so that you may share in ‘The Misery’ That is OUR ‘New World’ (You may thank me later. Send cards and letters…)

  1. The Middle East is still throwing gasoline upon their (and our) raging fire

  2. There will probably never be closure nor justice for Michael Brown or his family

  3. Ebola is raging strong (But only in Africa: So, who cares, right? The WHO, that’s who)

  4. ISIS is our new (never heard of till yesterday) National Crisis & Clear and Present Danger (or new best friend for our Military Industrial Complex, off of which I tend to make MY living)—Much hand-wringing and soul searching over that one. NOT! Damn! Put me in Coach! I live for this shit!

  5. My dog has fleas… Fuckin’ fleas. Dogs!

  6. My British GF finds me… well, of late, she don’t (find me)

  7. I dreamt late last night about my favorite dead cat (Her name was Lucia and she was ‘The Cat From Hell’ and I miss her still—probably the only ‘real’ relationship I have ever had with ‘pussy.’)

  8. My blood pressure remains off the chart and I think I may have given myself diabetes: Type Duh

  9. I have been remiss in visiting and commenting on the blogs of my good friends

  10. Maybe I will just go and eat worms. Maybe I like to eat worms…

Now, Don’t let it bring you down, but that is how I woke up. (And I was happy to have woken up… for just-one-more-day…stay?)

And hey!

Don't stay here

Photo taken in Iraq (or Afghanistan) I honestly don’t remember…

There really is no point to this post. Let us just call it “Unconscious Stream of Consciousness”.

And I will most likely, delete it (and y’all know, I am quick on the mouse trigger when it comes to deletion: I see it as a form of… birth control. So read fast!)

So There.

Now to the ‘Meat of the Matter’:

KAREN

I want to write about ‘The Age of Innocence’: The Seventies.

Yep. I tend to live in the glory that was Roaming… You may bail out here. Here, in fact here is your parachute. Be certain to locate the RIP Cord before you exit the plane: Just a word to some wise and hey!

Bon Voyage!

***

For those of y’all who still remain, I want to write about Karen Carpenter. Not ‘The’ Karen Carpenter, but the Karen Carpenter that symbolized how I felt about the Seventies. Yeah, that one. Her.

***

I woke up with Karen Carpenter on my mind (and yes: I have posted about her recently, but I wanted to try to explain why now)

I woke up with Karen and sadly not in my bed, but in my mind.

Why?

Because… of the ‘Age of Innocents.’ I call her one. The first casualty of the sickness that guides us: This American Dream of having to be some other person. A person, in the spotlight who is …. Drumroll: PERFECT!

No one is perfect and certainly not me (though I am pretty close). Yet, no one is perfection. We cannot be. There is no God and if you believe that there is, you are about as far removed from ‘Perfection’ as a Human…

I should delete that sentence, as it is not Germane, nor German, to my point. Let me think on it…

Back to The Seventies: The Age of Innocents (I was innocent; were you? Probab’ly not.)…

I am running on empty now/here.

“I don’t know where I’m runnin’ now; I’m just runnin’ on…

The Seventies.

I would like some thoughts on that/those. From you! And then, having received same, I will continue. Maybe.

Your choice.

Shalom

Salaam

Namaste

Hook ‘em Horns

Peace,

–Lancers

And P.S. I am sorry for stealing all the vid clips. I will (I promise) accolade y’all later–more later–but later)

And: to any readers I have left:

I am in some form of cryxis: I will be, as Shakespeare once wrote, “King Richard is himself again.” once be.

Stay tuned…
Or not: Yer choice.

Peach,

Lanced

Oh! And by the way… Jackson Browne was/is an asshole

Read it here

Bye now…

Diego Garcia, or Some Might Say “McHale’s Navy”

This was The Navy I found myself in… Really!

“Diego Garcia? Huh? Never heard of it.”

Lots of folks have not: Don’t despair. I spent thirty glorious days there back in ’86.

After my first failed attempt at BUD/s,

the Nav sentexiled, banished me to the USS Callaghan DDG 994, a Khomeini-Class Guided Missile Destroyer.

My new home was called a ‘Khomeini Class’ because along with her three sister-ships, she was built for the Iranian Navy (When The Shah was still the Big Man About Town).

The ships were not yet commissioned, not ever close when His Wonderfulness, The Ayatollah came back to hang up his shingle and Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, His Shah-Ness had booked out on his World Tour to cure cancer (his).

And naturally, after the Birds Sang And Shah went away, we just had to keep these ships for our own self(s). Such is History…

My Belov’d USS Callaghan

(I truly did come to love her)

Anyway, that may be too much information for my purposes here.

After I had mustered onboard the Callaghan, I was informed that I was ‘One Lucky Squiddy Sonuvabitch’ (That’s ‘Naval’ parlance for ‘Sailor’.)

“Why? Why am I lucky?” I just had to ask, as I really wasn’t feeling all-that-lucky after having ‘rocked out’ of SEAL training only to wake up in ‘The Black Shoe, Haze Gray and Underway Gray-Hound’ Navy.

“You are lucky Son,” my Senior LPO informed me, “because we are going on a ‘World Cruise’. And most sailors spend an entire career without such an opportunity.”

“Oh Goody,” I thought, “I done been ‘round the whurl’. So what?”

“Six months away from the only pussy I had finally managed to find for me in San Dog (San Diego). Perfect.” 

I didn’t actually verbalize that, by the way. I probably said something like, “Gee Wally, I love the idea.” (Without the ‘Wally’ part—I ain’t stupid, ya know.)

Now, I would love to write about this entire cruise, and perhaps I may, but for the purposes of this post, I am gonna skip to the middle, as this is supposed to be about Diego Garcia.

About Month ‘two-and-a-half’, we were cut off,  severed, culled from our Battle Group and ordered to do some ‘Independent Steaming’ in the Northern ‘IO’ (That’s Navy vernacular for “Indian Ocean.”) We were to rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet at some later unspecified date.

(Presumably to us, after they had some proper ‘Liberty’ somewhere up in the Med… You know: Shit-Holes like Toulon France, or Athens, or Palma de Mallorca.)

Yeah, the rest of the Fleet had to suffer in that way while we were privileged to experience the magical wonders of the Indian Ocean.

Palma de Mallorca

(Fun Fact: The Justified Reason for Our Wonderful World Cruise: We were to escort The”Shitty Kitty,”–USS Kitty Hawk, an old ‘Bird Farm’, i.e., Aircraft Carrier, to ‘No-Fuck’, I mean ‘Norfolk’ Virginia Naval Base. You see, The ‘Shitty Kitty’ just could not fit through “The Ditch”, aka ‘The Panama Canal’. Hence, we had to take the long way to her new home.

For the sake of some brevity, I will merely recount here that we got ‘Stuck’ in the Northern IO. The Russians and the Iranians were acting ‘stupid’ and kept harassing us. (Fly-Overs by Ruskies, Iranians threatening to blockade the Straits of Hormuz. You know, typical Eighties’ shit and actually not unexpected.

Now like most U.S. Government Bureaucracies, The Department of the Navy had a budget. We spent so much time on ‘Picket Station’ (Making five knots up and down the North IO, ‘Patrolling’) that we had simply used up our fuel allotment.

(Fun Fact: In the U.S. Navy once ‘Squiddies’ have not seen land for forty-five days, they get to have a ‘Beer Day’. Yep. That’s right. They chopper in cases of beer, laced with formaldehyde as a preservative, don’cha know, and each Sailor gets two, count ‘em two beers. Gives a raging headache and ‘Old Salt’ Sailors would not even touch them. They would sell theirs to the neophytes. I was one such neophyte. And yes, I got the raging headache. Never again.)

So, what to do with us, since we were outta gas?

Send us to port!

Hallelujah! Port!

Guess what?

The ‘Port’ was Diego Garcia: A No-Where’s-Ville In the Middle of the Vast ‘Nowhere’ that is the Indian Ocean.

We were all so very fucking excited.

To Be Continued (I Promise)

Update:

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Here is a good Sailor / Soldier Song (If ya like Kris that is)

And If ya don’t like Kris, well, you may have taken a wrong turn at ‘Albequerky’

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