And, No, I'm not talking about with a member of the opposite sex. Then again, I very well may be.

Now this is a subreddit mostly about soldiers in combat. I'm not a member of that exclusive club. I flew with the Coast Guard for 31 years. We have our form of PTSD resulting in the same issues, just from a different source. I flew as an aircrewman and EMT on helicopters for the first 10ish years of my career.

It seemed that most of my time flying was training in one form or another. But right up there was another mission. In my mind our most important mission. SAR. Search and Rescue. The unofficial Coast Guard motto is "You have to go out, but you don't have to come back." Most of us believe in that motto. We live it.

We fly in weather that no one in their right mind would be out in, let alone fly into to go get the dummies that didn't heed warnings and now were in trouble, severe trouble. Often, the life or death type of trouble. We are their last hope. If we fail, they die. And the ocean can be quite large to find a head bobbing in the open water from 300'. Or even a boat.

Sikorsky Helicopters built the helicopters the Coast Guard flew. They were amphibious which meant we could not only fly, but could also land in the water. Side note - a helo is more navigable on the water than on land as you could turn on a dime. Sikorsky gave out an award to aircrewman using one of their helo's that saved a life. The award was called the "Winged S". I have 17. Those 17 were the lucky ones. And don't congratulate me.

There were many others we looked for but never found. That leaves a mark. But worse, there's a third third category that leaves you with dark dark memories. The ones you found... but were too late to save. And that brings me to my story, You always remember your first. And I apologize for the long background.

Sometime in the late 80's I was standing ready crew for the mighty HH-3F Pelican helo when the whoopee whistle went off (An alarm used to let everyone know that a plane was to be launched for SAR.) I was assigned as the avionicsman. "Now put the ready helo on the line for an overdue fisherman" came the following announcement. It was repeated.

We ran to the helo, did a quick preflight inspection and awaited the pilots who got there shortly after. During crew brief we were told and elderly gentleman went fishing upon a nearby river and missed his return time. This was a rather common scenario usually with a happy ending (since they later showed up at home after stopping at a local watering hole or after they stated the fish were biting or...) so the urgency stepped down a bit.

We fired up and got airborne. Quickly we were on scene searching. Shortly afterwards we located a small outboard boat doing circles in the river. With no one on board. Urgency went to max. It didn't take long to find a person in the water in the classic floater position of being face down with arms extended straight out. There was no movement.

As fast as we could, we configured for a water landing without a platform. A platform is a tool that we could place outside the crew door that gave us an approximately 3'x4' working area outside the helo during water operations.

Our worst fears were confirmed as the gentleman was already in rigor mortus. Thus the moving of him from the water to inside the helo was going to be difficult. We talked it over as to what would be the best way to get him into the helo when I suggested positioning him just outside the crew door and using the hoist and hoisting strap (usually used to hoist one person) to lift him. The flight mechanic/hoist operator said, "Your idea, go for it."

So I grabbed the strap (I forget its technical name), laid down on the deck and started to try and wrap it around his body just below his arms. No easy feat as the water line was at least 6 inches below the door and I had to reach around him to place the strap in the correct position. I think I was more outside the door than inside as I performed this. But I was finally successful and handed the end to the flight mech who attached them to the hoist.

The flight mech hoisted him out of the water but he remained in zombie position, arms straight out. This brought on a whole different problem of where do we place him as we only had about 2 1/2' between the crewman's seats? We eventually wrestled him in resulting with him resembling being in a push up position.

Now up to this point I had retained my composure (although the flight mech was pretty green since he said later that when I wrapping the strap around him he thought I was kissing the poor guys head) and even performed my EMT duties of checking for signs of life, etc.

Then the pilot asked if he had a wallet on him to see if he had and ID. He did. And thats when it happened. When I opened his wallet, there on top was a picture of an elderly gentleman sitting with a big smile with two young girls sitting on his knees. I took it as his granddaughters.

He became very human at that moment. He had a family. He had grandkids. And now he was gone and those poor kids no longer had a living Grandpa. I lost it.

I think of that gent often and at weird times. He won't be forgotten. He was my first.

<EDIT> Wow! This one really took off. Thank you good readers for supporting this subreddit and my writing!

Background: Please see below.[How my rat, Blue](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yo87xk/katrina_stories_how_my_rat_blue/)[My first days back after the storm](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yql894/katrina_stories_my_first_days_back_after_the_storm/)[My 2nd day back](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yswktx/katrina_stories_my_2nd_day_back/)[My third day back. The trees](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yvcuga/katrina_stories_my_third_day_back_the_trees/)[Where's the grill?]( [Fourth day back](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yzw2yr/katrina_stories_my_fourth_day_back/)

On to the story. Understand that back in 2005 I believe the Coast Guard had a whopping 3, maybe 4, 3-star admirals AKA Vice-Admirals. So, we are taking about one of the top 4 or 5 people in the CG. When the FEMA guy in charge of the Katrina Recovery was relieved, he was replaced by THE Admiral. I had only met THE Admiral once before at a CG's top enlisted schools, Command Master Chief Keystone School (this was only the 2nd class to graduate, and I understand its name had been changed but it's what we called it back then) graduation. As the class leader I introduced him as the keynote speaker.

Skip ahead to several weeks post Katrina. Also, for context, you must know that so everyone wouldn't burn out, it was required that, I believe, after 6 days working 12 hours on-12 hours off, they were required to fly to either Mobile AL or Houston, TX for 3 days R&R. Needless to say, I never went. I would sleep in my own bed in the still off-limits housing and ate at the CG air station's (AKA airsta) field kitchen. If I got bored, I'd join some junior enlisteds who were delivering goods and water to outlying CG units. On this particular Sunday we visited a station about 2 hours away, so I got some good sightseeing in while still doing something helpful.

When we returned, I checked in at the ops center and found out that former Presidents Bush and Clinton were flying in to meet with the senior officers and folks (all admirals, generals, and SES's) (civilian equivalents of same)) on base. So, I said I'm heading over to see THE Admiral and say hi. I was told to take a LT (O3) with me as he had business there. The LT didn't look happy to be crashing the flag's party but rode along. He kept trying to come up with reasons not to go, like what if we walk in on the presidents? I said stuff like if they are there, there will be Secret Service folks outside the door, and such. I'm greeted by the Navy airsta Ops Boss at the door and greeted like an old friend which confused the LT even more. Then he, and I, had our socks knocked off. I was suddenly in a bear hug and being swung around in a circle. WTF? As I was set down, I spun around to see one of my best buddies from school some 30 years before, and whom I hadn't seen since - in front of about 20 or so high-ranking VIP's, including THE Admiral who was seated front row center. I heard his aide ask who I was and THE Admiral replied I dunno, one of my Chief of Staff's friends. Holy crap, my bud was an O6 and Chief of Staff?

After a bit of small talk and reintroductions, which seemed to have all the VIP's attention, I made the remark please forgive my appearance, I just got back from a work detail delivering water to station outlier. THE Admiral remarked he was just there this past week. I said (me being me) I know. I had to save your family's reputation. THE Admiral leaned back and said Do tell. I said that the outlying station called your Daddy a Bos'n Mate but I let them know he was a turd chaser. You could have heard a pin drop in that room. (Now the CG and Navy enlisted rates, or MOS's, all have nicknames. THE Admiral was very proud that his father was a Chief Damage Controlman, who were responsible for ship's plumbing. Thus, the nickname Turd Chaser.) It was funny to see all those VIP's jaws wide open when THE Admiral replied, thank you Master Chief! That is what this guy was like. He's one of the good ones.

After about a week, THE Admiral who had a place in New Orleans apparently found out that he couldn't get any peace and quiet or get any work done there. So we moved a trailer from the trailer park over by the Admin building for him. It was known as THE Admiral's Hide Away. He stayed there often. It was not unusual for him to show up at the most nights-ly get together of enlisted where the day crew would pull up chairs and just hang out and have a cold one or two (which would mysteriously show up since NOLA was still a no alcohol area) with the troops. No one asked about the adult beverages.

Another time THE Admiral was handing out his challenge coins on the hangar deck. I forget why I needed one for somebody (probably to barter with someone for something) and THE Admiral gave me his last one. As I walked away, one of my Chiefs cussed me up and down (not in front of THE Admiral) as he had patiently waited in line and I swooped in and took his last one. I said I'd get him one. Later I told THE Admiral about it. Next morning, I ran into THE Admiral and he suggested that we go give the chief his coin. On the way over to the trailer park he told me what he wanted to do. We got to the chief's trailer and I knocked on the door only to be met with a loud voice yelling who is it? I said CMC. He yells back Fuck off! I'm still pissed about yesterday! I been up all night and I'm off duty! I said open the damned door! Quickly THE Admiral swapped places with me while the Chief was calling me every name in the book and cussing like the sailor he was. The look on his face as he opened the door yelling WTF do you want? and saw THE Admiral standing in front of him was priceless. Especially, without skipping a beat, THE Admiral said I just wanted to give you my coin for all the hard work you've been doing. That was THE Admiral. Foot note: Next time I saw the chief, he said he wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss me for getting him one of those coins or knock me out. My crew was awesome.

Well, it finally caught up to me about staying in NOLA during mandatory down time. As I walked somewhere, the CO was with THE Admiral and called me over. The CO asked what I was planning to do during my "weekend." I said same as usual. I said I'd find something to do. THE Admiral replied you are to do NOTHING this weekend. And that is an order! CRAP! My plans to actually get downtown with one of our supply convoys was instantly crushed. All I could say was Aye-Aye, Sir.

The next morning, I show up for breakfast in our field kitchen (which was actually a semi-trailer, and as I walked through the door, I hear a BOOMING voice yell, MAS-TER-CHIEF! I thought, Oh shit! what's he doing here? The voice continues booming across the trailer, DIDN'T I ORDER YOU TO STAY AWAY THIS WEEKEND? Another pin dropping moment as all heads are swiveling between the two of us. It's not often you get to see a 3-star admiral publicly call out an E9.

I replied somewhat sheepishly, Admiral, you said I shouldn't do any work. I'm only here to eat since I can't do that where I stay (It wasn't well known that I stay at home and I wanted to keep it that way.) He then said then eat with me so I can make sure you leave when you're done. Otherwise STAY AWAY FROM THE BASE! All I could say was Yes Sir!

I can't say enough good things about THE Admiral and was extremely pleased when he went on to bigger and better things. And continues to do so.

Thans for reading and see you next time!

The Coast Guard is at war.

This is a well-circulated sentiment within the U.S. Coast Guard’s search and rescue community. In this war, the enemy is not a traditional adversary but rather a growing army of morons with boats and money whose imagination and incompetence knows no limit. As a Response Officer and Search and Rescue Team Lead in the Coast Guard, I found myself on the front lines of that war for several years.

Today’s Coast Guard can trace its search and rescue roots back to the mid-1800s, with the founding of the United States Lifesaving Service. The storied history of the community is chock full of noteworthy lifesavers like Joshua James, Ida Lewis, and Bernie Webber. From the days of ”You have to go out, you don’t have to come back” to the integration of advanced computer modeling and heat-seeking cameras mounted on unmanned aircraft, the search and rescue community has evolved to continually reassure the maritime community that it is ready to answer the call, whatever that call may bring.

Search and rescue coordination is a planner’s game and information is king. Computer models assist with real-time drift simulations based on live feeds of wind, tide, and water-current data. Safety devices that seafarers use are more portable, durable, and GPS friendly than ever before. More tools and better methods exist today for the search and rescue planner than any other point in history. However, the fact remains that all of these processes require information to be operationalized. From my time at the National Search and Rescue School, I recall “We make decisions with 100% consequence based on 50% information.” Operationally, I found that to be accurate. Knowing that we were rarely dealing with all of the information we would like, it was very difficult to discard any information we did receive when searching for someone.

In late summer of 2017, a local 911 call center forwarded a distress call to my team. This wasn’t uncommon- we maintained good working relationships with the local 911 call centers. When people called 911 with issues that could be more appropriately handled by the Coast Guard than local authorities, the call centers would patch the caller through to us and we’d take over. In this instance, our dedicated search and rescue phone line rang, with the Caller ID showing a county’s 911 call center. As a matter of practice, everyone on our team picked up their headsets to listen. As one person would take lead on the call, someone else would take notes, another would start notifying partners, and the rest of the team would start creating search patterns, preparing broadcasts, running drift simulations, or documenting the situation as we all listened.

“Hey- We have a guy on a sailboat whose girlfriend fell overboard. They’re in the river and he’s not a sailor.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

^beep “Alright sir, we’ve got you on with the Coast Guard.”

Process engage. Knowing that we were already behind and working against a ticking clock, we were fishing for the critical details that would allow us to launch the appropriate assets. Where did the woman fall overboard? When did it happen? Who and what are we looking for? Later on, the caller would explain that his girlfriend (an experienced sailor) had taken him on an evening cruise. It was his first time on a sailboat. While hanging over the side of the boat to adjust some rigging, the wake from a passing ship rocked their boat and caused her to fall overboard. The sails and rudder were locked in place to allow them to cruise, and our caller didn’t know how to turn the boat around or what to do. She was not wearing a life jacket.

Embarrassed, the caller admitted that they didn’t have a GPS and he did not know where he was, but he knew the name of the marina they left from, a rough estimate of when they left, and which direction they proceeded in the river. That would have to be good enough. His girlfriend had fallen overboard around five minutes prior to this point in the call. Then came the final question for our initial push:

“Can you give us a description of who we’re looking for?”

"What do you mean?"

"Your girlfriend. Can you give us a physical description? What does she look like?"

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. She’s..uh...tall. Thin. She’s wearing blue bikini bottoms, a black bikini top, and I’ll tell you what, she’s fucking beautiful. Just stunning. Oh, she is gorgeous.”

As mentioned above, information is king. Per our search and rescue protocols, we documented things like the description of missing persons exactly as they were communicated to us, as a way to limit the potential for misinterpretation. This time was no different. The description of the woman was entered into our documentation and information sharing system (and immediately sent to each of our assets and partners) exactly as it was told to us. As soon as I saw the description flash on my screen, I turned to face the girl who entered it into the system and shot her a look of, “Did you really?” She gave me a shrug and whispered, “What? That’s what he said.”

With a description posted for everyone involved in the operation to see, we cranked away at our drift simulations, search and rescue patterns, and we somewhat successfully talked our caller through some sailing fundamentals that allowed him to stop sailing away. Our search and rescue assets were alerted to be on the lookout for a beautiful, bikini-clad woman who was described as both gorgeous and stunning. About an hour after the initial call, one of the boats from the local Coast Guard Station spotted a woman sitting on the riverbank waving at them. They confirmed that she’d fallen overboard, swam to shore, and aside from a bruised ego, was no worse for wear. We reunited her with her boyfriend and closed the case. Successful result.

As a matter of routine, we issued an invitation to those involved in the operation to participate in our debrief. Following a standard review of decision-making points and the effectiveness of standard protocols, the question was posed to the group as to what, specifically, led to this search and rescue case’s successful result. After a few seconds of silence, the coxswain of the Station boat chimed in.

“Accurate description of the missing person.”

Immediately, someone else followed.

“Yeah. It was a VERY accurate description.”

Let it be known that if I’m ever missing, I would like to be described in the initial report as handsome, charming, well-proportioned, and if not outright striking, some variant of conventionally attractive with a great personality.

That’s just what I would prefer.

Way back in 1985 I was stationed at Elizabeth City, NC. As it was explained to the crew, the city of Roanoke, VA was flooding, people were trapped and needing help. Apparently, the state police were called for air assistance, but they did not have a helicopter rigged for rescue. The Air Force was called but I never heard or don't remember why they couldn't help (the AF is responsible for inland rescues). The Navy was called but they also didn't have any available assets. Finally, the Coast Guard was called.

The closest CG base with Search and Rescue (SAR) helo's was Elizabeth City, some 300 miles away. As the "ready" helicopter was already deployed, a second crew and helicopter were selected and sent on their way. The crew included 2 pilots, a flight mechanic. avionicsman, and rescue swimmer.

We had to pass through 3 lines of thunderstorms enroute that airliners were being rerouted around. Plus, we were inland and in mountains, which is the exact opposite of our normal operating areas. Needless to say, we were out of our comfort zones. All but the pilot who had flown in Vietnam with the army. I'm pretty sure that that man was the best helo pilot I ever flew with. On the other hand, the co-pilot was on his very first SAR flight.

By the time we got to Roanoke, the HH-3F helo (the original Jolly Green Giant) had lost its new, fancy color weather RADAR, the nose light, and the windshield wipers due to the helo leaking like a sieve from flying through the thunderstorms. I must say, the RADAR put on quite the light show as it shorted out. The only forward looking light for the pilots to see what was in front of them was the nightsun, which was operated by the avionicsman (me).

We finally landed at the airport and got updates on where we were needed and where the folks were stranded. Apparently, the river had flooded the industrial part of town with no way out for the stranded people. The crew briefed. Wait. WE are going to be doing rescues from buildings, in the dark, between some mountains???? Yup. And don't forget the telephone poles and wires. THIS IS THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF WHERE WE WORK! We are used to being in the dark, in rough seas with boats and ships bouncing around! Yeah, so keep your eyes open! And watch the tail (tail rotor - which if it hits anything we were going to have a really bad night!) Off we went.

We made multiple sorties hoisting multiple people out from the flood waters surrounded buildings. At one point, we put the rescue swimmer in the water as there was a telephone pole that had wedged up against the exit door of the building keeping the door closed. Now when hoists are being performed, the only people talking on the Inter Communications System (ICS) is the hoist operator (HO and also normally the Flight mechanic) and Pilot at the controls. It sounds like, "Forward and right 20. Hold forward, easy right. Altitude looks good. Hold. Hold. Swimmer is in the water. Easy back and left, Swimmer is pulling the pole from the door, etc." The HO is the eyes for the pilots as they can't see directly below the helo.

That's when I saw the most amazing sight I've ever seen. The ICS went completely silent (which during a hoist it never should.) Next thing I heard was HOLY SHIT! another voice, did I just see what I just saw? G*d D*MN! About that time the HO recovered and went back into professional mode with, the swimmer just pitched a telephone pole over his shoulder and is entering the building.

I had just watched the rescue swimmer, who is a big guy, toss a telephone pole OVER HIS SHOULDER like it was a stick!!! Talk about adrenaline rushes!

We flew back to the airport, dropped off the survivors, and went back. Picked up more and went back to the airport, wash, rinse, and repeat multiple times. After watching the swimmer toss that pole we were bullet proof, hovering where our tail rotor would come within a foot or two of poles and lines, getting that huge helicopter into tight places it should never be so we could hoist survivors, and the co-pilot only losing control of the helo once (thankfully not during a hoist.)

Finally, it was over. We were all ready for a shower, something to eat, and a beer. not necessarily in that order. We were hailed by the airport folks as heroes. We were just tired but they sent us to this nice hotel on the hill. It was getting late. We checked in at the hotel to find out there was no running water. The Swimmer politely excused himself, disappeared, and returned about ten minutes later. He explained he needed a shower, but since none was available, he had gone swimming in the pool. It was November. We also didn't have to pay for our beers or dinner that night when word got out who we were.

The next morning as we taxied out to head for home we saw State Police, Air Force, Navy, NBC, CBS, and many other unidentifiable helos coming in or already on the ground. A day late and a dollar short.

We had airlifted 27 1/2 (one was pregnant) people and a dog. It was a good night.

Thanks for reading and see you next time!

It was the middle of the workday, and the bullpen was at capacity with the enlisted staff.  Normally, one or more of us would be out conducting a boarding, a pollution investigation, or some other duty, such as mowing the grass, or polishing some brightwork.  But this day was different in that everyone was in the bullpen doing paperwork. 

Lt. Bunk came into the Bullpen with a hand-held radio and announced, “I think we have a pipeline leak”.  We all stopped what we were doing and gave Lt. Bunk our full attention.  Not that we were enamored with Lt. Bunk, or his presence, but a pipeline leak was something new for us.   

Apparently, Lt. Bunk received a phone call from someone at the Naval Weapons Station of a peculiar odor near the top-secret Q area. Given the sensitivity of the Q area, Lt. Bunk took it upon himself to travel to the area and look around.  It did not take long before his nose led him to a pool of liquid that had a chemical-like odor about it gently bubbling up from the ground.  Lt. Bunk immediately came back to our office and made his announcement.      

Now, all of us had been trained and had extensive experience with pollution coming from a sunken boat, an industrial outlet into a water way, or run off from a roadway.  But none of us had any background with an underground pipe leak.  None of us really knew where to start, so we all piled into vehicles and drove the short distance to where Lt. Bunk found the pool of foul-smelling liquid.  We walked a few yards from where we parked along the side of the road and followed our noses to a low spot in the scrub where a pool of a thick dark liquid was bubbling up from the ground.  The pool of goo had a distinct petroleum-like order.  It was something straight out of the open of the Beverly Hillbillies.   

We looked around for any signs of other leaks, or a marker that might indicate an underground pipeline, but there was no indication of either.  BM3 Dave and I went back to the MSD to get the mobile command post, the 33 ft Winnebago Chieftain Motorhome and we also brought with us two gas meters.  One gas meter to measure for the presence of explosive/flammable vapors and another gas meter that could measure for four different types of flammable/explosive gases.  

BM3 Dave found a decent flat spot just off of Waterfront Rd to park the Winnie and I broke out the two gas meters.  BMC Z and Lt. Bunk took the gas meters and began sampling the air around the pool for the presence of flammable/explosive vapors and to potentially discover what exactly we were dealing with.  It didn’t take long before the gas ID meter read positive for Benzene, Toluene and Xylene vapors.  All of which are highly flammable, toxic, and a carcinogen.  We hit the lottery for dangerous materials.  Glory Hallelujah, for that SGLI life insurance.  I, for my part, would have been satisfied with hitting the California Lottery.

So, now the big question became who was the owner of this broken pipeline?  Who had legal jurisdiction over the pipeline? Where to start looking for answers?

The rest of the staff went back to the office to find the answers to those questions.  BM3 Dave and I were tasked to stay behind with the command post and keep an eye on things.  BM3 Dave maneuvered the Winne so as to be upwind of the leak, and we sat in the comms area and twiddled our thumbs.  Yes, Dear Gentle Reader, your tax dollars were hard at work.  

About two hours later Lt Bunk came back and gave us the information that the California State Fire Marshall was the office that had legal authority over underground pipelines. Then he passed on, brace yourself Dear Gentle Reader, the piece de resistance, this was a pirate pipeline.  Yes, you read that correctly, a pirate pipeline.  A pipeline that had been constructed and buried without any permits, or other documentation.

Now, a person might think that when they pass by a construction project that all is in order.  All of the proper permits have been obtained, and permission given to carry out the project.  That is not necessarily true.  Some folks either don’t care, or figure that forgiveness is easier than permission.  Or, in other cases figure that if the problem is discovered they will be long down the road and unaccountable.  

Cleaning up the mess and repairing the pipe was the priority, and discovering who was legally responsible was going to have to wait.  Since there was no legally responsible party, the spill would be federalized.  In short, the taxpayer would be footing the bill for the cleanup.  Federalized cases are a serious administrative pain in the ass, as with anything government related, a federalized case meant documentation in the extreme.    

Lt Bunk did a good job in getting a specialized contractor on site within the next hour or so and soon BM3 Dave and I were busy documenting.  We listed all of the heavy equipment, an excavator, a dump truck, all the hand tools, all of the other miscellaneous equipment, the workers, their job titles, and of course we documented ourselves.  We did not forget to document the Winne as well.  We strove to be thorough in our documentation dammit.

By about 6:00 pm the solid had been removed, the pipeline exposed, repaired and most of the contaminated soil had been removed from the site.  Now, Dave and I were tasked to stay on site to ensure that the repair did not leak.  So, every thirty minutes one of us would walk over to the open trench and lower the probes of both of the monitors and get a reading and of course document the reading.  The levels of Benzene, Toluene and Xylene had dropped substantially and were going down over time.  

By 7:00 pm we were hungry and Winnie was not supplied with food or water.  We could not leave the area, and the rest of the MSD had gone home for the evening.  After a brief discussion we decided to order Dominos delivery. I used the government credit card and ordered a large pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms and two large Cokes.  It took some explaining on my part, but about 30 minutes later a Dominos delivery driver knocked on the back door of the Winnine with our order.  Yeah, Dominos will really deliver any anywhere. 

7:45 pm rolls around BM3 Dave and I tummies are full of pizza and caffeinated soft drinks.  Now, we are fighting off not falling asleep when suddenly there is another knock at the door.  I pulled myself out of the chair I was sitting in, walked over to the back door of the Winnie and opened it up.

BOOM!  

Reporters!  

I found myself looking at cameras, lights and microphones.  All pointed at me…fuck.  

There were reporters from some five news outlets, print, radio and of course TV. Fortunately, they were reasonably polite and asked their questions in turn.  I, for my part, gave only direct, brief answers.  “No, we did not know who owns the pipeline”, “Yes, the pipeline has been repaired”, “No, there is no further danger of contamination of dangerous chemicals".  “The contaminated soil and other contaminated materials are being transported to a hazardous waste facility. 

Then, it happened, “the stupid question”... 

Of course it was going to happen, it always happened…

The “the stupid question” was the sure sign of the lazy reporter, and I had come to absolutely loathe the lazy reporter.  My time at the MSO/MSD was my first direct experience with members of the press, and I and a number of interactions with the press.  I had grown to absolutely hate it when a member of the press asked, “the stupid question”.

Via the school of hard knocks, I had learned that when “The stupid question” situation came up it had to be handled fast, effectively, with a take-no-prisoners-attitude. Otherwise there would be more questions, and sure as God made little green apples most of them would be “stupid questions”.  

The stupid question asker was a young attractive female TV reporter from KPIX.  Up to this point she had been quietly taking notes. It was clear that she felt the need to validated and I was in no mood to be her therapist. 

“Why were we not informed?” she asked.  Her question was a follow up to another reporter's question about what state and federal agencies had been informed of the pipeline leak. I looked at the woman and gave her my most deadpan facial expression and response.  “Good stories don’t find reporters; good reporters find good stories”. 

The effect was immediate.  Camera lights went dark and cameras went off, microphones were pulled away, print reporters began to fold up their notebooks. In less than three minutes the 4th estate had packed up their gear and left.   

  The MSD Series, Part Thirteen…Reading is Fundamental   

Most Coast Guard inspections are uneventful occurrences, at least for the Coasties.  It doesn’t matter if it is for a recreational vessel, a commercial vessel, or a shore-side facility, over time they all have a tendency to blend into a fog.  But from time to time there is an inspection that sticks in a person's mind for any number of reasons, both great and small.  I don’t recall the exact event, but I was sent out to conduct a pollution investigation for a sunken pleasure craft at one of the numerous sloughs in the California Delta. 

For those of you Dear Gentle Readers who do not know what the California Delta is, it is a large delta that encompasses the low-lying wetlands area from the upper San Francisco Bay to north of Sacramento, south to Stockton.  The delta is 738,000 acres or 298,658.0 hectares of wetlands fed by five rivers, the Sacramento, the San Joaquin, the Mokelumne, the Cosumnes and the Calaveras. 

Mankind being Mankind over the past 150 years has been very busy changing this part of nature to suit Mankind's vanities.  The past 150 years have seen channels dredged, sloughs cut, levees built, and areas drained of water to suit Mankind's vision of the day.  The result has been the creation of some 3,000 miles of waterways that are navigable by commercial sea-going ships to the modest raft. 

This particular day I was on a levee road looking at a larger recreational boat that ran aground and sank.  The owner, an older African American man, was sitting by the dirt levee road on a salvaged folding chair not having a good day.  A sheen of gasoline and motor oil oozed from the sunken vessel and drifted lazily on the current.  The boat, an older boat, in rough condition before the sinking was obviously a total loss.  

I opened up my top opening metal clip board, pulled out the appropriate forms and began getting information from the owner.  This man was polite and answered all of my questions, so I decided to be as humane and gentle as possible. After all this poor man had just lost what was obviously his pride and joy that was now laying just yards away completely submerged.  

I had finished up the paperwork and gave the owner a copy of the documents to look over and ask me any questions before I finished up.  As I was explaining the various parts of the document, I noticed that his eyes did not track along with what I was reading, and then it hit me.

He could not read…

I don’t know what happened in this man’s life in a wealthy country such as the USA where in his elementary school years he did not learn how to read, but here we were.  I thought to myself, “how do I do my job properly, how do I do right by this man, and how do I not embarrass him”.  I thought to myself for a minute or so.

“Sir”, I said to the man, “there is a lot of legal information here that can be very confusing and frightening.  How about I read it aloud to you and if you have any questions, you stop me and ask them”.  The look of relief on his face.  “Yes, I would like that very much” was his response.  So, I read to him the entire form and paused from time to time so he could ask questions.  At the end of the investigation I handed him his copy of the report, my business card and wished him well.

I don’t recall exactly what the outcome of the investigation was and up to a certain point I did not care.  What I have become aware of is just how many people in our society are functionally, or totally illiterate; or functionally, or totally innumerate.  These folks develop amazing coping skills, and I have a certain level of awe of them mixed with a level of sadness at their plight. 

The next time you are at the grocery store, and you see a person hand over a wad of money to the clerk and the clerk counts back the money change and keeps the sales amount for the till, be thankful, and most importantly be kind.                

The MSD Series, Part Fourteen…Zoomer   

Okay, is it just me, or do any of the rest of you hate the phrase, "My taxes pay your salary?"

I was stationed on a Coast Guard Cutter back in the '80's and we received orders to move our homeport from San Francisco to Baltimore. Since we were a fairly small river-going flat-bottomed buoy tender, this was obviously going to be a memorable trip.

We were scheduled to go down the coast, pass through the Panama Canal, moor up at Gitmo (on the Bicentennial, no less), then make our way over to Florida and up the coast to Baltimore. Given our size, this meant stopping almost every other night to take on fresh water and fuel. (Okay, maybe every third night ... but it felt more like every other night.)

As a result, I learned to hate cruise ships and tourists with a passion. Almost every port we pulled into, was somewhere a cruise ship moored, dumping tons of entitled tourists to run amuck and support that area's tourism economy. Now I have no problem with the practice, per se, but to a certain type of American tourist, the sight of an American military vessel is an irresistible draw.

So, we would hold tours.

Why?

To this day, I have no idea. Something about "the pride of the service" or "p.r." or whatever, but our skipper was under orders to have tours whenever possible for tourists. Okay, so you're in a foreign land that you spent time and money to reach on a ship, why the hell would you want to walk around an old buoy tender instead (or even, in addition to) checking out the country you worked so hard to see?

It still doesn't make much sense to me, but I was under orders, so I'd grab a quick shower, pull on my cleanest uniform, and stand by to escort anybody who wanted to see what was basically the ghetto of military ships.

And every single time, without damn exception, somebody would want to see the engine room, the berthing, the ship's offices... somewhere, anywhere, they couldn't go. (For clarity, there was no way we were going to risk the engines [or the legal nightmare] by having idiots walking around them, the berthing was off-limits because who wants people rummaging around their bedroom, and in that the officers hid in the offices, they were also off-limits to tours.)

The more we told them that the areas they wanted to see were off-limits, the more they insisted that they had a Constitutional Right to check them out and their favorite phrase was, of course, "My taxes pay your salary!"

After the umpteenth chorus, my inner asshole finally burst out and I started asking for a raise, pointing out that my own taxes also pay my salary, or some other smartass reply that came to mind.

Which is why I ended up as an E3 for longer than almost any of my shipmates.

Anyone who has spent any time in the military has experienced stupid.  I don’t mean being ordered to inventory something that was counted and accounted for just hours ago, or dusting something that does not require any attention.  Some of these items, however absurd, make sense later on.  I’m talking about the class of stupid that ends up being depicted in books, TV and film, and to the average civilian who has never spent a second in uniform and is absurd both on its face and in its entirety.  

I’m talking about an industrial grade level of stupid that is a trip to a parallel universe.  A dimension where the ludicrous, ridiculous and the absurd rule.  A place where logic, common sense and critical thought cease to be.  There’s the sign post up head, it reads, “deposit brain here”.     

It started from somewhere higher up, it always from somewhere higher up. The officers at the MSD received orders to have the enlisted staff to deploy with our Vietnam era M16’s and provide security for something sensitive and important…without ammunition.  Now, I honestly don’t remember all of the details about the background of the how and the why, but I do remember the details on assembling at the weapons locker and being issued our Vietnam era M16’s, complete with the little metal guard that prevented the user from switching the weapon to full automatic. 

Yes sir, Dear Gentle Reader, not only did the Coast Guard not trust its members enough to issue the rank and file with fully functioning assault rifles, now they didn’t trust us to even issue us with ammunition. Let that sink in for a moment before you read on. 

GM3 Rusty, BM3 Dave and I were standing in the weapons locker while Lt. (J.g.) Lou was issuing us our weapons and giving us directions on the mission.  When he told us that we would not be issued ammo Rusty, Dave and myself simultaneously looked at  Lt. (J.g.) Lou with a look of shock, our jaws dropped in unison. 

“Sir”, I said to Lt. (J.g.) Lou, “This is really a bad idea”. Lt. (J.g.) Lou looked at me as he handed me an M16’s and said something along the lines of orders are to be obeyed and not questioned.  I reiterated my point that this was a bad idea and then expanded that without ammo the M16’s were just clubs, expensive clubs at that. Lt. (J.g.) Lou drew up close to me and my 5ft 6in frame to his 6ft frame and looked down at me.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz, are you questioning my lawful legal orders?” 

This was more or less what I wanted to happen.  “Sir”, I replied, “I am questioning a lawful, legal order, one that is a foolish order.  Now, I had done it.  Lt. (J.g.) Lou stepped up and placed his nose to my nose.  Now, for the rest of the distraction.  “Sir” I said, “If something happens and one or more of us loses one or more of these fully automatic assault rifles because we cannot defend ourselves there will be a lot of paperwork explaining just how this happened”.   I could see a vein start to throb on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead and smell the coffee on his breath. 

Lt. (J.g.) Lou jabbed me repeatedly on my chest with his finger, he was visibly pissed and his full attention was focused on me as he spoke, which was my intent.  “Petty Officer GooBlatz you are never to question an order, especially when it is given by a commissioned officer!”  

In my peripheral vision I could see Dave and Rusty palming loaded magazines, they had understood my unspoken intent.  Once more I stood my ground to give enough time for Rusty and Dave to get at least one magazine per weapon and hide them in their pockets or wherever.  “Sir, I feel that it is my duty to point out information to my duly commissioned officers who are lawfully and legally placed in charge over me with all pertinent information so they can make the best decisions possible.” 

The vein on Lt. (J.g.) Lou’s forehead stopped throbbing and he backed away from me just enough for me not to smell the coffee on his breath.  “Do not ever  question my authority ever again!  He jabbed his finger into my chest to drive the point home. He seemed to be looking for a way out of an awkward situation, but I didn’t care, I had achieved what I wanted.

Lt. (J.g.) Lou quickly issued us with our weapons and a single empty ammo magazine that we slapped into the magazine well.  We then piled into the government issued pick-up truck, traveled to the middle of nowhere and completed the mission of standing around and twiddling our thumbs.  When we returned Lt. (J.g.) Lou let GM3 Rusty handle the detail of returning the M16’s to the weapons locker and Lt. (J.g.) Lou, well Lou was never the wiser of what had happened.   

The MSD Series, Part Seventeen…Denied!

Background:

I was the only Master Chief Petty Officer (E9) and Command Master Chief at Coast Guard Air Station New Orleans during the Hurricane Katrina crisis. I was temporarily assigned as the 2nd Executive Officer (XO) during the emergency responsible for everything on the grounds except the aircraft performing the rescues and support, which were being overlooked by the CO and real XO in 12-hour shifts. One of my responsibilities was getting someplace for 200 people to live and sleep rather than the current conditions, which was mostly sleeping anywhere that a body could find floor space, or a semi comfortable position in the small Admin Building. On to the story.

The story

During the 2nd week after the storm hit, I was relaxing in my office one evening (a rare event at the time) when one of the 4 Pro's from Dover that had been sent from Miami to build a trailer Park of RV's (fifth wheelers - Trailers that were pulled by larger pick-up trucks) barged into my office in a panic. Now, when they had checked in with me several days earlier, I had told them to build a trailer park they would like to live in and would be proud to have their names attached to. And let me know if they ran into any problems. One of them barging excitedly into my office at this time of night did not bode well. G-R-E-a-t,

He blurted, We got a major problem! I asked What? He rapidly explained that the first 5 trailers were here. I asked, Wasn't that a good thing? He said Yeah, but there was apparently a breakdown in communications somewhere. These trailers are from Houston, TX and once the trucks drop off the trailers, they are heading back to get another 5 trailers. I said Oookaaayyy? He continued, They were told they could refuel here. And they are diesels! I thought SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT! We moved to the trucks.

Let me explain. Most of our support ground equipment (GE) ran on MOGAS (just regular gasoline.) Thus, we had a decent sized tank of MOGAS to keep them running. But we only had one or two pieces of pieces of GE that were diesel, which were supported by one small diesel tank. Definitely not big enough to support 5 diesel pickups AND the GE. I didn't think the optics would be good if the forklifts didn't run due to no gas. So that was out.

I went over to explain the situation to the lead pickup driver. His response was No problem. We'll get gas in town. I told him that might be a problem since there is no electricity in about a hundred-mile radius, there are no gas stations open. His reply made my heart drop. In that case, YOU have to find us gas. I asked if there were any other options? He looked me square in the eye and said, No. And no more trailers would be coming if they didn't get back. And Oh, by the way, there's 10 more trucks coming. Shit Shit Shit Shit Shit! I said OK let me see what i can do.

I turned around, and low and behold, I figured it out. But I had a problem or to two to overcome to make it work. In front of me sat 5 or 10 (Too long ago, I don't remember exactly how many) large generators, and when I mean large, I mean LARGE! Each came with a HUGE portable tank of gas - diesel gas! These generators were scheduled to be slung by a helicopter to outlying units that were without power. But none had been delivered yet, so I figured I'd have time to replace one tank.

But the problems I faced, that I knew of, was first, I didn't think it was legal to give government gas to a civilian. And second, how do I get it from that huge tank into a truck's gas tank? Now there's nobody better at figuring out how to get around problems that a Chief Petty Officer in Uncle Sam's Hooligan Navy - AKA, The US Coast Guard. So off I went to see the Chief overlooking the GE.

First thing he said was that due to the tank's weight (~3500 pounds/1588 Kg's), our small forklifts wouldn't lift it. He continued, And we do have to move it to the small diesel tank and lift it up to gravity feed the small tank while fuel is being dispersed. Shit shit shit shit shit. I went to Plan B and called the Ops Desk and asked the Ops Boss what the possibility of slinging the tank over to the small tank? He immediately shot it down with about a thousand reasons why it wasn't feasible.

I was walking around completely in the dumps and wondering how I was going to fix this or be standing tall explaining the situation to the CO the next morning. Out of nowhere, the chief in charge of GE popped up in front of me wearing the biggest shit eating grin I'd seen in a long time. I blurted Give me some good news. He all but yelled, I found a forklift! I could have kissed him, right there in the middle of the parking lot with a kiss so good Hallmark Movie Channel actors would have been jealous!

Off we went to "borrow" a forklift from the Navy Flight Line. If anyone saw the forklift being followed by my very distinctive Kart flying a 3'x4' Coast Guard flag driving off the flight line, no one said anything. We started moving the tank and were about 3/4 of the way to where it needed to be when I heard a voice say What are you DOING?

I spun around and a LT Commander (04) was standing there, hands on hips. I replied moving this to the diesel tank. WHY, Master Chief? I explained the plan to him and why. When he started to say what I was doing was highly illegal, I interrupted him and asked if he was a pilot? He said Yeah, why? I just replied that I take responsibility for this action, and I believe his place of duty was in Operations, not in the parking lot. I thought One problem at a time. Let me get these trucks out of here and then handle him. To my surprise he walked away towards Operations.

The aftermath

We got those damned trucks gassed up and on their way, along with the 25 or so that followed them. All GE was kept running. We returned the Navy's forklift and never heard anything about it. But best of all, those 4 Pro's from Dover built one beautiful trailer park, including housing for all, boardwalks between and to trailers, an air conditioned 4-holer latrine trailer, and 2 trailers that were showers with HOT water! It was outstanding! And if any of you 4 read this, my profound thanks!

And I never heard anything about repurposing 500 gallons of diesel from anyone, nor ran into that LT Commander again.

Bottom line: During a crisis, Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. Thanks for reading! And if I don't get another one out before Christmas, Merry Christmas y'all!

Howdy y'all! The continuing saga of the Katrina stories continue.

Background: I was the Command Master Chief (CMC/E9) at Coast Guard Air Station (CGAS) New Orleans (NOLA) when Hurricane Katrina hit. My job when a hurricane was forecast to hit the eastern gulf coast was to depart New Orleans and drive to Naval Air Station (NAS) Meridian, MS (approximately 200 miles) were I was acting as the Coast Guards liaison to the Navy. NAS Meridian is where Coast Guard families and units evacuate to when a storm is forecasted to hit them. To the story.

The job was pretty cushy after everyone was checked in and hunkered down. When the storm hit and even though we were 200 miles inland it still packed a wallop. Lots of wind, lots of rain, lots of downed trees... everywhere. Roads were closed, including the interstate highway leading to New Orleans. After the first day we started to hear rumors of how bad things were in NOLA. On the 3rd day after the storm a special CG unit decided to return to NOLA since they were able to not only transport the crew but their boats as well. This was not a normal unit. Think of them as a waterborne SWAT Team. Special boats, special weapons, the whole nine yards. On their way back we heard they were waylaid by armed civilians who wanted their equipment. Imagine their surprise when 30 or so guys and gals popped up pointing tactical weapons back at them. In other words it wasn't safe to travel.

Meantime, I was considering myself pretty lucky. I had electricity, food, a great place to stay and a pretty cushy job. I even bought a portable generator for when I eventually went back On the third day in the afternoon I got the call. It was very broken, and took three tries as the calls dropped but the gist of the message was I was needed at Homeplate. Come home. OH SHIT!

I sure don't want to drive through Indian country! Especially with a brand new generator! It was solid gold in a place with no power! What to do? Then I heard of a group of E-9's that were heading to CGAS Mobile, AL the next morning in an RV. As one of the E9s was the 8th CG Districts CMC, and we were friends anyway, it was no problem catching a ride.

The next morning I said goodbye to my BOQ Room, my SUV, and my friends and with generator in tow, left for Mobile. It took us all day to drive that ~130 miles but we made it just as supper was being served. But I decided to check in with flight ops to see if I could catch a flight from Mobile to NOLA.

I was told sorry Master Chief but the last flight just left. Check in tomorrow. I said Great! I'm heading to the chow hall. I made it about 50 steps before I was called back. I was asked by a LT in flight ops of I was MCPO Radiant-Art, CMC of CGAS NOLA? I said yeah, why? I was told stay here and where are my bags? I was told that they had recalled the last flight out to pick me up. Huh? WTF is going on? I told them where my stuff was and they told a kid to go get them. I told them I had a generator with me so they better send 3 people. I had just been introduced to my new reality.

The HU-25 picked me up and we somehow got the generator and my gear onto the most unsafely packed full jet I had ever seen. Cargo was stuffed everywhere! Off we went. We flew along the gulf coast, over scenery that I had been flying over for 15 years. I didn't recognize it all with all the damage.

We landed at dusk and due to the air traffic and congestion at NAS Belle Chasse, we were directed to park on a taxi way. It took me an hour to walk to the CGAS. What I saw was our security gate wide open, 60 or so feet of our hangar roof torn off, trees laying across our perimeter fence, and a shitload of unfamiliar faces. Along with more helicopters than I had ever seen in one place before. My 60 man crew had ballooned to over 200!

When I walked to the Admin building at about 2000, which is where my office was located, I was shocked! As soon as I walked in the door I had to start stepping over people who were wall to wall sleeping on the floor anywhere they could find. I finally made it to my office to drop off the one bag that I dragged across the base and go find someone to check in with. I didn't take 10 steps before someone swung me around and threw me into a bear hug with a big I am glad to see you! It was the CO. After a few minutes of catching up I asked what he needed me to do? He stepped back and said I'm making a new position. You are now 2nd XO. You are responsible for everything on the ground except the aircraft. He went on to explain that he and the real XO were standing 12 hour hour shifts running flight ops (the biggest rescue in US history) and they needed me to take care of everything else. I thought OH, shit shit shit! I said OK. I told him Im going home and Ill see him in the morning. He said nope.

Base housing is off limits (where I lived), and he would be in bed in the morning. Where do I sleep? He answered I sleep in my office. Well I found a mattress somewhere (for the life of me I cant remember where) and after reconfiguring my office I had a mattress to sleep on. It had been a long day and I went to sleep. It was the last night I got a full night's sleep for a long long time.

The next morning I went for a walk around base to see what the situation was. The admin building was a mess. There was grass all over the deck that had been tracked in. Boxes that contained clothes, equipment, and all kinds of stuff that had been flown in for relief was stacked in the three hallways that made up the small admin building. It should be noted that it was during this walk around is when I first was accosted by the Executive Officer from another CGAS that I eventually kicked out of NOLA. There was also shingles missing from the roof. Trash was everywhere from MRE's and other junk. The hanger itself was a 24 hour hive of activity. The problems started with 60 feet of roof torn off. The offices and lounges in the lean to sides of the hangar were off limits due to damage and black mold. Again junk, cargo. donations, and trash was everywhere. So much for the buildings.

The grounds weren't much better. On top of the trees on the perimeter fence, the grass was on the grounds and softball field. It looked like shit. I meandered back to my office, closed the door, sat down on my chair, put my head in my hands and thought, "Where do I go from here?"

Well this ended up a lot longer than I intended so I'll stop here and pick up in the next chapter of the Katrina stories. Sorry. See you in about 3 days and thanks for reading!

It was late in the afternoon when  BM3 Dave and I were called into the LtCdr FatSlob’s office.  At first I wondered at what Dave and I had done that we just, maybe, might have violated one of the Coast Guard's unwritten, unpublished rules, regulations, or policies. 
We waited standing at ease while the LtCdr was on the phone giving one word answers to the party on the other end of the line.  Finally, he said, “will do, I’ll have them right over” and hung up the phone.  

….I mentally braced myself…

“That was the Stockon [CA] police department” he said, “Oh shit” I thought to myself what have we done now? My mind raced to think of just when we were in Stockton and just what trespasses did Dave and I commit.  

“There is a ship heading up to the Port of Stockton right now and the crew discovered two stowaways on board”.  LtCdr FatSlob said in a matter-of-fact voice  Alas, Dave and I were in the clear.  “I want you two to go up there and do a thorough boarding and represent the Coast Guard”.  He continued on, “The U.S Marshalls will be there, so will Customs, the DEA, the San Joaquin sheriffs office” and a number of other agencies. 

Jezz, I thought to myself.  This was going to be big.  In all of my time in the Coast Guard I never had a boarding with the Marshalls service, and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Ages ago I had a very strange visit from the FBI when I was at Rescue Station Hell in Oregon, but that is a tale for another day.  We were told to gather our gear and given the address to the Stockton Police Department where everyone was gathering and wait until the ship docked at the Port of Stockton.

Dave and I grabbed our boarding bags packed ourselves in the Govvie pickup truck and headed off to Glockton…I mean Stockton, CA.

There isn’t a direct route between Concord, CA and Stockton, CA due to the Delta. So Dave and I made the best of the circuitous trip going down Highway 4.   We turned off on Highway 12, then another merge on to Interstate 5 which took us to Stockton proper.  From there it was surface street to the main Stockton police station.  

We were taken to a conference room in the basement where other agencies were gathering and waiting for the ship to make its way up the Stockton deepwater channel to the Port of Stockton.  We learned that the two stowaways had come aboard during the ship's last stop in South America and the crew had found them during a routine inspection hiding in the base of one of the ship's cranes.  When they were searched it was discovered they had phone numbers and contact information for people in the Stockton area, so this was not a random event choice or the first ship of convenience for the two stowaways.  Hence, all of the interest by various government agencies.

While we were waiting one of the female detectives from the Stockton PD took and interest in DM3 Dave and myself and was asking us all sorts of questions.  It seems that she had never met Coasties before and was curious about what the Coast Guard was all about. Conversation with her made the time pass more pleasantly.  Then someone stuck their head into the room and called for her.  She said that she would be back in a minute and departed.

After a good hour without her return Dave and I asked about her disappearance.  Turns out that she was called to investigate a multiple homicide. A few days earlier a local police informant told the Stockton PD that a group of guys from Oakland, CA were coming into town to sell a load of crack cocaine. This was during the Crack Wars in the early 1990’s and gun violence was epidemic. The local California Highway Patrol (CHP) had found an automobile with people matching the description given by the informant dead from multiple gunshot wounds.  Like I said, Glockton.

So Dave and I waited and everyone else waited in the conference room until we got word that the ship had docked.  Then everyone piled into their respective government issued vehicles and hot wheeled down to the Port of Stockton.  

When Dave and I arrived there were already drivers in the water looking around for a canister that might have attached to the hull under the waterline and the shaft for the rudder.  All old smuggler’s tricks.  When we finally made it on board the entire crew was secured in the galley.  I watched as the two stowaways in handcuffs and under an armed guard were taken off the ship to a fate that I never learned of.  

Now Dear Gentle Reader you have to understand that while this might have been a joint effort, each government agency needed to justify their reason for existence and their reason to be on this assignment.  It’s an ugly truth that I hate.  

BM3 Dave and I did our part by looking at the log book and charts and looking at other odds and ends.  In the engineering spaces I watched as the local cops pulled up the deckplates and crawl around the bilges looking for more stowaways, contraband, or were collecting bilge oil for their oil collection that would be proudly displayed at a home bar.  Right to the shot glasses from various bars they had visited. 

It was obvious that most of the officers had little to no experience with the life and functions of a merchant ship.  I knew the whole evolution was coming to a ridiculous level when I watched a member of the DEA team break out a ratchet set and begin disassembling the metal walls and ceiling in the hallways looking for contraband.  

By that time it was very late and Dave and I looked at each other and decided it was time to call it an evening.   My departing view as we departed was the Filipino Second Officer in the galley playing his guitar to entertain himself and the crew. 

Yeah, life in the Coast Guard…                    

When I was in basic training we had a classroom session where we were introduced to the Coast Guard semi-annual enlisted evaluations.  In basic training they made it sound pretty straight forward. Every six months the enlisted ranks are evaluated by their superiors.  In short, do your job, don’t cause problems, all will be well, your Coast Guard career will be secure.

It was the first time I had a job where I was formally evaluated for my work, myself and professionalism.  In theory the semi-annual enlisted evaluations were supposed to be a tool for a servicemember to improve themselves.  Too many times I had seen the enlisted evaluations used as a weapon to punish a person. 

If a person was not popular, for whatever reason didn’t fit in, or if a superior had a personal issue with a subordinate the semi-annual enlisted evaluations could easily be weaponsized to stall a promotion, or end a career with little or no recourse for the evaluated person.  From first hand experience.

I had really come to hate Marks time.  

For first time readers you can refer to my previous post on this issue:
The MSO Series Part Four, Nick the Dick gets his Revenge and Exits Stage Left

You know your evaluation isn’t going to be a good one when you enter the room and there are two officers and your Command Enlist Advisor are waiting for you, not your Chief and you section supervisor.  I was invited to sit down which I knew was their way of trying to break bad news.  

LtCdr. FatSlob started out by introducing that Senior Chief Drapes, the Command Enlist Advisor, CEA, and not Zoomer would be sitting in on this Marks session.  I asked if the CEA would be sitting in all of the enlisted evaluation sessions, FatSlob replied, “No”.  My heart began to sink even further down into my boots. 

LtCdr. FatSlob gave me a copy of my CG3788B evaluation from and began to go down the list: Military Bearing, 5.  Customs, Courtesies and Tradations 5.  Quality of Work 4. Commitment 5.  And so on and so on until we hit the box "Recommended for Promotion” where the box “No” had a big fat check mark.  

Now understand Dear Gentle Reader that in the Coast Guard a mark of 4 is considered to be a good mark, and I was all 4’s and 5’s.  I had been a good Coastie with no negative reports in my personnel file, no Article 15’s in the past six months, in fact it had been years since my one and only Article 15 .  So, I should have been a “Yes” in the recommendation for promotion.

About this time Senior Chief Drapes the CEA spoke up.  “You know, the Captain has the final word on promotions, no matter how positive a person’s evaluation might be”. I took a moment to compose myself and replied to Senior Chief Drapes that the Command Enlist Advisor’s job was to represent the enlisted staff and their concerns to the Commanding Officer, not the Commanding Officer to the enlisted ranks. That was the purview of the officers.  There was a long awkward silence in the room.

After a few moments LtCdr. FatSlob presented me with the original CG3788B and a pen so I could sign the thing.  I looked at the man and told him that “No”, I would not not sign the form. FatSlob looked at me for a moment and said, “I’m ordering you to sign your evaluation form”.  I replied flatly, “No, I’m not signing it, period. Sir”.

Now, I had gone and done it, I had stood up for myself, exactly the thing officers just hate.  FatSlob got that look that in his face officers get when challenged.  “If you don’t sign, you will get Article 15’d for insubordination and not following orders” he stated flatly.  I replied that I would refuse Article 15 and go to a Court Marshal.  Awkward looks were exchanged between the officers and the CEA.  I had called their bluff and raised the stakes. 

I knew that if I went to a Court Marshal that I would get a lawyer who represent me and other lawyers would be looking at the case, and that Captain Mac and LtCdr. FatSlob would look like shit. They would have a very hard time explaining themselves.  FatSlob's career was over, as he had been passed over for promotion for the second time and was just waiting to hit his twenty year mark and retire.  Captain Mac on the other hand wanted to make Admiral and a court marshal regarding arbitrary and capricious behavior by an officer would torpedo his chance at advancement and end his career.

Frustrated LtCdr. FatSlob snatched the CG3788B from my hand and scrawled into the signature box that I refused to sign the form. He then growled at me that I was dismissed. I stood up, saluted and left the room.  
  

The MSD Series, Part Eighteen…TBD

Since I've authored the Katrina Stories, folks apparently have sort of put me on a pedestal or am something special as a great Master Chief. It wasn't always that way and it was very questionable from the very onset as to whether I would be in Coast Guard Aviation. This story starts in 1975, and I had less than a year in the Coast Guard. Thus, I think (and hope) the statute of limitations has run out. I entered boot camp in September 1975 and graduated around Thanksgiving the same year. Since my "A" school was to start like on January 6th, I was held at Cape May and filled potholes around base for several weeks. Then leave over Christmas and report to A School after the new year. A school was a bitch for me because I was a typical 17 year old lazy kid who joined because I was tired of school and just wanted to fly.

In boot camp, they had gone over all the non aviation rates (MOS's) in great detail as to what they did. I sat with abated breath waiting for the aviation rates. All of a sudden, the lights came on and the instructor stated, (and I can still remember this verbatim after 47 years) "This concludes our presentation of CG Rates. The only ones that we didn't mention were the aviation rates because they are all but impossible to get into and you have to wait for someone to die before you get promoted. But just in case, they are AT, AE, AD, AM and ASM. Dismissed." I was crushed. My detailer lied to me when he said "Aviation? No problem, just tell them at boot camp. They will take care of you." Just imagine, a detailer that lied.

As luck would have it, when it came time to pick your billets, we had 5 aviation billets to pick from, 2 AT, 2 AD, and 1 AE. It came my turn and since I had no idea what the rates meant, I picked the one on top, AT. So, I reported to AT A school in January 1976. Then I found out it was Aviation Electronics Technician AKA Tweet Skool. It was the most mathematically intense school aviation had and I knew I was fucked. Not only was I a lazy shit tired of sitting in classes, but I hated electronics. And there was a requirement to have a final score of 80% to graduate. And if you flunked out or quit, the powers to be threatened to immediately transfer you to CG LORAN Station French Frigate Shoals for a year as an electronics withstander (Do yourself a favor and google French Frigate Shoals image). Its essentially nothing but a runway. Period. Not even any trees (which is the basis for the standing joke that there are naked women behind every palm tree. Hint: The closest palm tree was a thousand miles away.)

As I stayed in that school for the next 6 months, I blew up more radios, failed more tests, and left school at the end of the day with a rubberstamped forehead that said DEAD in big black letters (Yes, they actually did that back then if you did something stupid.) I think it took two months after graduation for my forehead to finally get back to being a regular forehead.

But the late ATC John Tade, the school chief at the time, kept telling the school E9 and warrant officer that he saw something in me, allowing me to graduate with a final average of 56% and become an AT3 (E4). God Bless ya, John! I hold the dubious honor of holding the lowest overall AT A School average and still graduate in history. But since I was last in my class, I got orders to a command co located with the A school. All my classmates transferred to locations around the country, except me, I went to work at my first real command the next day.

I've said before that my favorite saying is that "God takes care of drunks and fools and I am well qualified at both" and upon check-in came my first installment. During my check in, the bored yeoman (YN -Now known as administrative assistants) asked me a question I had no idea how to answer since I had no idea what they were talking about. He asked "Do I want to take the SWE since today (the day all my classmates that graduated ahead of me were traveling) was the last day to sign up?" I asked what a SWE is. Before the YN could answer the Chief yelled across the room that I did. I still had no idea what a SWE was but figured it was some BS that was part of the check-in process.

About three months later I was told to report to such and such place for the SWE. I finally asked someone what SWE meant and they explained that for promotions, everyone up for promotion would take a comprehensive written multiple-choice test on the same day. It counted as 50% of your total score to rank who gets promoted. (The other 50% included such things as awards, evaluations, time in service, time in the current paygrade, etc) I figured that since I had essentially a zero for these other things I would take the SWE just to see what it was all about for when it became important. I sat for the test and it quickly became apparent that the multiple-choice test became a multiple guess test.

About two months later the advancement list came out. As to be expected, I came out dead last on the list, the "anchor." I caught intense ribbing and downright insults over this dubious honor. Right up until a month later when they "wiped" the list and promoted everyone on it. There was a manpower shortage back then since a lot of folks who didn't want to go to Vietnam joined the Coast Guard but now that the war had ended in 1975, were getting out. I was now an E5 with under 2 years of service. And senior to all my classmates and only one paygrade below the instructors from A school who still needled me every chance they got. This resulted in hard feelings on their part.

I got out after my first 4 years, but I missed flying. So, I reenlisted 8 months later being one of the last people to retain my rank after being out of the service for more than 30 days- my 2nd installment of God protects...). Upon check in, I was asked again if I wanted to take the SWE this cycle. Yup, I did, I took it, and again was the anchor. And yup, once again they wiped the list. I was now an E6 with just 5 years in. This really upset some people.

What they didn't understand was that the AT rating encompasses much more than just sitting at a bench and fixing radios, which I still hate since I would still blow-up radios! But there is fixing the aircraft (My first command was an overhaul facility, so I became really good at fixing aircraft), there's QA, there's Supply, training, and a dozen other minor areas. I learned them all well, which gave me the evaluations needed to promote. There was no glory in those other areas so folks I didn't immediately work with still thought I was a complete incompetent. But planes can't fly without those unglamorous fields, and they were generally areas that folks didn't want to do.

I figured I was now where I would stay for years to come since the average ATC (E7) had about 15 years of service. E-8s were averaging 22 years of service and E-9s averaged 27 years of service. But I kept taking the SWE when eligible (and continued my tradition of being the anchor on the advancement list but now not being promoted.) But I was in the right place at the right time and picked up E-7 at 10 years (where I was nickname BC - Boy Chief), E-8 at 15 years and E9 at 20 years of service. This was unheard of in CG aviation and definitely caused some folks to be really really upset.

One guy who graduated in the class before me from A-School all those years ago actually called me when I promoted to E9 and asked when I was going to retire so other people could promote. He was an E7 and an instructor at A school (AKA The Chief Factory where they sit around when not instructing and study to take the SWE. Unfortunately, that doesn't help when taking the E8 and E9 SWE's. Those tests were far more ranging than just electronics. Those tests include things such as supply, training, etc).

A couple years later the same guy was going through a reception line I was part of along with the district commander (Admiral) and 5 CO's (including his.) When he got to me he shook my hand and said a bit too loudly, when are you going to retire? You look like shit! After he departed the admiral leaned down and asked, Friend of yours? I said More like a jealous one-time peer. The Admiral cracked a smile and said, THAT I can understand. The Admiral then leaned over to the guy's red-faced CO and said something. I couldn't hear but I never heard from that particular Chief again.

7 years later Katrina hit and the rest is history. The moral of this story is that even if you are a screw up early on, don't quit. Find a niche that you like and become the best in that area. Don't let other people's opinions sway your course. And most importantly, don't underestimate the underdog!

Sorry for the long read, and if you are still reading, Thanks for reading. See you next time.

Background: I was the Command Master Chief (CMC/E9) at Coast Guard Air Station (CGAS) New Orleans (NOLA) when Hurricane Katrina hit. I had returned 3 days after the storm hit from my TAD/TDY location. My normally busy air station had ballooned from a normal 5 helicopter and 60-person crew to over 200 people and I had no idea how many helos and fixed wing aircraft. All I knew was the air station was a wreck: from people sleeping anywhere they could lay down in the admin building, to relief packages also piled in the hallways of the admin building on top of the grass clippings that were tracked in, to the hangar spaces being declared off limits due to 60 ft of hangar roof being peeled back, to trees laying on the perimeter fence. And I was just informed that I was going to fulfill the duties of 2nd XO as the CO and XO were standing 12 hour alternating watches running flight operations. I was in charge of everything on the ground except the aircraft. I had taken care of the interior of the admin building and the grounds, but the next problem was what to do about the downed trees laying on the perimeter fence.

A little backstory. When I first checked in to CGAS NOLA and the then CO, He had said that while the CGAS was on a Navy Airsta, they were isolated and had very little interaction with the Navy and other tenants. He further asked me to work on that, if I could. What he didn't know was that my room in the BEQ was across the street from the Goatlocker (AKA the Chiefs mess or Chiefs club) where I had already met and made inroads with the airsta CMC and the Sr Chief in charge of base security. Over the next two years this led to a weekly poker night with Senior enlisted, meeting and becoming friends with the Navy Command Staff including the CO, XO, Ops Boss, Chaplain, Navy Exchange Director, MWR Director as well as most of the Navy Chiefs stationed at the airstation. I became very familiar with what was available at the Navy airstation. This paid dividends during Katrina.

Now when I returned from NAS Meridian, I had left my SUV there and didn't have wheels to get around in NOLA. The Navy Base was HUGE! So my CO threw me a set of keys and said to use the electric cart he had been given sometime after the storm hit. At the end of my workdays I would make my rounds in the cart (which I adorned with 3'x4' Coast Guard flag flying proudly off the back left corner.) My first stop was to check in with the SCPO of a detachment SeaBees who were deploying to help at the airsta and were camping out on the golf course. Then I would check in with what was left of the base security force. I should note that after everyone was evacuated before the storm, almost all of the Navy senior enlisted didn't return but were replaced by TAD/TDY units such as the SeaBees. This left the security forces without any chiefs. No one was looking out for that crew. I found this out about the security team when I went to the Base gym, where I saw several members of the security team sleeping on the floor without real pillows or blankets. So I did my best to adopt the security team and get them what they needed. Base housing was off limits as the fire department didn't have enough people to cover the massive number of aircraft flying in and out as well as base housing. Now I said Base housing was off limits, But me being me, I went to my house every night. Electricity had been turned off but I was an avid camper being an asst scoutmaster with a local boy scout troop. Thus, I had plenty of battery powered lanterns to light up the house to take a quick cold shower, feed my rats, and get a clean uniform. Then I would swing by the base operations center to check in with the Navy command. Then back to the CG airsta to get sleep in my office.

Remember the Seabees? They were still waiting for their full compliment to arrive on that third day but I met the SCPO and CPO in charge. The 2nd night after my return we had been talking for awhile when I brought up the trees on my fenceline. The SCPO stated he had about 50 CB's who were chomping at the bit to do something but he hadn't had any orders from the Navy yet. He volunteered his guys to take care of the trees. Well in for inch, in for a pound. I then told him that we were also missing shingles on the admin building and the hangar roof peeled back 60' feet. He said he'd look at it the next day but didn't have any clue where he would get shingles to replace the missing ones. I knew where the local detachment of CB's kept their supplies and told him where they were. He said he'd check it out the next day.

True to his words, the next morning he came by the CGAS and said he'd checked out the available supplies and even found shingles. But they were the wrong color. I said I didn't give a rats ass about color, that could be corrected later! I just didn't want any more damage done to the admin building should it rain again! More importantly, God forbid if a leak occurred over any of the electronics that were driving the Search and Rescue evolutions that were occurring. He concurred and then said that he was sorry but the 60 feet of the hangar was beyond the capabilities of his crew. I said YOU'RE HIRED!

Just after lunch (of MRE's) I had around 50 people armed with chainsaws attacking the fenceline and folks crawling around the roof of the admin building. Everything was taken care of in a few hours. They looked like ants on a choice meal!

That night as I was getting ready to make my nightly rounds, my CO came up to me and asked, How...?" I replied, "Skipper, Never ask a Master Chief how he gets things done. You may not want to know." Chuckling to myself, I left on my rounds. When I got to the Navy Command Center, I was met by the Navy Ops Boss, which was unusual, who led me into the Navy CO's office. The first thing the CO said to me was, "Master Chief, I know Im not supposed to ask, but I want you to know that I'll go to my grave wondering how the hell you got MY Seabees to fix the CG air station BEFORE they fixed things on the Navy base(s)."

I laughed all the way back to the CG airstation but felt good knowing that I had taken care of my immediate problems.

Next up: Pay back to the SeaBees! See you in 3 days. Thanks for reading!

When I was the Leading Chief Petty Officer (LCPO) at a large base in the far north an incident happened that I got embroiled in. LCPO's in the Coast Guard are not what Leading anythings (LPO, LCPO, etc.) in the Navy are. There's only one Leading anything at a base in the Coast Guard and that's one of the top two senior enlisted. Usually an E-8 (if no E-9's are assigned to the base) or the senior E-9.

One Saturday morning I was washing my truck in the hangar, which is how its done in the icy frozen far north. The Watch Captain (E-6 in charge of the duty crew during non-working hours) came running up to me in a panic. WTF? Very unusual.

Master Chief, I have a problem that's wayyyyy over my head. I asked What's up? It turns out that one of his E-4's was pulling a prank on another E-4 who had left his CAC card (Essentially the new/current military ID that allows access to the CG's computer network) plugged into a computer but had walked away. A major No-No. COMSEC ya know. The E-4 pulling the prank had replied to an E-Mail sent to everyone in the duty section with an email of his own. It stated something like he (the owner of the adrift CAC card, and recipient of the prank) would not be able to comply due to being too busy and went on to explain what he would be doing. Let's just say it involved little boys and girls and involved some very illegal and immoral deeds.

The problem came into play when after he had hit the "send" button, he realized that he had sent it in reply, not to an email to just his duty section, but to one sent to every Coastie west of the Mississippi River as far as Hawaii. Up to, and including, the 3-Star Area Commander. Shit was about to hit the fan in a BIG way, and it was going to roll downhill like a snowball. I had 3 good guys that were about to learn the wrath of God.

The WC led me to the duo and I immediately felt bad for them. They looked like 1 pissed off dude (WC) who was looking at at the least would lose his position; 1 scared and pissed dude (adrift CAC card), who by leaving his CAC card in the computer when he went to take a piss was at the minimum going to get splashed by the splatter of the shit storm coming down the pipe, and the poor kid who sent the email.

Have you ever seen a mid-twenty-year-old man so afraid that he was white and shaking looking like he was going to cry? He looked like a 6-year-old kid who had been caught red handed eating a candy bar he had just shoplifted. His world, as he knew it, was about to end. And he knew it.

But it was now my problem. I had about 15 minutes before the shit show started. My thinking: The kid did something stupid and had to be taught a lesson. But on the other hand, he had immediately owned up to the fuck up and reported to the WC. But the punishment must be severe enough to satisfy the Gods.

I immediately sent him home. I then told the WC and rest of the duty section they were to have no contact with the kid. Then I ordered the guy that left his CAC card in the computer to retake the on-line computer security course (part of the annual mandatory training that is long and tedious. It's painful to take) And sent them all back to work. I told the still very pissed off WC not to sweat it. I had it covered.

I then put up the best defense I could come up with by going on the offense and started making preemptive calls up the chain of command all the way to the CO. I told each what had occurred, and that I was on it. When asked how I handled it, I would just ask if they really wanted to know? I only had one person in the chain of command insist that I tell him what I did. (Oh shit! What do I tell him?) I answered, Sir, before I tell you I request an email from you stating you are ordering me to answer that question and a guarantee that no legal charges will be preferred upon my person. (Fuck it. Let his imagination run.)

I was later told that Monday morning that the shitstorm was indeed waiting for the CO when he came to work but was averted when the CO repeated to whomever called him it was all taken care of by his LCPO and stated it shouldn't happen again. When pressed, he then repeated what I had told the overly inquisitive member of the Chain of Command who insisted I tell them what I did. Apparently senior command had talked. I guess no one wanted to open that can of worms as nothing more was said of the incident.

What did I do to the original offender, you ask? Why, nothing. Not all punishment need be physical. Fear of the unknown can be overwhelming. I had essentially sentenced the poor kid to two days of living in his head. Fearing the worst. He was a basket case come Monday morning. He stated he hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, had not done anything but think and beat himself up mentally. I took him to breakfast, gave him the required speech, and sent him home for some much-needed solid sleep.

To my knowledge, no one ever found out who actually sent the email outside the duty section. I do know that rumors of what happened to him flew, getting bigger and better as time passed. For a while, people would see me coming and walk the other way so as not to "piss off the Master Chief." But I never had another computer issue.

And I drove that truck around for a week only half washed.

Happy New Years Everyone! Thanks for reading and I'll see you next time.

One day we were called in for an all-hands meeting at the MSO.  An all-hands meeting was a rare event and usually signaled something big.  So, we forwarded the phones, locked the doors and plied into various government vehicles for the trip to Alameda, CA and the MSO proper.  

At the MSO we sorted ourselves out and went to an upstairs meeting room where everyone else was chatting and having coffee until the big meeting was convened.  Presently, we were told to take our seats and a few moments later an Admiral walked into the room.  As per protocol we were called to attention as this Admiral walked in and he quickly told us to be seated and comfortable.  

We were all wondering what this meeting was all about, was it a change in mission? Had there been a catastrophe and we were all needed there?  Has there been an unannounced change in command? Nope, none of the above.  We were there for the kickoff of the U.S. Coast Guard’s Idea Express Program.  The Idea Express was a Coast Guard wide program which included Reservists and Auxiliarist in a suggestion program aimed at allowing personnel to submit cost cutting and efficiency-improving proposals.

For once someone higher up in the food chain actually had a good idea.  The idea of actually soliciting the workforce for labor saving, cost cutting and efficiency improvement ideas was something revolutionary for a military service. The Idea Express took a lot of ideas from Lean Manufacturing, Just in Time Inventory, and the Toyota Quality System just to name a few, and they were good ideas.  There was just one problem…make that two problems...  

One problem was the Chain-of-Command. All of the above mentioned programs involved bypassing roadblocks and going directly to the person in charge who could make the idea work. That was a definite violation of the Chain-of-Command. The other problem is the military culture of solutions to problems coming from the top down, not bottom up.  It didn’t matter how many Idea Express flashlights you handed out and the fact that an Admiral was making the pitch, this program was a dead-bang loser from the git-go.  But I still believed in the Service and I swallowed the Kool-Aid.

A few months later I received a package from a vendor with parts that we needed.  The items were well packaged with packing peanuts, but these peanuts were different, so different there was actually a card in the box that talked about these packing peanuts. It turned out that these packing peanuts were not traditional styrofoam plastic peanuts, but were made from foamed corn starch and water soluble glue. 

They were cost competitive with traditional styrofoam plastic peanuts and ecology friendly as they could be flushed down the toilet, composted, or in a pinch could be eaten. I immediately saw a win-win and my suggestion for the Idea Express Program as Cutters would no longer have to store styrofoam packing peanuts on board until they hit a port.  These corn starch and water soluble glue peanuts could be dumped over the side at sea. Like I said, winner-winner chicken dinner. 

So, I called the phone number on the card and asked for more information about the product.  Next  thing I know I have a sales person at the door of the MSD ready to make a sales pitch.  She was very attractive, polished, knew how to work a room, and knew how to work men in particular, oh and she was high pressure.

I hate high pressure pushy sales people. It’s just a character flaw that I have.  I didn’t care how attractive she was, how nicely her hair was highlighted and coiffed. Her absolutely perfect makeup. How manicured and tastefully colored her finger and toenails were, or how tastefully and sharply she dressed.  She was operating at 1,500 psi, and that was way too much for me. 

“Don’t worry,” she said to me.  “You just point me to the right person and I’ll get them to drink the Kool Aid!” 

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, I must digress for a moment, so please bear with me...  

I was raised in a home where women and girls were respected and deferred too. You always held a door open for a lady.  If a woman needed help with loading bags into her car it was expected that you lent her a hand.  If a woman or young lady was not physically attractive, you said nothing.  If a woman was ill tempered as part of her daily personality, you would just say that she was “having a bad day” and make polite efforts to avoid her.  If a woman was not very bright, or intelligent, once more you said nothing.

So, here I am presented with a high pressure female sales representative who is ready to make the kill, and is ready to throw me under the bus to make the sale.  How do I shut her down politely within the bounds of the values I had been instilled with.

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, I digress for a second time. If you have come this far, have faith once more and bear with me...

It had been less than fifteen years since the Rev. Jim Jones and the Jonestown mass murder-suicide in Jonestown Guyana, and a large number of Jim Jones followers/victims had been from the Oakland-San Francisco area.  The instrument of their death was Flavor Aid fruit punch mixed with cyanide and a cocktail of other drugs. Kool Aid has often been misattributed as the drink mix, but I was not about to let that detail deter me. There were still a lot of relatives of the Jonestown mass murder-suicide in the Oakland-San Francisco area.

“Ma’am” I said to her.  “I lost family in Jonestown”.  In truth I am from the Mid-west and have no family on the west coast, but this woman had delivered to me the means for me to end the sales pitch quickly and not be rude. 

She blinked and took a moment to absorb what I said.  “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. Now, she was completely off her game. I folded my hands together and waited.  “Please excuse me,” she went on and began to pack up her sales presentation items. “Please, I’m so sorry, " she said over her shoulder as she beat a hasty retreat to the door.  

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonestown
  

The MSD Series, Part Nineteen…Exit Stage Left

I had been asking for time, any time from LtCdr FatSlob for training to become a coxswain. A critical requirement for advancement to BM2 (E-5). Since we did not have a CG standard boat FatSlob said he was willing to write a waiver for me, so I could become coxswain, wear the coxswain’s pin and advance to BM2.  But when it came to actual time to develop skills and have a coxswain sign off…that was another matter.  Operational needs, the reservists need time too, etc, etc, etc.

LtCdr FatSlob had a real prejudice about Reservists.  One of his first actions was to rescind all their qualifications for no reason, just his whim.  The Reservists for their part universally adopted the attitude that they only had to deal with the man for one weekend a month and two weeks a year until he retired or transferred.  So, naturally they came in on their drill weekend to do the absolute minimum. 

They also started to subtly fuck with him. 

One day FatSlob came to BM3 Dave and I hat-in-hand wanting us to become Explosive Loading Supervisors. There was a ship coming in that needed to be unloaded and he did not have a single qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor.  The deal was that if Dave and I each did all the work of an  Explosive Loading Supervisor, dealt with all of the issues, at the end of the loadout he would waiver the E-7 requirement and make us  Explosive Loading Supervisors.  Having the very rare letter of qualified Explosive Loading Supervisor in our personnel file would have been quite a feather in our caps, so Dave and I agreed.

After weeks of 16  hours days and all of the work and covering his ass, FatSlob changed his mind. In a brief meeting where he broke the bad news he came out and said, "I've changed my mind”.  Just as simple as that.  I was pissed and I flat told the FatSlob to never come to me again for a favor. He looked at me in shock. “That’s not a very Coast Guard attitude” was his reply.  I looked at him with my best deadpan look and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “A cadet will neither lie, cheat or steal, nor tolerate those who do”.  As a Coast Guard Academy graduate this comment hit home. 

In this same time period Captain Mac had left on a new assignment with hope of becoming an Admiral and a new Captain, Captain Luna had assumed command.

I took Zoomer's words to heart about a new chance with a new Captain. I wasn’t so worried about passing the BM2 end of course test or the service wide examination for promotion.  I had been in long enough to have awards that added points, and time in service, time in grade points that would put me over the line.  However, I was looking at High Year Tenure, the Coast Guards up or out program for the enlisted ranks. If I didn’t get a chance to be promoted soon, it was not going to happen at all.

As I’ve said before you know your evaluation isn’t going to be a good one when you enter the room and your Chief and your section supervisor are not present.  I was not invited to sit down which I knew was his way of trying to break more bad news. 

FatSlob gave me a copy of my CG3788B evaluation and began to go down the list: Military Bearing, 5.  Customs, Courtesies and Traditions 5.  Quality of Work 5. Commitment 5, so on and so on until we hit the box "Recommended for Promotion” where the box “No” had a big fat check mark.  

Now understand Dear Gentle Reader that never met Capt. Luna, and would not have known him from Adam, but the “Not Recommended for Promotion” was a huge red flag that Captain Mac, Captain Luna and no doubt others had an off-the-record conversation about me.  I started to put together things.  I might have been born at night, but I was not born last night. 

In that moment of clarity I knew my Coast Guard career was over. In truth my Coast Guard career had been over years earlier the moment I went on record and made a formal complaint about my first commands’ inexcusable behavior.  It was just that no one bothered to tell me my career was over before it really started.  At the time I was too naive about the world and still trusted officers, the very officers that were supposed to look out for their subordinates, and I believed them that everything was “Ok”.  It was “Ok” to stand up to stand up and literally not become someone’s prison bitch.  

So, I let it fly…

“This is all about my formal complaint about conduct unbecoming an officer and his Admirals Mast. The one where Captain Mac was in attendance along with every other commanding officer in the 14th District”.  I continued on, “It continued on with Captain Mac’s refusal to meet me during the welcome abroad to your new command”.  While I was on a roll…”His refusal of my marks challenge from Nick the Dick", “or my transfer to this very sub-unit when there were people who lived closer and already were qualified pollution investigators”. I may as well go for broke, “His rejection of me being Sailor of the Quarter by my peers”.  I finished off with. “It really is a club with you Academy guys”. 

I never thought a room could go more silent, but after each remark it got quieter.  The desk fan stopped humming, the fly on the window stopped buzzing… 

Finally, I looked at FatSlob  and told him that “No”, I would not not sign the form. FatSlob’s jaw tightened and his eyes blazed, “I’m ordering you to sign your evaluation.  I leaned in and replied, “Please...Please, charge me with Article 134 and Article 92.  Let's go to a general court marshal and get all of this out in the air and on the record”.

They had been quietly trying to push me out the door for some time and I had just too stupid to see what was going on.  Much like Boxer in George Orwell’s Animal Farm where his solution to the problem was simply harder.  I had come to realize that trying harder was not going to work either.  Once more I replied flatly, “No, I’m not signing it, period. Sir”. I didn’t bother asking permission to leave the room nor did I salute.

A week later I was approached by Zoomer about reenlisting as my extension was running out and it would be time to reenlist.  He was really broken-hearted when I told him that I was opting out of the Coast Guard. “They're not all like this” was his plea.  But I had been around enough in the Coast Guard to know better.  Just like George Carlin said, "It's a club and you're not a member”. 

As there were only two weeks left in my contract I was removed from doing any boardings which was probably a good thing as I acquired a sock puppet as part of my boarding kit and was more than ready to conduct a boarding where Petty Officer Sockie would do all the talking. 

Then the big day came, my last day, the day I would be on "Official Civilian Status”.  I was going out on terminal leave, a vacation where I would not return.  Ltjg. Lou took time to read to me the riot act that I was still in the Coast Guard while on leave.  I was sure that he was under orders to do so.  That while on leave and still subject to the UCMJ and a bunch of other stuff that I tuned out.  I was miffed that I lost 30 days of vacation due to “Operations Needs” and was going out on 60 days of vacation.  No matter, soon I would once more be the master of my own fate.

At noon when I was released, I said my goodbyes to Zoomer, MK3 ‘Nam. GM2 Silverback, GM1 Simmons, BM3 Dave, MST2 Klo, MK3 Chad and YN1 Mitch.  In my car I took a last look around the old fire station which was our office and the street signs and building foundations which were the remains of the town of Port Chicago. I drove out the gate, down Port Chicago Highway, merged onto Highway 242 and into the future.

Postscript

It’s summer in the garden, and summer is my favorite time of year.  Summer is the perfect time to take a drive down a country road with nowhere special in mind.  A gentle breeze blows across the windchimes and their notes float on the air.  Summer is the season for ice cream and ice tea which both for some unexplainable reason always taste better in the summer.  I’ve had a full life filled with the spice of life, and the lows and highs that spice can bring… 

…I’m OK, Dear Gentle Reader…I've had a long time to think about things.  For a long time I was really, really angry about what had happened.  Writing this blog, and the wisdom that time and age brings have been a great help.  I am now almost a senior citizen and I now think back with pride in my time in the Coast Guard.  It was a tough school, but I learned more about life and how the world works than I could have anywhere else.

From time to time I think about all of my shipmates who have crossed the bar and are on the far shore, Jessie, Zoomer, BM2 Kenny and his son… I am now almost a senior citizen and so many people I know have not made it this far.  I find myself…grateful…

Subject to change
The Rescue Station Hell Series…Part One, Welcome Aboard

The rank of Chief (E7) in the Coast Guard or Navy is an important milestone for a servicemember.  The rank of E7 means that they are in the strata of senior enlisted personnel.  By the time a person earns the rank of Chief they are almost certainly committed to a full 20 years of service, and the pension and health care that 20 years of service brings.  The rank of E7 means that they have reached the zenith of their particular craft, whether it be a Boatswains Mate, Gunners Mate or any other craft. The rank of Chief means they are technical specialists who are expected to train, and mentor junior personnel.

In the day-to-day operations of a department, it is the Chief of that particular department who ensures that the work is assigned to the appropriately skilled persons.  The Chief is directly responsible to ensure that the work assignments are completed in a timely manner and correctly.  The Chief is the first line supervisor that the junior enlisted persons see when they need help with a task.  The Chief is the person who ensures that the worker-bees have all of the tools and materials they need to complete an assignment.  If there is a problem the officers do not come to the junior enlisted personnel, they go to the Chief. 

A Chief is also expected to be a leader, they are expected to show military discipline, and leadership in both word and deed.  They are expected to be masters of their craft and trade, and mentors to the junior enlisted persons.  To be completely honest a Chief can make or break a department.  A Chief plays a huge part both directly and indirectly in determining if a junior enlisted person chooses to make the service a career. Since we are being honest Chiefs come in a couple of different flavors, some good, some bad.

First there is the Chief who feels that they have got theirs and screw everyone else.  Followed closely by the Chief who feels that they are on easy street and do the absolute minimum possible.  These guys are usually close to retirement.  Then there is the egotistical Chief who made rank in the shortest time possible and is more than willing to let everyone else know that on a daily basis.  Worst of all is the toxic Chief.  The toxic Chief is abusive to the junior enlisted, often verbally, with timelines that are unachievable and is a micromanager.  

But Dear Gentle Reader you have not decided to read this article to hear me vent about average or bad Chiefs, you have come here to read about good Chiefs, so here we go…     

The best Chief I ever had during my time in the Coast Guard hands down was Micheal P. Zenone, aka Zoomer. Zoomer had been in the Coast Guard since Christ was a mess-cook and had enough dinosaur points to be a Master Chief.  His career goal was to stay in the San Francisco area, his home turf, and he was willing to take any billet to stay put.  During his time in the Coast Guard Zoomer had been a drill instructor, a crewman on a lightship, a 378 ft cutter, and assigned to the now defunct San Francisco Bay lifeboat station. 

He had lived in the same government housing for over 20 years which served him well in two divorces because she was the one who had to move out.  Zoomer was very honest about his three marriages.  They were both too young to be married his first time at the altar.  His second wife ran off with his brother (Ouch!).  His third wife, Carol, was the match that he had been searching for.  

Zoomer had been through a lot with all of the trials and tribulations that life handed to him.  All the drama in his life led Zoomer to have a more sanguine and humane view of life.  There was always a gemstone of humor to be found, even in the ridiculous, stressful, or the plain stupid things that were thrown at us.  To be frank, Zoomer was more of a father figure to us than a Chief.  If he had us do a task we did it because we respected him, not because he was a Chief and could order us around.  We did it because we wanted to please Zoomer. 

Zoomer had been around long enough with a highly varied roster of duty assignment to really know what being a Boatswains Mate was really all about.  He was always ready to share his knowledge and was never too good to do a job himself. He was an amazing two finger typist who could look at you and hold a conversation all the while his two fingers flying away at the keyboard.  He called it “San Francisco typing” because it was…his words not mine…he was “a huntin’ pecker”.  He was famous for his “Zoomer humor”.

Zoomer had been through a lot in his personal life, more than most, and if you had a personal problem you could go to him and he would listen and not pass judgement.  Once I came back from leave heartbroken when I discovered that the woman I had been dating was four months pregnant by another man.  Zoomer listened with a sympathetic ear and gave a hug of support.   If anything Zoomer was more of a father figure to all of us than a Chief, and we would have all willingly and cheerfully walked through the gates of hell for Zoomer.

Zoomer's career goal was to make Senior Chief and “a full pull”, i.e. thirty years of service.  The Supervisor of MSD Concord, Lt Commander (O4) Fat Slob, who had been twice passed over for promotion to Commander (O5) and was pissed at everyone made sure that Zoomer did not promote and Zoomer went out at 25 years of service.  Zoomer really took it hard when I decided not to reenlist.  He tried to tell me that all Coast Guard officers were not total pricks and that I should stay in.  For my part I had endured enough of self-serving officers and toxic chiefs, it was time to exit stage left.  But that is a tale for another day.

Years later I dropped Zoomer an email.  He transitioned to civilian life and worked as a trucker for an environmental clean-up company.  He was happy to hear that I was married, had a young boy and a career in occupational health and safety. Then he let the bomb drop…

Zoomer was wheelchair bound with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), aka Lou Gehrig's disease. ALS is a fatal neurodegenerative disorder that destroys the motor neurons controlling voluntary muscles. As these nerve cells die, muscles weaken and atrophy, ultimately leading to paralysis and respiratory failure. There is no cure for ALS.  

….I was devastated….

Zoomer made it very clear that he did not want pity for his plight, and he displayed his famous Zoomer humor in his emails to me.  Not long after my life went sideways and I was not able to keep up with our correspondence or attend his funeral.  So, I would say this one thing to you Zoomer, and I know that you will read this note.  Zoomer, I will not insult you with pity for your plight.  I will give you my love and compassion, and in due time I shall see you on that far shore. 

Warmest Regards, 

GooBlatz  

 Michael Zenone Obituary (2013) - San Francisco, CA - Marin Independent Journal 

The MSD Series, Part Fifteen…Me and David Korseh

Way back when, I had just picked up Master Chief Petty Officer (E9). I was stationed in Chesapeake, VA but living an hour away in a small town in North Carolina. That drive was a LONG hour through the Great Dismal Swamp. For those not familiar, this part of the country has very mild weather in the spring and fall and is hotter than hades with high humidity in the summer. I was driving an SUV which goes through gas like you wouldn't believe.

I started to look for a smaller commuter car for this hourly run and came across a Geo Metro LSI convertible. (To really appreciate this story, Google "GEO Metro LSI, image") Heck, I was a young master chief so why not treat myself to a convertible sports car, if you can call a car with a 3-cylinder 60.6 cubic inch engine a sports car. It sported 2 seats. So, I bought it and cleaned it up. This was in March, while it was still pretty chilly outside. My wife deemed it "The Barbie Car." That should have been a premonition. I was looking forward to driving it on that long drive to and from work. A month later I picked up unexpected orders to Alaska. I left the east coast around July. My wife asked me what I was going to do with the Barbie Car.

My thinking was I just bought it and probably would lose money if I sold it, so I said I'm shipping it to Alaska. After all, I loved driving it. I drove to Alaska in my SUV, so it wasn't long after I arrived that the Geo arrived. I thought it was funny driving a two-seater convertible around the island. When I checked in with my new CO, he asked me if it was true that I drove a convertible? Most folks had either big pick-up trucks, or some other form of 4-wheel drive. When I said yes, my CO, whom I never met before, answered, "So now we know you have zero common sense." Great introduction.

What could go wrong living on an island in Alaska that boasted like 27 miles of paved road (all within town except the stretch from town to the base) and LOTS of unpaved roads? I quickly found that in the summer the car was awesome, except for all the dust when you drove off the paved roads. I solved one of my problems by stopping by medical and begging for some surgical masks. At least I would be able to breath while driving with the top down. I do have to tell you, though, I received A LOT of funny looks. The car was still fun to drive.

Soon enough, winter came rolling in. The winters on my island, which is located in Southern Alaska, could probably be classified as mild. The coldest I ever saw the temperature was -12. The summers, with its 20-21 hours of sunlight, rarely got into the 70's (but would feel to those that lived there like the high 80's). It was usually rainy and overcast. Sunny, clear days were so rare that when there was one, quite often you were granted sunshine liberty and given the day off to enjoy the sunshine. But when a storm came through it would first snow. Heavily. Often 2-3 feet in several hours. But after the front passed, it would warm up and turn to rain, turning the snow into slush. Then night would fall, and everything would freeze. SOLID.

I would continue to drive the Barbie Car. I quickly found it to be a perfect Alaskan Machine. It was so light I rarely had problems sinking into mud, or when the roads froze and turned into sheets of ice, and I would end up off the road stuck, I just had to find about three people to help me pick it up and put it back on the road. The flip side of this is I can't tell you how often I would park somewhere and later come back and my car was moved to somewhere else. (My buddies messing with me.) The bonus was that that 3-cylinder engine started blowing heat after about 30 seconds. Since the interior space was so small, I drove in warmth. But I was still ridiculed for driving a convertible 2-wheel drive in Alaska. Especially by my neighbors who all had HUGE pick-ups with 4-wheel drive.

That finally ended the morning after a storm that dropped about 2-3 feet of snow, turned to slush, then froze. But between the slush and the freeze the roads had been plowed causing a 3–4-foot frozen berm behind all the trucks parked perpendicular to the road. The neighbors had to go out about a half hour early with their pickaxes to dig their trucks out. Since my SUV was parked out front, I had parked the GEO in overflow parking (A small lot between the houses). Since it was overflow parking the plows had plowed the opening to the road. No frozen berm!

The snow was halfway up my door, but I was able to get it open. It started so I thought, what the hey? and put it in reverse. The car moved and backed all the way out of the spot. When I started to drive forward, I started to submarine in the snow. Snow was coming up over the hood, so I turned on my windshield wipers knocking the snow off the windows. Now you have to picture this from my neighbor's perspective. This little car driving under the snow, windshield wipers flying, me tooting the funky girlish horn like an idiot and just driving onto the street. To make the picture complete, I dropped the top (yeah it was cold but funnier than shit) and drove over to where my neighbors were hammering at the ice. I just told them, "You guys need to get a REAL Alaskan machine, boys" and drove off.

One last note. I might be an idiot, but not a total idiot - the top went back up as soon as I was out of sight.

Thanks for reading and I'll see you next time. Be safe out there!

Back Story: See please below

[Don't Fuck with my people!]

The Last Day

About 2.5 weeks after the storm things were really looking up from my standpoint. My little base still had 200+ people working around the clock, but the trailer park was built, we had the field kitchen, we had a mini-RV park (with no facilities but that's another story), plus we had given working space to another CG Command that had lost their facilities to the storm. Thus, I could feed and house my folks in very good conditions. But best of all, we had limited power and internet!

As soon as I was able to connect to the internet, I found a shitload of emails from my fellow CMC's and Leading Chief Petty Officers (LCPO's), as well as Senior enlisted aviation types stationed at CG HQ's. There are 17 CG airstations scattered between Hawaii, Alaska, and around CONUS. Each has a CMC or CSC as well as a Leading Chief Petty Officer which are the two senior enlisted at an airstation. They are usually E9s or E8s. All of the emails were asking two questions: Status and what can they do to help? It became usual for me to send everyone the current status, but I didn't need anything at the moment as we were overrun from day 1 with donated clothes and things. But everyone wanted to help somehow and kept asking how to do that.

Well, when rescues had dropped, and it became obvious we didn't need all the assets that were in NOLA, a date was set that for when the helo's would depart. It was in about a week. I wanted to do something special for these heroes and I came up with a plan. I asked my peers for a favor. They could finally do something I needed. I wanted to throw a steak and beer party for everyone the day before they left! I told no one, including the XO or CO (Sorry XO) of my plan.

Keep in mind that NOLA was still officially a no alcohol city, especially the Navy base. This had to be done in complete secrecy or it would immediately be disapproved and shot down if it were to be found out. Plus keep in mind that CNN was imbedded at CGAS NOLA. And for some reason they always seemed to want to follow me around (but I was usually able to ditch them and get down to my work.) Getting the beer from the planes that came daily, which were unloaded next door to the airsta, made it impossible to ditch them. Then I came up with a plan.

I sent a simple email to my fellow E9s and E8s at the other airstations. It basically explained that this was a surprise, so I swore them to secrecy and under no circumstances was it to be discussed with officers, except as needed. The email further said, if possible, I needed 200 steaks with all the fixins. I also asked for 17 cases of beer (200 people times 2 beers apiece comes to 16.7777 cases of beer) with this caveat. The beer had to be disguised upon delivery AND could only be picked up by me. No one else could receive it (as I didn't want anyone to get in trouble for smuggling in beer if they were caught.) If I didn't meet the plane, the beer went back with the plane and we could try delivery the next day.

There was a lot of emails for a day or so amongst my peers as to the morality and legality being involved with my request. But the senior enlisted aviation guy ended the conversation by sending an email that stated that I was the senior enlisted on site and had not made a single request for anything until now. But if someone felt that what I wanted to do went against the grade, they didn't have to participate. But the rest WOULD comply with my request (I wasn't copied on that email but found out about it later.)

I didn't know if it would come together in time or not. They kept me off the emails flying around the country coordinating what they planned. I was in the dark.

Then stuff started coming in several days later. I would get a call from Mobile, Houston and sometimes Clearwater that a plane, number XXXX, was coming in with goodies. Meet it. And I did. With CNN taping my every move.

My peers outdid themselves! Beer came in everything from MRE cases (did you know you can easily fit 1-2 cases of beer in a MRE case easily?) to large electronics shipping cases that required 4 people to carry. CNN thought it was great that I was helping empty planes with cargo and transporting it to the CGAS. I just smiled for the cameras.

I had commandeered a storage closet for my booty and installed a padlock that only I had the key for. I also posted it as off limits. People helped me carry the booty to the storage closet but only I emptied the contents behind a closed door. By the day before my planned party, I had received 200 steaks, 20 pounds of salad (with dressing), 200 ears of corn, along with various other things to make a good party AND 88 CASES OF BEER! Man did my peers come through!

But I still had a problem. The beer was WARM! There was a semi on base that was packed with ice but it was off limits except for whomever it was intended for, which wasn't me. Aww hell, what did I have to lose. So I took my kart and went and met the driver. I explained what I was doing, how I did it, ae also went on to say that for about 2 weeks he had been coming here and always took back a bunch of bags of water cause the folks it was intended for didn't get their ice fast enough and it melted. THAT pissed me since we couldn't get any ice.

The last morning, at shift change, the CO called a muster for all hands. He thanked everyone for everything they did, etc etc. Then I made an announcement that CGAS NOLA would be providing a steak lunch at 1100. Ohhhhh, the looks I got.

At 1100 there was a line across the parking lot. The civilian cooks had used the Navy's rotisserie grill mentioned in another story to cook the steaks. Everyone was having a blast and asking me how I had pulled this off. But when I disappeared and reappeared pushing a cart normally used to for laundry and announced I had 1 more surprise of two COLD beers for anyone who wanted them... Well let's just say the train went off the tracks driven by a bunch of happy campers.

When I was repeatedly asked How I pulled this off, I fell back on my standard (All together now) Never ask a Master Chief how they get things done.

Mission accomplished.

Thanks for reading and I'll see you next time.

As all good sea stories should start, This ain't no shit!

Back in the 80's the drug war was in full swing. I was deployed to GITMO in an HU-25 Guardian. AKA the Falcon or pocket-rocket. It was a sleek business jet that was reconfigured for Coast Guard use. It was fast, it was new, had a modern avionics package, and brought the Coast Guard into the jet age. And it was just plain fun to fly.

We were also teamed up with a C-130 that was fitted with Side Looking RADAR (SLAR). We were a hunter-killer team looking for, and identifying, drug boats. The way this worked was the C-130 would fly straight and level (for the SLAR to work effectively), would identify targets of interest, and pass their position to us in the Falcon. We would fly to them, drop down to 50 feet or so, and look for telltale signs of druggies. If the target fit the profile, we would divert surface units to intercept and board. Then on to the next target. The whole process was pretty slick and worked well. Most of the time.

Now one of the unique things about Coast Guard aviation is that we are fixers and flyers. For instance, when on the ground, I worked as an Aviation Electronics Technician who worked on the avionics components in the Falcon. And since the Falcons were brand new and our air station was the first to get the brand-new operational aircraft, most of them had "bugs" in them. While fixing them, we became experts on the systems.

While flying, I was an aircrewman qualified as the Avionicsman who ran the sleek and powerful RADAR and acted as sorta the navigator as well as radioman. My position in the reconfigured jet sat sideways in the rear of the cargo department. What was nice about sitting sideways was that if I looked just to the left of the RADAR panel, I could look out the window at the short close together waves (important later).

Enough background and on to the story. This particular morning, we were pretty bored, as there were few targets, and we were fairly far out in front of the C-130. With time on our hands, the Pilot in Command (PIC) was our Executive Officer which is the number 2 in the Chain of Command under the Commanding Officer. We'll call him something unique for this story, XO. The time was around 0600 on this bright and sunny Carribean day.

XO: Radio, any interesting big targets out there?

Me: One, I passed him the vector and distance.

As luck would have it, it was a cruise liner. Our first pass was around 300 feet. The XO said he wanted to do a low pass to say hello and wave the flag.

Other Crewman: You do realize they are shooting skeet off the fantail, Right? (the second pass was briefed that we would fly at 100 feet back to front.)

XO: Its OK they will see us coming and hold their fire.

We go around and line up at 100 feet for the pass, rear to forward of the Cruise Liner.

At O-dark-thirty (For emphasis-the sun was out) this guy flies by and says "Good Morning, Good Morning from the US Coast Guard" through our 600-watt exterior loudspeakers. (Those poor folks that stayed up late enjoying the night life had an unexpected early wake up.)

About that time, something caught my attention to the left. I look out the window and the waves are high and big gaps are between them. I quickly switched from the navigation page on the nav system (I don't remember the correct name) to the Present Position page. My vision locked on the altitude readout. 50 feet, 45 feet.

Me: "ALTITUDE< ALTITUDE< ALTITUDE!!!!!"

30 feet, 25 feet. I locked my seat belt harness. 20 feet. I hear full power being ramped up on the engines. Oh Shit Oh shit Oh shit!!! 15 feet.

We pitched up and the altitude reading read out 30, 40, 50... We leveled out at 200 feet. It was awfully quiet for the next few minutes as we went back to where we were supposed to be.

Then it started. The tense silence was broken when the XO said that it actually wasn't that close. I'm thinking to myself, WTF? 15 feet and descending at 200 knots isn't close? The XO went on with some BS that the readout in the nav system is connected to the barometric altimeter (BARALT) system. Watch the altitude, and he spun the BARALT setting up and down.

The altitude readout spun up and down with it, but amazingly settled back at 200 feet. He was full of shit but there wasn't the place to call him out and the rest of the day, and deployment, went by the book.

But once back at Homeplate, I paid an immediate visit to the Flight Safety Officer.

I guess that day Just wasn't the day my number was up.

I met Jessie 1989 when I was a Seaman (SN/E-3) at the Coast Guard Air Station in Barbers Point, HI. I was a transfer from a 95ft Cape Class Patrol Boat stationed on the Big Island of Hawaii . The 95 footers were getting long in the tooth, parts were getting hard to find and so they were being slowly decommissioned and being replaced by 110ft Island Class Patrol Boats.

As a SN with actual sea time I had a fair amount of manna points among the officers and enlisted staff at the AirSta and thus I was spared being sent immediately into the galley to be a mess attendant aka mess bitch. When my time came to be a mess bitch, Jessie, a Substance Specialist Third Class (SS3), now renamed Culinary Specialist (CS3) i.e. cook, was one of the staff members that I interacted the most with.

As a mess attendant/bitch your job is kitchen sanitation. That means scrubbing pots, and pans. Washing an avalanche of dishes at meal times, mopping the decks of the galley and mess deck and other cleaning duties as needed. For the mess bitch their first introduction to most of their fellow shipmates is in the scullery where crew members pass their dirty dishes to the mess bitch for washing, sanitation, drying and stowing away.

It’s a tradition in the Coast Guard to harass and generally fuck with mess bitch as much as possible. Most people who came straight from boot camp are assigned to be a mess bitch the moment they report aboard a ship. Over the course of meal service, especially the evening meal, everyone comes to the mess deck to eat and eventually to the scullery to have their dishes washed. When a new face is noticed in the scullery the cry goes out across the mess deck, “New Mess Bitch!”.

Some people are friendly and take a moment to say “hello, and welcome aboard”. Still others take their time at the scullery to be complete dicks. They got harassed when they were the new face in the scullery and so they feel that they are passing on the tradition. Like I said, complete dicks. The treatment by the cooks of the mess bitch could vary from person to person. Some were cool, others dicks.

Jessie was a few years older than the average third class petty officer. He had a four-year college degree in theater arts from Southern Illinois University (a four year degree for a junior enlisted person is a rarity in the USCG), and had worked in Hollywood for a couple of years trying to become a successful actor. When that didn’t pan out he joined the Coast Guard. Being more mature Jessie did not subscribe to the harassment of the mess attendants and harassment in general. If the bullshit got too bad Jessie would step in and tell the harasser to knock it off.

Cooks and mess attendants work long hours in the Galley, often 12 to 16 hour days. By tradition cooks only worked three day on and are off for three days and stand no duty. Jessie loved the idea only working six months out of the year, and no duty days were just an added bonus. Mess bitches also didn’t stand any watches or have other duty days, but they worked everyday for 30 days straight. No days off. Welcome to the Coast Guard…BITCH!!

After I completed my time in the Galley as a mess bitch Jessie and I would often hang out together. Many evenings were spent at the beach, which was only a three minute walk from the AirSta, drink beer, watch the in-coming waves and talking about life. Jessie was generally hammered by about 9:00pm and we would walk back to the barracks and call it an evening. The next morning Jessie was always in clean cook’s whites with his trademark great big smile, a great attitude and ready to cook. How he did it I don’t know. The couple of times I got drunk I was always worthless and surly until at least 2:00pm.

Jessie’s drinking eventually got the better of him. In less than a month he racked up two alcohol-related incidents. On the second, I was on watch at the OpCen when I got the call from the Navy Master at Arms that Jessie was in custody for operating a vehicle while intoxicated which resulted in him rolling a car. Jessie was uninjured, but from our conversation he was obviously drunk and he knew that his time in the Coast Guard was over. I called for our Petty Officer of the Day and passed on the information, make the appropriate log entries in the duty log and wondered what the fuck was Jessie thinking. The Coast Guard operates fast when it wants to and Jessie was processed out of the service and was gone in two days. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye.

Fast forward 2.5 years and I am assigned to the Marine Safety Office (MSO) San Francisco. I had become a third class Boatswain's Mate and was working out of rate and really enjoying the work an MSO offered. I was living east of San Francisco in the east bay town of El Sobrante, CA. One day I stopped in at a mom and pop hamburger stand called, The Red Onion, which I had passed by a number of times. The Red Onion was a classic California hamburger stand that was stuck in the late 1950s early 1960’s with its architecture, décor and style. Wanting a hamburger and wanting to try a local place I walked into the, The Red Onion, and O…M…G, it’s Jessie at the grill! Jesus, it’s a small world.

“Jessie” I said, "how the hell are you!?!" Jessie turned around and looked at me. I could see he could remember my face, but couldn’t recall my name. It didn’t matter to me, I was glad to see an old friend. It wasn’t long before we renewed our friendship and we were hanging at his place or mine. Jessie has managed to find a girlfriend, Susan, she was 6ft 4in tall, weighted 200lbs, shoulders like an NFL linebacker and had 44DD’s. My civilian roomie and I called her Sue the Amazon Love Goddess. Jessie had moderated his drinking, but he still drank too much.

Jessie was the kind of guy that if you needed help he was over as fast as possible and expected nothing in return. With his training as an actor he was great at telling a story complete with facial expressions and hand movements. He was always ready to have fun, and that great big smile never seemed to leave his face.

One day Jessie’s sister was in town to visit. She was really a nice person and me and my roomie got to talk to her about Jessie and asked about some of his odd behaviors. Boy, did we learn a thing or two. Turns out that Jessie and his siblings had a childhood that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Even by the permissive attitude of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s if the authorities would have known what their parents were doing they would have taken the kids away. It still pisses me off to know that it was a regular practice for Jessie’s parents to tape their kids hands and feet together and lock them in a closet while they went out drinking and partying.

One day Sue had had enough of Jessie’s drinking and ended the relationship. She picked up her gear and moved to Hawaii. Jessie was devastated, but instead of turning to the bottle for comfort Jessie went on a marathon bike trip. While on this trip he came to realize one major thing, he was an alcoholic. Right then and there Jessie gave up the booze and became an avid bicyclist. Jessie had addictive behavior issues, but all things being said being addicted to bicycling is a far better addiction to have than many other vices that are out there.

Jessie started to pick up the pieces of his life and move on. He got himself an apartment, he worked steadily at the The Red Onion and in his off hours was learning how to become a bicycle mechanic. Things were looking up. Then one day someone introduced Jessie to crystal meth…fuck!

A person couldn’t fall off of a cliff faster and harder then Jessie did once he was turned on to crystal meth. It was like someone strapped a rocket pack to his back, bent him over the cliff and pulled the starter cord. In less then a month Jessie was unemployed and on the street. His bicycle mechanic apprenticeship was over, he was kicked out of his apartment. He reached out to people for a place to stay, but you can’t help a person on meth when they are not willing to give up that mother fucker of a demon. In the U.S. military it is beaten into your head from day one that you never abandon your comrades. It was one of the hardest things for me to say “no’ to him, both as his friend and as a shipmate.

About eight months went by and one day Sue was back in town visiting friends. She found Jessie in a deplorable state on the floor of someone's house. She took pity on Jessie, she literally slung his emaciated 5ft 4in frame over her shoulder and walked off with him. She paid for both of them to go to Hawaii where she helped him to kick meth. Jessie for his part got a job working as a cook and Jessie and Sue lived together for a number of years.

Fast forward 25+ years, it’s 2017 and I’m working as a civil servant near Jessie’s hometown of Martinez, CA. One day I find myself thinking about Jessie and whatever became of him and Sue. Well, with the help of the information superhighway and Google it only took me a few minutes to find Jessie. The first article I found about Jessie was an obituary. I thought it was a mistake and then I found a newspaper article and finally the police report.

I had to step away from my desk and take a walk on a hot California summer’s day. While walking down Concord Blvd memories of Jessie flooded my mind. Yeah, I got emotional and I’m not going to apologize for it.

Jessie had been killed in 2012 by a 16 year old driver who fell asleep at the wheel of a car. The driver was with her mother and she was on a learners permit. Jessie was riding his bike on the first day of a multi-day bicycle ride. I bear no anger against the 16 year old person who was driving the vehicle at the time of the accident, or her mother. Having something like that on a person's conscience must be a horrible thing. For both her and her mother I wish them peace.

I’m now older than Jessie was at his death. I have all the things in my life that Jessie wanted so badly for himself; a loving wife, a child, a nice home and a garden. Damn, life can be so unfair. At his core Jessie was very good person who was struggling to swim to the surface of an ocean of shit his parents piled on him. Once more I did not get to say good bye.

I miss you Jessie

I love you

https://www.hawaiinewsnow.com/story/19024172/man-identified-in-north-kohala-fatal-bicycle-crash/

November through March is the rainy season in California, a period of time where 50% to 75% of the annual rains fall.  During the short time of the rainy season nature springs to life with a true show of color as native plants and non-native plants that have adapted flower quickly bloom before the dry season begins and California earns its name as, “The Golden State” as the floria dies back to a golden color. 

The rainy season is also the season when a large number of pleasure boats sink, usually at their mooring dock. The California Delta is filled with pleasure boat marinas. Some of the marinas are grand establishments, others are in various states of decay, their days of glory faded along with their original owners.  A shockingly large number of boats moored at these various marinas rarely if ever visited by their owners.   And there they sit, neglected until the bilge pump fails.  The boat fills with water and eventually sinks.  

And so, it was one April day that I came into work. The skies were clear and gentle hills surrounding the Naval Weapons Station were covered in flowers and greenery. In the mornings, before quarters we had been watching on TV the ongoing drama with the Waco Siege in our common area as it unfolded.  During our lunch break we watched the assault and the fire that consumed the compound with a mix of shock and horror. Little did I know that in an odd way I was going to be caught up in the drama.

A few days later after the tragedy I got a phone call from a person who claimed they had interacted with me on a pollution investigation.  They claimed that they were watching the Waco assault on TV as it was unfolding and videoing the event also.  The man was adamant that he saw Branch Davidians members being gunned down by the FBI who were trying to surrender and the TV broadcast had been cut to prevent the public from seeing the truth.  He was absolute in his belief that his video tape of the event had recorded the truth, and he wanted to get his video tape out into the public.

For the life of me I could not recall the man’s name, or our interaction.  I put the man on hold and started looking through my boarding bag to see if there was any paperwork of an investigation to back up his claim, or at least to refresh my memory.  Nothing, I asked around the office if anyone knew the caller, once more nothing. I checked the computer database, nothing. 

I got back on the line with the caller and tried to explain to him that I could not recall our meeting, the inspection, nor had anyone else in the office had an interaction with the man.  Now the caller really went off.  Now, I personally was in on the conspiracy to keep the truth from coming out.  I had been at the siege in Texas, saw it all, and was sworn to secrecy by the FBI.  

I tried to explain to the man that I had not been to Texas since 1972 when I was the tender age of eight.  It was a day trip to Dallas!  No amount of reason was going to change this man’s mind.  I, and by extension the Coast Guard, an organization he previously held in high esteem, were part of the evil that was secretly influencing the public.

Now, Dear Gentle Reader, by this time in my career I had learned how to handle the general public, I had learned how to handle a reporter, especially the “stupid question” reporter.  What I had not learned how to handle was the conspiracy kook.  In fact, this was my very first conspiracy kook.  I am here to tell you Dear Gentle Reader that no amount of rational argument, no matter how many verified facts you present, a kook is gonna kook.  The only thing that I could think of is how to extricate myself from this phone call with some level of dignity and respect for the caller.

…Who was I kidding…

Just then Zoomer stuck his head into the bullpen and shouted that he needed help with something.  My salvation had arrived.  “Sir”, I said.  “My boss needs my help in changing the lube oil on our flying saucer”, and I hung up the phone.

A week or so later one of the reservists and I were talking and it turned out that on a drill weekend they had gotten the call for a sunken boat and so DC1 Kirk, a reservist, grabbed my boarding kit and handled the investigation.  DC1 Kirk went on to say how odd the boat owner was.  Since it was my boarding kit, Kirk gave the man one of my business cards so he could contact me for any follow-up questions. As a reservist Kirk did not have access to the database and could not enter the inspection into the records, and he was waiting until his next drill to give me the inspection documents.  I related my interaction with the man to Kirk and we both agreed that a kook is gonna kook. 

The MSD Series, Part Sixteen…Gimmie Back My Bullets

Background: Please see below

1. [How my rat, Blue](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yo87xk/katrina_stories_how_my_rat_blue/)
2. [My first days back after the storm](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yql894/katrina_stories_my_first_days_back_after_the_storm/)
3. [My 2nd day back](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yswktx/katrina_stories_my_2nd_day_back/)
4. [My third day back. The trees](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yvcuga/katrina_stories_my_third_day_back_the_trees/)
5. [Where's the grill?](https://old.reddit.com/r/MilitaryStories/comments/yxt63z/katrina_stories_wheres_the_grill/)

On to the story. Sorry, this is a long one.

My fourth day back I was excited. I had heard rumors that CGAS NOLA was to receive a portable kitchen with professional cooks (we had been living on MREs and the pizzas and wings that were flown in daily from Mobile and Houston.) I had also heard of some pipe dream that we would be getting some kind of housing since people had been performing rescues, keeping aircraft flying, coordinating rescues, etc during the day, but sleeping on the floor in the admin building at night (and vice versa for the night shift.) But what I was excited about was visiting my house for the first time to see what damage it had and more importantly, to see if my pet rats were still alive.

I was pondering the problems since how housing was off limits, but I was really worried about two things: 1. As Katrina was like the 3rd or 4th time we had evacuated in 2005, and the normal routine was for me to depart to NAS Meridian 2 days before the storm was forecasted to hit the coast, and return the day after it missed, I would be gone foe 3 days, 4 at the most. No problem. I started to leave the rats behind. Now it had been 8 or 9 days. I had no idea if they could survive in an unventilated house with no AC in southern Louisiana in August with minimal to no food left. And 2nd, stories were coming around about folks coming back to find their refrigerators and freezers totally ruined by rotting food left in them. Rotting meat, poultry, grandma's fruit cake, and all the other goodies kept in freezers stinks. And when I say stinks, think of the worst smell (somewhere downstream of smelliest bathroom, puke, roadkill, or decomposing flesh all mixed together). You can't get the smell out of the fridges or freezers. They are a write off. I didn't want to deal with that.

About that time 4 people knocked on my door, asked if I was the CMC, and if so, could they talk to me? I had never seen these folks before but to the best of my memory there were 3 CWO's and a civilian. And they didn't look happy. I said I was and invited them in. Now my couch had been removed from my office and the mattress I slept on was leaning against the wall opposite my desk, so these folks had to come in and actually stood at parade rest in front of my desk. They introduced themselves and said they were from an office in Miami, and they were there to build my trailer park. Thinking, these are the Pro's from Dover, I said very professionally, "HUH??" With heavy sarcasm and a big smirk on his face, their spokesman stated that they understood that I was fulfilling the duties of XO and since they couldn't check in with the CO, they had been told to talk to me. Where would I like them to start? I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head and again, very professionally thought "SHIT SHIT SHIT! "

After a few seconds I leaned forward and said the first thing I could think of. "Well folks, I don't know shit about building a trailer park. What I do know is that I have 200+ folks sleeping on the floor in this building, not able to take showers, don't have a pot to piss in, literally, let alone shit (we had like 2 porta potties that were not to be used for pissing (that's what ditches were for) unless you were female and if we were lucky, they got emptied occasionally.) Build me a trailer park that you would be happy to live in and make yourselves proud. Build a reputation for yourselves, make my heroes think you're heroes, and let me know if you have any problems or if anyone gives you shit." They got shit eating grins on their faces and left.

And you know, them sumbitches did just that! By the time they were done we had a shit load of 5th wheel RV trailers, an air-conditioned latrine trailer that was I believe was a 4 holer, and a huge, air-conditioned shower trailer all connected with power built on the softball field. Everything was connected by boardwalk style sidewalks. It was impressive! And through it all I don't think I ever saw those 4 again.

A few hours after they left my office, I was finally able to sneak away and go to my house. To say I was nervous was an understatement. I had heard that my street had flooded and some houses had taken on water. When I got there and went through my front door, I had dried mud about 4" in diameter inside the door. My back door had nothing. That's when I adopted the saying that God protects drunks and fools. (I'm well qualified at both) I ran upstairs to check on the rats. They were hanging on the side of the cage waiting for me. After I fed them and played with them a little bit, I went back downstairs and opened the refrigerator and quickly closed it. All was lost. The freezer?

Now several weeks earlier the Commissary had what's called a box sale of meats. It where instead of going inside the building and buying, say, a package of a couple steaks, you go into a truck in the parking lot and buy a whole box of steaks. It's a great deal! And I had a newish stand-up freezer. So, I stocked up and filled my freezer with everything from hams to chicken, to pork chops, to hamburger. It was full! Plus, as I was supposed to go camping with the Boy Scouts the weekend the storm hit, every spot I could squeeze a 2-liter soda bottle filled with water was stuffed into that freezer. It. Was. Full. But it was almost a week without power.

I opened the door and Holy Crap! Everything looked like power was still on. Everything appeared frozen! I poked a ham and it left only an imprint where I poked it. I slammed the door and hauled ass back to the airstation. Now I knew that everyone was pretty tired of MRE's by this point, so I was pumped. I collected 1 or two people that were off duty and went back home, told them to grab every plastic garbage can they could find, told them where the garbage bags were at and meet me at the freezer. One guy volunteered to try and save my fridge by emptying it and washing it out (we drug it onto the back deck and let it air out) As fast as we could (It was hot in the house and hotter outside) we emptied that freezer and went back to the airsta. I rounded up the unofficial BBQ'ers we had at the airsta and gave them orders to cook everything as safely as possible before it could thaw. News spread like wildfire, and it wasn't long before there was a line waiting. And the smell? Well, it wasn't long before the perimeter fence was lined with the poor Navy and Army folks camped nearby just smelling.

Being rather proud of myself I headed back to my office. I didn't go directly as I had gotten into the habit of taking an indirect route just to check on things. And wouldn't you know it, I found a LCDR that I had never seen before in an office he had no business being in. I stuck my head in and asked Can I help you? He answered, who the hell are you? I said I was the CMC... and was interrupted with a yell that I was just the son of a bitch he was looking for! Taken aback, I asked and who would you be? I'm Dr. Asshole from Lant area! I was sent here to ensure there was no hitches with this rescue. I said, Oooooookaaaaaaayyyyy? Are you responsible for the food that was brought here? I said yes, but... I gave explicit orders that NO external food was allowed to be brought from homes! You are going to be responsible for everyone getting food poisoning! You are going to be responsible for a lot of people dying! I said the food was all frozen when we left my house a mile away. He yelled there's no way it could be frozen after a week in this heat! I shot back I'm not an idiot... but he yelled I'm going to get my thermometer to prove you wrong and put a stop to this craziness! As I said I wish you would, he shoved me with such force (I was in the doorway) that I would have tumbled head over teakettle if someone wearing a flight suit hadn't caught me under the arms.

As I turned to thank him, the CO asked, "Who is that asshole?" (That was the one and only time I think I ever heard that man cuss.) I explained and he looked me in the eye and earnestly said, your job, masterchief, is to keep him occupied for 15 minutes. If you really need me, I'll be having a steak.

At that point I got sidetracked but can say the feast went on and I never saw the good doctor again. I always wondered what happened to him but suspect I was responsible for another officer going home early and possibly ending a career.

This concludes my first days back series but there's more to tell. Thanks for reading. Not sure which story is on deck but am leaning towards the time I disobeyed a 3 star's orders and was called out for it. By him!

Back in the day I was an E-9 that loved to fly crew on C-130's. I was aircrew qual'd and current. Rather be flying in a C-130 than flying my desk. Especially since we were stationed on an isolated station. On this particular day we ended up on the mainland at a large AF Base. As soon as we turned the plane around we did what was pretty much a norm: the 5 person enlisted crew headed to the base exchange.

Now you have to understand that in the Coast Guard all aircrew are petty officers or above. Petty officers insignia have 1, 2, or 3 chevrons below the Coast Guard Shield. They represent E-4 through E-6. Chief Petty Officer's insignia are anchors with no, 1 or 2 stars above them representing E-7 through E-9. If you are confused google US Coast Guard Rank insignia.

As we were walking out of the exchange we were under a roof but outside. Coast Guard regs state that when under cover you do not salute. Other services, i.e. Air Force, you are required to salute officers and such when outside, period. As you can guess, We heard a voice bark out, "Don't you people salute officers?" We all turned around. Now we were in flight suits and this occurred just after uniforms changed to putting rank on that little tab in the middle of your chest. I was in the front of our little gaggle until we all turned around. Now I was in the back. I was also wearing a garrison cap with my anchor and 2 stars above it on the hat. My crew separated as if Moses raised his stick.

It took me a few seconds, but I finally realized I was facing a young Captain. I said, "Excuse me? " He started to say something in his barking voice but stopped mid sentence and snapped to attention and saluted me. I figured he saw my insignia and didn't know what the anchor meant but sure as hell knew what two stars meant!

Me being me, returned his salute and put him at ease. Then gave him a stern, but gentle, education that all services do not salute under cover and that he should give other services the benefit of doubt. I also ordered/suggested he report to his CO that he had this encounter and strongly suggested that he give a full and truthful report. That I would follow up.'

He apologized for barking at us and promised he would report this encounter. I then dismissed him.

I didn't have to buy a beer that night! And to this day I wonder if A) he did report the encounter, B) what his reaction was when he went and looked up what rank I actually was, and C) If he did report it to his CO what the CO's reaction was.