The Real Steve Harlow

Now in Lala land, living in the shade.

You, in the Navy: #nanowrimo day 17 - 13878 words written, 14461 words behind the pace.

The ship heaves and bucks, you hold the tubular frame with both hands. The ship convulses and you trust the support chains to block your roll off the top rack if your grip loosens.

Churbuck gave you the first part of his GQ watch as you begin a long approach to Hong Kong. The swells are long and low, coming off the bow on the port side. You have port rudder on slightly as a default, jabs of starboard rudder regularly, when it starts falling off.

When we pick up the Harbor Pilot, Churbuck gets back on the helm. You're on the log. The Captain and the XO on the Bridge. Because it's GQ, you can't go out of the Pilot House. You're passing islands just off China and you can only see through portholes. You think, "next time."

Victoria Harbour is filled with vessels of all types, huge cargo ships, tiny junks and every size and type in between including other military ships, some from other countries. Your ship moors in the middle, you'll do the resupplying and get ashore on boats.

You and Churbuck are in dress blues, on the Fantail, ready for liberty. You get permission, do your salutes, climb over the side, down a short ladder to a water taxi that delivers you several shipmates across to the main dock across the harbor.

You're going with Churbuck to a floating restaurant he knows. You board another watertaxi with him and your out on the silky, sunset colored water.  The restaurant is brightly outlined with red lights. You step to the dock, enter a wooden gate, are greeted by the hosts, escorted to a dock where you overlook several pens in the water, a worker with a long-handled net, scoops up a big, flapping red snapper, holding it in a spotlight so Churbuck can approve it. He does and with a sweeping toss with the net, the fish slides onto a metal table where a kitchen worker takes it inside.

In the dining room the two of you have a large round table and a waiter for yourselves. You have drinks, appetizers and the big fish comes out steaming on a platter. The waiter serves you portions of the fish, some noodles and vegetables. You refuse offers of a fork, insisting that you learn how to eat with the fat, square ended Chinese sticks. You don't do well at all, struggling for an hour without getting much of the meal in your mouth.

You'll be in port five days and you learn that many of the married guys and others routinely save money by not taking liberty in Hong Kong. They're afraid of the pleasures, goods and trinkets for sale there and don't go ashore. You got other men to take your watches and you can take liberty from 0800 to midnight all five days.

You go with Churbuck to a tailor. You get measured, pick designs, material  for a suit and a sport coat and slacks. You draw a design for a suit with high buttoned, lapel-less jacket, thin legged pants and choose a near-black, charcoal serge for it. Orders placed, Churbuck tells you that he's going to lay low for the rest of the days here in Hong Kong, he'll come back to pick up his suits, but other than that, he'll stay on the ship.

"When we get to Subic, they'll be plenty of time for drinking and whoring. I don't like being over in Hong Kong that much. You'll be on your own for the rest of the time here." he  says.

"I want liberty. I don't want to stay on the ship," you tell him, feeling absolute about it.

"Like I say," he says, "you'll be on your own, then."

You're thinking of what you're going to do, he adds another thought, "let's go to Suzie Wong's first."

It's a  bar with hostesses, a girl for each of you. You all sit and other girls bring your drink orders. Your girl is older, you don't think she's attractive. You see a few younger girls dancing with each other. One looks particularly cute to you.

"You like the cherry girl?" your hostess asks, a little too forcefully. "You can have her, if she likes you" she adds.
You don't know how any of this works, you sense your girl isn't pleased, but you don't know why you should care about her, you didn't choose her.
"I'll ask her to dance" you announce. As you approach  the dance floor, the girls, led by the one you like leave the floor. You don't think you should follow them into the dark recesses of the club, so you return to the booth where your hostess takes your face in her hands and with pouty, mock babytalk tone, she says "oh,    the cherry girl didn't want to dance with you?"

"I don't know, she left before I could ask her" you say.

Another round of drinks. Your hostess sees your eyes searching the room for the young girl and says, "If you want to dance with cherry girl, I can bring her over here and she will dance with you."

That sounds good to you, so you tell her, "OK".

The hostess gets up, straightens her tight skirt and disappears into the shadows, reappearing a moment later with the young girl you like.

The older hostess introduces the young girl to you and you ask her to dance. The cherry girl is gorgeous, but she's unhappy, she keeps her eyes lowered while dancing listlessly. You ask her what is wrong, she becomes more unhappy, backs away from you.

One of the other young girls explains that the one you're trying to dance with doesn't speak English and is afraid of the your hostess, afraid that she will hurt her if you she dances with her.

You're thinking that the only thing you can can't have fun in this bar, you ask Churbuck to leave with you, "let's find another bar".

That's fine with him. You start start to leave and the hostess puts your arm around her neck, wraps hers around your waist and walks you out the door. Churbuck and his hostess walk out into the evening sidewalk also. Your hostess stops and faces you, puts her two arms around your neck and pulls you down in a kiss.

"First kiss" she says, resisting as you pull away.

"Goodbye" you say.

#nanowrimo Day 12: goal is 20004 words, I've written 10349 = 9655 words behind the pace.

You're been watching the sun rise and set in the sea for six days since you left Midway. This particular sunset, all golden and flaming red baroque clouds, you pause on the forward deck at the rail to soak it in. The dark sleek swells, the tufts of wind waves, the earth turning away from the sun. How would you paint this? You ask yourself. Would it be enough, just water and sky? You wonder how to express the lightening fast color effects as red rays bounce through the blues, the greens that flash on the surface of the gloomy ocean, the gold that glows from within each cloud. How your painter brush keep up with the speed of color changes? You would mix a lot of the colors before hand, a fresh brush in each, you would start with a big canvas lashed to the rail, put the paint where ever you see color, let it dance.

A short chubby Chief  Boatswain's Mate leans into your face, "Hey! Mister." He's saying. "Why are you standing on deck out of uniform?"

"What uniform?" you look incredulous.

"Yeah that's just it, with your sleeves rolled up and your hat on the back of your head, you're not in uniform!" The Chief is putting you on report, writing down your name and how many hours of extra duty you'll have to do to make up for the terrible harm to the Navy's honor you've caused by being wrapped up in the glories of the sea, thinking of art rather than minding your unbuttoned sleeves and the angle of your hat - here, a thousand miles from from the closest land.

Churbuck says, "You've got to watch out for those buzzards." His nose looking more like a bird beak than ever.

You think the Navy better not hold its breath waiting for you to give a shit.

"Fuck the Navy!" you say with venom.

You're carrying out your extra duty, swabbing the mess deck when the ship makes land fall and the available crew is out on deck looking. You're excited to be on the other side of the great Pacific. You want to look, "Next time," you say to yourself and pledge to return to Japan the right way, without the Navy.

As you're finishing up, cleaning out the swab, through an open hatch, you see your old boss, Junior, the Second Class Boatswain's Mate, scanning the hills of Tokyo Bay.

"Come out here," Junior calls, "you should see this."

You leave the swab in the sink, step out on deck with him and watch the land pass by. It's a looming, steep-sided mountain, right down to the water. Here, it's not very populated, a few indications of roads, a few buildings, you thrill when you see something clearly Japanese - the curling roof line barely visible at this distance. You know, you've studied the charts, it's a big bay and you're not going all the way in to Tokyo itself, you're going to Yukosuka, this side of Yokohama. You think of the fabulous population density of Tokyo, of Japan as a whole, ten times the population of California living on the same amount of land. The hills, the trees look disappointingly familiar, to you, like those in California. Is this place going to be wonderfully foreign or not.

"You don't see Japan for the first time twice." Junior smiles.

Your Third Class, Churbuck, the Quartermaster and Funke's Third Class, Miller, Signalman, are taking their two strikers, Funke and you ashore. They'll introduce you to Navy life overseas. You've already been talked to by Murphy, the First Class, who paternalistically told you what to expect from Japanese woman you'd meet in Yokosuka bars.

"There will be one you're going to want to go home with," the tall Petty Officer said with the horizon behind him, "and she'll even say that she wants to, but she's never going to take you home. You are not going to bed with her. The bartender is not going to let you leave with her. They know when you have to get back to the ship. They want you there at the bar drinking and buying her drinks that have no alcohol in them and cost more then what you're drinking. That girl is there to keep you drinking and buying. You can get another girl to fuck or to suck you off, but not the girls who work the bar. Those pretty little things who talk sweet to you and promise to leave with you after their shift, aren't going with you, they're not leaving the bar, their shift doesn't end until you're back on board. They're going to keep you there until your money's gone or you've gotta get back to the ship, which ever comes first."

Miller and Funke,  Churbuck and you walk through the base on a rainy afternoon head into town on a local bus. Much of what you see disappoints you because it doesn't look very Japanese, it looks much like California. You expected the buildings to be upside down or the roads in the air, you expected it to be completely different over here on the other side of the ocean.

The four of you, in your wool dress blue uniforms walk through streets full of US sailors and lined with bars with big lighted signs, in English. You enter a bar Miller knows and all sit at a round table, a girl sits beside each of you.

"Kaseko, " your girl says when you ask her name. She looks down, her black hair cut in bangs over her eyebrows, a crooked half smile as your drinks are delivered. She takes a quick sip of her pink drink, then casually rest her hand on your thigh.

"To a great cruise, to these great girls, to us! " Miller's toast gets you all to click glasses and beer bottles.

"Oh! This is my favorite song!" Kaseko seems genuinely excited. "Do you dance?" She looks up at you hopefully. You say, "ok" getting up. She pulls you over to the very small dance floor in front of the jukebox and you two are the only ones dancing to the syrupy pop song. She shakes her hair and sings the Japanese lyrics making a pouty face, her bare arms high above her head, her legs carrying her through an unfamiliar dance pattern. You take one of her hands and lead her through some basic jitterbug dance moves you learned from your mother and practiced on the girls at high school dances.

"Hully Gully!" Kaseko calls out, slipping out of your grip, shaking her hips, her knees bending low, her skirt rising high, arms above her head in the dance.



#nanowrimo Day 9 Goal is 15003 words, I have 7778, meaning I'm 7225 words behind the pace.

Just after sunrise the ship is sitting just off a short beach with a steep hill behind.

At General Quarters you are on the log.

"Make sure you get every command," Churbuck turns from the wheel to warn you," there's going to be a lot to write."

You tell him you'll do fine. "Trade with me, if you're worried about it."

"There's nothing to the helm when we're sitting still like this," he says.

"But I'll stand there" you push, "and you sit back here" meaning at the log desk, where you're sitting.

Churbuck likes the idea, doesn't report the change in stations, he's writing down commands and you're standing with your two hands on the wheel when the first "Fire" command is given. The gun's report shocks you. You've got ear plugs in and over-the-ear protection and yet the bright sound hurts, ten times louder than you expected, deafening. The little ship violently shakes with the recoil.

Several more shots from the big gun rip the atmosphere, distant thuds marks the delivery of a heavy shells. You think about ancient catapults, hurling boulders over castle walls, how that improved with gun powder cannons about five hundred years ago and little has advanced since then.

Two air bursts are fired. You feel the brutal gun's assault, then hear a loud, yet more distant blast a hundred feet above the beach. Horrible sulphur smell lingers.

They fire each of the two anti aircraft guns, very tiring, painful sound from them, too. Now the machine guns are fired, they too are louder than you expect, but the sound and rhythm is familiar from movies.

Churbuck's writing in the log notebook, when rudder and engine speed commands are given. A Boatswain orders the speed responding and adding the "Aye, Sir." You repeat the rudder command adding your "Aye, Sir," while you put on the rudder and the ship is moving. You're on the wheel during GQ. You turn to Churbuck, he looks up from writing and says "You can stay there until you fuck up."

Your ship joins several others in your squadron. You've seen a few of them along the way from San Diego, you've understood there are about a dozen total who crossed with you, though most of them kept beyond the horizon, you had, at times, cruised in a formation of four or five. At four hundred feet in length, your ship is the smallest in the squadron and also sits the lowest in the water, The fantails of the other ships tower above, yours is only about ten feet above the waves. Often, when you've been out on the after deck while cruising in normal seas, you look up at the swells. You marvel at the mechanics involved in this hollow metal ship steaming at flank speed through swells, even gentle ones that are like moving mountains to your little engine that can.

Oahu is beyond the night horizon as your squadron sits within sight of each other. Some merchant ships are also there, farther out. All are waiting for our appointments to enter Pearl Harbor.

You see the message, you're excited you'll going in at first light.  When it's all done, the pilot let on and Churbuck on the wheel, the tugs maneuver the ship into a berth and the crew gets it all tied up,  it was mid-afternoon.  You have duty, you must stay aboard, while others go into town to shake off seven days at sea.

You are determined to get off the ship early the next day, you confirm that you can have liberty from 8am to midnight. You study the transit maps, you see which bus to take on the base, which bus off base to get to Waikiki, you want to go surfing, at least in the morning, you don't know what else there is to do there but you figure you can get a decent cheeseburger and a movie and some pizza, Hawaiian pizza with the pineapple!

As planned, you've rented a board, you've walked out waist deep, you flop the board in the comfortable water and pull yourself laying down to the center of the board, then up on your knees to paddle in the familiar way. You paddle out over wave after wave, dodging incoming boards and out-rigger canoes with a big native steersmen in the front with sharp bladed paddles they wave at you when you come too close to their load of life-jacketed tourists.

Once you get all the way outside, past the last rideable swell, you rest, straddle your board, leaning on your hands. It's a long way out at Waikiki. No wonder surfing was invented here, even small boats can ride these waves. The waves don't actually break here. The fast moving swells get to a peak and start to curl over, but never break, they continue looking like they’re almost ready to break all the way in, overtaking some slowing swells, making a larger, even closer-to-breaking wave with steep rideable walls that continuing four or more times until you can ride all the way into water so shallow, your skag hits sand.

It's a gloriously easy beach to surf. You take a few quarter-mile rides, then decide to kick out after a short ride, stay outside where's there's less other riders and no tourist canoes. Keeping entertained by catching one gentle swell after another. Not very challenging surf, but fun.

You take one last long ride all the way in, return the board go into locker room.

Day 6 of #nanowrimo Goal is 10002 words, I have 5924. 4078 words behind.

Churbuck is different. He’s has a rebel attitude, he reads books. You hold his choice to join Regular Navy and serve four years active duty against him. He could’ve done like you and sign up as Navy Reserve and only serve two years active. He says he didn’t want to cheat himself of experiences and when he does something he does it all the way. He’s good natured about it, but thinks you are a pussy for only going half way into the Navy. You both have six year enlistments counting the two years Reserve time he’ll do after Active. You did your first year of Reserve time while you were in High School, now when you finish the two year active, you’ll have three more years to be in Reserves. You think it’s a better deal, one weekend a month or one night a week is better than fulltime all the time. You joined up because you didn’t want to wait to be drafted, you wanted a choice of when you go in. You look forward to having the complete military obligation over and be able to get on your life with no more bullshit required of you. Churbuck says he joined up for the experience and feels good about his choice, he has about eighteen months left.

You both get copies of “Tropic of Cancer” because protests against it being banned in libraries are in the news and you decide to it would be good for you to know what the fuss is about. You both assume the book banners are prudes and the book is a masterpiece.  Henry Miller’s extravagant writing is more philosophical than you expect, less pornographic than Churbuck had hoped. You talk about it and the conversations go on changing situations, continuing through the daily work, you sit together at mess, you go out in town together. You’re not legal to drink, Churbuck leaves you at a restaurant and goes to a bar. You head back to the ship, the next day, he tells you he spent the night with a girl.

On a weekend pass, you take the train up to Fullerton, hitch hike to Downey, meet up with Bob instead of your family. He has had his own house since the middle of Senior year. His parents are a lot more accommodating than yours. He makes tea, talking about how English he feels now, also about how college life is good. He joined a fraternity, he doesn’t live in the frat house, but he goes to parties there. They invite girls from a nearby nursing school.

“They jump on healthy bodies.” He explains, sounding more more like a typical jock, frat boy than you’ve ever heard him.

Bob is smart, smaller than you, more hairy, not attractive to you, but you like the feeling that he likes you and he’s fun to talk to, you’ve been pals for a couple of years.

“Can we do something with Carol and Cher? Are they still around?” you ask.

You had a girlfriend, Carol, since ninth grade. She went to a different school. When you started liking her friend, Cher, more than her, she didn’t stop seeing you, see took up with Bob. The four of you went places together, movies, dances, beach parties.

Cher had a pool. Her parents are not home, you swim naked. Carol got naked, but Cher, who is embarrassed of her thick thighs and big breasts, stayed dressed until Carol pulled clothes off her.
“Don’t look at me!” Cher screams, “look at Carol!”

Carol was thin, long bony legs, a big bush and boy breasts. Cher’s breasts were full and big nippled. Carol poked them, Cher jumps with embarrassment and tries to cover up. Bob kept on his shorts.

All of you laid poolside, you naked on your back in full sun. Cher worrying that her parents would come home or that neighbor boys were peaking through the fence laid beside you. From the other side, a fully naked Carol leaned over brushing your thighs with her long pony tail hair saying, “don’t move, I’m not going to touch you”.

You respond to the whisper touch, getting hard, she pokes Cher, “Look what’s happening to your boyfriend! What are you going to do about it, girl?”

“Carol, leave him alone!”

“You going to suck it?” Carol was being mean.

“No! You know I don’t do that. Stop being weird.”

Cher hovers over my face, kissing you on the mouth, her breasts touching your chest. You roll to your side next to her, stick your dick between her thighs, against her panties.

Carol slaps your butt and says in her mean-girl voice, “You going to fuck?”

“No!” Cher shrieks. To you, she says, “Be nice.”

“Come on Bobby” Carol says. Let’s show them how it’s done!”

“Carol, no!” Cher pleads as Carol has her hands in Bob’s shorts, pulling out his crooked dick, briefly putting her mouth near it, then laying back, legs spread, “Come on, Bobby, stick it to me!”

“Carol, no!” Cher’s adamant. “Don’t do that here!” “Go away, if you’re going to do that!”

“So you can be alone to fuck your boyfriend?” Carol taunts her, as Bob comes down on her, Carol wiggles away and stands up, pulling Bob back up, his shorts around his ankles.

“Come on, lover. Let’s leave them alone, let’s fuck in her bed.” Carol pulls Bob towards the house, Bob’s got a boner and he’s pulling up his shorts with his one free hand.

“Don’t you funking dare, you cunt!” Cher gets up, holding her bra to her breasts.

“Seriously.” Bob is reasonable. “We are NOT going to do that. Carol, stop teasing.” They’ve stopped at the patio. “Let’s go somewhere. Seal Beach? McDonald’s?”

You slip in the pool, swim underwater for a length, swim the crawl back on the surface, lift yourself out the water and dry off with facing Carol and Bob who are already half-dressed.

At sea, your normal job while on watch is on the writing in the log. You're in the pilot house with three guys from the deck crew, two Seamen to alternate on the wheel and a Boatswain's Mate Third Class to be in charge. You sit on a high stool at a chart desk in the pilot house, by the open hatch to the Bridge. When the Officer On Deck leans and shouts orders, you write it in pencil in a notebook marking the time.  The record your keeping is the first draft of the Ship's Log that the Executive Officer maintains each day.

Four hours on watch, eight hours off. There's meals and sleeping, but also other work, cleaning mostly, some chart correcting if the seas aren't tossing the ship too much.

The ship is in General Quarters, when going in and out of harbors, refueling at sea, any maneuvers with other ships or engagement with real or imagined enemies. You stay on duty as long as GQ lasts. Your GQ job is the same, taking notes.

The boss of Operations, the First Class Signalman, Murphy, takes the helm for GQ. He's taking rudder and compass orders from a harbor pilot who got onboard before the ship shoved off for your six month Western Pacific Cruise. Murphy grunts and wheezes as he whirls the wheel around back and forth putting on the rudder changes, you write down scores of orders like, "port 5 degree rudder", "stay on 041", "starboard 3 degrees". Each order, Murphy repeats and adds an "Aye, Sir", So it's constant call response.

"Starboard 10 degree."
"Starboard 10 degree, Aye, Sir."
"Steady on 358."
"Steady on 358, Aye Sir."

Almost an hour of this to get to harbor mouth. The pilot leaves on a tug and the USS White passes Point Loma and heads out for a seven day steam across open ocean to Hawaii.

You've often stood on the Pacific shore in California, searching the ocean horizon for signs of what lies beyond, feeling relief that the whole continent is behind you. Now you're going beyond, California is slipping from view behind you. You feel more excitement than dread for the long journey. The little ship plunges forward into the tossing waves under the sky dome.


The ship's motion is tiring, fully loaded and with four big landing boats on high davits, it rolls and pitches up, pauses, goes nose first into a few swells, some of them send shockwaves and shudders through the ship. Below decks, it's maddening, being bounced into hatches and bulkheads, grabbing pipes to keep your balance, hitting your head on them when you get bounced into zero gravity.

Going through the chow line in all that motion is a chore, takes concentration, steam table water floats lightly loaded inserts, you keep from slipping on the wet floor as you take your chow. Eat while you hang on to your tray and the table braced for people falling into you.

Below decks the motion gives you a headache, you feel close to nauseous all the time. Up on the open Bridge or even in the Pilot House with all its port holes you see the horizon, you see the swells, you are less surprised by the motion, much less nauseous. But it is still work just to stand holding grips and fittings. Your high stool for your log desk is often too dangerous and must be kept lashed under the desk.

On your watches, when nothing's going on you're all just riding the motion together, the helm is the only guy working. He spins the heavy wheel with both hands, spin it to the right and he gets Starboard rudder, spin to the left and he gets Port rudder.

Underway at sea, at cruising speed, the ship still needs to be actively steered. Watching a large compass in front of the wheel, the Helmsman keeps the ship headed in the correct direction by counteracting the wave motion - putting on Starboard rudder to reverse a swing to port and the reverse, continually spinning the wheel back and forth, calculating how much rudder, in which direction is needed at each moment to keep the ship close to the heading through the continual swinging motion.

I should have 8335 words, but I only have 4189. This means I'm 4146 behind the pace. #NaNoWriMo - 5th daily output.

You figure reporting suicide thoughts might be enough to get out or at least start the process. You ask to see a Chaplain. You get permission and leave the ship in your work clothes, find the Chaplain's office. He invites you in, tells you to leave the door open and he greets passing people with raised eyebrows and a head toss as you report that you want to kill yourself.

"What do you think will happen if you do it?" He asks.

"I'll wake up in a hospital," you answer honestly.

That seems to be enough for him, he makes a note, signs a paper, holds it for you to take, tells you to give it to your ship's Medical Officer and return to duty.

Your Boatswain's Mate 2nd Class Petty Officer, Junior, who you've been working with and who's shown himself to be a good guy tells you that while you were gone, Operations has been looking for you.

You have no idea what that means and assume it's bad, but Junior gets you clear.
"Operations Department, up on the Bridge, wants to offer you a transfere."

"Where?"

"Up to their department. They're impressed with your test scores, they think your smart or something," he smiles, leans close in your face, "they think you're too good for the Deck Crew, they want you to go up to see them so they can blow smoke up your ass about being a Quartermaster."

"Should I do that?" you're confused and would glad to hear his advice.

"Well, you got to go see them, they sent for you, but you don't have to take the transfere."

You go up the ladder to the wheelhouse, step through the back hatch up on the bridge deck. You report to the First Class Petty Officer of Operations, he introduces you to Churbuck, the Second Class.

"You'd be working with him."  You look at Churbuck, he  looks intelligent. You haven't said it, but you're thinking yes.

You move sleeping compartments, move into the middle of the ship, a big compartment, a maze of three-high racks over foot lockers. Seventy guys sleep here. You have a choice and you take a top rack again.

"You better not be a bed wetter, I'm sleeping under you." You barely look at him. You put your shit in the locker and leave. Up the ladder.
You try to find some place to be on the ship when you're off duty. Someplace where you're not in anyone's way and people don't question why you're there.

Between meals, you sit in the Messdecks at whatever table is empty, you write letters to Karen, your girlfriend in Sacramento. Your romance has not been smooth, lately.   You both just graduated from your respective High Schools. She's staying there to go to Sac State in the Fall and you're here on Active Duty for two years, not much connection. You had kept it romantic for two years. You and she exchanged frequent letters, long letters, fun, playful letters with always elaborate declarations of undying love. They made you both high, so much so that when you did get together - for a few days at Easter, a couple of times in the Summer, Thanksgiving, New Year - you flowed in a blissful mist, together like dance partners, in all your planned and spontaneous activities. The last visit, though, in Sacramento, her friends got you on a ouija board, four peoples' hands on the controller and they asked if you had been faithful to Karen and it slid immediately over to "no", before you could send it the other way to "yes".

You had at least two girlfriends at school all the time you were writing Karen. You met her in a Sierra Summer resort in  between your Sophomore and Junior year. You did love her and only toyed with the emotions of the others. But there's a lot of hanging out and date time you spent with girls from school, who you didn't love.
You tried to make it better with letters to Karen.

You're suppose to learn signaling with flags and with Morse Code on light for your new job as Quartermaster Striker, you're suppose to study a Correspondence Course preparing to move up to Third Class.  The thing with the flags seems interesting, but the light, the flashing light in dot dash code - that you knew you're not going to get. And study the Quartermaster book on off hours? No.

Churbuck taught you a few things, taking azimuths, correcting carts, how to record and code a weather report. These are the chores of being a Quartermaster. You learn reluctantly and perform the calculations poorly.  You correct the charts ok, so Churbuck has you in the chart house most of the time after the swabbing's been done and if there's no chipping or painting project underway. You paint neatly around the buttons and levers on the communication boxes in the pilot house, so any painting work goes first to you, instead of to Funke, the Signalman Striker, the only other raw Seaman in Operations.

Funke is shorter than you, , from Minnesota, his torso and thighs swell his dungarees he's more interested in talking Country and Western music than Jazz, he'll listen to anything on the radio. He doesn't take the Joseph Conrad books from the ship's library, you do.

You take Funke to some of your favorite haunts downtown San Diego, you eat Cheeseburgers watch movies and eat pizza. He has a good time, but would rather stay aboard ship or on Base the next night.