On watch with the log, you overhear the Captain and the XO discussing the typhoon and our course straight towards it.
"We still have time to chart a course through the straight, put the island between us and the storm." the Executive Office, who is the Chief Navigator, states.

"We don't know the storm's track", the Captain responds. "It could pass over Taiwan, they've done it before, then we'd get hit there and blown into China." he adds. "We'll hope for the storm dissipates before we get there."

"We don't want to chance getting into any part of a typhoon, Captain, we'll loose our boats in typhoon wind." the XO presses.

"It doesn't seem likely that we'll catch much of the wind, we probably will hit big seas, though," the Captain is thoughtful, "let's check with Fleet Command, see if they want us to wait it out in Taipei."

You don't hear more of that conversation, but as you go about the ship, you hear many discussions about ships in typhoons. You hear about World War II's Typhoon Cobra, the year you were born, eleven Navy ships sunk, seven hundred sailors lost, a DE about the same size as this ship had its mast and radio antennas ripped off in the hundred mile an hour wind.

"A carrier had its flight deck rolled back like a sardine can," one salt said.

The typhoon you're concerned about has turned north after flattening Guam with one hundred eighty five mile per hour winds and is named Karen like your Sacramento girl friend.

Evidently Fleet Command didn't ok a course through the Formosa Straight nor did they direct the USS White to port in Taipei, the course marked on the chart was still straight south passing well east of Taiwan.

The weather is clear, the bow pushes straight into moderate swells for two days.

Clear of Taiwan, reports of Typhoon Karen are that its winds are lower, but still over a hundred, still moving north. You're seeing bigger seas, luckily not a lot of wind. You're at the helm when the bow rises high over an oncoming swell and descends under the next two. You marvel at the strange view out the pilot house of water rushing over the Focsul, wrapping around the big gun turret, splashing up to your port holes like clips of submarines submerging on the "Victory At Sea" TV show you liked to watch with your Dad.

This is real, you're getting bounced around enough for you to know your not thirteen and back in South Gate laying on the living room carpet watching television. This is the Weat Pacific ocean and it seems your ship is heading under as much water as it is going over.

You can keep yourself upright with both hands on the wheel but the others on watch with you are getting knocked around quite a bit.

The Boatswain you took the wheel from wants it back after he slipped down the bulkhead, landing on the deck.  The Officer On Deck calls in a small course correction to head the ship more exactly into the swells. The Boatswain gives the "aye, sir!" and you let him take the helm. You have hard time logging the order while hanging on to the desk, you need both hands, the motion is so violent.

Your watch over, climbing below to the mess deck you're looking for a safe place to go. It seems every surface is dangers, the overhead, bulkheads and the deck are all taking turns  striking you with sudden, surprising blows, you need to brace yourself in all directions. Movement through passageways is slow.

Pena, a small Engineer second class with twelve years in trying to go the other way falls and slides under you, knocking you both against the outer bulkhead that seems to have switched positions with the deck, momentarily.

"Christ!" Pena lets out hissing, "if this gets any worse, we're going to have to strap ourselves in."

As you and he are struggling to get upright when you're thrown to the opposite side, a terrific shuddering makes you bounce off the deck.

 When you get to your rack you climb up into, hitting your head on the overhead pipes above it.

It's even hard to stay in the bed, you grip the frame,  the ship convulses.