Joining the US Navy in the 90s, part 6 "Dumb ass booter!"

Previously in part 5

I felt somewhat ill at ease when my mom dropped me off at George Bush International Airport on that morning in May. I flew out to Philadelphia to join up with a 767 chartered by the government. The jet was packed full, right down to the last seat. Whole families were reporting overseas, a real cacophony the whole way across the Atlantic. I remember waking up in the dead of night because of landing in the Azores in the middle of the Atlantic. I had no idea about this. I don't remember if we had to take on fuel or drop somebody off. Then we took off and made for Rota, Spain where we landed as the sun was rising. With half the passengers disembarked, we took off again and made for Sardinia where we let off the Sigonella people. We finally touched down in Naples, Italy on a hot ass afternoon. After a two hour bus ride, I found myself further to the north in Porto Generico, a seaside resort at the feet of majestic mountains. I could see my ship moored in the harbour as we drove into Porto Generico proper. My sponsor turned me over to the deck department senior chief.

I had arrived on a Friday and the duty section I was assigned to had the weekend off. The ship was quiet really. As the senior chief made chit chat with his new recruit, a fellow called Hayes crossed the quarterdeck. The senior chief suggested this Hayes character show me around town. I feigned enthusiasm at the senior chief's suggestion. Hayes, not sensing my insincerity, gave me a look. He wasn't interested in giving me a grand tour at all. "You just fucked up." was his only comment. Hayes left. I was taken down to berthing where I picked a bunk on its fringes. Because the work day was over and everybody had knocked off I wasn't checked in properly until the following Monday. I was taken to see the workaholic disbursing clerk who hooked me up with some cash. I went out for a walk in town and came back some time later and turned in. Because I was such an extreme overlord mega booter, the only civilian clothes I brought was what I had on my back. I thought we would be in uniform all the time, dungarees or dress whites, just like Great Lakes. Fucking booter. Stupid ass booter. The next day, Saturday, I went to the local NEX and bought me some clothes from a limited selection. A blue pair of shorts and a yellow tennis shirt that I wore with my bootcamp sneakers. I looked like an asshole. Then I spent the weekend walking around listening to a cd with The Smiths that I bought, feeling the onset of a slow brewing anxiety attack.

The following Monday the ship got underway. My first cruise was to Barcelona and back. I was excited and nervous. I was treated fairly well. A bare minimum of hazing. My blanket was snatched from me as I slept in my bunk one night underway, but other than that, nothing. Initially I gravitated towards Bob, an outsider. He was a BM3, but received precisely zero respect. He was deeply pious christian, meek and proud of it. He was stiff, uptight and unable to smile. But he gave me time of day and that meant something. In fact, I took comfort in his almost undetectable spirit. We drifted about in Barcelona like two jellyfish. It didn't take more than a couple of hours for Roberts to size me up, or down rather, because of my potty mouh. He concluded that I was a godless heathen bent on debauchery, and we did not go on liberty the next day. Instead I found myself exploring the city with Diaz, a soft-spoken filipino, also a booter. After Bob and Diaz, I ended up in the orbit of yet another outsider, Rick. I was warned about him during casual conversation with a fireman who said that he was a dirtbag. Dirtbag was normally a title given to anybody who hit the rack without showering. As little as one missed shower could earn one this achievement. It was very difficult to rid oneself of it. Rick was more of an evolved dirtbag. His dirtbaggery had been hardcoded into his DNA. No amount of scrubbing could clean it. People didn't take kindly to him. Our tours coincided almost precisely, save one month. Yet I have very few memories of him. He was the man who wasn't there. The company he kept was almost exclusively recent arrivals who hadn't had a chance to form an opinion yet. He later received a huge inheritance and was almost discharged, but in the end he was allowed to finish his enlistment.

People were coming and going all the time. When I got aboard there was a girl who was a sandwich away from being officially overweight. She was trying to eat and fuck her way out of the Navy, giving blow jobs to port, starboard and aft lookouts, and used doritos and dip to get taste out. She eventually succeeded and passed her remaining days in the ship's scullery. Another guy who hastily sailed through our lives was Bruno, an extremely effeminate ship's serviceman, who immediately gained shipboard fame as my doppelganger. Besides a somewhat lankier figure and bad acne, he looked a lot like me. Even I could see that. Kelly, who came aboard around the time I did, had to rub his eyes and make sure he wasn't seeing double. I happened to be able to do a very convincing Bruno voice and would sometimes act out a scene to the amusement of my shipmates. Eventually Bruno went to Norfolk for some training and while there made advances in a bar and got the shit beaten out of him. There was speculation that he intentionally brought this on himself, and then made use of Clinton's please ask/please tell arrangement to escape further mockery aboard our ship. That was never confirmed, but we never saw Bruno again. Also, as an honorary mention, was seaman recruit Chimichanga. He was with us for less than two weeks. Then he faked a suicide attempt in the berthing head. As was the plan, he was spotted and reported. Even though it was so obvious he wasn't going to hurt himself, he was damaged goods. He got sent back home with a medical discharge. But not before tatting himself up with anchors. What a sad little man he was. Not that I was a rock to lean on myself. We'll get to that soon.

Continue to part 7