"Rum, Sodomy and the Lash" said Winston Churchill in his quick description of the history of the Royal Navy. Well, I am a bit relieved to report that there was none of the first aboard the "HMS" Rose. The mere thought of attempting to climb up the masts and out on the yards after a good stiff tot of rum is positively terrifying.
There was no lash, either, and while Captain Bailey certainly ran a well ordered ship he did not have to resort to such old fashioned measures, as his recent crew were primarily modern Americans, and volunteers at that! My guess is that a quiet question from the Captain about whether and how a particularly recalcitrant trainee might have reported this trip on his latest IRS 1040 would be far more effective and terrorizing than would be the sight of skinny Jon the Deckhand combing out a Cat O' Nine Tails.
I am also pleased to report that there didn't seem to be any of the sodomy stuff, either. But there definitely was a touch of sex! I am almost ashamed to have to report my own significant part in the sordid episode, but in the interests of historical accuracy will swallow my pride and just lay (unfortunate verb) out the facts. I hope that members of The Gunroom, Searoom-L and my true friends receiving this missive will be understanding and realize that while I might be of grandfatherly age, this was but my first trip on salt water, and I was indeed an innocent afloat! Melville scholars might nod a bit at this point and start to think of a naive Billy Budd from the suburbs, but that would be taking on a bit much.
A bit of background so that all might be placed in proper context. The Rose is crewed by 19 or so seamen/seawomen, and they are led by Captain Richard Bailey, a thoroughly professional seaman. (More about Richard Bailey later, in a different post.) Captain Bailey exudes competence and confidence, and it was a delight to this one-time regular officer to watch how he commanded his ship, his crew and his trainees (us) and how he dealt with the rest of the world in his position as Captain of The Rose. He quite correctly delegated the operational running of the ship to his three executive officers (Mates) never overtly interfering with their actions. I say never overtly, and by that I do not mean to imply that any such action ever occurred covertly, either. As a trainee aboard ship I was so far removed from the Captain it wasn't until after the voyage was over that I learned his first name was not Sir, as in "Sir, the First Mate send his compliments and reports a ship of the line fine on the Port Bow, Sir." I also exchanged hardly a word with him, except for a couple of hilarious exchanges (At least I thought they were at least humorous. I hope he did so as well, or perhaps the "...Lash" bit might be revived as a special treat for me. I also hope that he either has a decent sense of humor and self, or that he does not read this or subsequent posts, and instead confines himself to Bowditch, Melville, CS Forester and POB.
As I said, Captain Bailey is a formidable presence, but he is also just a bit altitudinally-challenged. There is no doubt that he stands tall on his own quarterdeck, only partially because that quarterdeck adds approximately 18" to his 5'+ an inch or so of height. I am reliably informed that there is no truth to the rumor that the prime reason trainees are warned, nay forbidden, to not step on the Quarterdeck unless they have urgent reason for being there is not for the more efficient running of the ship, but is so that they will not find out that Captain Bailey is really Mickey Rooney in naval guise. A trainee on the voyage before ours made the observation that "Captain Bailey was the only man he knew who makes a Jack Russell Terrier look like a mastiff!"
Ah, the Jack Russell Terrier. Capt. Bailey has evidently acquired one such animal lately, affectionately if a bit accurately named "Jackal." Jackal is a brown-bodied little thing, with white spots. (Whereas I could probably be described as a white-bodied thing, with brown spots—usually called freckles on an Irishman, and more accurately in my case as signs of incipient age.) As I read posts of the now legendary Bermuda trip tales of Jackal would periodically surface, and he acquired a bit of cachet for his attempted lovemaking with a Weimeramer just prior to the NYC departure. Whilst perhaps other sailors were attempting, or even achieving, much the same thing, at least they were presumably doing it in more private circumstances, whereas Jackal was doing it - or trying to do it - right on the quay. Evidently things turned out to be geometrically impossible, and Jackal bounded aboard for Bermuda, where perhaps he might find some cute little thing closer to his own size.
In Norfolk, where I boarded the ship, there was a large grassy area opposite the dock, and one of the hands took Jackal ashore with his brand new basketball to gambol about. It was one of those wonderful scenes—a cute little dog playfully chasing and pushing around a basketball twice its own size. (Little did I know, then.) Little children stopped and begged to be allowed to join in the game, and passing adults would smile and walk on, probably remembering Jackals of their own in days gone by. As a pick-up technique it would also have been fabulous, and I found myself musing that I should have thought of it back in the days when such thoughts at least had the possibility of being turned into action. Jackal finally tired, or the crewwoman did, and he bounded up the gangplank to await the arrival of the rest of the trainees.
Evidently pushing around that huge basketball was, for Jackal, a lot of work, and he was exhausted for the next day or so. He had the run of the ship, but I - for one - hardly saw him for a couple of days. I admit to being a bit curious as to where and how Jackal managed to accomplish those functions to which we refer delicately as "his duty," but figured that if I were authorized to receive that information I would be given it, and also that I might not want to know. I did see Jackal ducking in and out of the men's head, and was even a bit afraid that I would find out when it was my duty to clean it.
A few days out to sea we were sailing along nicely when Andy, the First Mate and Mate of the Watch felt that we should wear ship. This is an all hands evolution, with people rushing hither and yon to grasp lines both familiar and unknown, hoping that they might have by accident clutched the correct rope for the next step. Anyone who has seen the pinrail diagram for The Rose in the training book sent to us months in advance of the voyage would immediately see that the options are many, and most of them would be wrong. One of the techniques employed was to recognize that one could not possibly memorize ALL of those things, and that one might be well served to learn the exact location and technique for just a few - or even only one - for each evolution, and try to lay some sort of claim to that "rope" as one's own. Thus when the Mate of the Watch would shout "Hands to wear Ship, all hands to brace yards on the Foremast," people would make a beeline for "their" well remembered rope, shoving, elbowing or innocently hipping aside women and small children who had the temerity to grasp it first. It could be an ugly scene.
I thought this technique just a bit unseemly, but did adopt a bit of a variant of it. Hauling on a line to brace around a yard was hard work on the hauling side, and the lower the yardarm being braced (the t'gallant yards were a piece of cake, the tops more difficult, and the Courses just plain hard) the harder the work. It was easy to spot the lines for the Courses; they were usually not only first but also the biggest. I've done enough sailing to usually remember Port from Starboard (there was one embarrassing report, but of that I state little. Suffice to say that after I reported "ready" in response to the query "Ready on the starboard forecourse brace?" the next bellowed command/query from the Mate was "Ready on the OTHER Starboard forecourse brace?") As these required sheer grunt work, with the Mate usually urging "hurry up there on the Forecourse brace! Hold on the top and T'gallant braces," I would casually hang around these lines, and when the order to get ready was given, I would coincidentally be right there. Few people who knew what was coming up would want such a line. Once the yards on the Foremast were properly braced around inevitably the next command would be "Hands to the Main braces." The Main Brace was a monster affair, with usually 6 or so of us hauling it around. It was also quite easily identifiable, as it ran to the stern of the ship, and was required to do so much work that it had a double block in it for mechanical advantage. Even then it was sheer concentrated labor to brace that ponderous yard around.
On the afternoon in question, that afternoon of shock, fear, embarrassment and even shame, I was standing ready to haul on the forecourse brace. The order to commence was given, and I started to heave away. My weight is not inconsiderable, even after losing many unwanted pounds, and I was really setting one leg back and the other forward in order to pull that baby down with as much strength as I had—it being a matter of pride not to really want any help until it became time to "sweat" the line. My right leg was back, my left forward, and I was hauling for all I was worth. I didn't want the Mate to exasperatedly tell the others to hold off until the lowest brace came around. It was a hot afternoon, and I was, as usual, in my shorts, T-shirt and sandals. There must have been a sheen of sweat on that right leg, setting off perfectly the "SAIL" tattoo I had placed alluringly just below my right inside ankle. (Only a temporary tattoo, Mom, you may sit back now.)
At this point the aforesaid Jackal came on deck, saw my leg, and made a course directly to it. He then tried to couple with my leg in a vigorous manner, paying no heed whatsoever to the important work I was doing. I whispered sotto voce "Not now, you little darlin', I've got a headache," but he wasn't listening. I then tried a few polite twitches to discourage him, but he paid no mind whatever and as I look back on it was probably encouraged by me reaction. I next tried to quickly shake him off, all the while dreading a call from the Mate to "Speed up the forecourse starboard brace there." Jackal would bounce a few feet, and like males the world and species over, refuse to take "no" for an answer, and would come right back to it. I hissed that I was not that kind of guy, let alone girl, let alone right species for all love, and would he please get the $%^& out of there. No such luck, right back at it. Had it been happening to someone else I might have admired his perseverance, if not his judgement. As it was I was mightily embarrassed, and felt sure that all my shipmates were laughing to themselves as they watched the Odd Couple doing their thing along the starboard rail. Quite frankly, had the dog not belonged to The Captain I would have picked it up and cheerily drop- kicked it over the side at that moment, with only the slightest hope that somewhere in that SOB's ancestry there might have been a Water Spaniel. The eternal, infernal evolution finally ended, and I went, nay rushed, to the main brace, hoping that Jackal would prove to be fickle and go after some other shapely leg.
Later that evening I happened upon the Captain in passing on the Mess Deck, and politely suggested to him that perhaps his dog should see a doggie psychiatrist, preferably a Freudian, as he had a real serious sexual identity problem. I then related a slightly expurgated version of the afternoon's incident, cleaned up a bit since this was his dog, after all, and made no mention whatsoever of drop kicking, etc. . The Captain looked at me queerly, shook his head, and went aft probably thinking that the sun had gotten to one of his trainees, and that perhaps there should be a review of standards for such on future voyages.
Sadly, or gladly, this was as much sex as I saw or experienced while aboard The Rose, but it was more than enough for me!
John Donohue
Back safe in Evanston by the Illiwimichiana Sea