Three Knots to Nowhere (24 page)

While eating lunch, I contemplated Captain Cook. Although a brave and bold man, did he possess the special attributes needed to be a submarine sailor?

Next on the agenda was a black sand beach. The beach's material came from waves pulverizing ancient lava deposits. Upon close inspection, the color of the sand was more of a dark olive green. It was also very coarse. The four of us wore shoes to protect our tender feet. We all agreed the unique color of the beach's material did not override the discomfort it caused. There was an upside. I found some nice seashells for my sister.

We were on the north end of the island as dusk was falling. McCann began driving back to the camp, so we would return before the cafeteria closed.

As our vehicle rounded a turn in the failing light, we saw something I will never forget. Unfortunately, my camera was out of film and I could not preserve the scene. The rusting hulk of a car was sticking partway out of a wall of lava. Blackened areas mixed with tarnish provided evidence of its incineration. Although workers had reclaimed the thoroughfare and several feet of the shoulder, the vehicle's remnants were a monument to the cataclysm. Why did it remain in this state?

To me, it symbolized man's insignificance. No matter what we did to the planet, nature was really in control. Billions of years ago, Earth was a lifeless mass of minerals. Eventually life sprouted and matured. If humankind wiped itself out via nuclear war, the world would duplicate its previous feat and rejuvenate. On the other hand, knowing the USS
Henry Clay
was capable of accomplishing such a tragedy made me shudder.

The next morning we boarded another island hopper back to Oahu. Our mini-vacation was over. It had its desired effect. For the most part, I forgot about my association with the sinister nature of serving on an FBM submarine armed to the teeth with indescribable destructive power.

The residual effects of patrol were finally beginning to wear off. The two remaining weeks of R & R went a long way towards finishing the job.

The next weekend was overcast and rainy. It was typical Hawaiian winter weather. My roommates and I didn't care about the weather. Not being trapped in a sealed container far below the ocean's surface was enough.

It was different for those here for a vacation. Despondent tourists holed up in their rooms littered the Ala Moana Hotel's windows. They gazed forlornly at the dreary weather. Dreams of sun-drenched days on the beach were washing away. Every so often, I spotted a lovely young lady who was looking in my direction and I waved. None returned my gesture. With my short hair, did I look like someone in the military? Hopefully, they simply did not notice me.

Monday morning broke clear and warm. It was a beautiful Hawaiian morning. Except for the typical clouds over the inland mountains of Oahu, the sky was crystal clear. The temperature was balmy and hovered in the low 80s, tempered by a cool ocean breeze.

Strains of the Temptations emanating from the bedroom helped me locate Southerland. He had a fondness for Motown music. Another of his favorites was the Chambers Brothers.

“Hey, Red. Wanna go to the beach at Fort DeRussey? I'll treat for lunch.”

He did not need his arm twisted and quickly agreed. “Best offer I've had all day.”

A short drive in his white VW beetle, Hercules, brought us to the military rest camp. We showed our Navy ID cards to the Marine guard at the gate and he waved us in.

We retrieved towels and reed mats from the bug's back seat. While walking to the beach I detected the aroma of the mat wafting into my nose. It reminded me of idyllic days of my youth playing among freshly cut hay. I had come a long way since then. Being a fully qualified crew member of a sophisticated nuclear-powered submarine and living in a high-rise apartment in Hawaii surpassed playing in a country barn.

Fort DeRussey was next to the famous beaches of Waikiki and their associated hotels. As beautiful as it was before we left, the day grew even more gorgeous. The weather drew scores of tourists to the beach as if by a giant magnet. They blanketed the pure white sand. Many more frolicked in the waves of the balmy tropical water. The breeze off the Pacific Ocean was refreshing. I saw Diamond Head in the distance. No wonder people referred to Hawaii as paradise.

We slathered ourselves in suntan lotion. After more than three months with virtually no sun, we had to be very careful about our exposure to its rays. Southerland had the added curse of being a freckle-skinned redhead. His body's reaction to the sun never ceased to amaze me. Regardless of how much lotion he applied, his skin turned bright red. The next day the redness was gone, replaced by more freckles.

Southerland caught a nap, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I gazed at the ocean. The smooth line of the horizon was eleven miles away, faintly separating the sea from blue sky. The span of water between me and what seemed to be the edge of the earth was empty, save the rollers washing toward the shore. It was a peaceful scene.

Far to my left, Diamond Head dominated the skyline. Something caught my eye. An FBM submarine emerged from behind the famous landmark, heading towards Pearl Harbor. I tried to ignore it. I came to the beach to relax and escape from our association with the submarine service. I glanced at Southerland and others around me. He was sleeping. A few people noticed the submarine and snapped pictures.

I succumbed to the temptation and watched it. The submarine was about five miles from the shore. Memories of the
Clay
tracing the same track six months ago seeped into my mind. We had been completing the final leg of the long journey from Charleston. I was in her conning tower, camera in hand, taking my own pictures of this very beach. At the time, I wondered what thoughts permeated the minds of those on shore. The reactions of the people around me were probably a good barometer. Some were in awe. Others displayed indifference. A few exhibited contempt of the mighty war machine.

I wondered what was going on below the surface of the sea. Although no other vessels were in view, it did not mean there were not Soviet submarines lurking in the area. The United States considered the three-mile limit as our boundary for territorial jurisdiction. Such a restriction allowed Russian submarines to legally prowl up to that distance. A chance to gather valuable information about the lone American FBM might be too tempting to resist. If a Russian hunter-killer boat were foolish enough to attempt such a maneuver, it would not come easy. American fast-attack submarines would boldly harass the enemy vessel in a dangerous game of blind man's bluff. I was grateful that our counterparts in attack boats accepted the role. The unfairness of the situation struck me. Their main duty was to do the dirty work and the Navy awarded FBM sailors a patrol pin.

Southerland's shadow passing over my open but unseeing eyes interrupted my thoughts, “Hey, Ted, are you in there? Your eyes look glazed over. I'm getting hungry. How 'bout you?”

While walking to the club we debated what to eat. Eventually, we agreed it had to include fresh fruit and salad.

After dining, Southerland and I meandered back to our spot on the beach. We enjoyed a little eyeball liberty on the way. He decided to cool off in the water. I let my lunch of fresh fruit salad and BLT, with extra lettuce and tomato, settle.

On my back with hands clasped behind my head, I stared into the beautiful blue sky.

The remainder of the afternoon was uneventful. I alternated between relaxing on the sandy shore and taking an occasional dip in the ocean. Southerland and I accomplished our mission. It was a pleasingly restful day.

Keeping with the mood of our sojourn to the beach, we slowly made our way to Hercules. With the towel draped over my shoulder, I had the mat tucked under an arm. My salt- and sand-encrusted body craved a nice warm shower.

Southerland unlocked the Volkswagen. He inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. The car responded with a pathetic click. Several more attempts yielded the same result. Southerland surmised Hercules had a dead battery. We would have to push-start the car.

Breakfast at Oahu's Keaau Beach, with (left to right) Bob Southerland, Bob Frechette, Mike Pavlov, E.K. Lingle, Rusty Wishon, and the author. From the archives of E.K. Lingle (September 1971).

I told him he had to teach me. After explaining the actions, he had me sit in the driver's seat and practice a dry run. The key was coordinating the actions. I got in the driver's seat. He pushed. A few grunts later, the Beetle began moving. He yelled, “Okay!”

The engine burst to life. Before I could congratulate myself, it sputtered and died. Puffing, Bob walked up to the window and said, “For your first time, that wasn't bad. Y'all got it started. Ya just gotta be a little quicker on the clutch. Ready to try again?”

Two more attempts met with similar results. He suggested swapping positions. It was worth a try. Even though I was a lot smaller than Southerland and extremely out of shape from lack of activity on patrol, we triumphed.

The remaining R & R went by too fast. It was shocking how we filled the time so easily. Hawaii was a magical place. No wonder people gave up ordinary lives to become beachcombers.

One Sunday in March of 1971, I woke up and realized our month-long vacation was almost over. The next day started our off-crew requalification process.

I dumped the contents of my sea bag onto the bedroom's rug. My eyes watered from the smell emanating off the rumpled uniforms. It triggered a flashback. On patrol, we did not notice the odor. Now, the indescribable stench dominated my senses. Before the room was permanently contaminated, I gathered an armload and stuffed it into the washing machine across the hall. With the wash cycle set for maximum, the cleansing began. I deposited the remaining clothes onto the lanai. Hopefully, some of the smell would evaporate into the earth's atmosphere.

Except for Connell, who washed his things shortly after moving in, my roommates were in the same predicament.

Regretfully, we put fun on the back burner and spent the remainder of the day getting ready to go back to work.

The next morning, we donned freshly laundered dungarees and white hats. Connell departed in his blue Ford Mustang convertible. McCann hopped onto his motorcycle. Not having a vehicle of my own, I rode with Southerland. He needed a partner anyway. The VW still needed a battery and it took two people to start the car.

Upon arrival at the
Clay
's office, the nuclear-trained individuals were herded into a classroom. An unfamiliar young officer was standing at the front of the room. He nervously introduced himself as Mr. Losen. He had just joined the crew. He was our proctor for a basic engineering qualification (BEQ) exam. It was a comprehensive examination of our knowledge on nuclear theory, radiological controls, chemistry, and thermodynamics. We had four hours to take the exam.

The announcement generated a plethora of groans and comments of “stupid study.”

He looked confused. We explained that stupid study was mandatory afternoon training sessions. The classes are mainly for guys who weren't qualified in submarines or all of their watch stations. That applied to him. If any of the fully qualified men failed the BEQ exam, they would have to attend. For them, it was stupid study.

The young officer handed out the exams.

Miraculously, all of us passed the multifaceted test.

Two weeks transpired without hearing anything about my transfer from the
Clay
. I found the yeoman and asked for the status. He told me to come back the next day.

As instructed, I saw him first thing in the morning. True to his word, he handed me a set of orders. I anxiously opened them. Although I was not surprised, my blood boiled when I saw they were to another FBM home-ported in Hawaii. My prognostication of this very outcome had come true. The unfairness of how I'd been treated made my insides churn.

With orders in hand, I left the
Clay
's office and stomped down the hallway. The USS
Woodrow Wilson
's office was two doors down and on the left. I found their yeoman and handed him my papers.

He gave me a quizzical look and said, “Something isn't right. We're not expecting anybody new. Take your documents to the squadron office. Maybe they can clear it up.”

I explained the situation to a submarine squadron 15 yeoman.

He took one look at the orders and said, “I keep track of all personnel moves. Your name isn't on my list. Besides, these orders don't have a SUBPAC number. Go back to your boat.”

I was madder than a wet hen. Storming back to the
Clay
's office, I went directly to our yeoman and demanded a meeting with the executive officer (XO), Lieutenant Commander James Cossey. The yeoman picked up his phone and made the arrangements. The XO would see me in an hour.

At the appointed time, I joined Mr. Cossey in his office. He let me vent my frustration without interrupting.

When I was spent, he shuffled through some papers on his desk. Cossey selected one and said, “Maybe I have good news. There's an instructor opening at the S1C prototype in Windsor, Connecticut. You've done a good job on the
Clay
. I have no reservations about recommending you for the two-year position.”