The Happiest Day in the Life of a Plebe

...as opposed to the most stressful.

First Letter Home

[In extremely hastily scrawled handwriting....]
Dear Mom, Dad & Victor, June 16, 1975 (but actually July 16, 1975)

Am going through indoctrination period and they keep our time so tight that I only have 5 minutes to write before going to bed. I arrived alright. This indoctrination is murder! Am already wishing for Christmas leave to come home & see everybody! Victor, take care of my room and my stereo and guns for me. Dad, I brought so much civilian clothes, I don't know what to do with it. Hope your clerk job came through, Mom. Ooops lights out!

Love,
Farmer John

PS Won't be able to mail for few days, sorry.

write at
M/S Farmer John
Box #xxx USMMA
Kings Point, New York 11024

please keep this in case I lose it: combination to box E3-U3

The SWATH Boat

This is a poor picture of the MHS-1 (Mine Hunter SWATH 1). I was part of the original crew and helped to outfit her with the latest side scan sonar, ROV's and navigation equipment available at the time. She made her home at EODMU 7 in San Diego. The unit now has two boats.

A couple of things made this vessel special. The SWATH technology made the boat stable in very high sea states. She was computer controlled with fins and cunnards along the submarine shaped lower hull

You can read a paper here written in part by my skipper Wayne Neely. It was exciting for me because I have always been enamored with technology. At the time this vessel was cutting edge.
It was also built in record time with a shortened procurement process. This allowed the Navy to take advantage of COTS (commercial off the shelf technology) and we got our gear in near record time. (2 years from concept to hitting the beach).

Although my rate is misidentified in this article you can read about a cruise we made in 2000 in which we lifted the MHS-1 onto the Mt. Vernon and took her all over Southeast Asia.

SS Santa Mariana - Prudential-Grace Lines
Seldom does an American merchant seamen experience the rare privledge of working on an American passenger ship, because frankly, they're money losing propositions for their owners. Most American ships are engaged in travelling from US port to US port (like San Francisco to Honolulu) and therefore protected from foreign competition under the Jones Act. One of the few American passenger ships to survive operating in worldwide trade into the 1970's was the SS Santa Mariana, and this only because she was a "rule beater". She wasn't designed exclusively as a passenger ship, she was also designed as a cargo ship. She carried 99 passengers, because that meant that she only had to have one doctor aboard. A normal freighter didn't need any doctor aboard so long as she carried twelve or less passengers. And every 100th passenger on a passenger ship required the shipping company to hire an additional doctor for the staff, an expensive proposition in this country.

The Santa Mariana was a plum assignment and my new shipmate Ray, who had sailed with me on the SS President Johnson that previous summer, had pestered our MARAD Rep in San Francisco for months begging for a chance to sail on her. It was also a golden opportunity to circumnavigate South America and go through both the Panama Canal and the Straits of Magellan, at the southern tip of South America, during the North American "winter" months (which would mean "summer" south of the equator).

When we boarded the ship in San Francisco, the Mariana was not in the aforepictured configuration, as the aft gantry crane had been removed in Seattle so as to allows us to deliver a Boeing Jetfoil to a Venezuelan company in Lake Maracaibo. So aside from a hold full of agricultural products from California's fertile central valley, we were also carrying spare jet engines and enough spare machine parts to outfit a small navy.

As soon as Ray and I stowed our gear in the Cadet's Cabin, I hunted down the Chief Engineer and introduced myself. The Chief turned out to be a gnarly old greybeard, slightly overweight, who dressed in an oil stained pair of coveralls looked like he belonged in the grease pit down at the local service station. His attire took me a bit by surprise, since it was the first time I had ever seen a Chief Engineer who looked like he had spent any time at all in the Engine Room. Usually, the Chief spends his days in his office, approving overtime for the other Engineer's and reading the latest Zane Gray Western.

The Chief greeted me warmly, and promptly explained that the ship was having some problems maintaining the required temperatures in the refrigerated cargo holds, which explained his more than casual dress. He then walked me down the hall to introduce me to the 1st Asst. Engineer, turned me over to my "real boss", and told the 1st to make good use of the cheap labor. The First laughed, and when the Chief left, gave me the "real reason" for the Chief's less than fashionable attire.

Evidently, our Chief was in "hiding". He had experienced an intimate encounter with one of the female passenger's who had not understood his casual attitude towards shipboard intimacies, and who was now making a project out of making the Chief's continued love-life miserable. She had even developed the bad-habit of calling at his cabin in the crew section of the ship and seemed quite determined to make an honest man out of the wiley old Chief. The First joked that some of the seahags aboard the Mariana, as he called all of the rather geriatric group of female passengers on the ship, had more sea time than either the Chief OR the First put together.

It wasn't until later that evenning when I went to a "movie" in the passenger section of the ship that I would discover just how true the First's comment had been. Of our 99 passengers, I'd have estimated that at least 70 were females over the age of 70, and so I doubted that I would be partaking in many of many future opportunities for passengers and ship's officers to mingle. Asides from this fact, I hadn't brought any formal dinner-dancing type attire... just some khaki's and a few greasy boilersuits. In fact, I would later find, there wasn't a single woman aboard within thirty years of my then young age. No, this wasn't going to be any episode of the "Love Boat"... at least, not unless you might consider four month's in a Rest Home to be a reasonable facsimile of an episode of Fantasy Island.

This will be a series of stories about Chief Jeff. Chief was a walking accident. I like to think the Navy promoted him to a place where he could do the least amount of damage, but then I'd be insulting the chiefs. Well he could have been an "O". Sorry FJ.

In September of 1997 I was stationed at EODMU-7. (Explosive Ordnance Disposal Mobile Unit 7) I was part of an Area Search Detachment. Basically we played Jacque Cousteau using side scan sonar and remotely operated vehicles.

When Capt. Craig Buttons flew his A-10 into the mountain at Gold Dust Peak in Colorado in April of that year the Air Force was concerned that he may have dropped his general purpose bombs in the alpine lakes on Gold Dust Peak. This is where we came in. We could search the lakes using our technology and our divers.

Well the first day up the mountain was basically a dog and pony show. Every MSM network was flying up after us to video and do an interview. So off we go.

While there was a lull in the action Chief decides he needs to take a dump. Well lo and behold he didn't have any toilet paper. Instead of ripping his t-shirt in half or using a sock or two our industrious Chief decides to use some of the local vegetation. Not only does this not do the job but he smears s*it all over his back. Then proceeds to bury his underwear in the nearby brush. Concerned that the skipper might be wondering where he is, Chief meanders down to the Mark V (that's a small rubber boat). He walks up behind me and starts lending a hand.

I kind of get a whiff of something foul and start to sniff the air. Then I start complaining about the smell.

Chief says "Can you smell that?"

EB: "WHAT is that?"

Chief: "uh uh it's me.."

EB: "Get off the boat, go somewhere else".

Meanwhile CNN,CBS,NBC all of them are landing by CH-47.

A female reporter walks up to Chief to ask him a question.

She started sniffing the air.

You should have seen the look on her face. Priceless.


Needless to say this was a caseable offense.

They no longer brace
It's been a while since discipline was required

Plebe Knowledge
"Plebe candidate, what is the mission of the United States Merchant Marine Academy?"

"Sir! Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! The mission of the United States Merchant Marine Academy is to graduate outstanding young Americans with definite ambitions to serve as leaders in the United States maritime industry. To impart to them the necessary academic background and fundamentals of a nautical and military education essential for a successful maritime career. And through effective teaching, training, and guidance, to send them forth to their calling with a deep respect and affection for the United States Merchant Marine Academy and it's Corps, Sir!"

"And plebe candidate, what can you tell me about the Academy flagpole?"

"Sir, Midshipman 4th Class Farmer John, Sir! The flagpole of the United States Merchant Marine Academy is 172' tall and is topped by a 2' figure of an eagle. The pole is made from copper-bearing hydraulically swaged steel. It's base rests in a 10'x10'x10' foundation of concrete. Sir!"

"Is that all, plebe candidate?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! It is all I can remember, sir!"

"Is that one of your permitted answers, plebe candidate Farmer John?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! No, Sir!"

"Then why can't you tell me where the pole came from or when it was erected?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! No excuse, Sir!"

"Fine then report to the flagpole at 2am tonight with your rifle. Perhaps if you must guard this flagpole with your life you'll soon learn to tell me everything there is to know about it. Do you understand?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! Yes, Sir!"

"Good, I'll meet you there. Be prepared to tell me all about this pole when you arrive. Do you understand me, plebe candidate?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! Yes, Sir!"

"Good, but how come you aren't bracing, plebe candidate? I can see light between the back of your neck and this bulkhead. I believe I can even fit this paper between the back of your neck and the bulkhead. Are you doing this just to piss me off, plebe candidate? Don't you respect me?"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! No, Sir! I mean, yes Sir! I do respect you, Sir!"

"Then show it and BRACE, MISTER! Heels to the bulkhead! Shoulders, back! Head back! Neck touching that bulkhead! I want to see CHINS, MISTER!!!"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! Yes, Sir!"

"That's better! Now don't forget our date."

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! No, Sir!"

"Carry on"

"Sir, Midshipman Fourth Class Farmer John, Sir! Yes, Sir!"

USMMA Battle Standard
dedicated to the 142 USMMA Cadets who lost their lives in WWII
They also served....The United States Merchant Marine in WWII

Service.......Number serving....War Dead....Percent........Ratio
Merchant Marine ..243,000*..........9,521**.......3.90%........1 in 26
Marines................669,108...........19,733..........2.94%........1 in 34
Army...............11,268,000........234,874..........2.08%........1 in 48
Navy.................4,183,466..........36,958..........0.88%.......1 in 114
Coast Guard.........242,093................574..........0.24%.......1 in 421
Total.............16,576,667..........295,790...........1.78%........1 in 56

Deeds, not words!
I reported for my first day of indoctrination and training at the United States Merchant Marine Academy on July 15th, 1975. It was warm, wet and rainy that summer morning on the North Shore of Long Island, and frankly, I had no idea as to what to expect as I was being driven from my sister-in-law's parent's house in New Hyde Park towards the academy at Kings Point. The last time I had been to this place was in June of 1970, when I had sat in the parking lot in front of Tomb Field by the Main Gate in a Taxi cab with my family for what seemed like hours waiting for my brother, then a Plebe, to get permission to spend fifteen minutes to visit with his family before the rest of us caught a flight out of Kennedy and headed to Des Moines. We had all just disembarked from the SS Santa Rosa in the port of New York, my dad having just retired from the USAF after twenty-five years, and we were on our way back home to California and my older sister's wedding after spending four years attached to the USAF Mission in Venezuela. Needless to say, that was then and this was now. What lay behind that gate then, as now, remained a mystery.

The mystery, however, was quickly dispelled once we drove through the gate and stopped in front of OOD's office. I jumped out out of the shelter of the car and lurched into the rain to pull my father's old worn-out B-4 bag from the trunk. My sister-in-law's father rolled down his window and offered his hand and wished me well. I perceived from his rather somber expression that he was feeling sorry for me. He had been a WWII veteran, and perhaps knew better than I what was forthcoming. I believe it was at that point, looking into the expression on his face, that I realized that my life, as I had known it, was over forever. After shaking my hand, he hurriedly rolled his window up and drove off.