23 January 2022

Welcome To The Jungle - Part Six (The Shipyards)

TIME TO GET THE FRESNO READY TO GO BACK ON DEPLOYMENT...

USS Fresno (LST-1182) in the San Pedro Shipyards - San Pedro, CA.  Spring/Summer of 1989

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:  SAN PEDRO SHIPYARDS

During the spring of ’89, the Fresno came due for her big overhaul and refit.  It was the usual cycle in the life of a ship – you go on a six-month deployment, come home and stand down, then do a little training and refresh the crew, then you head into the shipyards to overhaul and refit the ship.  After the shipyards, you came out, went through all of your refresher training, got the crew certified, and then you went out on another six-month deployment.  It was about a two-year cycle all in all, and we were right in the middle of it. 

The shipyard they sent us to was in San Pedro – just across the bay from Long Beach Naval Station.  We pulled out of port, then the tugs guided us around the breakwater and over to San Pedro, where they pulled us into a dry dock.  Once we were in our berth, they closed the doors,  had divers place supports underneath her, and pumped the water out of the dock.  Soon, the Fresno was high and dry, sitting on top of wood and concrete supports, and ready for a complete overhaul.  We had massive engine work done, the hull was cleaned, all of the rust was knocked off and everything was sandblasted and repainted.  They completely repaired our typhoon-damaged bow doors and derrick arms, and updated as much equipment as they could, as they got the Fresno ready to go to back to sea.  It was actually a pretty cool operation to see, and I enjoyed watching the daily progress as the Frez got a facelift.

The biggest downside to being in the shipyards was the location.  The San Pedro shipyards were located right next to the Coast Guard base, and across from the San Pedro Federal Prison.  There were no amenities at the shipyards, and the base was a three-mile walk through an industrial area.  The Fresno was docked at the furthest pier from the main gate of the yards.  During working hours, it wasn’t too bad, because there was a secondary gate right in front of the ship.  But at night, that gate was closed, and you had to walk through the entire shipyard to get to the Fresno.  There was a gap in the gate by the Frez that you could squeeze through, but if you got caught sneaking through it, you were in big trouble.  We tried to sneak through it for a while, but the gap was right in front of the main gate for the Coast Guard Base, and when the Coasties standing watch at their Main Gate would see us sneaking through the fence, they’d call the Fresno’s quarterdeck phone and tell the Officer on Duty,

“The guys walking up your gangplank right now snuck through the gate”. 

Jerks.  There was a shuttle bus that ran from the shipyards to the base, but good luck if you could figure out its schedule, or if it was running when you needed it.  I seem to remember many, many loooong, drunken three-mile walks from the base to the yards. 

The shipyards were the first time that I can recall anybody saying anything to us about our drinking officially.  The majority of the Fresno’s sailors were all pretty serious drinkers, and the rate of underage drinking had to have been close to 100%.  Since there wasn’t much else to do in the yards, we occupied most of our time with the illegal procurement of booze.  We found ways to get fake ID’s, ways to get into bars, ways to have people buy for us and ways to lie, cheat and steal to get our buzz.  Our new C.O. was fed up with it, and put his foot down.  They started really busting guys for alcohol-related offenses.  Guys were written up for showing up to quarters drunk, and for sneaking through the gate because they were too drunk to walk through the yards.  The underage drinking problem got so bad at one point, that Captain Worrell held a “Captain’s Call” one day and assembled the entire ship’s crew in the tank deck.  He laid down the new law – he said that since there was such an epidemic of underage drinking, and he couldn’t figure out how to stop it, he was going to do the next best thing.  He came down with an executive order that said no Fresno sailor under the rate of E-4 was allowed to grow a mustache.  In the C.O.’s mind, all of the underage guys with mustaches had grown them to make them look older so they could buy booze.  It was a nice try – I don’t know if it had much effect on our drinking, but as absolutely correct as he was, it still pissed a lot of us off.  I know that is one of the reasons I made Third Class as fast as I could – I wanted my mustache back.  Kind of odd, the motivations we can find for things, isn’t it 
MESS CRANKING
Not too long after we headed over to the shipyards, I was sent to the mess decks to do my thirty days’ mess cranking duty, or as we called it, 'crankin'.  At least I thought it was to be thirty days.  When I got to the mess decks, they informed me that I would be there for at least sixty days, if not ninety.  I couldn’t believe it!  It was explained to me that I was one of the last of a big group of new guys to come onboard the Fresno.  There wasn’t enough room for me to do my mess cranking any earlier, and they had been running everyone through their time as fast as they could.  Unfortunately for me, they had suddenly run out of booters about the time I was scheduled to go 'crankin’.  Not too long after I started my time on the Mess Decks, I became the most senior crank.  It got so bad that soon, guys would report to the Fresno one day, and be on the mess decks ‘crankin’ the next.  There was actually one point towards the end of my tour on the Mess Decks that I had been on board the Fresno longer than any of the other Mess Cranks had been in the Navy.  It was really sad.

Mess Cranking wasn’t too bad.  If you were lucky, you got to go to the Chief’s Mess or to the Wardroom, where you got to serve the Chief Petty Officers or the Officers.  Since we were in the shipyards, most of the Chiefs and Officers didn’t stay on board the ship at night so the cranks got to stay in the empty staterooms.  It was good duty – if you could get it – and I couldn’t.  I ended up on the Crew’s Mess Decks and was soon the “head crank”.  Which got me pretty much nothing special.  Our days were all about the same – get up, get ready for breakfast, serve the crew, clean the decks, serve lunch, clean, serve dinner, clean and go to bed.  It was pretty boring, but most days it was better than sitting outside in 100 degree heat with a needle gun and a deck grinder breathing dust and rust for eight hours.

While we were cranking, they had us move out of our regular berthing areas, and into a troop berthing space.  Our new berthing area was small, and the racks were just rope-strung canvas on light aluminum frames.  It was hot, poorly-ventilated and very close quarters.  Couple this with ten young hotheads working twelve hours a day in a sweltering kitchen, and temper flare-ups were bound to happen.  There were never any knock-down, drag-out fights, but plenty of yelling and pushing.  I tried to avoid this as best I could, but the day I got my phone card bill and saw a hundred dollars’ worth of calls to Indiana that I hadn’t made, I went off.  I was trying to figure out who the hell had stolen my card number, and no one confessed to it.  I yelled, I pleaded and I threatened, but no one seemed to know anything.  A couple of days later, I was sitting at the table in our berthing area, and I saw someone’s phone and address book lying there.  Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it – all the numbers looked oddly familiar.  I got the bill and matched up every one of the numbers in the address book to numbers on my bill.  I had found my perpetrator.  It was Ricky Sudley – the same kid I’d had the confrontation with in the head a month or so earlier. I cornered him and told him that I knew he had stolen my card number.  He denied it, and I showed him his book and the numbers on the bill.  He immediately apologized and backpedaled faster than anyone I had ever seen.  When I threatened to take it up the chain of command, he immediately offered to pay for the calls.  He did pay, and satisfied, I never said anything more about it.  I just got lucky on that one.

By the time my Mess Decks servitude was over, I was more than ready to get back to the Deck Department.  By then, however, the NC1 who was the Mess Decks Master-At-Arms had been replaced by the lead petty officer from Third Division, GMG1 Williansen.  Willy convinced me that I should forget the Boatswain’s Mate thing and become a Gunner’s Mate like him.  It sounded okay, and then when he told me that Gunner’s Mates didn’t stand underway watches, I was all for it.  As soon as I got back to Deck Department, I started the proceedings to cross over and become a Gunner’s Mate.  I guess that if for nothing else, Mess Cranking was good for my Navy career in one way – it helped me get a full night’s sleep when we were out to sea.
SLUSH FUNDS
The first time I heard about “slush funds” was when we were in the Philippines in '88.  I hadn’t been paid yet, and I was out of money.  When I told one of the guys that I didn’t have any money to go out on liberty, they told me to go see Stans.  I went and found BM1 and explained my predicament.  It was then that I learned about slush funds.  BM1 offered to lend me $20, but that on payday I would pay him back $40!  I couldn’t believe it – was this legal?  Evidently, slush funds were just a part of life on the Fresno, and there were two or three guys who controlled the majority of them.  BM1 had the biggest one going, and he probably quadrupled his pay every payday when the guys paid up what they owed him.  He kept a little notebook with everybody’s name and how much you had borrowed and how much you owed.  If your name was in his book, Stans would find you on payday, and you’d better be able to pay up.  The going rates were $20 for $40, $30 for $60 and $50 for $100.  Anything higher than that would begin to cost you a lot more.  It was $100 for $250 and $200 for $400.  Slush funds were a regular part of payday and shipboard life.  I only used them a couple of times, but there were guys who would end up owing their entire paycheck, or more, to the slushers.

When I was mess cranking, I decided I should start my own slush fund.  By this time, Stans had left the Fresno, and there were only a couple of other smalltime slushers.  I started small, but within a couple of months, my bi-weekly $400 payday was bringing in over $1000.  I was about to become financially independent – or so I thought.  One night, one payday night to be specific, I had raked in close to $1200 from the guys who owed my little fund.  I kept all of the money in my wallet and we went out on liberty and got drunk as a skunk.  When I went back to the ship, and hit my rack,  I got dumb.  Instead of locking my wallet up in my locker, I put it under my mattress and fell asleep.  The next morning, I got up, showered and just went to work on the mess decks, hung over as usual.  Sometime around lunchtime, I realized that I had left my wallet with over $1000 in cash in it laying under my mattress!  I raced down to the berthing area, but it was too late – I had been cleaned out.  My wallet was gone with my money, my ID, my Social Security card, my driver’s license and everything!  It never did turn up, and it took me forever to replace all of my important info.  I never could get my slush fund up and running again.  Once again, I’d like to say I learned my lesson about drinking too much and the negative things that happened when I did, but I just wasn’t that smart. 
BEACH PARTIES
We were constantly searching for places to drink without getting caught.  Since the majority of us were underage, it was becoming somewhat of a challenge to find them.  Most of us didn’t know enough people off base to get invited to private parties, and the Base Club wasn’t always a sure thing.  You could always go to Jack’s Liquors downtown, but there was only so much drinking with the bums you could handle.  The other issue was that there weren’t many guys with cars, and the city buses stopped running around midnight, so finding a place that was accessible to everyone was also a problem.  As the weather got warmer, we began to avail ourselves to the one place that Southern California was famous for – it’s beaches.  We found ways to get booze onto Seal Beach, Newport Beach, and our favorite, Huntington Beach.  Our parties on Huntington Beach were the most fun.  We would usually start out with four or five guys, build a bonfire and crack open the beers, and before you knew it we’d be partying with half the beach and having a rip-roarin’ time!  It was at one of these parties that I discovered my body’s severe dislike of Yukon Jack.

I hadn’t been a drinker for too long, but long enough to know that I wasn’t a violent drunk.  I was a happy drunk – one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and one who liked to have fun and laugh…loudly.  One night at a party on Huntington Beach, I bought my standard 12 pack of Budweiser, and for some reason I grabbed a fifth of Yukon Jack instead of my usual Jim Beam.  The Yukon tasted really good to me, and before you knew it, I had downed the entire bottle.  The next thing I remember, I was being taken back to the ship in the back of FN Kelseck’s ’68 VW Squareback.  I had passed out, but I came to while we were sitting at a stoplight in downtown Long Beach.  Downtown Long Beach at midnight on a Saturday night was not exactly the best place for a dumb white kid from Wyoming to be drunk out of his mind.  As I looked around at the stoplight, I noticed we were sitting by a lowered mini-truck full of Hispanics.  It was at this point that I discovered Yukon Jack’s propensity for turning me into an absolute ass with a ragingly foul mouth and a nasty temper.  I began to hurl racial epithets at the truck across from me, letting them know, in no uncertain terms, that for some reason, I didn’t like Mexicans on that particular evening.  The guys in my car were trying to get me to shut up, but I kept yelling and egging them on.  Suddenly, the back of their truck opened up, and out jumped five or six guys with chains and bats, who began walking towards our car.  The other guys immediately realized we were in pretty deep trouble, and Kelseck knew he had to think of something quick.  Unfortunately, the light was red, and Kelseck had killed the engine trying to get us out of there.  As the gang got closer to our car, they guys in the car were screaming at Kelseck to go.  I was screaming at the Mexicans to “bring it on!”.  Kelseck finally go the car fired and tore off through the red light.  The Mexicans gave chase for a couple of blocks, but we finally got away and found our way back to base.  Unfortunately for me, the night was not over quite yet.

As we staggered from the car towards the ship, we were all congratulating ourselves on outsmarting a Mexican street gang, and how lucky we were to escape with our lives.  We must have been getting fairly loud, because as we stepped onto the ship, the OOD told us to shut up.  The guy who was Messenger Of The Watch, was a good friend of ours, SN Steverson.  “Stevie” was a black kid, about 6’5” and skinny as a rail.  He was funny, and a cool guy, and nobody had ever had a problem with him.  For some reason, I turned towards him and did the worst possible thing I can think of.  I’m not a racist person by any stretch of the imagination, but I looked right at him and called him the N-word.  The guys all kind of stared at me like I was crazy, then left my drunk ass standing there as they disappeared into their respective berthing areas.  Stevie just kind of looked at me, and realized, thankfully, that I was too drunk to know what I was doing and instead of kicking my ass, he tried to help me down the stairs and into my rack before I caused any more trouble.  All the way down to the berthing area, the Yukon Jack kept talking, and I kept calling him names and trying to pick a fight with him.  Showing the patience of Job, he got me down into our berthing area and into my rack.  That is about all I remember of the evening, but when I woke up the next morning, I was duct taped into my rack, and I was covered with bruises.  From what I heard, I had gotten out of my rack, and was waking everyone up trying to start fights.  Evidently, somebody had obliged me, and they taped me into my bed and took turns beating the crap out of me.  It taught me a lesson though – stay away from Yukon Jack unless I wanted to end up doing my impression of a human punching bag!  Stevie, to his credit, came up to me the next day and made sure I was okay.  He then looked at me and said if I EVER used that word again, he would kill me.  I agreed with him, shook his hand and apologized.  That was the end of it.  I never said it again, and he didn’t kill me.  Worked out well for both of us.

That was but one of the memorable beach parties - I seem to remember another party, on Seal Beach this time, where we almost got in a fight with some kid who we accidentally discovered having sex with his girlfriend by a lifeguard stand.  Evidently he thought that we’d been watching them or something, and he wanted to kill us all.  It was a fairly tense standoff, and we ended up just going our separate ways.  Damn good thing I hadn’t had any Yukon Jack that night. 

There were always girls at the beach parties, but for some reason, being in the Navy was the Kiss Of Death when it came to the opposite sex.  You could be doing great with a gal, and then she’d find out you were in the Navy, and that was all she wrote.  It was like you had the plague or something.  There weren’t very many of us that had a lot of success with the civilian girls in California.  Not that we didn’t try, however. 

SN Matt Munderson - 2nd Div. Berthing - 1989

About the only other big memory I have of a beach party was the night that Matt Munderson lost his on-base driving privileges.  We had thrown another big party on Huntington Beach, and since Matt had the only pickup in the group, we threw all of our trash into the back of it.  There was unused firewood, empty boxes, and most importantly, empty beer bottles covering the bed of his Ford Ranger.  As he pulled into the main gate of the base that night, the MP’s decided to search his truck.  I think they knew he was underage, and had been drinking, but since they couldn’t bust him for DUI, they had to find something else to bust his chops with.  They finally found a half-full bottle of beer amongst the hundred or so empties laying in the bed and busted him for having an “open container”.  They revoked his base sticker and gave us another of their gentle reminders that we were still too young to drink legally.  It was a reminder none of us heeded.
THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW
One night that summer, Jerry Ford and I got to talking about our favorite movies, and I mentioned that I had seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” a couple of times in Laramie, and thought it was a blast.  Jerry told me about some friends of his that loved to go see it, and he said he’d give them a call, and he’d take me down to see it at a theater in one of the beach towns (I don’t remember which one).  About a week later, he said he’d made the arrangements and we planned on going the next night.  I was as excited about getting to hang out with civilians as I was about going to see the movie!  Military guys are alright, but after a while it’s nice to get back in touch with the “real world” again.  Jerry and I got off work, jumped in his truck and headed down the coast to his friend’s house.  Jerry’s truck was a bad ass old Chevy with a big Trans Am engine in it.  It took a true gearhead to appreciate it, and I sure did.  We flew down the highway and into the California evening, on our way to see a movie about extra-terrestrial transvestites. 

When we got to the house to meet Jerry’s people, I knew I was in for something a bit stranger than I had expected.  Jerry had told me that these guys were really into the movie, and that the theater we were going to was full of people who were really into it as well.  My first clue that they were more than just casual fans was lying there on the coffee table.  It was a complete movie script, complete with all of the audience cues and amended song lyrics for the audience participation parts!  These guys said they had seen the movie over 100 times, and it was kind of a weekly ritual for them.  Jerry and I were just along for the ride at this point.  We left their place, and headed down to the theater, which just happened to have a little bar on the corner right next to it. 

We first went over to the bar and had a couple before show time.  I had no idea what to expect, but nothing prepared me for the sight I was about to behold!  As we rounded the corner for the theater, I saw people of all kinds converging on the place, dressed as characters from the film!  There were guys in lingerie, and girls in top hats and just general weirdness all around.  Once we went inside, it only got weirder.  The theater was full of people, all waaaay too into the movie!  We stood up and took the “Rocky Oath” before the movie started, and they initiated all of the people who’d never seen the movie – the “virgins”, with squirt guns.  I had seen the movie twice, but nothing like this.  As hard as they tried in Laramie, they would just never be able to match this level of weirdness.  It was so cool!  Finally the movie started, and something I didn’t expect occurred – there was a live action cast acting the movie out on stage in front of the screen.  It was a cool addition to the experience, and the crowd loved it.  We stayed for the whole show and got a little crazy along with the crowd.  It was a great evening, and a nice break from the normal military night – and there were far too few of those!  Jerry and I got along well, and I would have to say that he was one of the few guys on the Fresno that I would classify truly as a friend.  There’s just something about the bond between two guys who have thrown toast at men wearing garter belts that is undeniable.  Or something like that.
NEW GUYS
Somewhere between our return from West Pac ’88 to our arrival at the Shipyards, to our departure on West Pac ’90, we collected quite an assortment of new sailors to the Fresno.  Turnover is a pretty natural part of a ship’s life, and the Frez was no different.  We lost guys like Stans and Jeff Hickersham and John Smoot.  We lost Master Chief Cooksey and Captain Wilbur and the majority of Third Division.  In return we got guys like Jim Lusher and Kevin Toomer and Chief Wisher.  We got Captain Worrell and Ensign Hord, PCSN Scotty Bale and GMG3 Jon Grace.  Some guys transferred divisions like SN Willis, who became GMG3 Willis and SN Derkins who became QM3 Derkins.  It was a time of big personnel upheavals as leaders left and booters became the new leaders.  The Fresno took on a new face to go with the same twisted old personality.

SN Lusher takes a selfie

Tex and Derkins make liberty plans - 1989

Some of the new guys I got along with very well, like Jim Lusher and Scotty Bale.  Others just didn’t see eye-to-eye with me, like Kevin Toomer and Jon Grace.  Jim Lusher was an interesting case:  Here was a kid from Southern California who was covered with tattoos before he enlisted.  He was friends with a bunch of guys in a band called “Nazi Bitch”, and his nickname was “The Anal Lover” if that gives you any indication of the type of guy he was.  I admired him for his straightforward approach to things and his blatant honesty with all of us.  Jim said what the felt and felt what he said – a quality that most were seriously lacking.  Jim started hanging around with Haulin and Powell and myself and was a welcome addition to the group. 

SN Barris in his dress blues - ready to stand watch - 1989

Hickersham and Lusher on the foc'sle in their dress whites - 1989

Another good friend of mine who came aboard during this period was PCSN Scotty Bale.  Scotty was another California kid who came from up by Sacramento – he actually lived in the same suburb as my Aunt and Uncle did.  He had played in a band in his civilian life, and he had the hottest wife of anybody on the ship.  His wife was an absolute knockout, and we were all mystified as to how a skinny little dork like Bale ended up with her.  Be that as it may, Scotty and I enjoyed a lot of the same things, and we spent many a night at sea just sitting in the armory and B.S.ing.  Then there was the kid we called “Tex”.  He was from Texas (imagine that) and according to him, he’d been caught making crystal meth in his bathtub, and the judge told him that he either enlist in the service or go to jail.  Not a very tough decision on his part, and he became yet another piece of the Fresno puzzle.

Tex gets ready for liberty - 1989

GMG3 Jon Grace was another story entirely.  He had been a member of the S.E.A.L. teams, and had been “sent” to the Fresno.  According to him, he got in trouble for punching out an officer, but one day we were examining our service records, and I happened to look at Jon’s and saw more than one reprimand for being unsat.  Basically, it looked like he had been a dirtbag, and just couldn’t hack the S.E.A.L.’s rigid standards.  When you get sent away from the S.E.A.L. teams, they make sure you don’t get a decent duty station.  They pretty much make sure they send you to the worst place they can find for you to serve out the remainder of your service obligation.  That’s how he ended up with us.  Jon and I got along well at first, but the more time I spent with him, the more obnoxious he got, and the more he enjoyed tormenting me.  As future stories will illustrate, Jon had a very interesting sense of honor and duty, and I didn’t trust him any farther than I could throw him.  I got my revenge on him, but I just wish I could have thought of something more heinous than I did.
FLAG FOOTBALL
While we were in the yards, the sports seasons were in full swing over on the main base.  The base had leagues for most things, and the Fresno fielded teams in Flag Football, Basketball and Softball.  I had never played football in high school, so I decided that I should give it a try.  We would head over to the base for practice and for our games, and the team wasn’t too bad.  We had some actual talent on our ship – there was Killer, a Boatswain’s Mate who had been an offensive lineman for the University Of Georgia the year they won the national title.  He had blocked for Herschel Walker, and never got tired of telling us the story.  We also had Mr. Smits – one of our officers who had played ball the University of Kansas.  Most of the other guys had played high school ball, and I think I was the most inexperienced guy on the field.  I didn’t do too badly, but I soon learned that I should just keep my mouth shut when I was playing with the big dogs.

It was during a practice, and I was lined up as a pass rusher across the line, and in between Mr.  Smits and Killer.  They hiked the ball, and I did my best impersonation of a swim move, then hit Mr. Smits and knocked him over.  I ran right over him and sacked the quarterback.  After I had sacked the QB, I turned around and talked some smack to him for letting me get by.  He just smiled and told me I wouldn’t do it again.  I made some flippant remark, and the very next play, I was taught a lesson the hard way.  Mr. Smits and Killer lined up directly across from me, and when the ball was snapped, the two of them came up out of their stances and hit me as hard as they could.  I had never been hit that hard in my life!  They dropped me like a ton of bricks.  Mr. Smits and Killer just stood over me and told me I’d better be careful who I was talking to.  Lesson learned, I kept my mouth shut for the rest of practice.

Our team won it’s first few games, but then we had to play the USS New Jersey.  The team from the Jersey was made up of a dozen rabid 300-pound Samoans.  They were huge!  We hung with them for a couple of quarters, but they were finally too much for us.  They stomped us into oblivion, and we were out of the tournament and the league.  That remains the extent of my organized football experience. 
SOFTBALL
My Fresno softball uniform - 1989

Unlike football, softball was a sport I had played before, and was familiar with.  When I found out the ship had a softball team, I ran to sign up and be a part of it.  We had ship’s uniforms – disgusting baby-blue polyester ones they’d had made in the Philippines.  Jon Hickersham, our best player by far - and team organizer, soon made sure we soon had new unis on order.  Our team was never the best, but we sure had a lot of fun.  We brought party balls of beer into the dugout with us, and the rules were – hit a single, take one drink, double – two, triple – three, and if you hit a homer, you had to chug out of the ball until they told you to stop.  I don’t remember if we won many games, but we sure ended up with some nasty hangovers!  Our team played in the base’s spring and fall leagues, and then we played a few games overseas when we went on WestPac.  Playing on the team was one of the best times I had as a part of the Fresno Crew.
THE CONCERTS
While we were in the shipyards, we took advantage of some of the great concerts they had at the Long Beach Convention Center.  One of them was Kix, Winger and Cinderella.  Bands that are in their old-age retirement tours now, but in 1989, they were in their heyday.  I remember that concert as being pretty good, and I was amazed at how good I thought Cinderella was.  For a band dressed like girls with a sissy name, they kicked ass!  I remember their encore as the best part.  They had all three bands, plus the bassist and drummer from Guns N Roses come out, and they all jammed to “Sweet Home Alabama”.  To this day, it still ranks as one of the best Rock and Roll Concert Moments I’ve ever witnessed!

The other concert I can remember (sort of) was the Bullet Boys and Poison.  The reason this concert became so memorable had nothing to do with the music at all – unfortunately.  I went with my normal crew – Haulin, Powell and Jim Lusher.  We were all pretty excited about it, and we decided to do a little “priming” before the show.  We got off the bus and headed to Jack’s before walking over to the Convention Center for the concert.  I decided to buy something a little more potent than my usual 40-ouncer of beer and pint of Jim Beam.  This night, I picked up a 40-ouncer of Budweiser and a quart of Jack Daniels!  I was living on the edge for sure!  We walked over to the Convention Center and sat down by a group of people and proceeded to drink our beer out of the brown paper bags.  Somewhere in the middle of our drinks, a guy came by our group and offered us tabs of acid.  I wanted nothing to do with any type of drugs, but the other three guys bought a tab each.  They put them in their mouths and waited for them to dissolve.  I chugged the rest of my beer, and headed down to the doors to get in.  I had stashed my J.D. in my boot and had planned on drinking it during the show. I then noticed that they were frisking people before letting them in.  I wasn’t too worried, until I saw them kick a guy out of line for trying to sneak in a bottle in his boot like I was trying to do.  I was about five people from the front and decided I had better do something really fast.  I didn’t want to throw my bottle away, so I did the next best thing – I took it out of my boot, took the top off, and chugged the entire thing, ala John Belushi in “Animal House”.  By the time they got to me, there was nothing left.  I threw the bottle in the trash can and walked in with my buds.

We fought our way through the crowds, found our seats, and waited for the first band to take the stage.  Almost simultaneously, we all got hit.  The acid set in for those guys about the same time the J.D. hit my system.  About all I remember was seeing Steve Haulin run to the concession stand and come back with four or five boxes of peanut M&M’s.  Steve started picking out the green ones and throwing them at the security guards.  As they came to get him, Steve kept telling them

“Dude – you can’t arrest me, these are nuclear M&M’s…you’re dead, man.” 

The last time I saw Steve, he was in handcuffs, being led out of the Convention Center.  He told us later that they gave him a courtesy ride back to the ship in the paddy wagon, and by the time he got back to the ship and they let him out, he had somehow slipped out of the handcuffs, mystifying the police and himself. 

Once Steve had gone, that left just Bob, Jim and myself.  Bob started saying something really strange (of course, I was really, really drunk so everything sounded strange) and then he left.  He ended up in a hotel bar across the street drinking until 2am and missed the entire concert. 

Now it was just Jim Lusher and myself, and it was time for the show!  By this time, the J.D. was working it’s magic, and I remember the opening band (the Bullet Boys) as a bunch of noise.  I then remember a break between bands, and when I woke up in my seat some time later, I heard Poison saying,

“Good Night, Long Beach!!”

and walking off stage.  I had been so drunk that I passed out through a 200 decibel rock concert!!  Jim grabbed me and helped me out of the Convention Center, and then back to the ship.  It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized the true depths of my drunkenness that night.

The next morning, I woke up with an absolutely horrendous hangover!  My head was pounding, my tongue was swollen, my stomach was inside-out and my face hurt.  I was used to the first three feelings by now, but the face hurting was a new thing to me.  I got out of my rack and walked over to the mirror and looked.  I had big red splotches all over my chin and cheeks.  They hurt like hell, and I had no idea what was going on.  I thought at first it was an allergic reaction to something, and then Jim Lusher woke up.  He looked at my face and said

“Damn – I’m sorry man.  But that was really funny!” 

“What was?” 

I had no idea what he was talking about.  He finally told me what had happened – evidently Jim’s acid began to hit him about the same time my J.D. hit me, and he decided to have a little fun.  Jim had a cigarette lighter with about a three-inch flame on it.  He started playing with it, just grooving on the flame.  Right after I passed out, Jim hit on a really cool idea (to him, anyway).  I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and Jim decided he’d help me out by melting the whiskers off my face.  I guess that when you’re tripping on acid, watching whiskers burn off of somebody’s face is really cool!  I was so damn drunk that I passed out, not only through a 200 decibel rock concert, but through a 200 decibel rock concert with my face on fire!!  To this day, I still can’t stomach Jack Daniels.  Come to think of it, I can’t stomach the Bullet Boys or Poison either, but that’s just because we finally realized that they sucked.  But that’s another story.

Darkbull ready for liberty - gotta love the 80's Warrant concert tee   1989
THE SALUTE
There were a lot of interesting things that happened during our stay in the shipyards, and most of it has been forgotten or lost to time.  For some reason, one of the things that has stuck in my mind through the years was the day I saw one of our new Ensigns get absolutely laid low by a Captain.  We were working on the pier, carrying food stores up the four flights of stairs onto the ship.  It was hot that day, and we were lugging 100-pound sacks of potatoes and 50-pound boxes of milk up the stairs as fast as we could.  The supply officer, who was fresh from Officer’s Training (boot camp for officers) was supposed to be supervising us.  He was sitting on the main deck of the ship, telling us to work harder, and we were all sweating and cussing him.  Somewhere in the middle of our efforts, we saw a group of guys in khaki coming walking through the shipyards, headed towards the Frez.  We didn’t know who they were, but it was easy to tell that they were definitely VIP’s.  As they got closer and closer to us, it became obvious that this group of officers definitely was somebody.  We had heard rumors that a group from the Commander Of The Pacific Fleet’s (CINCPAC) office would be in the shipyards to inspect the work being done, and I was pretty sure that’s who these guys were.  I knew we should probably pop tall and salute as they walked by us, but they stopped short of where we were working and started talking about other things.  We were carrying dairy products that could spoil in the sun, so I just told the guys to get back to work, and not worry about the officers.

No sooner had we resumed our work, than our Ensign Supply Officer came walking down the gangplank and heading towards us.  I was carrying two 50-pound milk cartons at the time, one on each shoulder.  As he neared us, he must have decided to put on show for the visiting officers to show what a great Ensign he was, and he suddenly stopped and yelled at me –

“Sailor, don’t you know enough to salute an officer when you’re in his presence?!  You better salute and do it now!!” 

I rolled my eyes and slowly put down the milk cartons I was carrying.  I gave him a half-hearted, and very weary salute, then bent over to pick up my load once again.  As I did, the officer barked at me

“That’s better.  You better learn how to respect your superiors sailor, or I’m gonna make life hard on you – real hard!”. 

I mumbled a “yes, sir” and as I turned to walk up the four flights of stairs, I heard another voice yelling,

“WHAT in the Hell are you doing, son?!?” 

I thought one of the other officers was yelling at me, so I turned to face the music.  The scene in front of me did my heart good – The most senior of the group of visiting officers, the Captain, was dressing down the Ensign who’d just yelled at me. 

“What was that, you pompous little shit?  Can’t you see that these men are working?  You coming down here yelling at them doesn’t get anything done – all it does is piss them off.  These men are the ones who keep your ship afloat.  I’ll bet any one of these guys would work you into the ground any day, boy!  You better learn where the power rests in My Navy son – otherwise we’ll be one pompous-assed frat boy Ensign short in a Goddamn hurry!!” 

I had never seen a man retreat into his shell the way that Ensign shrunk from that Captain.  He managed to spit out a

“Yes, sir” and a

“Sorry sir”

and was looking about as tall as a snake’s belly.  The Captain then turned to me and said,

“Keep up the good work son, and if this little shit gives you any more trouble, you just call me.” 

I snapped the Captain my sharpest salute and turned and walked back up to the ship.  I have no idea who that Captain was, but he must have been someone fairly high-ranking, because from that day forward, that Ensign never said as much as “boo” to me.  Funny what the fear of losing your commission can do to make a better officer out of a man.
THE STABBINGS
The distance from the shipyards to the Naval Station was 2 or 3 miles.  Through a very rough, industrial area.  If you were unlucky enough to miss the shuttle bus (which was a very easy thing to do) you had a long, unpleasant walk in front of you.  While nothing ever happened to me, personally, one of my Deck Department shipmates found out the hard way just how rough the area was.  Shawn Mumbley, the kid from Detroit who had tried to teach me how to “walk bad” that night on Fourth Street, ran into a little trouble on his way back from the Base Club one night.  No amount of “badness” could help him however, as a couple of guys jumped him and stabbed him a couple of times, then stole his wallet.  He got lucky, and just ended up with some stitches, but he wasn’t the only Fresno sailor to end up on the wrong side of the knife while we were in the shipyards.

BM2 Dailey, affectionately known as “Coconut”, had a girlfriend who lived in Long Beach.  One day he had the bad fortune to cross paths with one of her other boyfriends, and that boyfriend just happened to have a sharp knife to go with his bad attitude.  Coconut ended up in the hospital for quite a while and was in pretty serious shape for some time.  He ended up being okay, and soon left the Fresno, but he was the first person I’d ever known who had almost been killed.  A very eye-opening experience for a sheltered kid from Wyoming.
LEAVING SAN PEDRO
The rest of our stay in the shipyards was  uneventful.  I was finally released from my Mess Decks duty a week or so before we left.  It was nice to get back to the “regular” Navy again, and the move back to First Division berthing was a welcome one.  I even got a rack with a locker in it this time.  The Fresno was looking good – rust free, with a fresh coat of haze gray paint and strong running engines.  As they flooded the dry dock, and we started floating once again – you could almost feel the energy begin to flow through the ship’s crew.  It was as if we all knew that it was time to get back to the business of being sailors and get ready for our next deployment in January of 1990.

The yards had been tough on all of us, from the Coasties turning us in for sneaking through the gate, to the three-mile long walk to the base, to the lack of ventilation on the ship during the heat of the summer - we all felt like survivors.  I guess in a way, we were.  Survivors of the San Pedro Shipyards – summer 1989.

Once we left the Yards, we headed back over to the Long Beach Naval Station to finish preparations and training for our deployment in 1990.  We'll document the stories from our return in Part Seven: A Second Collection Of Memories

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