Range Rats At Sea

After seven days at sea, I had come to the conclusion that the most compelling argument for sea travel was the opportunity it provided for long periods of uninterrupted concentration. This revelation came to me as I stood alone at the ship's railing, watching the endless roll of the South Atlantic. In the distance, the setting sun dipped towards the blue-gray peaks and valleys of the Brazilian Highlands. We were skirting the South American coastline, steaming northward from Rio de Janeiro.

I wondered how many great works of literature, how many religious truths, philosophical awakenings, and scientific breakthroughs had been spawned by men who were doing just what I was doing. Did an ocean voyage inspire Da Vinci? Was Martin Luther a mariner? Did Shakespeare sail? Copernicus cruise? Newton navigate?

Now it was my turn. For inspiration, I conjured up some of the short, catchy maxims from my college days-architect Lewis Sullivan's "Form ever follows function," and naturalist Ernst Haeckel's "Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny." As I prepared to author my own epiphany, the slightest hint of ocean spray suddenly brushed my face, and one more phrase popped into my head: singer Jim Croce's "Don't spit into the wind."

Perhaps inspiration would come another day. I left the railing and went below decks in another attempt to scrounge some reading material.

I must admit here that my quest for the written word was not exactly predicated on the notion that I always preferred a good book over an evening of television; I just didn't have a choice. While my new home was a satellite tracking ship that ranked as one of the world's most sophisticated communications centers, the vessel's television technology had some way to go before it would be able to compete with a good set of jungle drums.

Thus in my short time aboard I had found that without television, my choice of after-work activities was extremely limited. Every evening, I sampled the wares of the chow hall, suffered through the movie of the day, checked the chow hall again, and watched the South American coastline slide by. This allowed plenty of time for reading, but in my rush to meet the ship I hadn't thought about packing anything to read.

Hoping to pick up a stray magazine, I stopped by the technicians' lounge, just a few steps down from my stateroom. As I pulled open the door, I couldn't help remembering the mental picture that had presented itself the first time I'd learned that there was a lounge on board. This was a naval vessel, so I knew it wasn't going to be the kind of lounge where patrons would go to order a Scotch and soda nightcap. With a piano bar out of the question, I imagined a kind of "gentleman's club," where my fellow techs would be nestled into overstuffed leather chairs while they rested their slippered feet in the plush carpeting. Surrounded by wall-to-wall oaken bookshelves, the techs would thoughtfully turn the pages of classic literature to the accompaniment of soft music.

This picture quickly dissolved once I passed through the door and got my first actual glimpse of the room. What I saw wasn't so much a lounge as a loitering area filled with government-issue tables and chairs and some benches that may have come from the booths in Mel's Diner.

The floor was the same green-gray speckled linoleum tile that seemed to cover every square inch of every floor below the main deck. Bolted to the walls were some gray storage cabinets. Instead of soft music, I heard the same thing everyone heard in every room and every corridor throughout the ship-the sound of the air conditioning system sending hurricane force winds screaming through the ducts and vents three feet above our heads. The one reader in the room sat with one of his bare feet up on a table and alternated giving his attention to the Hustler magazine he was reading and the toenail he was picking. At another table, the evening poker players stubbed cigarettes into an ashtray that already contained a pile of butts higher than any stack of chips. There wasn't anything to read in the lounge except poker faces.

I went to my room and picked up a three-month-old magazine my bunkmate and coworker, George, had bought when the ship was in Argentina. I had thumbed through its pages before, but my grasp of Spanish was heavily influenced by the dialogue between the characters in the 1950's TV show, The Cisco Kid. In other words, my strength lay in translating such sentences as, "Hey Ceesco, eet ees time to rest thee horses, no?"

I knew I was in deep water when I couldn't even understand the magazine's title (Gente), but I skimmed through the articles anyway, hunting for words that looked similar to English. Once I found one, I'd work backwards and forwards through the sentence, trying to deduce the meanings of the other words and ultimately the intent of the article.

When I tired of this brain-busting cryptogram, I asked George where I could find something else to read. English was preferred, but my command of Pig Latin was passable, and I could use it in a pinch.

"Well, Dan," he answered in his Georgia drawl, "I don't rightly know if you'll have any luck, but I've always found something to hold my interest in the tech lounge."

This sounded more like an invitation to join him at the poker game than a promise of something new to read. Nevertheless, I thanked George for his suggestion and as desperation set in, I decided I would give the lounge another look. Maybe the toenail picker had left his Hustler behind.

No, the lounge was empty and there were no books, magazines, or newspapers in sight. I was so starved for the sight of some well-constructed strings of nouns, verbs, adjectives, and punctuation marks though, that I considered making a trip down to my work area, where I'd seen a pamphlet with the eye-catching title, Duobinary Coding-Major Breakthrough in Data Transmission. Instead, I took the opportunity to do some snooping. I opened the doors to one set of storage cabinets, expecting to find stationery, government pens, staplers, Scotch tape, and other office supplies. What I found was the ship's treasure.

The two cabinets contained hundreds of paperback books neatly lined up on shelves. The books were well worn and many were missing their jackets, but that just made browsing more fun. After only a few minutes, I discovered dozens of titles that held my interest. I quickly selected one about the life of a professional scuba diver and took it back to my room.

As I entered, George left, off to round up his poker pals and get the second shift started. Eager to dive into my book, I stripped down to my underwear and threw my clothes over one of our two straight-backed chairs. George and I each had a small closet and chest of drawers squeezed into our cramped quarters but our evening ritual was the same; bedtime was no time to worry about creases and clothes hangers. I brushed my teeth in the small sink, killed the overhead light, and vaulted into the top bunk. There, I found the switch to the reading light and picked up my book.

I immersed myself in the author's underwater adventures and tried my best to imagine the feeling of floating through the water exploring coral reefs and sunken ships and maybe spearing a fish or snatching a lobster. Growing up high and dry in a tiny town near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania had not afforded me the opportunity to explore the underwater world. Nor had I any deep desire to dive what water there was-chilly lakes and rivers made murky over the years by drainage from hundreds of abandoned coal mines. Nevertheless, I had been enthralled with the thought of diving since I had first put on a mask in a swimming pool.

I fueled my fantasy for a hundred pages before checking my small night stand for something to use as a bookmark. There, I saw the folded, typewritten page I had been handed just before lunch.

The next morning, the shellbacks once again provided me with a personalized wake-up call. It seemed Equator Crossing Day did not mean work as usual; Jolly Roger led me to the mess hall and encouraged me to sit with the other pollywogs and eat a hearty breakfast. (He wasn't just being thoughtful; he had an ulterior motive.) Afterwards, the sheriff and his men herded us into the tech lounge. The lounge suddenly looked much smaller as the fifteen of us sat and awaited further orders. No one spoke.

As my subpoena had mentioned, the basis of the equator crossing ceremony was the appearance of King Neptune to serve as judge and jury of each crew member accused of being a pollywog. To that end, a crew of royal servants was assembled to bring the accused to trial. This cast of supporting characters could be stipulated by whoever was organizing the hazing. On the good ship Vanguard, the King was joined by his wife Amphitrite and their Royal Baby. The Royal Scribe, the Royal D.A. (as prosecuting attorney), and an attorney for the defense all served the court. A Royal Doctor, Barber, and Dentist were in attendance and a Royal Sheriff led a band of deputies to guard and escort the prisoners.

In contrast to the initiations aboard U.S. Navy military vessels, Vanguard hazings were relatively harmless; the subjects experienced no pain or disfigurement. Of course, nobody made the effort to explain this to those of us locked in the tech lounge waiting for our names to be called.

A smell gradually permeated the lounge. I quickly recognized it as the same odor present in the classrooms and hallways of my high school on the first day of classes. It was the smell of sweat, tension, and more than a little fear.

The deputies waited until we each displayed these symptoms to the desired levels and then, one-by-one, they took us out of the lounge and marched us up to the main deck. Before we stepped out of the stairwell, however, our guards fitted us with blindfolds. Thus handicapped, we were ready to be guided to the doctor, the dentist, and the barber, who were responsible for making us presentable for our court appearance.

Guided by words and helping hands, I carefully stepped across the threshold of the watertight door and onto the main deck. Sunshine made its way through my blindfold and I felt its welcome warmth on my exposed legs, arms, and face. While my guide paused, I twisted my head to tune in as much as I could of my surroundings. From somewhere close by I heard vile shellback epithets, muffled pollywog responses, whoops of laughter, and a near constant snapping of camera shutters.

Despite the blindfold, it was a relief to be on the deck, away from the claustrophobic lounge and my fellow scared rabbits. The agony of waiting was finally over.

I docilely allowed my escort to take my arm and lead me the few steps to the doctor's "office." There, another helpful soul took my other arm, welcomed me, and invited me to brace myself as he prepared to investigate my response to "the rapid introduction of a temperature change-inducing substance to a previously stable, protected environment."

Suddenly, before I could deduce the meaning of this statement, both guards tightened their grips on my arms. Simultaneously, I felt a hand pulling out my waistband. A flood of ice water invaded my previously stable, protected nether regions. Amidst whoops of laughter (nearby this time), the doctor thanked me for my contribution to medical science and asked my guards to escort me to the dentist.

Again, only a few steps separated the doctor's and dentist's office space, but the journey was frequently interrupted as I gyrated my pelvis and cocked and shook my legs to unload the ice from my shorts. When my guards were sufficiently amused at my awkward dance, they relaxed their holds long enough for me to dig out the last of the offending cubes.

I felt a hand cradling my chin.

"All right, matey. Open up. Let's have a look inside."

Right. I was about four years old the last time I fell for that. In those days it was "Open your mouth, close your eyes, I'll give you a big surprise." Well, I had a surprise for them; I wasn't four years old anymore. I jammed my lips together, tightly.

"Stubborn, eh?" I heard. "Boys, help me force his mouth open."

Hah! Amateurs! It's damn near impossible to force someone's mouth open, I knew. I clenched my teeth and awaited the onslaught, welcoming the opportunity to defeat the shellbacks at their own game.

It was a sneak attack. I suddenly felt the familiar hand pulling on my waistband again. The previous deluge had not deadened my feelings below the waist. If anything, they were intensified. My shivering scrotum sent an emergency message to my brain, demanding absolute top priority control of body functions. Imperative that voice box be activated now! Pump up lungs; all available volume required; intelligible speech unnecessary!

My brain obediently relinquished control. In less than a heartbeat, I opened my mouth to suck in all the air required for my primal scream. The dentist, of course, was ready for this and directed a stream of vinegar past my lips, between my teeth, and over my tongue to splash against my dangling uvula.

Coughing, choking, and spitting, I realized that it was small consolation that the ice water never arrived. I had been outwitted.

My pride had made me forget that, in this case, the shortest distance between two points could only be found through my full cooperation. Any deviation from this path would subject me to any number of humiliations, all of which were tried and true, having been practiced many times since the days of the Ancient Mariner.

Thus broken, I allowed my escorts to guide me to the barber's station. I gingerly seated myself and the barber went to work, experimenting to find the proper hairstyle to wear before the king. The Navy way is to shave the head, but our barber shunned the scissors and instead concentrated on finding the best mousse. It turned out that his notion of ideal ingredients for hair sculpting were to be found among the table scraps saved from the mess hall for the past few days. I was soon wearing what I hadn't eaten.

At last I was a prisoner fit for a king, and none too soon; my case was next on the docket. My escorts took me to the pillory. A popular device in merry old England and its colonies, the pillory consisted of a heavy wooden frame with holes cut to accommodate (and confine) the prisoner's neck and wrists. The guide and two or three assistants helpfully placed my extremities into the holes and locked the contraption. It was time for the trial.

As I was to learn later, the Court closely followed a script. The only differences came in the form of the wording of the imaginary charges against each pollywog and in the variety of insults each member of the Family could muster. Otherwise, the course of the trial never changed and the outcome was never in doubt.

To open the proceedings, the scribe read the charges and asked for a plea. At this point it was the defense attorney's job to insist upon his client's good virtue and persuade the shackled unfortunate to sing out his innocence. Those gullible enough to do so were met with a handful of marinated kitchen garbage in the mouth as everyone joined in the verbal harassment: