I looked in my bag for the thermos of coffee I’d brought, strong, black coffee, just the way a sailor likes it. It was dark, and had been for over two hours, except for the streetlights from the parking lot behind me and the stars in the sky, there was little light to see by. I found the thermos, poured myself a cup and took out an extra cup, placing the extra on top of a railing post.

Although I was by myself at the moment I was expecting company, or rather, hoping for company, shortly. I was at Patriots Point, just across the Cooper River from Charleston, South Carolina and looking at the "Fighting Lady" the "Lucky Y" at her final port of call.

Patriots Point is the location of a floating museum where the carrier USS Yorktown is now on display. Moored along with Yorktown is Clamagore, a diesel submarine, destroyer Laffey and Coast Guard Cutter Ingham. I could clearly make out Yorktown’s silhouette, framed in the glow of light cast from Charleston proper. The other vessels were difficult to see owing to the carrier’s size. 

Tonight was supposed to be special for the Navy believers. It was an annual event, dating back centuries, not that many people knew or cared with fewer still taking notice. Perhaps in Italy, Spain, Portugal and Greece there were those who would see, but I subscribe that here, in the United States, I was the only one looking.

I was here because I was a sailor, a submarine sailor, and this place had a submarine - Clamagore. Other places had ships and submarines, too: Philadelphia, Puget Sound, Baltimore and New London to name a few. Tonight would be special for those other places as well; not that anyone would be there to witness the event. 

My coffee had cooled so I reached for the thermos again when someone from behind me asked, "Hey shipmate! Could you spare a cup of that coffee? I could smell it a mile off." 

Startled, I jerked around expecting to see a Patriot's Point security guard. Instead what I saw was a man about half of my 40 years, maybe younger, and half of my waistline, too. He had on a regulation dungaree uniform with no rating on his sleeve, a name was stenciled over his pocket that I couldn’t quite make out. On his feet were a pair of worn boondockers that had last seen polish on his last day at Great Lakes. 

"Sure," I said, filling the extra cup I had brought. He took the cup from me with a nod and I watched him take a sip. With his eyes shut, he rolled that first taste around his mouth, savoring it like a fine wine. He swallowed, took another sip and smiled.

"You don’t know how long it’s been since I tasted coffee this good," he said.

"I’m glad you like it," I replied. Maybe I was a Navy believer, I’d just have to wait and see.

"Was that a pack of Old Gold's I saw in your bag?" he asked, eyebrows raised and a hopeful smile on his face. 

"Yeah," I replied, "here, take the whole pack."

"Thanks shipmate. The Captain doesn’t approve of smoking but tonight he makes exceptions." With that he reached into his red lead and gray splattered dungarees, pulled out a lighter that looked like it was made between the two big wars, fired up the cigarette and took a deep draw. I could tell it had been a long time since he’d had cigarette.

We sat overlooking the ships for about ten minutes, enjoying the quiet, our coffee, and he his cigarette. "The Navy’s not like it used to be," my companion commented. "The Great Captain doesn’t like these political folks that are starting to show up. You know, men that are supposed to be leaders but are more politician than sailor. People like that will get a good many bluejackets killed one day." 

"Is that right?" I said, trying to sound neutral.

"Yes, that’s right," he shot back at me like he was ready to go to GC with me, angry at the very thought. "There’s no place on ships for political sailors like that, and the Captain knows it. We all have to come before the green table, officer and bluejacket alike, so the Great Captain can judge us."

Mostly the Great Captain will listen to a bluejacket’s story, wink at Saint Brendan, and let us by; He’s got a soft heart for common sailors. His eyebrows went up slightly along with the slight nods of his head as he explained the procedure for this fleet, "Oh, we have to serve our time you see, but it’s near nothing as compared to some of the Admirals and Politicians; those who get to serve time. Some of them are marooned forever out of hand."

By this time I though I noticed Yorktown singling her lines, preparing to get underway. Imagine that, I thought, a ship as old as Yorktown getting underway. No noise or whistles, no lights no sounds, but by now her bow was swinging into the Cooper River, soon to catch the current. This is exactly the way I’d been led to believe it would happen.

"Are they getting underway?" I asked my friend.

"Yes," he said. "Admiral Gallery is the group commander for this night. He has experience at it and was a good sailor, too.

Captain Jacko Clark, of course, is in command of Yorktown.

Captain William "Bill" Bennett just reported for duty to this fleet in 2006 but he'll have to take the XO billet for a few hundred years before we have another Change of Command Ceremony.  A lot of commie fightin' white hats and rescued pilots were glad to welcome Captain Bennett aboard again!

"Captain Stockdale is CAG for the air group and for all flying sailors captured by the enemy who never made it back.  Captain Stockdale sure taught a bunch of the boys about real bravery!"

Admiral Burke is conning Laffey. He’s hardheaded and won’t ride anything but a destroyer.

Admiral Warder is on Clamagore. Like a lot of other submarine skippers who made admiral, he was highly thought of by his men. That’s why he’s on the bridge and not in the bilge.

Captain O'Kane mustered aboard a few years ago. Let me tell you there was a party when he arrived. All his old Tang and Wahoo shipmates were here, Morton included. I didn’t think we’d ever get back to port. St. Brendan had to step in so we’d get the boat back in time."

"And of course, the Great Captain, he's on every ship at all times.

Lt. Smedley Butler, opinionated as ever, is of course commanding the Marine Detachment on the Yorktown, preparing the sea-going bellhops to rebel boarders if our course crosses the Flying Dutchman."

Being an enlisted man myself I pushed the ethereal seaman to give me a more complete muster.  "Any enlisted men with all the brass?"

Oh yeah! Chief Petty Officer John Finn is in the Yorktown's photo lab.  He's in that old decommissioned dark room, making those black and white 8x10 glossy prints that the Navy loves so much.    Haah, that Chief Finn! 

I get a kick out of the people in the Yorktown Association office wondering if their space is haunted when they hear all that banging around and find things moved from where they left them the day before.

He and Seaman Jim Ward was at Pearl during that big party  back in 41.  You should hear em talking about who shot the most and did the most good on that day.  We had to assign racks to 2,400 sailors who joined this fleet on that one day.

By now Yorktown was clear of her mooring and headed down the river, Laffey and Ingham were turning into the current, only Clamagore was left. 

"Is this the only place this is happening tonight?" I asked, wanting to confirm what I thought I knew.

"On no," my mysterious friend replied, "it’s the eve of Saint Brendan’s feast day. St. Brendan, as you probably know, is the patron saint of all sailors. Mothball fleets are getting underway for the mid-watch all over the world. And you're one of the few who will see us get underway. Not to worry though, they’ll be back at their moorings before sunrise.

This is what the Great Captain gives out as penance. Everyone has to serve in some form or another; other people do other things, this is what sailors do.

Most of the bluejackets love it, most of the Admirals don’t. They end up in the bilge’s and can I tell you its Hell down there. Lots of bilge’s on Yorktown so there are lots of Admirals on her tonight."

"How long will you have to ride ships, like this?" I inquired, reaching quickly for new a question so he wouldn't become bored and fade away.

"It’s not that long, a couple hundred years, but I don’t mind, I look forward to it, really."

"So you're going to sea on the sub then?"  He looked at me like I was a "boot" or a "drifty shit" because the sub was only vessel left at the pier. 

"Yeah, let me tell you something sailor.  I’m Seaman off a nuc boat," he blasted back sticking his right thumb into what appeared to be a chest. I felt like I was hit by a shell from a Mark 12 5"/38 caliber gun. "I’ll be the helmsman tonight. There aren’t enough nuc boats to go around so we ride the diesel boats until our rotation for a nuc boat comes up again. I’ll tell you this, the way the navy is decommissioning nuc boats these days..."

 He just let that thought trail off into ultimate silence.  I ran out of questions to keep his attention and as I feared he began to drift off.  I thought the parking lot lights must have been fading because he was getting harder to see.

 He seemed to breeze down towards the pier without making the sound of bookdockers against the wooden pier. I then remembered my memorized list of questions but too late.  Clamagore had cast off all lines but one. I got in one last interrogatory.  I hailed him and said, "Shipmate! What boat were you on?" I then felt fear of hearing his answer, considering the US Navy’s losses in nuc boats. 

He straightened up considerably and shouted, "I was on Scorpion*, shipmate and thanks for the coffee and the smokes!"

I watch my friend jump from the pier to the bow of Clamagore and then go below like a wisp of smoke into that old steel cylinder. The last line was taken in and Clamagore slowly got underway. I could see two figures on the bridge one giving orders, though I could hear nothing.

Presently, she too was gone, for her annual mid-watch cruise. 

I tossed out my leftover coffee, re-packed my bag and sat down again to reflect on what I had experienced. I had heard no whistles or engines or orders to line handlers, splashes as the lines hit the water as they were pulled back to the pier but just before I left, and perhaps it was a fluke of nature, ducting they call it, I thought I heard a voice shout, "Dive! Dive!" and two blasts the diving alarm.

Maybe I imagined it...maybe I imaged the whole evening...

  maybe not. 

*editor's note:  The USS Scorpion sank in 1968. All 99 crewmen were killed. click here