An Old Salt grouses ...

This is actually a guy I met in a sailor bar in Hawaii. He was an old, overweight retired Bosun's Mate, who always had some great sea stories to tell, and also always kept a live Chihuahua in his (voluminous) shirt sleeve.  Every once in awhile, the dog would poke its nose out of the sleeve, and this old guy would stop his story in mid-tale and feed it a teaspoon of beer.  Somehow, I was the only one in the bar who seemed to find this -- odd.

“It ain’t what it used to be!”

By William Breyfogle

The old sailor groused, in the midst of his tale

            Recalling his days all at sea

But he stopped in mid-tale, turned around and regaled,

“Mates … It ain’t what it used to be!

“Why the Navy has changed, since my day, so it has

            And these young’uns are all soft and spoiled

Why back in my day sailors had no degrees

            It was just back-aching, backbreaking toil.

“We labored in heat of the fire down below

With the engines, but men did their best.      

It was ‘Feed the fires, move the coal!

Make the steam, damn your soul!’

Days on end, and with nary a rest.”

“Now they’ve got engines that power jets through the sky

            Or split up an atom, I hear.

So the engine room’s more like an office suite, now.”

            And he stopped and returned to his beer.

“If a Sailor got rowdy, back then,” he began,”

            We’d just take ‘im out back past the docks.

And the Chiefs would pound sense into him,” and he grinned,

            “Why, many’s the Chief that could box.

“But now they’ve got ‘rights’, and protected from that,

by some kid with a legal degree.”

And he shook his head sadly, in great disbelief,

            “Ahh, It ain’t what it used to be.”

“And these officers. Babies, all fresh out of school!

            With book-learning stuffed in their heads

But let it get rough out there and then you’ll find.

            They can’t navigate out of their beds.”

“When the enemy’s guns open up out at sea,

            Well, you know that you’re in for it, then

And the big shell’s are crashin’, spitting fire, sewing death,

            Ah, that’s when they grow into men.”

 “Now look over there! Women! In Crackerjack blues!

Just look how they hug breast and hip.

I’m telling ya, Mates, there’ll be trouble aboard

If they ever get on a ship!”

“What’s that, did you say? They’re already on board

            And serving on warships at sea?”

He sat is stunned silence, then raised up his glass,

            “Mates, it ain’t what it used to be.”

But he thought for a spell, and then grinned through his beard,

            “It don’t hardly matter, ye see?

Cause, Shipmates, I’d give up an arm and leg

            And more to go back to sea.”

“My best days were out there,  way out in a ship

Surrounded by shipmates and brothers

And I’d be out there now, If I wasn’t too old

I’d die out there, if I had my druthers”

“But it’s all about schooling and books now,” he sighed,     

            “There’s no place for old salts like me.

It’s all for those youngsters out there, like I said

            “Cause it ain’t what it used to be.”

A Filthy Haiku

What's most important in Haiku, I am reliably informed, is not just the structure of syllables (in this case it follows the 5-7-5 pattern,) it's more about what the spartan word patterns suggest. With that in mind, I present my Filthy Haiku.

William V. Breyfogle

"Man from Nantucket

could not think of anything

to rhyme ... the dumbass"

Line troops vs elite soldiers

I have in my head a series of SciFi stories about a bunch of ragtag soldiers set in the far future. They're certainly not the flashiest unit around, but -- as "line doggies" -- they get some of the worst assignments, and yet always manage to come through. I wrote this ballad to act as a sort of transitional tool from one chapter to the next.

The Ballad of the Troops of the Line
by William Breyfogle

OVERTURE:
We're the sleepy eyed devils in armor and brass.
The point of the spear is our sign.
We're the reaper, the grinder, the sword and the scythe
and they call us the Troops of the Line.

CHORUS:
Troops of the Line, Troops of the line,
We're your husbands, your sons and your daughters.
Our business is killing and business is good,
Troops of the line: To the slaughter!

VERSE:
We're a bolt out of nowhere; we're death in the dark.
We're the story you don't live to tell.
We're the nightmares and horrors that lurk in your dreams
we're a reveille call straight from hell.
We're as grim as the gallows, and harder to stop.
We're the shivers that role up your spine,
We're a wildfire; a warcry. We're a wind, we're a wall ...
and we're coming; the Troops of the Line.

CHORUS:
Troops of the Line, Troops of the line,
We're your husbands, your sons and your daughters.
Our business is killing and business is good,
Troops of the line: To the slaughter!

VERSE:
As we shoot through your lines and we roll up your flanks
and hasten your troops to their fate,
it's the cold hack and thrust. Nothing personal, Friend,
'cause only the amateurs hate.
When the grim business is done, and recall is sounded,
we pick up our dead and our dying.
Then it's rest and refit, then stand to your guns,
'cause we're on again; Troops of the Line.

CHORUS:
Troops of the Line, Troops of the Line,
We're your husbands, your sons and your daughters.
Our business is killing and business is good,
Troops of the line: To the slaughter!

VERSE:
Our voice is the main guns, the rocket's loud roar.
We're the scream of an oncoming jet.
We're the whine of the turbines, the clatter of treads
We're the thrust of the cold bayonet.
Now, there's flyboys and tankers, there's sailors and spooks.
and all of those outfits are fine
There's Marines and sky troopers, there's techs and there's cooks;
and then there's the Troops of the Line.

CHORUS:
Troops of the Line, Troops of the line,
We're your husbands, your sons and your daughters.
Our business is killing and business is good,
Troops of the Line: To the slaughter!

VERSE:
We've slogged through the muck of a hundred-odd fields,
and died on a hundred-odd more
and we'll go right on killing for that odd thing called peace
we're the sons and the daughters of war.
Now, other divisions get glory and such
their banners all glitter and shine.
But when they want a battalion to battle through hell,
they call for the Troops of the Line.

CHORUS:
Oh, Troops of the Line, Troops of the Line,
We're your husbands, your sons and your daughters.
Our business is killing and business is good,
Troops of the line: To the slaughter!

CODA:
And at the last muster, when they lay you to rest,
and you sleep in a box made of pine,
You can tell old St. Peter you served with the best,
tell him, "I was a Troop of the Line."

You practically need a glossary for this one ...

not to mention charts, graphs and the like.
As for why I wrote it, frankly, I have no idea. The only way to get this doggerel out of my head is to get it out of my head ... really!

Selected Transcripts of the Admiralty Court Inquest
into the Series of Strange and Unnatural Occurrences
which recently transpired Aboard the Schooner
Alice Marie at 28 degrees N. lat, 81 degrees W. long.

by William V. Breyfogle

The sea was all glassy, the sky was full clear
when I logged for the Dog Watch at three.
we was bound out of Kingston on a northerly track
my schooner, the Alice Marie.
We carried a cargo of chickens and rum
and some fine, fancy coffees and tea
all the rigging was tight, the helm answered right
when we entered the Devil's Sea.

Now, a sailor will tell you, that sea is accursed,
that it lies 'tween perdition and hell
but on charts it appears, as mere dots on the map
and marked most by gentle sea swells.
But some call it "The triangle", some call it "that place".
but all try to shun it, y'see.
for all sailors know that there's evil below
when you sail on the Devil's Sea.

So, our sailors were edgy, we'd heard all the tales
of crews gone with nary a trace.
Of strange winds that would blow, and of ships dragged below,
by some fiend in that terrible place.
The lookouts saw fairies; the helmsmen heard sounds
the seas shone with strange, ghostly lights
Men swore they were haunted by shades of dead tars
Even I started seeing odd sights.

So, Cookie, he thought he would put us at ease
by conjuring up a great feast
There'd be huge heaps of food for our worrying brood
and steaks from all manner of beast.
But his recipe called for just a wee dram,
a dollop of rum, so I'm told
But his bottle was empty, his private stock gone,
so he headed below to the hold

He sampled one barrel, and the rum tasted fine
but the texture was just a mite rough
"This crew deserves better," he thought to himself,
"God knows we've barrels enough."
So he tried the next barrel, and one after that
But the flavors all left him quite vexed.
So he kept right on sampling, on down the rows,
to the next, and the next, and the next.

Now his rum tasting took him the rest of the day
'fore he found the penultimate blend.
And that painstaking man, when he told himself "Stand!"
His wobbly legs countered, "Descend!"
So his head, headed down, hit the rail, headed up,
And he bashed himself on the skull.
As he lay there alone, his pitiful moans
echoed ghostly-like all through the hull.

Now, the Mate, he was napping way back in the stern,
awaiting the night's dinner bell.
when his blood ran cold, 'cause from out of the hold,
came the cry of some lost soul in Hell.
"A demon has got us. I'll sound the alarm,"
he thought as he leapt to his feet.
But in his drowsy half slumber, he forgot where he was
and that he legs were all tangled in sheet.

As his bunk toppled down, it hit with the sound
of a terrible, horrible crash.
The boom echoed up to the fantail where
A crewman was dumping some trash.
Now the ghostly moans and the crash from below
had startled that jumpy man so ...
That, when his brawny arms reached to the end of their swing,
The sailor forgot to let go.

So, with a cry and a crash, and a bloody great splash,
the swabbie went over the side.
So he grabbed for a rope, like it was his last hope
and hung on for quite a wild ride.
Then, the lookout, aloft, heard the commotion below,
and he turned 'round to look and to gape.
For he saw a great "demon" there, hooked on a rope,
skipping in and out of our wake.

Now, meanwhile two deckapes was swabbing the deck,
while another was stoning the teak.
And they looked to the sky, at the lookout's wild cry
what they saw there made them go weak.
The lookout was screaming and pointing in shock
as he slipped and fell towards the deck.
With a mournful wail, he slid down the sail,
and landed right square on my neck.

With a pitiful squeal, I let loose the wheel,
and was "lights out" a minute or three.
When I came to at last, we was spinning round fast,
toward the rocks at Chinaman's Key.
Now, remember the Mate? He had rose from the mess,
but was still all tangled for fair!
So he wandered up topside, all moans and white sheets
‘twas enough to whiten your hair!

The sudden appearance of this ghastly pale shade
made the deckapes careen off in fright
When they all tried to squeeze through the forecastle hatch
the three of them started to fight.
So they kicked and they hit, and stomped and they bit
as they pushed and they squeezed through the door.
And one musta' kicked o'er the hurricane lamp
'cause the kerosine started to pour.

Now, it's well-known the Bosun, he likes his cigars,
he smokes ‘em by night and by day
But when the fracas broke out, he started to shout,
and threw his old stogie away.
When the butt hit the pool that was formed all of fuel
from the lamp that lay crushed 'neath a foot
it gave off a black cloud, like a foul-smelling shroud
that left Bosun all covered with soot.

When the crew saw the Bosun, now a hell-blackened beast
striding through smoke and through flame
They thought 'twas the Devil, come after their souls,
come nigh to kill and to maim.
But the flames leapt up higher, into the sails
till the spars and the sheets were aroar
as the flames licked the rigging, the air filled with sound,
as the mizzen and mainsail both tore.

In the panic and route that was next to break out
the helm swung itself hard alee.
'Midst the shouts and the shocks, I forgot all about rocks
that guarded the Chinaman's Key.
So poor Alice Marie rammed right into the Key
and the rocks ripped her belly to bow.
But the Bosun, the Mate, the deckapes and me
all made it to shore, somehow.


When they found us days later, we was all drunk on rum
we'd been feasting on chickens and tea.
But I swear t'was to block out the suffering and pain
that came from the Devil's Sea.
For who’s to say how the Devil can work?
How he'll drive a poor sailor to drink.
How he'll blind a good man to the path up ahead
and betray him, then, quick as a wink.

You can say what you like, 'bout our ship and our crew
you can say what you like about me.
But I'm telling you it was a demon from hell
that wrecked us in the Devil's Sea.
For, some call it "The triangle", some call it "that place".
but all try to shun it, y'see.
For all sailors know that there's evil below
when you sail on the Devil's Sea.


--end--

What makes someone "salty?"

I served with a crusty old sailor named John Pfingsten, who was bald, bearded (we could wear beards back then,) and full of gab. We all swore that John's first ship had been a Roman galleon, and that he had been the guy beating the drum to keep the slave rowers in time.

He told a story about a young friend of his, who badly wanted to qualify as a genuine, no-shit Fleet Sailor ... a real live swabbie. John, who had been around the world a couple of times, kept telling this young man (no, it wasn't me) that he had to (a) get assigned to a ship, then (b) get assigned to a ship that actually sailed, then (c)... you get the idea. John kept upping the ante for that young man, who probably never did finish all his neverending qualifications for Fleet Sailor-hood.

Thought there was something of a ballad in there somewhere.


The Ballad of Bos’n John
By William Breyfogle

Our new shipmate was a college boy,
all bright and shiny and new.
And he wanted to learn the Sailorman's trade
and travel the wide, briny blue.
So we sent him down to see old Salty John
who (it's said) was crew on the Ark.
A Bosun's Mate's Bosun, if ever there was,
with a bite just as bad as his bark.

Now, old Salty John had a permanent stool
at the bar of Miss Lillian Chin.
And you'd find him there drinking, and telling his tales
whenever the Fleet was in.
And, so it was, when our shipmate walked in
Salty John was regaling the bar
with a story of drinks, and of treasure and love
that he'd bought in a far-off bazaar.

So the young Sailor stood, till the end of the tale,
till the curses and laughs died away
and he reached up and tapped on those dress Sailor blues
cleared his throat, and began, "Pardon me ...
I'm a new engineer on the cruiser New York
and she's fixing to get underway.
Now I've never been out, and they tell me that I
should mark closely whatever you say.

"They tell me you shipped out with Mahan and Holt
when they found a new route through the Straits.
And they tell me that you, hoisted bottles of brew
with sea-bats and dolphins as mates.
They say that the ocean's a book that you read
each wave is a verse or a line.
And they say that you dug out the Suez Canal
just to visit your girls on time.

"Now I'd be pleased," said the Sailor, 'e said,
"to learn some of your seaman's lore.
For, if I'm to be, a man of the sea
it's plain I must learn so much more.
Though the schooling they gave me was fine as it comes,
I know it was short by a tad."
So Old John looks up and he drinks and he spits,
and sizes him up and says, "Lad ...

"I'm pleased that you've come, it shows spirit and cheek.
Miss Lillian, two more on me!
So, pull up a glass, Son, and mind ... listen well!
and I'll tell you the ways of the sea.
There are things you must do, and orders to shout,
strange cities you must go and see.
There are women to woo and to love and to leave,
if ever a Sailor you'll be.

"But, first know your ship, for she's your first love.
She's your lady, your mother, your whore.
You must learn ev'ry inch of her, bilges to bridge.
Ev'ry line, ev'ry hatch, ev'ry pore.
Learn starboard from port, and for'ard from aft
Learn to steer by the stars and the sun.
Learn a mast from a kingpost, a hawse from a line
and there's more, why you've hardly begun!

"Stand a watch, like a man, in the engine room's heat
where visions of Hell seem to cool.
Where the big turbine's thunder rips all through your guts
and your sweat's on the deck in a pool.
Man the conn on the bridge, swing the helm over hard
feel the ship leap to answer your call.
Feel the power of her vibrate right up through your shoes
then steady her, ease up, stand tall.

"Hear the storm's angry voice, feel its wind-driven sleet
grab your spine with its fingers of chill.
Watch the waves pile up to a monument's height
then smash down on your decks with a will.
See the cold Northern Lights on some dark, arctic night
as you anchor in far Baffin Bay.
Follow dolphins' gay leaps o'er Atlantic's gray deeps
as you steer west to follow the day.

"Then navigate south, where the Trade Winds give out
and the Southern Cross shines on glass seas.
Night's a dank, humid hole, and you'd give up your soul
for a drink, or the ghost of a breeze.
See Shanghai and Hainan, Rangoon and Bombay,
Dahomey, Djakartta, Dakkar.
St. Lawrence, St. Matthew, Cape Horn and Cape Hope,
Madeira, Mombasa, Affar.

"Then into the maw of the enemy's guns,
See them flash, hear his shells pass o'erhead.
Yet forward you steam, still closing the range
and your shipmates stand frozen with dread.
Then your skipper sounds "Action!", the crew springs to life.
and your guns snarl and buck, spitting death
Still you close with him, closer! Your guns roar their hate.
Then it's done, all is peace, draw your breath.

"When liberty's called, you head into port
Wearing your best, rakish blue.
Your ribbons and medals all proudly displayed,
Ah, a peacock's got nothing on you.
The ladies flock to you, all hoyden and guile
some other man's daughter, or wife.
A dark, sloe-eyed charmer tried snaring your heart
but you win hers instead. That's the life!

"You'll see South Seas sunsets, that landsmen can't know
where the whole world's becalmed in a hush.
Where creation's still rough-edged. My God, what a scene ...
colored right from the Almighty's brush.
How I envy you, Boy, when I think of your youth
and of all the adventures in store.
Why, the whole world's brand new for you. Think on it, Man!
Miss Lillian, we'll have two more!"

Now the bar had gone quiet, all eyes were on John
as he stopped and sipped at his beer.
Some say he was smiling, some say that he scowled.
Some swore that he brushed at a tear.
As the long silence lengthened, the Sailor looked down
and thought of the life he'd begun.
But Old John looked back at him, mused for awhile,
and in a dry, husky whisper said, "Son ...

"The mariner's life is all of these things,"
he said in that lost, hollow tone.
"But it's also the God-foresaken-est life ...
it's aching, it's lost, it's alone.
When the anchor is raised and you get underway,
and over the waves you fly,
Behind you there's nothing; no family, no roots,
And no one to tell you goodbye.

"Though your wave-top home is untethered and free
and for new adventures you yearn
As you lean o'er the railing and gaze out to sea
this last thing you'll soon come to learn...
That you'll hate it when out there, and miss it when not,
when cut, you'll bleed brine by the quart.
The oceans have got you then, they're in your bones
and the surf pounds in place of your heart.

"Then, one day you'll find that you're no longer young.
And, then you'll think back here to me,
'Cause you'll swear that you'll leave it, but know that you can't
and then a Fleet Sailor you'll be, like me ...
Forever a Sailor you'll be."

A Mariner's Grave

I recall the days right after the discovery of the wreck of the Civil War ironclad USS Monitor. (She sank in a storm off Cape Hatteras, I believe, during an open-ocean transit.) Some discussion was aired as to whether the wreck should be raised in its entirety and placed on display, since the technology exists to perform such a feat of engineering. Finally the decision came down to leave most of the ship where she was, and that she would be designated a Mariner's Tomb. It occurred to me that it would probably be an especially lonely place to spend eternity ... or then again, perhaps not.


A Mariner's Grave
By William Breyfogle

Now gather 'round, Sailors, and lis't while I sing
of the fate from which nothing can guard.
For no bearers will carry our mortal remains
when we go to our final reward.

CHORUS:
Oh, Sailors will toil, and rollick, and roil
and many are hearty and brave
But their bones will grow old in the dark and the cold
when they go to a mariner's grave.

Oh, a man can get nipped 'fore his time out at sea
and hasten his maker to meet.
So they'll grant his last wish, and feed him to fish
wrapped all in a white winding sheet.
The Skipper will muster the crew at the stern
and some words from the Book he'll intone.
But you'll slip in their wake, and below as you take
your long journey down, all alone.

CHORUS:
Oh, Sailors will toil, and rollick, and roil
and many are hearty and brave
But their bones will grow old in the dark and the cold
when they go to a mariner's grave.

The fish will accomp'ny you down, while they feast
but their bites needn't cause any pain
'Cause the honor you'll carry in Hell is affixed
by the size of your funeral train.
When you finally land, and rest on the sand,
and the oceans once more claim their own,
your keepers are moray and mollusk and skate
and the coral will build you a stone.

CHORUS:
Oh, Sailors will toil, and rollick, and roil
and many are hearty and brave
But their bones will grow old in the dark and the cold
when they lie in a mariner's grave.

And then there's the ships that take all hands below
as they slide to a watery doom.
And their decks are still manned by chilled corpses that stand
forever in unending gloom.
Now, shipwrights still build 'em the best that they can
and carpenters caulk up the seams.
But there's nothing will keep us from watery fates
when the waves put an end to our dreams.

CHORUS:
Oh, Sailors will toil, and rollick, and roil
and many are hearty and brave
But their bones will grow old in the dark and the cold
when they lie in a mariner's grave.


So pity poor Sailors, who'll never more walk
through a port with a wench by their side.
And with only a mark on the skipper's tide chart
To note the place where they died.


CHORUS:
Oh, Sailors will toil, and rollick, and roil
and many are hearty and brave
But their bones will grow old in the dark and the cold
when they go to a mariner's grave.

Sailor Poet?

"Poets who read their work in public may have other unsavory habits." R. A. Heinlein, "The Notebooks of Lazarus Long"

You spend any amount of time at sea and something happens to your (in my case already febrile) imagination.

Maybe it has to do with the immensity of the oceans. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you can see the ugly brown bar of a typhoon boiling up over the horizon and headed straight at you.

Maybe you're just bored out of your skull.

But if you've got more than six brain cells (barely, in my case,) the immensity of the seascape surrounding you somehow seeps into the creative (did I mention febrile?) part of your brain. Some sailors turn to video games. Some turn to bull sessions. Others turn toward daydreaming about girls/guys (don't ask, don't tell).

I started "channeling" some sort of rhyming demon from an alternate universe. What you'll see here is the end result of that ongoing, cross-dimensional interface. Please be kind to those of us of the "semi-elderly" persuasion.

As Kathy says, I'm mostly harmless ... except when I'm not.