Navy

The “That’s Not It” Sea Story.

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This is one of my favorite sea stories.

There was this sailor who walked around on the deck of a ship, picking up any piece of paper he found and looking at it seriously for a moment. He would then toss it, saying barely audibly, “That’s not it.”

He was counseled about it by his Chief, and when the Chief handed him the paperwork to sign for the counseling, he looked at the paper a moment and said, “that’s not it.” and threw it to the deck.

Flustered, the Chief sent the sailor to the sick bay to see the Doc, and the Doc checks him out. He pulls out the Rorscharch test cards to see what the young sailor had to say he saw, and every card just caused the young sailor to shake his head and say, “That’s not it.”

The Doc talked to the Captain, and the Captain decided to have him go to see Psych when they got back to shore, confining the sailor to quarters for the interim. Months later, the same thing played out on shore at Psych. “That’s not it.”, over and over again.

Finally the Navy decided to discharge him, so he went to the Personnel Department where they had his discharge papers. The Yeoman pushed them across the desk, telling the sailor to read and sign.

The sailor diligently read the pages, nodded, and said, “That’s it!”.

He whipped out a pen and signed the paperwork.

He was stoic, and held out for what he wanted – and got it.

The Sperm Whale Throat Sea Story.

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As a young non-commissioned officer, this was one of my favorites not because it pulled rank, but because it pointed out accepting reality is necessary. A Master Chief told me this and it stuck – I was trying to buck the system somehow, as if the system would suddenly change because of my wishes. I was, of course, wrong, but that’s part of being a young NCO.

He looked at me, deadpan, after a moment of silence, and asked me, “Do you know what the size of a sperm whale’s throat is?”.

I, of course, didn’t know.

He held up his hands palm outward, his thumbs and forefingers from each hand touching, and pushed them out toward me. “This big. Do you know why?”

“No Masterchief”

He pushed his hands out at me with every word, and said slowly and firmly, “Because that’s the way it is.”

And verily, that was the way it was. Petty Officer Rampersad wasn’t going to change it by himself. Better to accept it and move on.

There’s some wiggle room here. We should question things at times, buts sometimes we don’t have the luxury of time for navel-gazing, particularly in the military, so sometimes you just accept that things are the way they are and move on. If it’s not a hill you want to die on, don’t.

Navy Wisdom: The Sea Story.

~ taran.a.rampersad@gmail.com ~ 1 Comment

I find myself from time to time thinking about how certain Sea Stories I heard in the Navy apply to other things, and so as I think of them I’m writing them down. The other branches of the U.S. Military likely have their own versions, if not the same in some cases.

Most sea stories you here are along the lines of the old sea monster stories that sailors told each other to whittle away time on long voyages. Some were complete bullshit, and were meant to entertain. Some had an almost parable quality to them, and those are the ones I’ll write to link back to.

In the parlance of my time in the Navy, a sea story was supposed to start with, “This one’s a no shitter!”, as in it really happened, but that wasn’t necessarily true. From things that happened on shore, and for me, things that you saw and dealt with as a Hospital Corpsman – good stories got embellished and improved with the telling, and there is no shortage of people who want to tell yarns – but few who can do it right.

You can tell the ones who do it right because everyone stops and listens.

Odie

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Away from Ohio,
Wearing a uniform that stinks of
Mothballs, sweat
And burned starch.
The work-shoes sparkle as
Stray light glances
Through the glass door.
Images flicker on these black screens.
Gurneys flash to one from the other as
The sounds from well-oiled wheels filter in
(The audience is listening)
The clock stops
Little hand on 2, long past 3,
A voice echoes.
“Time of Death:
2:17 a.m.”
Motion stops as the clock moves again,
And in the background, a near whisper:
‘And his dog’s name was Odie.’