Wednesday January 26, 2005 – Getting to Know You

Wednesday January 26, 2005 – Getting to Know You

By the time I left on my second cruise on the Mickey Maru out of Yokosuka harbor, I had become familiar with the ship, its routine and with my shipmates. Like my first trip, this one began on a clear, hot day. Like everyone else on board, I had brought a bottle of Chivas Regal aboard to enjoy or to sell later in the voyage. My shipmates were far more ambitious, some bringing a full case on board to squirrel away beneath the drawers of the lower bunks. Those who had lower bunks held the prize storage space and they set the terms for allowing others to use their storage. Since I had only a bottle, I promised to share the bottle with Tim who had the bunk below me. Tim had a couple of bottles but made the space beneath his bunk available to others who had too much to fit into their own staterooms. Arthur likewise provided storage for others. Our stateroom was relatively sober by comparison with the rest of the staterooms, though to be fair, most of the liquor stashed away was for sale later in the journey to the merchant seaman that ran the ship.

From the ship’s master all the way to the lowly deckhand that continually kept the ship clean, the merchant seamen crew aboard the Mickey Maru were a strange breed. The crew consisted of Licensed Deck Department—they all had licenses for their jobs: Master and First, Second, and Third mates, the equivalent to officers in the Navy or management in a large corporation. They navigated the ship getting the civilian scientists to a destination and once there, the scientists navigated the vessel. In charge of the ship’s propulsion was the Licensed Engine Department: chief engineer and his First, Second and Third assistant engineers. One of them was watching over the engine and propulsion system around the clock. To provide the ship’s upkeep was the Unlicensed Deck Department (the enlisted men of the merchant Navy): Boatswain (Bosun), Ships Chairman (Shop Steward), Able Seaman, and Ordinary Seaman—the working class of shipboard society. They scrubbed, painted, and repaired the ship’s physical structure. To provide the engine’s upkeep was the Unlicensed Engine Department: Pumpman and Electrician (who were Qualified Members of the Engine Department—QMED), Pumpman (Tankers), Equipment (Liners), and finally, the lowly Wipers. They took care of all the utilities—electrical, water, and sanitation—aboard ship. To provide three square meals a day, there was the Steward Department: Chief Steward, Chief Cook and Baker, and Steward Assistant. Finally, a complete Military Sea Transport Service Ship had a radio operator.

Though we shared the same ship, we didn’t often mix with the MSTS personnel except the Steward Department that took care of our mess. And when the electrical system failed or plumbing got clogged we dealt with the engine department crew. Those I got to know, our steward, the electrician that fancied my eyes, among others were men who had a difficult time settling in one place. Most had trouble establishing and maintaining any kind of relationship. Many were alcoholic, including our Master and his mates. At least one was agoraphobic—he stood watch while in port for everyone else who wanted off the ship, never once leaving the ship during the time I was on board. Most were out of place on land. On board ship, their life was regimented by the sea and the demands of the vessel, so much so, that their daily routine was as regulated as the rising and setting of the sun. At the end of the cruise every stashed bottle of alcohol had been pulled from its hiding place and sold to the highest bidder. On a cruise that ran longer than planned the bidding got to a $100 for the last bottle of alcohol.

The ship’s electrician was one of the more intriguing characters aboard ship. He was quite good looking, with a boyish face, well groomed brown hair, brown eyes, an oval face with a smile that reminded me of a Cheshire cat—always with a knowing smile that suggested he knew something that he was keeping secret. And he wanted you to ask him to reveal it. At 19 years old, I was pretty naïve about the world, particularly about human relations. He sensed that naivety and tried to exploit it any chance he got. I liked him because, unlike most of the other merchant seaman, he was not an alcoholic, seemed to have a life off the ship—he had a place in Tokyo where he lived while the ship was in port, and had a engaging manner that made you like him. The merchant seamen had their own quarters and their own mess hall. They were separate but equal to us enlisted men but we each shared in common our working class station relative to the officers, civilian factory engineers, and government scientists we enlisted men and the merchant seaman reported to. The electrician and I talked mostly on deck when he would come up and surprise me as I gazed out at the expanse of ocean all around us—something I particularly enjoyed doing, especially when the ship was making for a destination and the dolphins and flying fish would be jumping out ahead of the bow; the ship would be moving at 10 knots but the dolphins seemed to keep pace effortlessly.

I didn’t mind his interruptions, as he would usually draw me into a discussion that would turn into a friendly debate—something I enjoyed, topics, such as the meaning of Plato’s forms or some such. However, the conversations all seemed to end with a discussion of my being homophobic. I made it plain on nearly every occasion that I was a raging heterosexual, but the Electrician seemed intent on convincing me that I was fearful of homosexuals—insinuating someone such as himself though never saying so plainly. The Navy had explicit rules about men fraternizing with one another, though “don’t ask, don’t tell” was the unspoken rule. And gay sailors remained firmly within the closet or else faced being drummed out of the service. The Mickey Maru was particularly strict regarding sexual orientation.

Each person aboard ship had at least a secret clearance. And you were admonished to keep completely silent about anything to do with the ship or its operation when ashore even on a military base. Homosexuality was viewed by the military as a weakness that could be exploited by enemies to extract secrets from a crewman. Curiously, it was completely acceptable to fraternize with hostesses at any bar in Japan or elsewhere in the world so long as you did not discuss your ship or its operation. An enterprising Mata Hari could bleed a drunk sailor dry of everything he knew in an evening. And most of the hostesses around the base in Yokosuka were well informed about the Mickey Maru’s movements and probably about what it did at sea as well. The civilian scientists were a source of this intelligence no doubt.

The Electrician was also curious about my visits to Tokyo, questioning where I had stayed, what I had done, where I had gone. And then with smiling cheek he would berate my activity condemning it as the actions of a tourist, not someone curious about the country, its culture, and its people. He was right. I enjoyed being in exotic Tokyo with its mix of Japanese and Western styles. While the majority of businessmen in the streets of the city wore Western suits, many of the merchants in the small restaurants and shops wore Kimonos, as did many women I saw in the city, especially those with children and most retirees. I was completely ignorant of their food and unlike many of my shipmates, Arthur and Tim, especially, I lacked an adventurous palate eager to taste the food of the island nation. My diet in Tokyo was strictly western from ham and egg breakfasts to Japanese versions of meat and potato dishes for lunch and dinner. The movies I went to see were American or European all played in their original language with Japanese subtitles.

The Electrician from our first extended conversations kept challenging me to experience the real Japan, not the compartmentalized Western enclosure that Japan constructed to keep outsiders from their exclusive culture. I read that outsiders mistakenly believe Japan integrates the ways of other cultures into their own. The reality is more like the performers I watched at the enlisted men’s club on base before I joined the ship. On stage were four Japanese performers all attired from head to toe in country and western dress. The musicians began playing an immediately recognizable Hank Williams song, “Your Cheating Heart” and the singer began singing the song exactly like Hank Williams. If you closed your eyes you could be Nashville listening to the same music. However, the musicians had cloned the music right down to the sound of the singer. It was almost a recording. That was how Japan adopted outside culture. It created a separate compartment where the foreign culture was quarantined and kept apart. The music was for that compartment. When the musicians went home the music was left behind safe in its enclosure.

I moved about this world as an outsider and I enjoyed that role, a voyeur that no one took notice of. Japanese typically looked at Westerners and immediately saw Gaijin. My darker skin and mixed Filipino-American features made me somewhat invisible. No one took notice of me except when I interacted—asked a question or made a reply—only then was I Gaijin. I took it as a compliment the number of times, Japanese would speak to me in Japanese before realizing I was Gaijin. The Electrician wanted me to engage this culture to become more familiar with it. The idea appealed to me, but I kept putting off his invitation to join him and his Japanese friends. I liked being on my own. The Electrician would become a continuing source of intrigue and danger for me. It wasn’t that I would fall under his spell, but rather being familiar with a security risk could bring me under closer scrutiny, another reason I kept declining his invitations.