February 7, 2005 – 1965 Yokosuka to Portland, A Journey

February 7, 2005 – 1965 Yokosuka to Portland, A Journey

Departing Yokosuka Harbor on the 21st of December 1966, the Mickey Maru cast off on a journey across the Pacific. Its destination was dry dock in Portland, Oregon. The journey took two weeks exactly to complete with the ship sailing at close to its maximum speed of 16 nautical miles per hour. The voyage was new to most of us aboard ship in that we had never set sail for another port since most of us had been aboard. Our usual voyage was to find several locations (ocean stations) in the South Pacific, perform some mapping, occasionally stopping to take samples and then move on. We were all excited because we had a state side destination in sight and we were cruising there nonstop.

This voyage was the most memorable of all for me, mostly because I have clear memories of certain parts of the cruise unlike the others which are a collection of random memories with no definite time associated—for example this cruise we crossed the equator and underwent the Crossing the Equator Ceremony. Aboard a real Navy ship we newbies, called Slimy Pollywogs, would have endured some loathsome initiation rites at the hands of the Trusty Shellbacks—those who had already crossed. It would have been at the Trusty Shellbacks’ discretion and for their enjoyment just what the indignity we Slimy Pollywogs would have to suffer. I can’t remember what actually transpired but the presence of civilians and the lack of a large number of Trusty Shellbacks kept the ceremony more subdued. We all received our certificate of passage, which I believe went into our personnel file.

One of incidents that left a lasting impression on me was the rough sea a week into the journey. I had never seen the ocean so angry and violent. The breezy, sun-baked placid surface of the South Pacific had turned turbulent. I remember coming up from my stateroom below deck after my graveyard shift to catch a glimpse of what I had felt below deck throughout my watch, the constant rolling and pitching of the ship as it carved its path over a surface that I later saw resembled a constantly changing landscape of shallow and deep liquid arroyos and sharp upwardly jutting or gently watery rising mounds. The sky was completely overcast and pelting the ship with a fierce wind driven rain, not a hint of sun to be seen anywhere in the sky.

Standing in the enlisted men’s mess hall in front of a table with a porthole, I seated myself on the bench seat of the table—both securely bolted to the deck—and slide along the bench to the porthole and stared out.
I was the only one in the mess hall. All of my fellow shipmates had either decided against breakfast or were waiting to come up for chow, including our steward. I supposed they were secure in their room unless at a duty station. I had the place to myself and the view out the porthole was completely overwhelming. As the ship would roll to starboard, all I could see out the porthole was a wall of water. I kept wondering what the chances were that the ship would roll at such an angle that the main deck would dip beneath the surface and the ship would begin to take water and be unable to right itself. After a time watching in awe the ocean toss the 13000-ton ship about like a bathtub toy, I made my way up to the bridge to glimpse the sea the ship was plowing through. And the incredible sight I saw out the porthole was even more astonishing viewed through the higher and wider perspective from the bridge. The ship’s bow would drop into a depression left by a passing wave and white water would careen over its top rushing for the drainage holes on both port and starboard sides of the main deck.

I made small talk with the bridge crew while watching the sea in the safe confines of the warm dry bridge. Each of us recounted waves that had impressed us. Afterwards, I made my way below deck to my stateroom, got undressed and climbed into my top bunk. Everything in the cabin had been tied down or stowed as we began our trek into troubled waters the night before. I crawled into bed, dead tired from the long night and eager to allow the rough sea to rock me to sleep, which is exactly what it did. I slept most of the day waking after 1600 hours rested and hungry but knowing the most I’d find in the mess hall would be cold sandwiches. The cook would have been hard pressed to prepare a hot meal in a storm like this.

Another memory was my first Christmas spent aboard ship, a few days before the advent of the storm. Christmas Eve was a Friday and Christmas was Saturday. On the days leading up to our departure from Japan, I had spent the weekend, December 18th and 19th in Tokyo at the Dai Ichi. Upon my arrival on Friday, I spent the evening wandering the Ginza, dropping into the Japanese bars and beer halls that did not have hostesses but rather made their money selling liquor. As I walked about, I noticed that the Ginza had decorated itself up with Japanese interpretations of Christmas decorations. The ceremony, which would officially begin on Monday the 20th, was called bonenkai (forget the year past). It’s a week of bacchanal when the salarymen of Tokyo get to drink themselves into stupors throughout the week in an attempt to purge the past year. Time magazine reported that Tokyo had 3000 clubs in the six sakaba the sections of the city where drinking is licensed. You would see sandwich boarded men in crude imitations of Santa Clara parading the streets advertising night clubs for your bonenkai event. This was a custom that excluded outsiders as well as women.

It was enough to make me homesick for the Christmas that I knew as a child, but for the past two years had spent on Navy bases away from home. This would be my third. I did not let it get me down. Rather, I took pleasure in knowing that some version of Christmas was being celebrated so many miles from home. I did not drink to forget the homesickness. In fact, by the standards of my shipmates I was a teetotaler. I seldom got so drunk that I had to stagger back to the Dai Ichi or to the ship. I ended my stay in Tokyo literally circulating at the top of the Otani Hotel, nursing a scotch and soda and eating the free munchies the hotel provided with my drink. I so enjoyed watching a constantly changing view of Tokyo rotating at my feet many stories below.

On board ship, celebrating Christmas was an alcoholic endeavor. A few of the staterooms had been converted into casinos with poker the game of choice played on the floor with a stiff whiskey and water sitting beside each player. I was not much of a gambler. I sat in on one game and every time I got a winning hand—three of a kind, full house, or a flush, I started to shake uncontrollably. The first time it happened I had just gotten into the game and the pot had grown to about $10, a good size pot considering the ante was a quarter. It was a game of 7-card stud and there were eight players sprawled in a rough circle inside a stateroom of one of the first class petty officers. I forget whose room. Everyone had something in his hand, two of a kind, maybe even three of a kind. I had a full house kings high and a couple of number cards, I had the hand with my third king and my second number card in the two cards left on the table. I had struggled to keep my body from shaking and I avoided talking no matter how my fellow players tried to draw me into banter. When the final round of betting completed and my one remaining opponent had called, I displayed my hand and was rewarded with my only big win of the evening. I spent the rest of the evening well into early morning giving most of it back plus some. Each time I had a good hand, everyone would roll their eyes and throw in their cards if they had nothing.

I threw in my cards on the last hand, $10 in the red and grabbed some breakfast—it was 800 hours—and went to bed. My watch started at 1600 hours. As a way to spend Christmas it wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t Christmas and what was pretty scary in retrospect was that nearly every sailor aboard that ship was drunk that night and was probably still drunk—especially the Merchant Seaman crew including the master and most of his mates. Miraculously, we all lived through it.