gkainz
Final Approach
I wasn't a tin-can sailor, but a seabag is a seabag!
------------------------------------------
THE SEABAG........ There was a time when everything you
owned had to fit in your seabag. Remember those nasty
rascals? Fully packed, one of those suckers weighed more
than the poor devil hauling it.
The damn things weighed a ton and some idiot with an
off-center sense of humor sewed a "carry" handle
on it to help you haul it. Hell, you could bolt a handle on
a Greyhound bus but it wouldn't make the damn thing
portable.
The Army, Marines and Air Force got footlockers and we
got a big ole' canvas bag.
After you warped your spine jackassing the goofy thing
through a bus or train station, sat on it waiting for
connecting transportation and made folks mad because it was
too damn big to fit in any overhead rack on any bus, train
and airplane ever made, the contents looked like hell. All
your gear appeared to have come from bums who slept on park
benches.
Traveling with a seabag was something left over from the
"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" sailing ship days.
Sailors used to sleep in hammocks. So you stowed your
"issue" in a big canvas bag and lashed your
hammock to it, hoisted it on your shoulder and in effect
moved your entire home and complete inventory of earthly
possessions from ship to ship. I wouldn't say you
traveled light because with one strap it was a one-shoulder
load that could torque your skeletal frame and bust your
ankles. It was like hauling a dead linebacker.
They wasted a lot of time in boot camp telling you how to
pack one of the suckers. There was an officially sanctioned
method of organization that you forgot after ten minutes on
the other side of the gate at Great Lakes or San Diego. You
got rid of a lot of issue gear when you went to the
SHIP..Did you ever know a tin-can sailor who had a raincoat?
A flat hat? One of those nut hugger knit swimsuits? How bout
those roll your own neckerchiefs... The ones the girls in a
good Naval tailor shop would cut down and sew into a
'greasy snake' for two bucks?
Within six months, every fleet sailor was down to one set
of dress blues, port and starboard undress blues and whites,
a couple of white hats, boots, shoes, assorted skivvies, a
peacoat and three sets of bleached out dungarees. The rest
of your original issue was either in the pea coat locker,
lucky bag or had been reduced to wipedown rags in the
engineroom. Underway ships were not ships that allowed a
vast accumulation of private gear. Hobos who lived in
discarded refrigerator crates could amass greater loads of
pack rat crap than fleet sailors. The confines of a
canvas-back rack, side locker and a couple of bunk bags did
not allow one to live a Donald Trump existence. Space and
the going pay scale combined to make us envy the lifestyle
of a mud hut Ethiopian. We were the global equivalents of
nomadic Mongols without ponies to haul our stuff.
And after the rigid routine of boot camp we learned the
skill of random compressed packing... Known by mothers
world-wide as 'cramming'. It is amazing what you can
jam into a space no bigger than a breadbox if you pull a
watch cap over a boot and push it in with your foot. Of
course it looks kinda weird when you pull it out but they
never hold fashion shows at sea and wrinkles added character
to a salty appearance. There was a four-hundred mile gap
between the images on recruiting posters and the actual
appearance of sailors at sea. It was not without justifiable
reason that we were called the tin-can Navy.
We operated on the premise that if 'Cleanliness was
next to Godliness', we must be next to the other end of
that spectrum... We looked like our clothing had been
pressed with a waffle iron and packed by a bulldozer.
But what the hell did they expect from a bunch of jerks
who lived in the crew's hole of a 2250 Gearing/Fletcher
can. After a while you got used to it... You got used to
everything you owned picking up and retaining that
"distinctive" aroma... You got used to old ladies
on busses taking a couple of wrinkled nose sniffs of your
peacoat then getting up and finding another seat...
Do they still issue seabags? Can you still make five
bucks sitting up half the night drawing a ships picture on
the side of one of the damn things with black and white
marking pens that drive old masters-at-arms into a 'rig
for heart attack' frenzy? Make their faces red... The
veins on their neck bulge out... And yell," What in
God's name is that all over your seabag?"
"Artwork, Chief... It's like the work of
Michelangelo... My ship... Great huh?" "Looks like
some damn comic book..."
Here was a man with cobras tattooed on his arms... A
skull with a dagger through one eye and a ribbon reading
'DEATH BEFORE SHORE DUTY' on his shoulder... Crossed
anchors with 'Subic Bay 1945' on the other
shoulder... An eagle on his chest and a full blown Chinese
dragon peeking out between the cheeks of his butt. If anyone
was an authority on stuff that looked like a comic book, it
had to be this Chief.
Sometimes I look at all the crap stacked in my garage,
close my eyes and smile, remembering a time when everything
I owned could be crammed into a canvas bag.
------------------------------------------
THE SEABAG........ There was a time when everything you
owned had to fit in your seabag. Remember those nasty
rascals? Fully packed, one of those suckers weighed more
than the poor devil hauling it.
The damn things weighed a ton and some idiot with an
off-center sense of humor sewed a "carry" handle
on it to help you haul it. Hell, you could bolt a handle on
a Greyhound bus but it wouldn't make the damn thing
portable.
The Army, Marines and Air Force got footlockers and we
got a big ole' canvas bag.
After you warped your spine jackassing the goofy thing
through a bus or train station, sat on it waiting for
connecting transportation and made folks mad because it was
too damn big to fit in any overhead rack on any bus, train
and airplane ever made, the contents looked like hell. All
your gear appeared to have come from bums who slept on park
benches.
Traveling with a seabag was something left over from the
"Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" sailing ship days.
Sailors used to sleep in hammocks. So you stowed your
"issue" in a big canvas bag and lashed your
hammock to it, hoisted it on your shoulder and in effect
moved your entire home and complete inventory of earthly
possessions from ship to ship. I wouldn't say you
traveled light because with one strap it was a one-shoulder
load that could torque your skeletal frame and bust your
ankles. It was like hauling a dead linebacker.
They wasted a lot of time in boot camp telling you how to
pack one of the suckers. There was an officially sanctioned
method of organization that you forgot after ten minutes on
the other side of the gate at Great Lakes or San Diego. You
got rid of a lot of issue gear when you went to the
SHIP..Did you ever know a tin-can sailor who had a raincoat?
A flat hat? One of those nut hugger knit swimsuits? How bout
those roll your own neckerchiefs... The ones the girls in a
good Naval tailor shop would cut down and sew into a
'greasy snake' for two bucks?
Within six months, every fleet sailor was down to one set
of dress blues, port and starboard undress blues and whites,
a couple of white hats, boots, shoes, assorted skivvies, a
peacoat and three sets of bleached out dungarees. The rest
of your original issue was either in the pea coat locker,
lucky bag or had been reduced to wipedown rags in the
engineroom. Underway ships were not ships that allowed a
vast accumulation of private gear. Hobos who lived in
discarded refrigerator crates could amass greater loads of
pack rat crap than fleet sailors. The confines of a
canvas-back rack, side locker and a couple of bunk bags did
not allow one to live a Donald Trump existence. Space and
the going pay scale combined to make us envy the lifestyle
of a mud hut Ethiopian. We were the global equivalents of
nomadic Mongols without ponies to haul our stuff.
And after the rigid routine of boot camp we learned the
skill of random compressed packing... Known by mothers
world-wide as 'cramming'. It is amazing what you can
jam into a space no bigger than a breadbox if you pull a
watch cap over a boot and push it in with your foot. Of
course it looks kinda weird when you pull it out but they
never hold fashion shows at sea and wrinkles added character
to a salty appearance. There was a four-hundred mile gap
between the images on recruiting posters and the actual
appearance of sailors at sea. It was not without justifiable
reason that we were called the tin-can Navy.
We operated on the premise that if 'Cleanliness was
next to Godliness', we must be next to the other end of
that spectrum... We looked like our clothing had been
pressed with a waffle iron and packed by a bulldozer.
But what the hell did they expect from a bunch of jerks
who lived in the crew's hole of a 2250 Gearing/Fletcher
can. After a while you got used to it... You got used to
everything you owned picking up and retaining that
"distinctive" aroma... You got used to old ladies
on busses taking a couple of wrinkled nose sniffs of your
peacoat then getting up and finding another seat...
Do they still issue seabags? Can you still make five
bucks sitting up half the night drawing a ships picture on
the side of one of the damn things with black and white
marking pens that drive old masters-at-arms into a 'rig
for heart attack' frenzy? Make their faces red... The
veins on their neck bulge out... And yell," What in
God's name is that all over your seabag?"
"Artwork, Chief... It's like the work of
Michelangelo... My ship... Great huh?" "Looks like
some damn comic book..."
Here was a man with cobras tattooed on his arms... A
skull with a dagger through one eye and a ribbon reading
'DEATH BEFORE SHORE DUTY' on his shoulder... Crossed
anchors with 'Subic Bay 1945' on the other
shoulder... An eagle on his chest and a full blown Chinese
dragon peeking out between the cheeks of his butt. If anyone
was an authority on stuff that looked like a comic book, it
had to be this Chief.
Sometimes I look at all the crap stacked in my garage,
close my eyes and smile, remembering a time when everything
I owned could be crammed into a canvas bag.