One of my shipmates- let’s call him “Bobo”- spent 10 years as bosun on my last ship (before my 5 month tenure). I had heard his name countless times while I was there, and so when I signed on to this ship it was with great amusement that I listened to him tell a tale I have heard told by different sailors, only this time, from a completely different, first-hand perspective.
I must explain that that particular ship, which I will not mention by name, is the poorest paying ship in the union and attracts a particular type of sailor. For example: During my 5 months, one sailor, the “Toothless Fantasy Novelist,” would wander the halls in the wee hours of the morning wailing her particular brand of witchcraft’s plaintive howl, her leopard print tights taped into her tube socks with blue tape, eating a mixture of cereal, fruit, coffee, and yogurt from a paper cup with a wooden stir-stick which she would inspect, bite by bite, by holding right up to her face before eating, birdlike- obviously the quarter-inch thick lenses of her glasses needed to be a little bit thicker. Not an ounce of meanness in her, but… odd. She is what is referred to out here as an “institutionalized sailor-” one who moves from ship to ship, is mostly homeless on shore, and is incapable of taking care of herself in either place.
So my current shipmate, Bobo, was in charge of the barbeque set up, firing, and disposal of the spent briquettes afterward at the weekly BBQ on the stern. He was also the bosun and in charge of three AB’s and two ordinaries. His instructions to them were “once the briquettes are cool, throw them away ashore,” which they interpreted as “put the briquettes into a paper bag and throw them in the dumpster on the dock,” and he went forward to do other work on the bow.
The dumpster is on the dock next to a port facilities building, about a tenth of a mile from the ship. Bobo came out onto the stern and saw smoke and flames coming out of the dumpster not long after giving them their marching orders. So he grabbed multiple lengths of firehose, a nozzle, and rigged up to a hydrant on the dock to fight the fire. The hydrant, he soon discovered, wasn’t actually connected to any plumbing.
So Bobo ran more hose to the ship, his “help” more in the way than anything else. Knowing Bobo, quite the impatient sailor at best, he probably told them to get the expletive out of his way, so they were more than likely standing there on the dock, dumb looks on their faces, watching him work. More than likely.
Meanwhile, someone in the port facilities building called the fire department and before Bobo could get the hose from the ship charged, the fire truck showed up, sirens and lights going. At about this time the captain came driving back to the ship- he was apparently on the phone with one of the mates- the one who told me the story in the first place- who was up on the bridge reporting everything, blow by blow, with pure glee…
Listening to Bobo tell the story, and knowing all the characters involved, leaves me to believe Bobo’s account to be the most accurate… he’s one of the good sailors, after all, and was on a navy ship that caught fire and wears the scars to prove he takes fire safety a little more seriously than the next guy. But every story he tells- and he can fire them off one after the other- is equally capable of inducing head shaking disbelief. In light of the one story I have loosely come into contact with, I cannot doubt the veracity of any of the others, and listen with great amusement when he tells them in the mess hall at coffee.
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