Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  I kept the rod tip high and reeled in quick and easy as I dropped the end of the rod towards the water, never letting the line get too slack. Steady pressure. Steady pressure. I slowly brought the rod tip back up to about twelve o’clock, bringing the great fish closer before dropping the tip to reel in again. Keep it slow and methodical.

  He made another hard run for it, stronger than before. Everything was too tight, including the drag on the reel. I thought the line would break at any moment, my greatest fear. I did not want to lose this fish and he continued to pull, harder and harder. I let go of the crank and quickly made an adjustment to the drag. The reel began to sing, giving back pressure and line.

  And that was how it went for the next ten minutes. I would take in, and he would take back. Luckily, I was on the winning side of the back and forth. After a while the reel no longer gave back as much of my gains. The fish was getting tired and as it got closer to the boat I was able to see it, a big trout.

  Red saw it too and said, “Well ... son of a bitch ... Miracles do happen. I’m a believer now. Great fish, Nigel.”

  “Tell me about it later. Let’s get the damn thing in the boat,” I said. “Get the net ready.”

  Red coached me on. “Easy now. Be careful. He’ll make one last run of it once he gets to the boat. You wait and see.”

  And that’s what the fish did. Red had slid the net into the water and I was trying to guide the fish towards the opening when the big trout made one last stand. The pole bent down and away as the reel’s drag sang one last song, taking back what seemed like about 25 feet of line. When he stopped, he was done. I worked him back towards the boat; I could tell he was surrendering.

  I led him towards Red where he was still waiting with the net. I heard him say, “This is one of the biggest trout I’ve seen pulled from the bay in a long time.” And as the monster trout fell into the net with mild protest, Red lift it out of the water and commented, “And one of the heaviest for damn sure.”

  “Be easy with him, now,” I said. “He’s wore slap-ass out and we still need to get him back in the water. Get the camera.”

  “Get him back into the water! Have you lost the keys to your mind? What are you talking about?”

  In Florida, Spotted Trout have a minimum and maximum size limit. For a trout to qualify for the cooler treatment, it cannot be less than 15 inches or more than 20. There is one exception, though. Each angler is allowed to keep one trout in excess of 20 inches. A trophy fish.

  “I know, Red. But I’d rather let it go. The memory of landing him and a couple good happy snaps from the camera is all I need. We’ll let it go to catch another day.”

  Red grumbled, chattering to himself as he pulled my camera out of the bag. I picked up the fish, removed the stink bait from his lip. I placed him against the fish rule mounted on the side of the boat; 29 inches, a damn fine fish.

  I held him up for the camera as Red took several shots. I enjoyed the moment. I knew, in all likelihood, I would never catch another one like that again. My smile was big, but as I held the fish up for the last shot, my smile got even bigger. I was now looking past Red and the camera, focusing beyond. There in the tree line were the two nests, positioned almost as represented in the picture. Then I heard it again, the clang of a bell.

  I quickly put the fish back in the water. I held him gently as I moved him through the water, forcing water across its gills. The fish began to respond and slowly swam out of my fingers. And before he was free of my hands, he gave his tail a burst of action and shot away, full speed ahead. A great fish. Then, I heard the bell again. It was coming from the island. I looked, but saw nothing.

  I rinsed and rubbed what remained of the fish off my hands and stood up, drying my hands against my shorts. Red was still bitching about letting the fish go. He was bent over putting my camera away, mumbling to himself, something about a huge disgrace and how it could have fed a small army. I smiled.

  “Red, could you do me one more favor after you get through putting the camera away?”

  He stood back up, turned towards me, and passed an inquisitive look.

  Grinning, I said, “Could you do something with your damn shorts. I’ve been looking at the top half of your ass for the past hour and that’s wrong, man. Just wrong to do a brother that way.”

  “Oh,” Red said. “I didn’t realize. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to short-change you.”

  Then he turned around, bent over, and dropping his trunks to his ankles. All in one swift motion. Chuckling he said, “Here’s the other half. The full package.”

  I squinted and gritted my teeth as I looked away. I shouldn’t have said anything. Live and learn.

  I was cleaning the fish and the memory of Red’s full monty out of my head. I was filleting the last of the trout when my phone bonged. A text message. I leaned over to look at the screen. I saw the name: Kim. I put the knife down and grabbed a wad of paper towels, wiped my hands best I could and picked up the phone. The message was only three words: Where are you?

  I was puzzled at first. Then, it hit me. “Oh shit!” I said. My mind started to spin. What day was it? What time was it? She was at the airport, Panama City, over two hours away. Crap!

  If there’s one thing about retirement, it promotes the carefree passage of time. When you live alone, are accountable to nobody but yourself, and void of reasons to think otherwise, everyday is a Saturday. The other days–Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Yada, Yada, Yada–fade away. For this reason, I live and die by my Google calendar. All important events are scheduled there. Well, most of them anyway.

  Kim Tillman is an old girl friend. We knew each other from the Navy, and she still serves on active duty. At the time she was a Lieutenant in the Nurse Corp, working at the Naval Hospital in Portsmouth, VA. She was a junior officer; I was senior enlisted, a simple distinction that complicated things from time to time.

  Kim outranked me, but we didn’t work together. Like many junior officers, she didn’t know shit about the Navy. Commanding Officers rely on their chiefs to covertly train junior officer so they don’t … well … quite frankly ... fuck up in front of the other sailors. If an officer does something too stupid, too early in their career, the time it takes to earn back the respect of the crew can be long and painful. Some never recover and remain ineffective for the rest of their time in service. Word travels fast in the Navy.

  Lieutenants are not too bad. By the time they make O3, they have been around a few years. They don’t need the same kind of hand-holding as ensigns and lieutenant junior grades. More junior officers, on the other hand, have an innate ability of taking a simple task and turning it into a complete soup sandwich. As a chief, it was one of my jobs to prevent that, to turn fresh, wet-behind-the-ear officers into sailors.

  With Kim, as long as we could separate the Navy from our personal lives, we were good together. That wasn’t always easy, and Kim was better at keeping the two worlds apart. She could leave work and the Navy at the door, but she was a nurse in a hospital. I was a sailor on a ship, a huge difference. I didn’t have a door to leave anything behind. Even off duty, I lived and breathed the Navy. By choice, I lived the life twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I slept on the ship or on my sailboat at the base marina. I ate most of my meals aboard. I lounged away, night after night, in the chief’s mess. I was constantly surrounded by the world’s most powerful Navy. I was comfortable there. It was home.

  Lieutenant Tillman and I had been seeing each other for about ten months. On occasion when the paths of our personal and professional lives crossed, it was handled without incident. We would both take a step back and collect our common sense. Unfortunately, events leading up to our last date didn’t work out so smoothly.

  We had plans, important plans for a nice dinner and a play, Phantom of the Opera. I’m not one for theater and such, but I knew this was one of her favorites. When I saw it was coming to town, I surprised her with tickets, opening night, second row. I made the reservations and bou
ght the theater tickets several weeks in advance. We were both looking forward to the night. Then, late in the afternoon, on the day of the show, there was a change of plans.

  Kevin Barry was one of my junior chiefs. His anchors were pinned on only two months prior. I was his sponsor during his initiation, and honored when he asked me to pin on his starboard anchor on his big day. His young wife, Karen, some six months pregnant, pinned on the port side.

  During the pinning ceremony, there were three others that were celebrating their promotion that day. Kevin was the last to be pinned. Karen and I made our way to the front of the room where he waited. He was standing tall and proud. Unless you have experienced it, you wouldn’t understand. Earning your anchors is one of the finest days in the life of any sailor. It defines, with an exclamation point, one’s enlisted career. It’s a transformation from being a strong, two-tone blue first class petty officer, to a world of senior enlisted. It’s the proudest and most emotional day in the life of a sailor.

  As we approach him, he was stone-faced, full of pride. We stopped in front of him and I turned to his wife and said, “He looks good. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely, Nigel. Absolutely.”

  “There seems to be something missing, though.”

  “Yes, he looks pretty naked there. Maybe we should do something about that.”

  “I agree.”

  I walked up and whispered in Kevin’s ear, “You know, when this is all over, you’ll be able to call me Nigel too. Like your lovely bride.”

  He said nothing. He stood there at attention displaying great control and discipline. Karen and I ceremoniously pinned the anchors on his collars, and then we stood back. “That’s better,” I said.

  It was a proud moment for me too. I had watched and guided this young man for the past four years. He was a fine quartermaster and an outstanding leader, making my life easy. He had been operating as a chief for over a year. This made it official. My heart was warmed by the sight of him. Then I thought, as his sponsor and mentor, he probably needed one last lesson in humility.

  I took a little step forward and very quietly asked, “Chief Barry. Are you going to cry?”

  His eyes were strong, set forward and ahead. He said nothing.

  “I asked you a question, Chief. I recommend you look at me and answer.”

  He turned his eyes towards me and tried his best to maintain composure. When he saw my own quivering smile and a small, single tear stream down my own starboard cheek, it was all over. It was more than he could bear. The flood gates opened. Years of study, preparation and sacrifice, coupled with weeks of tough initiation flowed from him. It was the great relief he needed. It was all over. He was now Chief Barry, his life forever transformed. It would never be the same, all for the better.

  I was getting ready for my date with Kim. I had showered and was finishing up shaving when the door to the head flew open. I heard my name being called with great excitement. “Nigel! Nigel!”

  “Over here, dammit. Over here. What’s the fuss?”

  It was Kevin. He was bent over, hand on his knees and out of breath, trying to talk. “It’s here, Nigel. It’s here.” He took a couple more deep breaths before continuing. “Well… not here yet, not exactly anyway, but coming. That’s for sure. It’s on its way.”

  I said, “For Christ’s sake, Kevin. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s Karen, Nigel. Karen.”

  “Karen. Okay. Good. She’s on her way over. Great…”

  “No, goddammit! Not Karen. The baby. The baby is coming.”

  “The baby! Holy shit!” I said. “Wait… the baby isn’t due for another three or four weeks, right?”

  “I guess nobody told the little fella. He’s on his own program.”

  “Outstanding. Where is Karen now?”

  “She’s in an ambulance. On her way to the hospital, Portsmouth Naval.”

  “Then why in the fuck are you talking to me? Get your ass out of here. With Hampton Boulevard traffic, it’s going to take you forever to get there. You’re wasting time, knucklehead. Get the hell out of here.”

  “Nigel. I’m on duty. I can’t leave.”

  He was right. Under normal circumstances he would have to remain on board the rest of the day and throughout the night. These weren’t normal circumstances, though. The decision was a no brainer.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “Get your skinny ass out of here. I’ll cover your duty.”

  “But Chief, I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, you have your big date tonight. What about Kim? I can’t…”

  I interrupted, “You haven’t asked me to do anything. I’m telling you, and, if I have to kick your ass, it will only waste more time. Karen needs you. Now get your ass off this ship. Pronto! I’ll square everything away with the CDO.”

  “But Chief, the CDO is Mr. Stiles.”

  “I know who is on duty. You let me take care of Mr. Stiles. Now go, dammit! Go, before you piss me off!”

  He turned and ran out the door.

  I stood there in front of the mirror, remnants of shaving cream still on my face. I reached down and turned on the cold water and wet my washcloth, placed it over my face. I held it there until the chill of the water was gone. I pulled it down and around my face and ears and looked at myself in the mirror. How was I going to break the news to Kim? Before that, I had to deal with the CDO.

  I walked back into berthing and put on a fresh set of khakis, nicely pressed. I squared away my gig line then went to the wardroom to find Mr. Stiles, the command duty officer for the day.

  Commander Stiles was new on board, a Supply Corps officer from an AO, an auxiliary oiler ship. I didn’t particularly like him, but neither did anyone else. I didn’t care for the way he treated his men, junior officers and enlisted alike. He was an ass, an unhappy guy. He’d been passed over for the rank of captain three times which meant his days in the Navy were numbered. Three tries and you’re out. If he couldn’t be happy, no one else could be either. That was how he planned to carry out his remaining time in the Navy.

  When I entered the wardroom he was sitting at the dinning room table, paperwork spread out in front of him.

  “Evening, sir,” I said.

  “I’m busy, Chief Logan. Later.”

  “That’s fine, sir. This won’t take long.”

  He tried to ignore me, his face peering down into mounds of paper work, probably orders and requisitions of some logistical nightmare. Perhaps it was tons of spoiled cabbage and bananas, or maybe he was trying to figure out how much rice to buy for the traditional Friday fish selection. Who knows? I didn’t care.

  “I wanted to let you know, sir. I’ve taken over the duty for Chief Barry. He has a family emergency. He had to go. So, I sent him on his way.”

  He looked up. “He’s already left the ship? He’s gone ashore?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who approved that?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Who in the hell do you think you are? I’m the CDO. I’m the only one that can authorize that. You’re way the fuck out of line here, Chief. Call his ass and tell him to get back to the ship, immediately.”

  I looked around at the room. There were three other junior officers in the room. I gave them a look, a hidden message. They took the hint and got up to leave us alone, in private. Stiles stopped them. “All of you sit back down. I may need witnesses.”

  “Sir, no disrespect intended,” I said. “I would have cleared this with you earlier. There simply wasn’t time. It’s his wife. She’s having a baby, three weeks early. It’s their first. There wasn’t time.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that, Chief. I missed the birth of my first child. I was sitting in the middle of the Indian Ocean, resupplying a battle group, supporting the war effort. So don’t give me any of that weak-ass bullshit. I won’t hear it. Now get him on the phone. I want him standing in this wardroom, at attention, within the hour? Get on it!”

  I looked around
and took a quick glance at the other officers in the room: two lieutenants and one butter-bar ensign. They were looking at their laps, embarrassed of what they were forced to watch. I turned back towards Stiles and gave him a cold look, no expression. Then I walked over to the phone, picked it up and dialed Kevin’s cell phone number. It rang twice before he picked up.

  “Chief, Barry. Chief Logan here.”

  I looked back across the room at Commander Stiles. We maintained eye contact for the entire conversation. I wanted to see his face. “Where are you? Have you made it to the hospital yet?” I listened, as the CDO and I continued our glare. Kevin was almost to the mid-town tunnel. “That’s fine,” I said. “Listen, Chief. I need for you to do something for me. I’m really sorry, but I need for you to stop and turn around.”

  I watched as Stiles began to grin, feeling ever confident in battle. He was in control and loving every second of it. Power is a wonderful thing. Its abuse is another. Then I watched, with great satisfaction, as the spoils of victory were pulled right out from underneath him.

  “Yeah, that’s right, turn around. There is a florist back on the corner of Hampton and Fantail. I have an account there. Talk to Lisa. I want you to go back and pick up a big bundle of flowers. Tell Karen they’re from me and the rest of the department. Put them on my account and don’t go cheap on me. And one last thing. After you give her a kiss for yourself, give her one for me. You got that?”

  I listened as Kevin thanked me. Then I said, “Well, get going, shipmate. We’ve already wasted enough time here.”

  I hung up the phone without looking down, my eyes still peering into the now rage-laden pupils of Stiles. I turned towards the other officers. They were no longer looking down. The two lieutenants had small, simple smiles; the ensign was in shock, shaking in fear, scared to death. What a pussy. He needs work.