The sea groans as it does and if one listens closely, as when placing a seashell to one's ear, you can almost hear the voices of ships long past. My trips to the seaside are no different and voices call out as if the sea itself is searching for a home port for all it's lost ships.
We cursed the Pulaski - God did we curse her! She stank us from head to toe. Upon return from patrol, loved ones banished us to the shower to soak for hours in an effort to remove the smell her oxygen scrubbers bestowed on us. And her reliability! Damn her reliability! Picture yourself at sea, stretched mentally and emotionally. The end of patrol looms but - your replacement needs repair and can't make it. Extension time. And there was good old "CP" - old faithful - remaining on station for extra time. She never broke, damn her. And her filth...she took forever to clean! And no matter how hard or how long you cleaned, she took pleasure in displaying spots you missed.
Despite it all, she never changed her sound. The rhythmic humming of her power plant and the noises made by various fans and motors was soothing. Sleep came easy inside one of the old girl's bunks. Day after day she carried us back and forth through hostile waters. As old as she was, her sonar suite never failed to protect us, her reactor never failed to power us.
There was bitter emotion upon seeing her berthed. Why on earth after leaving your family would you be happy to see HER? It was twisted but she knew our names. And once on board, it was if we had never left. The knobs were almost in the same position, the spilt soda seemed to be there from last patrol and a bunch of other little details that comprise a halfway decent haunted house story.
She was my first boat and I suppose it burned that I could not be there for her passing. One only wonders what she was thinking as her flag was hauled down for the last time, only to be stuffed in a desk drawer somewhere. Who was the last to salute her? An original crew member, or some nub who was just there when the Navy came to round people up?
We all fantasized about our last trip on her. Was it orders to shore duty? Glorious retirement after years of faithful service? Yard duty? Or perhaps to another boat? My last day crept up quickly. I was awaiting test results for an MRI that I had taken. The phone call came early in the morning and by mid afternoon, I was off the boat. I packed excitedly as one would, knowing that later that evening I'd be in my wife's arms instead of separated. And this was to be a Christmas patrol as well, meaning I'd miss our time together had I gone to sea.
In the past, I envisioned myself making a walk through of her before I left. Shaft alley where I hid from the COB numerous times; AMR 1 where I failed my first walkthrough and finishing at the torpedo room. Word swept through the boat like wild fire that I was not making patrol. As it was a Christmas patrol, I was presumptuous if I expected widespread happiness at my departure! My emotions then centered on the completely narcissistic thought that I wouldn't be getting another star for my patrol pin. Luckily the XO broke my chain of thought by asking if I'd like to drive his car home for him?
The answer was a no-brainer as I had no other way to get home. I arrived home and within a day or two embarked on a whirlwind medical discharge, comprising a medical board in Washington, DC and numerous other interviews and meetings. The Cold War was over so George Bush Sr. had sailors to trim from the fleet. My mistake was being on medical hold at the time. I had letters from admirals requesting I be retained. No such luck. Four months later I stood in the commander's office at Transient Personnel Unit SIX and shook her hand goodbye.
The dreams of Pulaski started shortly afterwards almost like some kind of curse or spell. The ball cap that I hated wearing suddenly became a favored piece of apparell. I was still young and thoughts of death - animate and inanimate - were far from me. I always assumed that one day my son would salute her flag and request permission to come aboard. I was wrong.
I doubt if she still had her name when Joe, the shipyard worker, lit his torch and started cutting into her hull. The cutting was no doubt easy, helped along by years of exposure to sea pressure. I often wonder which part went first. More often though, what was made of her high tensile steel? What plowshare was she beaten into? Was her steel used to make hospital beds, or perhaps crutches for children? How about girders for a retirement home? It must have been an important cause, surely.
My son asked out of the blue about her. And one day, with him and his friends in tow, we made the pilgrimage to King's Bay, Georgia. The road grew familiar too quickly. The front gate had not changed. Lower base, however, may as well have been another country. There was building and construction everywhere. Not an empty lot stood where there was once swamp and wilderness. The huge garages for the Ohio Class boats were not only completed but had boats in them.
We were met by the Executive Officer of USS Rhode Island who gave us a tour. The tour was long and complete. As complete as could be given due to security considerations. The boys were duly impressed as was I. The "Hotel" class, was the name we'd given to them back in the day. Monsters of the deep with every provision. No hand to hand stores load on this boat! A huge elevator to take whole pallets at a time! And not sixteen, but twenty four missiles. The smell of amine never changed, that sickning chemical used to scrub the oxygen, that permeated everything you wore.
USS Canopus was long gone and her jetty had been swallowed by the massive pier complex. Warrior Wharf stood ominous with it's monolith commemorating the loss of USS Thresher and USS Scorpion. I remember the dedication of that pier as if it was yesterday. USS Canopus and the Pulaski stood off to the side. I could almost see both of them still there.
There was no memorial to the sacrifices made by the original forty one SSBN's. Not even a marker by the pier. All who sailed on them get a "Cold War" certificate, issued in caring government style after numerous tricks have been performed as if by a hound begging for table scraps. A scrap of paper to make up for lifetimes lost.
The Cold War's toll will never fully be realized. On Pulaski alone there were families that broke apart due to the strain of sea duty and patrols. There were men crippled in accidents that occured during refit or repair or on patrol itself. And it must have been just as bad on the Soviet side.
Leaving the base took a while. We left and arrived at Fort Clinch. As we walked the ramparts my thoughts took me back to Pulaski crossing the fort, heading out to sea. Her pilot had left her by then and she was heading out on her own. A friendly Los Angeles and Orion would greet her at the ocean's edge and she'd clear her bridge and gently nose down into the deep. The blowing of her main ballast tanks would create a small plume like some happy whale diving down to it's home. As I scanned the Atlantic I thought I saw what resembled a black sail but it was just my imagination and some wishful thinking.
There is a heaven for submarines and Pulaski's there. Her baffle is always clear, her tanks empty, her fresh water supply topped up and her reactor is at full power. The smell of fresh baked bread fills her passageways. At peace finally, she'll have her hull number and name proudly emblazoned on her hull. She and her sister boats will all sail together and tell tales of their past glories.
Fair winds and following seas...
