February 8, 1953 to March 19, 1954

U.S.G.C. Rockaway Lifeboat Station

He stood at the crest of an asphalt- and concrete grade that overlooked Brooklyn to the north, Long Island to the east and Far Rockaway to the west. Below, to the south, row upon row of white-capped waves furled out of the ocean, slammed onto the sand and rolled back into the dark green sea.

Except for the swarming sea gulls that hovered in the air and milled on the sand, the beach was vacant and, becoming lost in the mist in either direction, seemed to go on forever. The sharp cries of the gulls could be heard above the wind and crashing waves.

The wide street made a hairpin turn to the right, narrowed to two lanes, went down the incline, turned to the left, passed the station about a quarter mile below and went through the narrow, Rockaway peninsula for as far as Mitchell could see.

Dropping his sea bag to the curb, he put his gloves on, swung the bag onto his shoulder and started down the incline.

Still above it, he saw that three sides of the compound were fenced in six-foot-high chain link, and that the fourth side was open to the bay. There were three structures: a red brick, oblong, two-story building; a smaller red brick building; and a white, clapboard boat house.

Coming closer, he heard the whine of a high-powered marine engine and the sounds of men at work.

Opening the plate-glass door at the front of the two-story building, he stepped into an alcove entry. Directly across the wide hall was another alcove leading to the bay and work area. In the exact center of the bisecting hallways, in the high sheen, dark-blue linoleum floor, was the gray and blue Coast Guard emblem. To his right there was an up-going stairway. To his left was the closed door to an office and an open, small sliding glass window. Two men were in the office. At the far desk, wearing work blues, the younger man had the double red chevrons and crossed quills of a yeoman second class on the sleeve of his tunic. At the desk directly below the window, wearing sharply pressed khakis, the second man had the silver boatswains symbol on the point of one collar and the emblem of a warrant officer on the other.

As Mitchell approached the sliding window, both men looked up.

Letting his sea bag drop to the deck, “Hello,” nodding at the sailor, handing his orders through the window, “I’m to report in today, Sir.”

His eyebrows knotting over his dark-brown eyes—causing the young man to squirm under the man’s intense gaze—Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing stared at the face framed within the window for seven full seconds before… Taking the envelope, turning away, opening it, removing the sheath of papers, he laid them on the desk and, “Holy shit, Mac!” he said. “Will you look at what they sent me!”

Standing loosely at ease, now bringing his head through the window, looking at his papers, Mitchell tried to see what might have caused the man to make that kind of an exclamation. “Uh, something wrong, Sir?”

Ignoring him, taking the papers, “Christ, Mac,” crossing the room, “just look at what they sent me for a fuckin’ replacement!” Slapping the papers on the Yeoman’s desk, Ewing pointed a stiffened finger to something on the top of the first sheet of paper.

McDonald glanced at the paper, then looked at Mitchell and, when their eyes touched, quickly averting his, “Yes, Sir.” he said to Ewing.

Smiling, his thin lips twitching, “I know what to do with his kind,” jabbing McDonald on the shoulder with his elbow, “don’t I, Mac?”

Answered with minimal enthusiasm, “Yes, Sir.”

“How do you pronounce your fuckin’ name, sailor?”

He’d only been there for about two minutes, certainly not long enough for this man to form any type of an opinion, to dislike him, yet he knew he did, but had no idea why. “Lipensky, Sir.”

“Well, Lipensky,” going back to his desk, “I’m Captain Ewing, and I’m the boss here!” His mouth twitching, “And you know what?”

Thinking the man was smiling, relaxing somewhat, “No, Sir.”

Hardening, his eyes made contact with Mitchell’s—who looked back a moment, then lowered his—“Your ass is grass,” Ewing said. “And I’m the fuckin’ lawnmower!” His stare stationary, turning his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder, “Who’s he go with, Mac?”

Looking at a clipboard, studying the roster, “210, Captain.”

“Who’s in 210?”

“Minnossa, Machinist Mate Three, Sir.”

“Minnossa and Lipensky, eh? Sounds like a fuckin’ vaudeville team.”

Looking at the chronometer on the wall, “1602… Looks like the Coast Guard can still get some work out of you before chow, Lipensky. Take your gear to 210, stow it and get into denims and report back to the bridge in five minutes.”

“Uh, the bridge?”

“Sir! Whenever you speak to me you say Sir or Captain! Here! You don’t understand English? This is the bridge!” Waving his hand. “Now get your ass in gear!”

“Yes, Sir… Uh,” pointing upward with his thumb, “210, Sir?”

“Yeah,” Ewing said facetiously, “seems like a pretty good bet that 210 would be on the second deck.”

Feeling a bit queasy in the stomach due to his reception at U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station, “Yes, Sir.” Hefting the sea bag onto his shoulder, he went up the one flight of stairs, turned right, then, noting the brass numbers on the doors, realizing that he was going in the wrong direction, turned back.

The second floor contained the enlisted men’s quarters with ten bedrooms on either side and one head at each end of the highly polished, blue and gray linoleum-floored hallway. The doors were open and Mitchell could see that nearly all the rooms were exactly alike: twin beds against the walls on either side of the room, with two three-drawer dressers and a window.

Room 210 was the last room on the north side of the building, in the corner, and this room had two windows: one overlooking the peninsula and the other facing the bay. As in the other rooms, the beds were tautly made with blue bedspreads with the Coast Guard emblem in their exact centers.

Ain’t too bad, he thought, real beds and… turning, he saw two closet doors, opened one, found it full of hanging clothes, government issue and civilian, closed it, opened the other and found it empty… my own closet, a great view and even cross ventilation.

Remembering Ewing’s order for him to be back in five minutes, dropping his sea bag, opening it, he rummaged till he found a pair of rolled jeans and a chambray shirt, then, digging deeper, felt for his work shoes. Kicking his dress shoes off, hanging his pea coat and uniform on wire hangers that had been left in the closet, he hurriedly dressed.

Glancing at his watch as he ran downstairs: 4:10.

Looking at the chronometer, “1610! That’s eight minutes! I told you to be back in five!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Yeah,” Ewing’s mouth twitching, “I’ll bet you are, sailor… Down the hall,” motioning with his thumb, “is a head. If you look in the paint locker there, you’ll find everything you need to clean it. I want the deck swabbed, the urinals and commodes clean enough to eat off, and the sinks and faucets shining so’s I can see my face in ’em. Got it?”

Swallowing, “Yes, Sir.”

“And I want it done by seventeen-hundred.”

“Uh, seventeen-hundred, Sir? That’s only…”

“Yeah, Lipensky, I know how to tell time. And I’ll be by at seventeen-hundred to check, so you’d better move your ass!”

He hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Cape May, and as the odor of food wafted from the galley down the hall, his stomach churned. “Yes, Sir.”

The head had a swinging door with brass kick-plates on the outside and inside. The deck was made of four-inch square gray ceramic tile. There were three sinks with mirrors and liquid soap dispensers, two urinals and one toilet stall with a door.

Opening the paint locker—broom closet—he found a string mop, a wringer bucket, cans of scouring powder and glass cleaner, a toilet brush, a large sponge and a pile of blue waste rags.

Scoured at 0800, it was now 1623 hours—4:23 p.m.—and the deck and sinks were muddy and dirt stained.

Wondering why he was being made to do this job at this time of day, Well, he thought, if I want chow, I’d better get going. And besides, I’d like to get off on the right foot with… not remembering Ewing’s name… that asshole.

Working as fast and as effectively as possible, not caring how much water slopped on the deck because it was going to get swabbed anyway, he scoured the toilet and urinals, then buffed the white ceramic bowls with dry rags until they shined. He did the mirrors, but rather than using the waste rags that would leave a film of lint, he used sheets of that morning’s newspaper that he’d found in the garbage can.

After scouring the sinks and shining the chrome handles, with six minutes left, he swabbed the deck using the water that had slopped onto it earlier, then, working on his hands and knees, backing himself through the door, he rubbed the deck to a shine with the waste rags, and had just enough time to put the cleaning materials away before…

The shrill, three-whistle, two-note piping sound of a boatswain’s whistle came over the loudspeaker then, “Now hear this! Chow time!” The boatswain’s whistle piped again.

Where the hell is he? he thought, as, “Shit!” He quickly moved aside as three men rushed into the head.

Soap, water and dirt splashed onto the recently cleaned, recently clean mirrors, sink and deck.

Wet shoes left muddy imprints on the recently cleaned, recently clean deck as they tracked from the sink to the continuous towel dispenser on the opposite wall.

“Why the fuck’d you clean the head now?”

“Damned if I know.”

“New man, huh?”

“Yeah. Got here less’n an hour ago.”

“An’ the ol’ man tol’j’ya to clean this fuckin’ head now?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well,” the man said matter of factly, “he’s…” calling Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing what he was lovingly referred to by his adoring men as, “a motherfuckin’ cocksuckin’ son-of-a-bitch… Well,” motioning to the sinks, “sorry for the mess.”

(A "Becoming" Excerpt)