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Putting the truck into gear, Merton stamped on the accelerator and the Ford squealed out of the compound and onto Rockaway Beach Boulevard, which at Rockaway Point was nothing more than a bumpy, twisting, two-lane road.

Both windows open, the night air chilling him, rolling his window up, the fur-like collar about his ears, Mitchell hunched into the warmth of the jacket.

Jolting along the road, rather than slowing, Merton downshifted as the Ford cornered, then upshifted as it came out of the bend. Shooting a sharp hump, leaving the blacktop, the shock absorbers clanked at the concussion as the wheels made contact with the road again.

They roared past The Rockaway Bar & Grill, past rows of blackened cottages, past Pete’s Tavern, past The Rockaway Eatery and Bait Store, past more cottages… and then all signs of human habitation disappeared and the last mile of the bone-jarring, four-mile ride was nothing but barren rock and weed-choked, sandy soil.

There it is!

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U.S.C.G. Rockaway Life Boat Station

Rockaway, New York

One hundred and seventy-five yards off the road. At the very tip of the thin finger of land that jutted between the Atlantic Ocean and Sheepshead Bay.

Outlined by the light of a pale moon from behind wispy clouds, the three-story tower eerily resembled the upright skeleton of a giant, prehistoric monster.

Rounding the last bend, Merton pressed his foot to the accelerator and, gaining even more speed, the truck heeled dangerously to the left, then righted itself. Slamming the brakes on, shifting from third to neutral, the front end of the Ford shimmied from right to left as the wheels attempted to gain purchase on the sand-swept road… then it stopped, thankfully, right side up.

“Hey, Duane,” opening the door, stepping down, “great ride,” smiling, “you dick!” Mitchell slammed the door.

“Yeah, Lippy, glad you liked it. See you in four hours.”

“Yeah.” Putting the Thermos under his arm, jamming both hands into his pockets, he began the walk through the sandy soil.

Coming closer, he saw the dull light of the four-sided wood and glass enclosure atop the steel structure.

“Hi, Lippy!”

There was a brief splash of light when the bottom hatch was lifted as Seaman Apprentice Marty Masco prematurely left the 8x8 lookout shack and started down the fifty-seven steel steps bringing him that much closer in time and distance to his warm bed.

Passing as fleeting, moonlit shadows, anxious to be away, one ran as the other, in no hurry, walked at a normal pace.

“Minnie called,” Masco said in passing. “The dipshit’s asleep and I left the radio.”

“Thanks, Marty,” Mitchell said over his shoulder. “How’s it tonight?”

“Quiet.”

The Ford’s headlights momentarily brightened the path before him as the truck made a sharp U-turn and started back to the station.

Jamming the Thermos into his right armpit, grasping both steel handrails, he started up the steep, steel steps.

The bottom section of reinforced steel ended in a deep-set, concrete slab. There was a solid steel platform between each of the upper two sections of steps. At the juncture between the steel deck and the third flight of steps, at a point just under the second landing, barely within reach, there was a joining of steel that formed a small, unseen compartment where an illicit radio or a book might be hidden.

This compartment was one of the best kept secrets in the entire U.S. military, barring the invasion of Normandy, of course, and had been passed on from generation to generation of seamen standing watch in the lonely, isolated Rockaway lookout tower.

Climbing higher, approaching the trapdoor, pushing the hatch open, he climbed into the shack.

Appropriately, the song on the radio was “Ebb Tide.”

Putting his Thermos on the desk, taking the, abominated, black-leather-covered time clock—that read 4:03—going onto the catwalk, Mitchell walked to the outside, southwest corner of the shack where a key hung chained to a steel box that was bolted onto the wall. Fitting the key into the slot in the time clock, being sure he turned it three times, he went back into the shack.

Coney Island was across the bay to the northwest, and on any spring, summer, or fall night, unless there is a fog, the lookout was able to see Coney’s millions of boardwalk lights and the highly illuminated roller coasters and parachute rides. Sometimes, on windless nights when all else was quiet, the lookout was able to hear an occasional, high-pitched scream. On Wednesday nights during the summer, and on the Fourth of July, the man on the 20 to 2400 (8:00 to 12:00) watch had a choice seat and was entertained by a massive fireworks display fired from a barge anchored a half-mile off Coney Island Beach.

At this time of morning, though, with the exception of the red and white flashing lights atop the parachute ride, all was still and quiet at Coney Island.

Outside again, Yup, ain’t nothing out there but sea’n’ski. Mitchell swept the horizon with the lookout tower’s powerful binoculars.

Inside again, writing in the log book, he logged the type and density of the covering cloud formation, and the direction and size of the sea swells, which, because Mitchell could not see the sea swells, he logged in exactly as Masco had four hours earlier, which Masco had logged in exactly as the man on the 8:00 to 12:00 watch, who had been able to see the size and direction of the sea swells.

Mitchell checked the radio transmitter procedure: to be sure it was in proper working order; set onto the proper channel, with the volume set at just below crackling.

With the log in done, having nothing more to do for the next hour, until he must once again punch the “God-damned clock”—except, of course, to listen for radio transmissions of any type of airborne or nautical distress, and to stare into the darkness for any type of airborne or nautical distress—he positioned the chair so that he would be looking out the ocean-side windows, rotated the radio dial until he found his favorite radio station, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

The binoculars held around his neck, tilting the chair back, he put the heels of his feet onto the narrow ledge beneath the window, and began the four-hour struggle to remain awake… Occasionally he didn’t, but if he did fall asleep, his feet would usually slip off the ledge and he would awaken. On the rare occasions when Mitchell did fall asleep, and his feet did not slip off the ledge, somehow the mental alarm in his head would jar him awake within a few minutes on either side of the time he was to punch the “God-damned clock.”

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Tales From The Tower (1)

 Nude Lady

The tower is here!

The tower was in absolute broad view! Yet, much as not being able to see the forest for the trees, the tower was taken so much for granted that occasionally people did forget that it was here, and that it was always manned, day and night, fair weather and foul, seven days a week, 365 days a year, by a sailor—and not just any sailor, but a lonely, bored sailor—and not just any lonely, bored sailor, but a lonely, bored sailor with a pair of high powered binoculars.

The day was beautiful.

The mid-day sun shown through loosely woven, gossamer-like clouds.

The on-shore breeze was warm, and so soft it felt as a kiss from God.

The lady walked until she came to the end of the road, then cut diagonally across the narrow peninsula.

On the 0800–1200 watch, Mitchell had been watching a particular boat in the bay. Determining that the boat was not in trouble, bringing his attention back to the ocean-side, he first noticed the tall, slender lady as she was climbing onto one of the large, ocean-tossed slabs of flat granite that act as a natural breakwater around the thin, vulnerable strip of land.

The lady wore a green and yellow, one-piece bathing suit and carried a large beach towel, which she spread onto the hard surface.

Standing inside the shack with the binoculars trained on the lady, he was able to see that she had short, light blond hair and pleasing features. He judged her to be an older woman; oh, about thirty.

Making a quick sweep of the surrounding area, the glasses came back to the lady—who, looking outward, was still standing—and moved downward.

Although she didn’t show much cleavage, he knew that it was hard to judge the size of a woman’s breasts from this distance, especially if she was wearing a restrictive bathing suit, but he could see that she had narrow hips, small buttocks and, though not deterring him, her thighs were a bit on the heavy side.

Looking at the slightly rolling ocean for a few more seconds, squatting, she then sat on the towel… Sitting a minute or two, she lay back with her hands beneath her head, cushioning it from the hard surface.

Moving the binoculars from the reclining figure, he viewed the closer boats on both the bay and ocean sides. The closest, a fishing boat in the ocean, was about seven hundred yards off-shore. Doing a 180-degree scan of the horizon, seeing nothing of an even remotely troublesome nature, he brought the glasses back to the lady.

Sitting up now, leaning back now, supported by both arms that were extended to the sides and behind her back, she…

“Holy shit!” Mitchell swallowed and blinked his eyes because, “Holy shit!” the top of the lady’s bathing suit was lowered to her waist and, sitting as she was, with both arms stretched backward and her chest completely open to the sun and air, the distinct white flesh of her moderate-sized but, “Oh, yeah!” nicely noticeable breasts pulled back and to the sides, and the aureoles of her dark-brown, tightly air-puckered nipples were distinctly conspicuous in profile, and… “Holy shit!” he said again, Those are… the first, real live tits! he’d seen since that night so long ago with Sally and Mitchell felt a stretching in his groin and his lips formed a perfect O, as though he were—rather than two hundred yards away—a scant inch and a second away from drawing one of the, “Oh, my God!” lady’s puckered nipples into his puckered lips. He turned the adjustment wheel of the binoculars, trying to make the finely-tuned picture even finer.

The lady glanced at the tower… looked away, then, looking back, frowning, shading her eyes with the side of her hand, she tried to see if there could possibly be anyone up there.

Watching her through the binoculars as she was looking at him from beneath the visor of her hand, holding his breath, Mitchell did not move a muscle…

But she must have concluded that the well-maintained sixty-eight–foot–tall, steel, wood and glass structure was nothing more than a derelict washed ashore in a, coincidentally, upright position because, looking away from the tower, the lady brought her face full forward into the sun, and…

Letting his breath out, swinging his gaze to the ocean, noting that the closest boat was far enough away not to see the lady, bringing the glasses back…

“Holy shit!” He held his breath again because, as he watched…

Lifting her body, the lady pulled her bathing suit off her hips, down her buttocks, thighs, calves and ankles, and…

“Holy shit!”

Rolling the bathing suit, using it as a pillow, the lady’s breasts flattening and laying to her sides, she lay back altogether naked: wonderfully, beautifully, altogether exposed, and…

“Oh, lady!” Thinking, For an old lady you are B-U-tee-full! The binoculars moving from her breasts to the… Said softly, under his breath, “Oh, God,” the binoculars moved to the hairy, black tri-section of her thighs and crotch… then, back up to her head, and—the lady’s hair was light blond—smiling, licking his lips, “Only you and your fighting Coast Guard know for sure!” he said aloud, then…

“Uh-oh!” He looked at his watch, 3:07. The fucking clock should’a been hit seven minutes ago!

 A “Becoming” Excerpt.

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