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Welcome Aboard

U.S.C.G Rockaway Lifeboat Station

February 8, 1953

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 grey 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?  Yeah, may as well put Jew-boy here with the Wop.”

Uh-oh, Mitchell thought.

©November 15, 2012 / Mark M Lichterman

  A “Becoming” Excerpt.

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