A “Becoming Excerpt in sequence Rockaway/Changing Emotions
__________________________________________________
February 9. 1953 And Forward
USCG Rockaway Life Boat Station
Rockaway, NewYork
At 0700 a recording of reveille blared through the halls.
The men used the heads, dressed and ambled downstairs for a breakfast of cereal, eggs with bacon, sausage or ham, juice, and coffee or milk.
After breakfast it was assigned duty stations till 0900.
Throughout the day the men did whatever their daily assignments had them doing which, for the ‘first class’ and ‘seaman apprentices’ such as Mitchell, usually meant watches in the tower, the never-ending scraping, sanding and painting of the station’s four wood, and steel-hulled boats. or work in and about the station.
The second brick building was a large garage and machine shop with two double door sliding-door entries. One entry, opening to the bay, had rails that ran into the water and a boat-cradle crane for the lifting, dry-docking and repair of the station’s boats. The second entry opened to the concrete-covered parking area.
The third building– a white, clapboard structure– was nothing more than a roofed, three-sided facade that was fully open to the water on the fourth side. Inside that structure were two finger docks. Tied to either side of one dock were two powerful motor-patrol boats and to the other dock, two ‘sea-proof crash boats’.
Anchored into the concrete alongside the boathouse was a large winch with a web sling capable of hoisting a medium-sized boat out of the water.
The ‘Rockaway Point’ lookout tower was located four miles south-west of the station on a lonely wind-swept, rock, sand and weed-strewn finger of land that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean to one side and Sheepshead Bay on the other.
The only way to Rockaway Point was by means of a bumpy, bone-jarring, two-lane road that ran past two well-used ‘gin mills’ and groves of seedy summer cottages.
Watches were set in four-hour shifts, giving six men to the lookout tower and six to the communication room in any twenty-four hour period.
Unless there was an issuance of storm warnings, boat crews of six men each were designated as the port or starboard crews and were on duty the entire twenty-four–hour period.
At CG Rockaway Lifeboat Station there was one full time cook and two cook ‘strikers’.
The personnel complement was thirty-five to forty men including the commanding officer and non-commissioned officers. With Mitchell Lipensky aboard, U.S.C.G. Rockaway Lifeboat Station was fully manned.
****
Using a powerful, commercial floor buffer—that, until he learned how to take it where ‘he’ wanted it to go, rather than the floor buffer taking him where ‘it’ wanted to go—Mitchell discovered that maintaining the mirror-like shine on the second floor deck was not quite as difficult as he’d first thought.
0900: Morning duty station over, Mitchell was driven to Rockaway Point lookout tower and shown the proper shortwave radio and log procedures.
Upon returning to the station, he was handed a paint scraper and joined four other seamen in the boathouse scraping the steel hull of the number two crash boat.
1115: Having an early lunch, Mitchell Lipensky was driven back to the tower for his first long, boring, uneventful watch.
***
1740: Mitchell boarded the two Brooklyn buses then the two New York City subway trains and took his first New York City liberty.
With the collar of his pea coat turned up against the raw wind, he wandered the cold street looking at the sights along Broadway.
Being alone in this strange city depressed him and as he walked his mind went to Susan causing him to become even more depressed.
Seeing the sign on 42nd Street, Mitchell climbed the long flight of stairs to the U.S.O.
Inside there were a dozen or more servicemen scattered throughout the huge room. The men sat by themselves, or talked to one another or the few girls that were in attendance. On the floor, a soldier danced listlessly with a hostess to a Glenn Miller recording.
Refusing an offer to dance with a somewhat cute, somewhat chubby hostess, he had a cup of coffee and within twenty minutes left.
Back on the street, feeling increasingly homesick, Mitchell had a coke and a hamburger at the ‘Wimpy’s’ on 42ndStreet, then took the subways back to Flatbush Avenue, and the busses to Rockaway.
***
Joe Mendez was right.
“Christ killers!”
The name Lipensky did show up twice as often as any others for KP, and also for the hated 2400 to 0400 (12:00 p.m. to 4:00 a.m.) or the 0400 to 0800 watches.
From somewhere, though, Mitchell found a source of stubborn pride and refused to give Ewing the satisfaction of knowing that he was getting to him—though he certainly was. His seeming indifference to the unfair duty assignments and all reference to his being a ‘pretty boy’ or a ‘Jew’, of course, only added fuel to Floyd Richard Ewing’s projected hatred.
“Christ killers!”
“Excuse me.”
Having KP for the second time in the first week of June, lugging an overloaded 40-gallon garbage can, Mitchell crossed paths with Ewing and Boatswains Mate First Class Ed Cagle, who were sitting on a low retaining wall smoking. “Excuse me. Were you talking to me, Sir?”
Looking at him— looking through him, ignoring him. “Yeah, Ed, that’s what we used to call ‘em,” Ewing said. “ ‘Christ killers’!”
Embarrassed, Ed Cagle glanced at Mitchell then quickly looked away.
***
As weeks became months, a strange phenomenon took place.
As though the emotion of hatred is stronger than the emotion of love, the preponderance of Mitchell Lipensky’s hatred of Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing began to outweigh his love of Susan and his thoughts of her began to dwindle… And in time, amazingly, even forgetting her phone number—except for the lonely hours in the tower—almost all thoughts of Susan stopped.
June 15, 1953
“Lippy… Hey, Lippy! It’s 0330!” His shoulder shaken, “Come on, Pal!” Shaken again, the voice faded. “Minnie! Hey, Minnie! Come on, 0330!”
Opening his eyes, he closed them against the glare of the overhead light. “Fuck, Duane,” mumbling, “it can’t be three-thirty.” Sitting up, he looked through squinted eyes at the other bed.
“Bullshit!” Minnossa grumbled from under the blanket.
“No bullshit! Time to relieve the watch!” Boatswains Mate Third Class Duane Merton jiggled the light switch, flashing the overhead light. “I wouldn’t bullshit ya, Minnie. Come on!” He looked at Minnossa, who, although still beneath the blanket, now had his rump in the air. “See ya two below.” Merton left the room.
****
Waiting in the mess hall, Merton was sitting at the table with a half-cup of coffee before him. “Ready, Lippy?”
“Yeah, Duane. Just give me a minute to fill my Thermos.” Unscrewing the cap, he held the wide opening beneath the spigot and, pressing the handle, filled his Thermos from the 40-cup, stainless steel percolator that sat on a side table in the mess hall twenty-four hours a day.
Preparing and making the large pot of coffee was the last job of that day’s mess attendant, which yesterday—so what else was new—was Mitchell.
Men having KP would normally have a twenty-four hour grace period from all watches…unless your name was ‘Lipensky’ and your captain was Floyd Richard Ewing.
The men at Rockaway Lifeboat Station were all aware of his hopeless and helpless situation, and most of them —glad it was he and not they—went out of their way to show Mitchell some degree of empathy.
“Okay, Duane, all set. Let’s go.”
On their way out, “Phil,” Merton poked his head into the communication room. “ ‘Minnie’ ought’a be down any second.”
“Yeah, Duane, thanks.” From inside the glass enclosure, ‘Machinist Mate Third Class Philip Mallard’ waved at the two men as they went by.
Even though it was mid June, the early morning air was chilly and both men wore khaki watch jackets with the words U.S.C.G. Rockaway LB Station stenciled in black across the back.
The revving of the motor in the Ford pickup always seemed to be excessively loud in the very early or very late hours and Mitchell was always glad that his room was at the far end of the building and not nearer the garage.
Putting the truck into gear, Merton stamped on the accelerator and the Ford pick-up 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 chilled 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 up shifted 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 winter vacant cottages. Past ‘Pete’s Tavern’, past ‘The Rockaway Bait Store’, past more cottages… 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!
Two 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 the jacket 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 from generation to generation of seamen standing watch in the lonely, isolated Rockaway Point lookout tower.
Climbing higher. Approaching the trapdoor he pushed the hatch open and climbed into the shack.
Appropriately, the song on the radio was “Ebb Tide.”
Putting his Thermos on the desk, Mitchell took the abominated black-leather-covered time clock—that read 4:03— onto the catwalk and 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 of the time clock he turned it three times, then went back into the shack.
Coney Island is 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 has 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, 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 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 and set onto the proper channel with the volume set at just below crackling.
With the ‘log-in’ finished, 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 he put the heels of his shoes 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’.
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 dawned beautifully.
The early morning 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 0400–0800 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 was looking outward and 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 on the heavy side.
Looking at the slightly rolling ocean for a few more seconds then squatting, she then sat on the towel… Sitting a minute or two she then 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 a 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!” wholly 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, thinking, 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 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, 07:07. The fucking clock should’a been hit seven minutes ago!
.......but if he went onto the catwalk the lady was sure to see him!
The chained key was on the southwest corner of the shack, precisely in the direction she would look if she noticed any movement within her peripheral vision. The door was on east side of the shack. Normally, the watch went out the door, turned to the right and right again, punched the clock and returned the same way, but… It wouldn’t work that way now, so…
The time clock held about his neck by the strap. going through the open doorway on his hands and knees, turning to the left, he crawled to the northeast corner, turned left, went to the northwest corner, dropped to his stomach and, slithering, he was then— from the naked lady’s perspective— on the back side of the southwest corner. Bringing the clock to the dangling key, he shoved it into the slot, clicked it twice, then backtracked backwards along the steel catwalk, through the door and into the shack.
Standing, not bothering to brush the dirt from his denims, grabbing the binoculars, “Great!” He studied the lady’s flattened breasts. Her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered nipples and, “Mmm, God!” her fuzzy, ‘mismatched’ black crotch…
For approximately five seconds, when…
There was a motion just on the fringe of his vision and grudgingly he swung the binoculars from the naked lady’s crotch to…
There was a speeding boat with a man standing on the bow, who had binoculars too, and he too, was looking towards the rocks—and though Mitchell couldn’t hear him—the man was shouting, “Faster! Faster!”
A thick trough of white wake followed as the boat sped towards shore for a better look.
“Oh, no!” Mitchell whispered. “Schmuck! Stop! She’ll see you!” Now shouting, “Asshole! Fucker! Son of a bitch! As…
Oh, yeah! She did! The lady did hear the roaring of the motor and sitting up did see the rapidly closing boat, as…
“Faster! Faster!” the man on the boat shouted. As…
Even faster! The lady pushed her feet, legs, fuzzy mismatched black crotch, and…
Oh, God!
…her moderate-sized but, Oh, yeah, categorically noticeable breasts…
“Faster! Faster!”
…along with her wonderful, sun- and air-puckered brown nipples back into the green and yellow, one-piece bathing suit and grabbing her towel…
The speeding boat hit an ocean swell, became airborne a moment then, slamming down, the man on the bow lost his balance, did a somersault in the air and fell into the water. As…
…scampering off the rock the no-longer-naked lady ran diagonally across the point of land to the road and within seconds was out of sight.
Fortunately, the man in the water was wearing a life-jacket and— waving to it— the boat was circling to come back to him.
“X-ray… Baker… Two…” Speaking slowly, enunciating each word clearly, “to X-ray… Baker… Three.” He pushed the receive button on the transmitter.
The Coast Guard patrol boat cruising the bay answered, “X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker Two. Over Baker Two.”
“X-ray, Baker, Three…” speaking at a normal speed, “we’ve a man overboard two hundred yards off shore, south of the point. Over.”
“Roger, Baker, Two. We’re on our way. Out.”
“X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three. Belay the last call; the man’s been pulled aboard his vessel, but I advise to detain and issue a ‘citation for reckless water endangerment’. X-ray, Baker, Two, over.”
“X-ray, Baker, Three, to X-ray, Baker, Two. I roger that. Will you guide us to him, Baker, Two? Over.”
“X-ray, Baker, Two to X-ray, Baker, Three… ‘Bet your ass’!”
Next “Becoming” Extract in sequence: Erotic Watch/Kill Ewing
