A “Becoming” excerpt in Sequence: 6/14/54: USCGC Halfmoon
June 14, 1954 to July 27, 1954
USCGC Halfmoon (WAVP 378)
June 14,1954
The shrill piping of the three-note, two-tone boatswain’s whistle sounded through the ship’s loudspeakers.
“Now hear this! Now hear this! ‘General Quarters’! All hands man your ‘duty stations’! General Quarters!”
Stepping through the oval-shaped, waterproof hatch partition he ran to his ‘G.Q.’ duty station on the starboard side of the number-one deck at the forward davit of the third lifeboat.
****
Permanently berthed in the huge Coast Guard facility on ‘Staten Island’, New York, the Coast Guard Cutter (CGC) ‘Halfmoon’ was 311 feet in length and had a complement of 135 enlisted men and officers. The official duty designation of the CGC Halfmoon was that of a’ weather ship’, meaning at various times throughout the year the ship steamed to designated nautical coordinates in the shipping lanes of the Atlantic Ocean to patrol within a set geographic boundary.
The duty of the Halfmoon was to offer aid and assistance to any vessel in trouble, and to record and forward changing weather conditions.
CGC Halfmoon was armed with a six-inch cannon turret on the bow, triple racks of rolling depth charges on each side of the fantail and single racks of shooting depth charges on either side of the stern.
The patrol station was usually thirty to forty-five days at sea with an in-port period of usually sixty to ninety days. The patrols, either planned or coincidental, always seemed to begin in frigid Newfoundland in the winter and tropical Bermuda in the summer.
Men with girlfriends, wives and families complained as the patrols came closer. However without a girlfriend or wife, and ‘especially’ after serving fifteen months under the command of Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing, the thought of sea duty, with nothing to do but his—fairly proportioned—watch and work details seemed to be so relaxing and stress free that Mitchell Lipensky was actually looking forward to his first patrol.
****
Darkly overcast, a warm, steady wind blew from the northeast.
“ ‘Release stern lines’!” The called command was passed from the Captain on the bridge to the ‘X.O.’,” the ‘Executive Officer’ on the flying bridge and, via megaphone, seemingly echoing, to the ‘Officer of the Deck’ then to the men on the stern lines.
“Aye, Captain!” The stern angling from the wharf. “Stern lines released!”
At his G.Q. station, standing alongside the safety rail, Mitchell watched the sailing procedure.
“ ‘Release bow lines’!” The echoing command. “Aye, Captain! Bow lines released!”
Dissipating in the wind, a thin stream of black diesel smoke emitted from the high, white funnel as the ship slowly backed out of its slip.
In the channel, the ship backed to starboard and with a slight shudder the twin diesel-driven turbines reversed and CGC Halfmoon began the forward motion that would take her within easy sight of the Statue of Liberty, through the narrows of Ambrose Channel, into the Atlantic Ocean and approximately nine hundred nautical miles to ‘Ocean Station Charlie’.
The piping of the boatswain’s whistle. “ ‘Now hear this! Now hear this! Secure from general quarters’!”
The patrol began…
And Mitchell learned very quickly that the open cockpit of a sailboat or a motor patrol boatis a far cry from the pitching deck of a diesel-burning ship.
Within minutes of leaving the comparative calm of the channel and entering the choppy seas of the ocean most of the crew became seasick and within another ten minutes many of them were leaning over the leeward rail dropping their breakfasts into the churning wake…
But he had been able, so far, to hold his stomach down—so far.
“Hey, Lipensky!” Kneeling on the deck, halfheartedly coiling a length of hawser watching the receding skyline. Looking over his shoulder, “Yeah?” he stood.
“How ya feelin’, Lipensky?” Short and powerfully built with a ruggedly handsome face, ‘Boatswain’s Mate Second Class’ Hugh Lynch was with his ‘shadow’ Myron Linton, whom, after almost two years as a ‘striker’, had—less than two months earlier—finally made the grade from ‘Seaman First’ to ‘Boatswains Mate Third Class’.
Linton wore his cap at a jaunty angle on the back of his head while, perfectly squared, Lynch’s cap appeared to be resting on his rather thick eyebrows. His lips pursed as if holding back laughter, Lynch held his right hand behind his back.
“Yeah, Lippy,” Linton asked, “how ya doin’?”
Drawing a draft of air deeply into his lungs. Pulling his gut in, tightening it against the queasiness in his stomach. “Okay.” Thinking, They’re being solicitous.“Thanks, it’s nice of you to…”
Moving his hand from behind his back, Lynch held what he was holding inches from Mitchell’s face.
Dangling from a foot of dirty white thread that had been threaded through the rind was a small glob of greasy pork fat that swayed from side to side… From side to side with the motion of the ship.
Swallowing, trying to keep his stomach where it, more or less, belonged, Mitchell’s eyes hypnotically followed the swaying motion of the glob of fat, as…
With a maniacal smile, tilting his head back—letting the fat sway another moment—opening his mouth and lowering his hand, his Adam’s apple bobbing… Lynch swallowed it.
Leaving where it, more or less, belonged, “Ulp!” Mitchell’s stomach moved upward.
Linton giggled.
Lynch’s eyes shifted from Mitchell’s suddenly-white face to his co-conspirator's red face, then back to Mitchell and slowly, oh, so slowly, pulled upward on the greasy thread.
His eyes, “Ulp!” followed as…
Lynch drew the saliva-covered glob of gray/white fat from his throat and out of his mouth and…
Mitchell ran to the rail.
****
One day: bright, sunlit heavens.
One day: ominous black skies.
One day: pounding waves.
One day: balmy breezes.
Days into days.
An endless stream of white, frothy wake followed Halfmoon in the southern Atlantic waters.
Nights into nights.
Velvety black skies with millions—trillions—of radiantly shining stars.
Days into days: Arching their magnificent silver-gray bodies from out of the water, pods of porpoise swam alongside Halfmoon.
Nights into nights:
Beaming behind moist, thin clouds, the incandescent moon appeared as a golden halo.
Days into days:
In the bridge, at the helm. “Lipensky, left rudder! Come to one-three-oh degrees!”
“Aye, Sir. Left rudder! One-three-oh degrees!”
On the fantail. “Christ, Linton, look at the wake! Looks like a fuckin’ snake!”
“Yeah. Wonder who’s the idiot on the helm.”
Nights into nights:
As though God were shining a spotlight from heaven, the brilliant moon lit a rippling road of silver for the helmsman to follow.
Days into days:
Cleaning stations… Chip paint… Kitchen duty… Scrape paint… Lookout… Wire-brush paint… Helmsman… Paint.
After work:
Bullshit with your pals… Lay in the sun… Sit on a depth charge rack on the stern watching the white clouds, the churning wake and the white-capped, green sea.
At night:
Read a book… Write a letter… Play cards… Watch 16mm movies sitting on your pillow on the crowded deck of the rec room with your mates.
An old Esther Williams movie: Hey, I saw this movie! Where? Oh, yeah! In the drive-in that night with Sally… ‘Sally’! Remembering. Thinking of her soft, warm breasts, sensing a twitching in his groin. God, if I had her address, I’d write.
****
“Hi. Mind if I come in?”
“Typing, he stopped and rotated his chair from the desk looking at the seaman standing on the other side of the hatch,“Yeah, sure.”
Stepping over the hatch. Coming into the office, holding his hand forward, “Mitch Lipensky.”
Shaking the offered hand, “Don Wilson.” The man with the two chevrons and the crossed quills of a ‘Yeoman’s Mate Second Class’ asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, Don. I’m thinking of striking for yeoman and thought I’d ask how to get started.”
“First thing, you send for the correspondence course. You know how to type, Mitch?”
“Not great. I took ‘Typing One’ in high school. Learned the keyboard but haven’t touched a typewriter since.”
“Typing’s kind’a like riding a bike: once you learn it, with a bit of practice you don’t forget it.”
Pointing to a second desk and typewriter. “Mind if I sit down and practice a while?”
“No, not at all.” Opening the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, Wilson removed a form. “Here you go, Mitch. Fill this out and we’ll get it off in the next mail.”
****
Days into nights…
Nights into days...
Work. Sleep. Relax. Resuscitate your mind. Revive your spirit. Feel close to your God and… Feel the substance of youth.
****
“…ETA.”
“Yeah? So what is our ‘estimated time of arrival’?”
“Thursday. At about 0630.”
“In five days, huh! No shit!”
July 27, 1954
“Hey, I see it! See it?”
“There it is! New York!”
The skyline of New York City becoming larger, becoming clearer, CGC Halfmoon steamed out of the Atlantic Ocean, through the narrows of Ambrose Channel, to within easy sight of the Statue of Liberty.
“Secure bow lines!”
“Aye, Captain! Bow lines secured!”
“Secure stern lines!”
“Aye, Captain! Stern lines secured!”
The three-note, two-tone boatswain’s whistle sounded. “Now hear this! Secure from general quarters!” Again, the shrill piping of the boatswain’s whistle.
New York, N.Y.
September 11, 1954
Chris
Leaning against the wall holding a cup of punch, once again his eyes were drawn to the young woman behind the coffee and doughnut table.
Although much thinner than he liked, the woman was pretty in a stark, dramatic way. And as though she’d shunned the sun, her white complexion appeared even whiter in contrast to her long, black hair that was pulled back and bound close to her scalp giving her a ponytail—causing Mitchell to have a sense of déjà vu—that hung midway down her back. Wearing a dark gray skirt that left no doubt as to her thin body. the young woman’s breasts were but small, sharp bumps beneath her black cashmere sweater.
Yet, for a reason he could ‘not’ fathom, he was attracted to her.
Screwing his courage up. Walking to the table he stood a minute until, turning from the soldier she’d been speaking to, “Hi,” he said, smiling. “My name’s Mitchell.”
“Hi,” she answered. And because that is why she was there and—taken by his appearance—because she ‘wanted’ to, holding her hand forward, “I’m ‘Chris’.”
Surprised that she’d offered her hand... “Hi, Chris.” ...holding it from across the table. “You stuck here, or can you dance?”
Lifting their hands over the coffee and doughnuts.“No,” stepping from behind the table. “I can dance.”
After eight on a warm Saturday, the floor was jammed with servicemen and USO hostesses.
Holding her hand he led her to the middle of the dance floor. Fortunately the LP record that was playing was a medley of slow dance numbers.
His left arm about her thin waist, close up he could see that beneath the makeup Chris was actually prettier than he’d first thought.
Perpetually thin. Being one of those people that could not gain weight no matter what or how much she ate, taking advantage of her spectral appearance. Feeling that she could get away with it due to her profession, ‘Christine Sanbourne’ did use makeup as a means to attract attention.
Sexually attracted to this handsome sailor. Allowing herself to be pulled closer than she normally would and easily becoming accustomed to his erratic movement. “You come here often?” she asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“No, not too often.” Stubbing her toe, “Oops.” Moving his head back so he might see her face. “Sorry, I’m not such a good dancer.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mitchie, you’re doing just fine.”
‘Mitchie’! He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I just kind’a like the way you call me ‘Mitchie’.”
Looking at his eyes, “Oh,” forcing hers away. Tightening her arms. Holding him closer, putting a light smudge of makeup on his blue tunic. “Mitchie’s your name, isn’t it?”
Well aware of the tightening of her body against his. “Sure, it’s my name, but I like the way you say it.”
Holding each other as they were, if she has tits...thinking, I sure as hell can’t feel them.
But the scent of her perfume. The warmth and feel of this strange, but somehow ‘extremely’ feminine body pressed against his excited him and. sensing by the tightness of her arms that he was more than just ‘another’ serviceman that she was dancing with.
“This is why I never learned to dance too good,” he whispered warmly in her ear. “Whenever I get too close to a beautiful woman very strange things start to happen.”
“ ‘Strange things’?” Well aware of those strange things. ‘Strange things’ happening within her body as well.
Christine Sanbourne and Mitchell Lipensky danced until the long-playing record ended, then continued to stand in the shifting crowd mutually holding each other—although, for appearances, not quite as tightly—waiting for the next record to begin… It did… Fortunately, another slow selection.
“When do you get off?”
“I don’t punch a clock here. I can leave whenever I want.”
“Would you like to get out of here? Go for something to eat, or for a drink or something?”
“We’re not supposed to go out with the guys we meet here.”
Looking at her, faltering, “Ooops,” stepping on her foot ‘again’.
“But sometimes you ‘do’, don’t you?”
Though not making a habit of it. “No,” she lied, “I ‘never’ have.” As a hint, adding softly, “yet.”
‘Yet’! “But some of the girls do!”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Beginning to wise up pertaining to girls/women. Not wanting to push it. Thinking it best to— at least temporarily— change the subject. “What do you do, Chris?”
“I’m an actress.”
Impressed! “No kidding? Pulling back, looking at her face again. “I’ve never met a ‘real’ actress before. What do you, uh, act in?”
“A little TV. Some commercials. Mostly stage plays.”
“Wow, that’s ‘great’! You in anything now?”
“Nah. The last thing I was in turned out to be a flop and it closed after a few weeks, so my agent’s looking for something else now.”
“You’ve an agent and everything, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Dancing quietly a minute. “So, Chris, you want too?”
Hesitating a moment. “Yes, Mitchie. But we shouldn’t be seen leaving together.”
Knowing where this was leading, his heart thumping. “Great!” Standing away, giving himself a chance to relax before leaving the crowded dance floor. “Tell you what. What if I take you back to the doughnut table, then go downstairs and wait for you outside?”
“Okay, but don’t wait at the door. When you get downstairs, turn right and wait at the newsstand on the corner and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
****
“I’m not really too hungry,” she said. “How’s about you?”
“Hungry? No, I’m not either. You want a drink, then?”
“ ‘That’, I wouldn’t mind! But anyplace we go now’ll be jammed…” On 42nd Street, jostled by the Saturday night crowd, “...so why don’t we just go to my place.”
Oh, yeah! “Where do you live?” he asked, thinking, Shit! I’d go home with you if you lived in Alaska.
“Not too far from here… So, you want to come home with me?”
Looking at her. Taking her hand, feeling her fingers tighten about his. “Do whales shit in the ocean?”
****
The sexual possibilities limitless here. Mitchell had never been with a gitl… ‘woman’ that had her own apartment. ‘Especially’ in a building with a doorman.
Totally impressed! “This is a very nice place!”
Walking to the picture window, looking at the light-studded ‘Manhattan’ view. “You must do ‘very’ well as an actress. Should I know you?”
“ ‘Now’? No. Maybe someday. I ‘certainly’ hope so. But now; my dad’s got lots of money and he’d worry about me if I had to live on what I make so he helps out with the rent and stuff… ‘Scotch’ okay?”
He’d never had Scotch but, “Yeah, sure.”
The kitchen in Christine Sanbourne’s high-rise, three-room apartment was separated from the living-room by a ceramic tile counter and a row of hanging, blonde-wood cabinets that opened to the kitchen.
Following Chris around the counter he watched as, opening the freezer and scooping two hands-fulls of ice out of a plastic bowl, she dropped first one then the other into two heavy ‘lo-ball’ glasses.
Opening a cabinet, removing a bottle of ‘Chevas Regal’ she filled both glasses to the rim.
“Here,” handing him one. “Come on.” Taking two coasters off a stack on the counter on her way out of the kitchen, she dropped both onto the glass-topped coffee table.
Sitting on the sofa Chris patting the cushion next to her. “Make yourself comfortable, Mitchie.” Kicking her shoes off then taking a long drink, “I won’t bite you.”
‘Biting him’ the least of his problems. A bit nervous, though, because he knew what was coming. Trying to look calm, and remain calm. “It’s okay, Chris.” Sitting directly next to her. “you can bite me whenever…” taking a drink, grimacing, “...and wherever you want.” He took another— smaller— drink.
Sitting awkwardly. Each waiting for the other to say, or do something, Christine Sanbourne drank her drink as Mitchell Lipensky sipped his drink and because Mitchell hadn’t had anything stronger than one or two beers—since the unhappy night of his eighteenth birthday— the scotch immediately going to his head, wanting to kiss Chris, however momentarily wooden and at a loss for words. “this is nice.” he said.
“Yes, it is. But let me show you what I ‘really’ love!”
Standing, going into the kitchen and turning the lights off on her way out. Returning with the bottle of ‘Chevas’, Chris refilled both glasses. Leaving the bottle on the coffee table she turned the combination television, phonograph and radio to a classical radio station, “Excuse me a minute.”
Knowing what she wanted to do. And ‘well’ knowing— from past experience— what pancake makeup could do to a navy-blue tunic. Going through the bedroom into the washroom. Appraising the stark image of her face negatively, using cold-cream, she quickly removed all makeup.
Turning the lights off as she went. Coming back to the living room, their outer thighs purposely touching she sad directly alongside Mitchell
Taking a long pull of scotch. Laying her head back on the sofa, Chris closed her eyes.
Soft, beautifully melodic music filled the room as the diffused, flickering light from the lights of the city coming through the large window danced upon the walls and ceiling.
“Isn’t this beautiful!”
Putting his glass onto the coaster. “Yes.” No longer wooden. No longer needing words. Moving his face to hers, their lips brushed, touched and made contact.
Tasting the Scotch on her lips and in her mouth… His hand, moving to beneath the bottom of her sweater, rested upon her warm, rock-hard stomach.
Feeling his touch, her tongue probed into his mouth.
Encouraged. His hand moving upward. “Wait!” Knowing. Thinking she’d know how to placate him when the time came. “let’s go into the bedroom.”
Oh, yeah! ‘The bedroom’! Pulling his shoes off. “Yeah!” he said, pulling his socks off. “Let’s go in the bedroom!”
Standing, Chris took a step. Turned back, lifted her glass and handed him his.
Watching each other over the rims, each drained their glass.
Wobbling a bit— holding the triangular shaped bottle of ‘Chevas’ by it neck— Chris led the way as Mitchell, wobbling a whole lot, pulling his tunic and T-shirt over his head, leaving a trail of his clothing, was ‘completely’ nude by the time they’d made the short journey from the living room to the bedroom.
The drapes before the picture window in the bedroom were fully open and the city lights, additionally reflecting off an over-sized dresser mirror, cast a flickering kaleidoscope of color and light throughout the room.
Next “Becoming Excerpt in Sewquence: “A Tea Bag?/PG 13”
