Playing Fair and Being Kind

SAILOR, REST YOUR OAR

Lost Harbor

by Leslie Nelson Jennings

There is a port of no return, where ships

May ride at anchor for a little space

And then, some starless night, the cable slips,

Leaving an eddy at the mooring place . . .

Gulls, veer no longer. Sailor, rest your oar.

No tangled wreckage will be washed ashore.

I lost another shipmate, on my birthday which was just three days ago. Jack Harden passed over the bar. Sailor, rest your oar. I have the watch. Jack and I were plank owners on the USS Sam Houston, SSB(N)609. For the landlulbbers present, the initials after the name of Navy ship tell you its mission. SS=submarine, B=ballistic missiles, (N)=nuclear powered, 609=series designation. We met in 1960 in Newport News, Virginia where the shipyard contracted to build her was located. Newport News Shipbuilding and Drydock Company. A whole new experience for those of us submariners who were raised in diesel powered snorkel boats.

Jack was a good shipmate. He had a great sense of humor and was a hard driver. Just like the rest of us. We all took pride in our abilities to stay focused, work hard, play harder, and rise and shine each day. We had a saying that kept us on point with playing and working hard. “If you’re going to go out and hoot with the owls, you gotta get up the next day and scream with the eagles.” No excuses.

Jack was a native of Charleston, South Carolina and that is where he settled down after he retired from the canoe club. I caught up with Jack a few times when the internet came into being. To facilitate this event, one of the more dedicated submariners I never met developed a network, Submarine Sailor dot com. His name is Ron Martini and that is all I know. Some years later some hacker got into his system and tore it apart. Why? We’ll never know. For shits and giggles, I’m guessing. There are those who are naturally assholes. Ron never got it together again. It lingers in a static state and never recovered. While it was up and running though many of us old boat sailors had a cool operating system for connecting. Many of us did and that is how I found Jack.

Before Jack retired to Charleston, I was stationed there for about 3 years. I liked the city and the surrounding towns. The landscape had that charm of live oaks with sphagnum moss hanging down and warm, humid air carrying the scent of flowering crepe myrtle, azaleas, dogwood. A lovely town. But it was white. Still segregated, even today I’m sure. I was there in 1968-1971 and the neighborhoods still were segregated with “white only” signs here and there. I was living there with my wife and three little kids. We silently came to realize this was not our neighborhood. It was uncomfortable and we were just visitors to a land we knew little of. I remember running into old shipmate Frank Holloman. Frank was a steward on the Sam Houston while I was aboard. We became good friends while the submarine was home-ported in New London, Connecticut. Frank and I were able to socialize a little during our off-crew period when the other crew was at sea on the “Sam”. I ran into Frank at the Navy Exchange in Charleston on the Navy Base. We chatted and I suggested we get together with the families. Frank stopped in his tracks and leaned away from me. His expression changed radically. Frank shook his head and he said, “Nuh-uh, George. We can’t do that. Not here. No.” I could only stare at him. His expression remained the same. I sadly came to realize he was probably right. The racial lines were drawn and maintained in a system you could not clearly see. Frank and I parted company and that was the last time I saw him.

Years later, in the 21^st century in fact, I found Jack on Submarinesailor.com. We swapped howdy’s and other gossip for a few months. Then it happened. I made a comment about the racism I observed in Charleston or I responded to an off-color racist comment Jack made and that did it. Jack doubled down on his comments and I got my back up, whatever. We snarled at each other and we never could pull it back together. That was that. We kept out of each other’s way for the rest of the time we knew each other. We never communicated directly after that. I saw Jack’s name on occasional posts on several websites where submarine sailors kept in touch. I knew he was alive and kicking in Charleston and doing alright from what I was able to glean. I began to see that most of my old shipmates were politically opposite of me. I never will be able to comprehend their politics. Such is life.  I don’t keep in touch with most of the ones I know are still alive.

Well, Jack is gone and I am left with unfinished business. This happens a lot more than I realized it could. Such is life. It’s times like this I remember the Serenity Prayer, or the shorthand version at least. “Fuck it”. Or as Kurt Vonnegut often said; “So it goes”.