As I amble solitary down the dimly red-illumined p-ways[1]; making my way to the ship’s smoke deck, I softly whistle a melancholic tune. I can’t recall the melody’s origins except to muse that it’s reminiscent of something that could’ve easily been performed by Yoko Kanno and the Seatbelts[2]. Ancient mariners’ superstition holds that to whistle aboard a sailing vessel is to challenge the winds and invite their wrath. Such antique reasoning seems far removed from contemporary logic, though I must confess that some part of me is engaged in deliberate, subversive antagonism.
It’s just past 0000[3] and having completed our routine combat systems status checks and reboots- it’s time to feed the addiction I’ve cultivated since the later days of my lengthy technical training, prior to arrival in the fleet.
Almost every time the command[4] gets underway, I make certain to secure myself a position on this watch[5]. It’s colloquially known more crudely (as with many things) as the “balls watch” for self-apparent reasons. Midnight came and went, and my shipmate and I completed the requisite systems procedures to maintain the complex neural network of the ship’s eyes and ears- and now it’s time for the ritual catharsis of nicotine and stargazing.
As I roam the halls and feel the subtle rumbles of the hull cutting through the bottomless depths below- I can’t help but contemplate its analogous relationship to that of a starship. I’ve often in jest submitted that I chose enlistment in the navy because there’s no such thing (yet) as Starfleet. Terrestrial seafaring compares in my mind to the way sci-fi vessels traverse times and places beyond the stars. I now find myself buoyed and protected in an environment otherwise entirely hostile to my very existence. The cold, naked void of space and the ocean share many similarities.
Getting underway removes us from the oft unappreciated luxuries of terra firma- but there’s nothing in the world quite like being out to sea. It’s like being everywhere and nowhere all at once. Where the jagged creases of the untouchable horizon rise and fall to embrace the boundless sky in their leviathan, terrifying chaos, and mindless hunger.
I round the final claustrophobic, industrial corner of the p-way to the top of the ladderwell[6] which descends to the hangar bay, grasp its rails, and slide down them to the hatch[7] below. This is colloquially known in the navy as “skylarking” and is officially frowned upon as a safety hazard- but everyone learns to do it and does. It’s a hallmark of command familiarization. It gets particularly fun aboard smaller ships, or in livelier seas.
My black leather combat boots kiss the familiar nonskid[8] deck at the base of the ladderwell with a dull thud. I jerk the lever on the hatch to the hangar bay open with its old, familiar, machined metal clang. These watertight doors show their age, and the grooves of the dogs[9] on them are all worn smooth and shiny. But through diligent, routine maintenance they still do their job.
I saunter out into the soft-green glow of the upper hangar bay and make my way aft[10] to the smoke pit[11] on RAS[12] Station #5. Sailors are only permitted to smoke when and where “the smoking lamp is lighted”. And aboard our command, that place is most often RAS-5 or on the fantail[13]. Both offer remarkable views of the ocean. Not what one might call a “vista” in this environment.
For the first time since my watch began, from the open aircraft doorways to one side of the hangar I can hear the muted thundering of the waves. And in the soft, midnight ocean air my skin feels cooled and dewy.
Out onto the smoke deck I lean against the shaky, haze grey rails cradling me from plunging into the murky depths below, as I pull a cigarette from the breast pocket of my uniform. This stowage space for such things, as with so much official policy, is frowned upon by “big navy” but broadly disregarded in practice. Knowing and learning what is and isn’t keen, and what you can and cannot get away with is a delicate balancing act of familiarization in the actual navy. It often stands in contrast with official policy, and in practice constitutes a kind of nuanced, unspoken display of tenure.
I glance around the smoke pit- an alcove on the side of the ship used primarily for receiving food stores, supplies, and fuel during underway replenishments- and think to myself how quaint it is that there is no actual illumined lamp here. I recently learned that the ship wide information call of the smoking lamp’s status and location derives from a time before it was commonplace for people to have their own timepieces and lighters or matches. The smoking lamp was a literal lamp that the sailors would use to ignite their assorted vices.
It’s a communal place. A working class place. Somewhere we all gather throughout the days and nights so far away from friends and family. It gets us outside the skin of the ship to shoot the breeze and drink in and appreciate our rarified surroundings. You wouldn’t want a lamp out here in the dead of night at sea. It might give away our position. Nevertheless, god bless the imaginary smoking lamp.
I’m reflecting on how much I love this shift for how few people there are awake and about to bother you when a shadowy figure emerges across the way, accompanied by the mechanical whine of the doorway to this hallowed ground.
“Hey, got a smoke?” the tired specter grumbles. It’s a friend of mine, one of the MCs[14] named Caleb. When you’re on a first name basis, that’s friendship.
“Ah, shit- I just burned my last one. I was gonna ask you!” is my reply. Having just exhausted my final good cigarette from the portside NEX[15], and now wanting to linger and smoke another. From here on out, it’s all Newport Menthols and Marlboro Lights from the ship’s store, all the way home.
“No worries. I’ll be back.” He politely groans. And as suddenly as he slunk in, he’s gone.
I turn back around, and gaze out over the contrasting expanse before me. The undulating, shadowy foundation, and shimmering celestial ceiling of my life in this moment. There are a thousand purposes calling me back to shore. As my cigarette cherry creeps closer to the filter, I think that despite all that beckoning noise and potential- someday I’ll miss this.
Footnotes:
[1] Hallways on a navy ship.
[2] A rhythm and blues ensemble
[3] 12:00 AM, Midnight
[4] Ship
[5] Work shift
[6] Stairs
[7] Doorway
[8] Slip-resistant
[9] Sealing latches
[10] Toward the back of the ship.
[11] The designated area outside the skin of the ship where smoking is permitted.
[12] Replenishment and refueling station on the side of a ship.
[13] The aftmost part of the ship.
[14] Mass Communications specialists, navy journalists
[15] Navy Exchange, a tax-free store