Issue 42 - Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art

the thick metal support posts, I struck it with a light jab. Surprisingly,
the jab caused me little pain, so I hit the post harder, progressively
throwing more of my weight into each blow. The post thudded and
hummed. Its deep-pitched moaJ;l rivaled the drone of the steering
units. The shock of the blows reverberated down my wrists and shoulders
like an arousing musical bass. With each strike I grew stronger. I
could stand up to steel. My boots smeared the blood as it dripped on
the grey decks. It coagulated on the heat of the floor, almost disappearing.
Seaman Romeras, my watch relief, stared as I slung my bloody,
taped fists into the steel beam. But that was just one of those things
that sailors see each other do on long night watches at sea, and nothing
is ever said about it. That night I almost broke. But I turned the whip
against itself, I bared my soul, dripping my
Seaman Romeras,
my watch relief,
stared as I
slung my bloody,
taped fists into the
steel beam.
blood on the steel decks, and in return, the
ship respected my resolve and gave me the
aftersteering room.
The owl had probably flown aboard at
our last port of call, Diego Garcia. Most
likely he made his living catching the huge,
greasy pier rats that infest tropical ports
worldwide. We had pulled out of Garcia
five days ago, so I figured he must be hungry.
The next night, I offered him bread
crusts and pieces of pork, but he showed
no interest. Maybe such food was carrion
to him, and he needed a fresh kill. He allowed me to gently touch his
wings, not because he had grown to trust me, but because he was too
weak and traumatized to resist.
Two days later, the U.S.S. Weitz anchored offshore Phuket Island,
Thailand - the official "R and R" port of call for our "hard work
and professionalism in keeping with the finest traditions of the U.S.
Navy" while patrolling the Persian Gulf. Before liberty call was
passed over the ship's intercom, Thai ferry boats loaded with
ice-cold beer and driven by cocky Thai youths who prided
themselves on their knowledge of English curse words ­
queued alongside our destroyer. Rickety, sky-blue crafts transported
us to the bright green island which emerged out of the
Andaman Sea like the back of a giant jellyfish.
Once aboard the ferry, I drank as fast as I could. Sitting beside me,
Seaman Fortman Whooped it up and I?F.C. Daniels cackled loudly. The
old I?O.'s and sergeants took long drags from their Marlboros; they
remembered the"conveniences" of old Subic in the Philippines. To
these guys nothing compared to Subic Bay, or at least that is what they
always asserted. If nothing else, it was an experience they could hold
over the heads of the younger sailors and marines. In Subic, mere enlisted
rubes metamorphosed into god-kings. Such was the blessing and
curse of being an American with a steady paycheck in the developing
world. They presided over retinues of girlfriends and the officious manservants
who polished their shoes and delivered whiskey wherever
they happened to be "laid up."
In town that night, I selected "Number 12," who sat on a bleacher
behind a huge window with about 30 other young girls. She wore a
gold dress, which - according to the pimps - meant that she possessed
special skills. Holding her hand on the way to the room was the
only intimate aspect of our hour-long encounter. First, we showered
together. She made it cute, but the pre-sex bathing ritual served mYriad
purposes. A clean man, free from the filth accumulated in a tropical
night excursion, made the act more bearable for her. She could also take
this tiine to inspect a man's body in a diplomatic fashion for chancres or
other obvious signs of venereal disease before intercourse. I tipped her
with a pile of coins from various ports of call that had accumulated in
my belly bag. She giggled at the shiny coins rolling on the bedspread.
I ducked through the rear door into a dark muddy alley. The
back of the whorehouse was different from the front, where Thai
pimps in silk shirts stood under the glow of blinking Christmas
lights. It was only now, with the sense of calm and disillusionment
following sex with a prostitute, that I could take in all the details
around me.
On the narrow road outside, five-dollar-a-night street whores
prowled and bar girls danced on the tabletops in a panorama of
open-air bars. Cheesy Western hard rock blasting from the bars,
smoke from the street vendors' grills, and the mugginess of the
rainy season created an overwhelming cacophony. It was like being
in a vacuum that stretched only a few hundred meters in circumference;
but that was just as well, for I saw many sailors from my
command, some of whom were married with children, fondling
prostitutes and receiving oral sex from them publicly within the
bars. Often a macho war cry or volley of high-fives followed these
open performances of fellatio. Such scenes disturbed me, even
though I was unable to discern exactly why.
Across the street I spotted Petty Officer Valdez drunk and walking
hand-in-hand with a cOlnpact, dark-skinned girl through the
human swirl of sailors, marines, and whores. Valdez could drink
twice as much as any of the whooping sailors or adrenaline-pumped