The Helmsman Was on Acid

By Scott Staron

Nighttime at sea. The ship’s bridge is dark, with red light coming from a few isolated pieces of equipment, but my eyes are accustomed to the black of night. As a brand-new conning officer of a U.S. Navy warship in 1987, I give the orders that will send the ship in the right direction at the necessary speed. Behind me is the ship’s helm, which looks like an oversized steering wheel. Standing behind it is Seaman Melvin, a tall, gangly young man in the lowest echelons of the ship’s enlisted ranks. He steers the ship according to the instructions I provide.

“Helm, right standard rudder, come to course 270,” I order. I hear nothing. I give the same order, even louder. Still nothing. I get my red penlight out of my pocket and shine it on Melvin’s face. A blank expression. This time, I stand next to him and yell the order directly at him, and he finally snaps out of his trance. “Aye aye, sir. Rudder is right standard, coming to new course 270.” I sigh. It is not the first time we have had this interaction.

I look down at the compass and see the ship’s course changing. 260 … 265 … 270 … 275! “Melvin,” I scream, “the ordered course is 270! What is wrong with you?” He snaps out of his hypnotic state again. “Aye aye, sir. Coming to new course 270.” I watch the rudder indicator come back to the left, and this time the ship settles at 270. I sigh again. This is just too hard.

Melvin is a member of Deck Division, the ship’s least specialized group, whose members work out on deck in the elements. They operate the winches and hoists and maintain the ship’s ropes and lines. They are the roughest and most nautical group on the ship, with lots of tattoos and the saltiest language aboard. If you didn’t go to a technical school and were in the lowest ranks, you ended up in Deck Division. One of the ship’s misfits.

One day, not long after my sixth month aboard, I see a new Deck Division seaman report to the ship. Clean-cut, with blond hair that seems a little long by Navy standards. Not the normal misfit look. I note this, then get caught back up in the chaos of shipboard life and don’t think anymore about it.

A few weeks later, we all come to work and notice, as the day goes on, that few seamen from Deck Division are aboard. I run into the executive officer. “Hey, XO, where on earth did Deck Division go?” He looks at me and decides it is OK to tell me. After all, it is over now, and there is no longer a need for secrecy. “We got a tip that an LSD ring was being run out of deck berthing. The Naval Security and Investigative Command, or NSIC, sent in a mole, and he fingered 20 guys. They’re all in the brig down at the naval station.”

I have not one but two epiphanies. These don’t happen often with sleep-deprived new officers, but I happen to be quicker than normal that day.

The mole sent in by NSIC: the new blond-haired surfer dude in Deck Division!

Melvin was steering the ship on acid!

Most days aboard Navy ships are tedious and tiring. A few are downright interesting. This day was one of the latter.

It’s going to be a challenging but fascinating four years.

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As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.