Last Man Aboard

Back in 1987, USS Saratoga was conducting training exercises off the coast of Florida in preparation for an upcoming deployment. Pilots were conducting carrier qualifications (CQ) so they could get used to taking off and landing on an aircraft carrier at sea. If you've seen any war movie that features naval battles, you've undoubtedly seen how dangerous that is. Those evolutions are precarious on land and adding in the pitch and roll of a warship multiplies the risk. CQs were an important part of a battle groups pre-deployment training. After the CQs were complete, we had a port visit scheduled in Miami for a well-deserved liberty call. We talked about all the things we were going to see and do the whole time prior to arrival.

Aircraft carriers have a unique problem whenever they conduct a port visit. Typically, there isn't a berth that is wide enough or deep enough to allow us to come pier side, so we usually anchored offshore and water taxis were contracted to shuttle Sailors ashore. This caused long lines through the hangar bays during the day, and even longer lines at Fleet Landing – the term given to the area ashore where we caught the water taxi back to the ship – at Zero Dark Thirty when we were hammered drunk. The ride back while drunk provided a lot of entertainment, and often differentiated between the Old Salts and the Boots.

We anchored off the coast and wouldn't you know it, I had duty the first day. Having duty the first day of liberty is a blessing and a curse. In one respect, you're anxious to get off the ship and ready to fuck shit up. But it's not so bad, because the guys who go out the first night always come back with some good intel on where to go. My buddy Stacey and I had plans to go out after we got off the mid-watch (and a quick nap), and we were going to meet some other guys who were going to get a hotel room the first night. 

Hotel rooms were always coveted because living aboard ship sucks. You eat, sleep, shit, shower, and shave in an industrial complex and remain in very close proximity to EVERYONE, whether you liked them or not. It was always noisy, dirty, and stinky, so it wasn't uncommon for a group of six or eight dudes to pool their money to get a room on the beach, get a shitload of beer, and drink all weekend without having to worry about going back to the ship. It didn't matter if you had to crash in a chair or on the floor, as long as you were off the ship.

The mid watch and quick nap behind us, Stacey and I went down to the hangar bay to catch a liberty launch ashore. The late-morning sky was severely overcast and the ships' weather guessers predicted severe thunderstorms for the next few days. It looked like those fuckers guessed right. We could definitely rule out going to the beach, but there were plenty of bars to drink in where the rain wouldn't be an issue. We met up with our buddies, did a little shopping, and commenced to drinkin'.

The weather got progressively worse throughout the day. The rain came down in sheets, and there was no traffic to speak of. This made it difficult to find a cab, so we opted to keep our drinking to bars that were within sprinting distance of the hotel. We bumped into some other Shipmates throughout the evening, and we were hearing persistent rumors that the weather was so bad that the water taxis couldn't make the transit from ship to shore safely, and that they issued a recall of all ship's company or risk being stuck ashore. We were squids. That was a risk we were willing to take. Our buddies that we met ashore all had duty the following day and decided it best to return to the ship. We made arrangements with the hotel to have their room transferred to us. Stacey and I continued drinking.

The rumors we were hearing about liberty being canceled turned out to be true. We were in a bar where the music was loud and women were dancing. The TV behind the bar was on but was muted.

"Hey! Turn up the TV!"

There was a story on the news about liberty cancellation because the seas were too rough for the water taxis. The on-location reporter said that any Sailors that were still ashore needed to check in with Shore Patrol at Fleet Landing. Stacey and I closed our tabs, tossed a couple of bucks to the dancers, and headed towards Fleet Landing. We managed to hail a taxi and stumbled out of it once we arrived. The line of Sailors waiting to check-in told us we weren't the only ones who had the same great idea. We talked to some of the other guys in line. Word was that since the weather was out of our control, we would be allowed to stay ashore until the weather cleared and we could get back aboard. We had to check in with Shore Patrol twice each day to let them know we were alive, but otherwise, we were free to do whatever. Our turn came up.

"Names." It was more of a demand than a question.

"Krol."

"Haberl."

"You gotta place to stay?"

"Yup."

"Check-in twice a day and be ready to go back to the ship when you do."

"Aye aye."

We walked away like we just hit the Lotto. We were Sailors on unrestricted liberty in Miami. The fact that we didn't have a change of clothes, or toiletries, or much money didn't seem to matter.

We went back to the hotel to make sure that they knew what was going on. Although it was the off-season, vacancies were pretty scarce, especially reasonably priced ones. This hotel was not reasonably priced. It was one of the nicer hotels where families and businesspeople stayed, not drunken squids with no accountability. Still, it was better than looking for a new place in the storm, so we made arrangements to continue staying there with the premise that we square the bill each day. Stacey had a credit card, for which we were both thankful, because it was still a couple of days before payday, and we knew our cash supply would be spent elsewhere. We got some complimentary toiletries (toothbrushes, toothpaste, razors, and shaving cream), put them in our room, and headed back out.

We woke up the next morning hungover and woefully low on cash. A quick glance outside told us that the deluge was still happening, and a quick check of the local news told us it was going to stay like this for the next couple of days. As we got ready to make our way to Fleet Landing to check in with Shore Patrol, we discussed our financial situation. From what we saw on the local weather, we were going to be ashore for a couple days and we knew the cash we had both in our wallets and in our bank accounts would not last. Like most junior Sailors, we lived paycheck-to-paycheck. We decided to save the cash for when we actually went out. We'd put whatever we could on Stacey's credit card and split the bill halfway. And we'd pick up a case or two of beer to pre-game, so we didn't spend so much when we went out. As we put on our still-soaked clothes, we realized we had another problem: we didn't bring a change of clothes. We hadn't planned on being ashore so long so there was no point in bringing a bag, which was just going to slow us down at the bars anyway. We decided to figure it out later and headed to Fleet Landing. It wouldn't have mattered if our clothes were bone dry, they would have been soaked through in short order anyway. 

We checked in with Shore Patrol and asked when they thought we'd have to go back. We got a shrug as a reply, which was pretty much what we expected. We picked up a case of the cheapest beer we could stand and headed back to the room.

We were stranded in Miami for three days, each day much like the one before. We'd wake up hungover, shit shower and shave, check-in with Shore Patrol, get another case of beer, begin drinking, check-in with Shore Patrol, and continue drinking at whatever bar we saw that looked like they had cheap beer and cheaper women, lather rinse repeat. Daily sustenance consisted of pizza and hot wings. The morning of day 3, we realized that the rain really wasn't getting our clothes clean. We had taken to freeballin', but things get chafed that shouldn't when they rub against soggy denim all day. We called down to the front desk and asked if they had a laundry service, which they did. The staff knew who we were and made it a priority for us. They sent someone up to get our clothes, we answered the door in bedsheets (our towels were all dirty, one of us may have puked the night before) and we had them back about an hour and a half later. We watched the weather and although it had subsided a little, it hadn't let up enough for the water taxis to resume service. We knew we'd have to get back somehow because the ship was scheduled to get underway soon. We'd heard that there were about 100 civilians who came to tour the ship the first day and had to spend the night aboard. I'm sure they kept them out of gen pop and gave them staterooms and good meals. They helo'ed them off the following morning.

It was the evening of the third night and we knew we were going back aboard ship. Local news was broadcasting regularly that all Sailors should report back to be transported back to the ship. The question was how they were going to get us there. Of course, we were among the last guys to report. The water taxis still weren't running because the seas were still rough. The barges and accommodation ladders, which served as the landing and the means to get from the water taxi to the ship, had all been taken away. We'd hoped that they were going to helo us onboard, which would have been awesome, but that wasn't the plan.

Since the water taxis refused to run, the ship launched one of their PL boats – a 28-foot personnel launch – and ran back and forth to Fleet Landing and took us back to the ship. We boarded the PL one at a time as it bobbed and swayed against the pier. The boat got underway once we were aboard, and we all clung to something regardless of how much salt was coursing through our veins. It was no wonder why the water taxis refused to run. Waves crashed against the hull and into the boat. Flooding wasn't a concern but capsizing certainly was. 

"Listen up!" the Boatswain's Mate bellowed over the raging sea. He joined us in clinging to something, but there was decidedly more confidence in his grip. He proceeded to tell us how we were going to get from the PL and get onboard Sara. We were going to pull alongside the ship underneath one of the sponsons, where a Jacob's ladder would be hanging. A Jacob's ladder is a rope ladder with wooden rungs. You've likely seen one at a fair or carnival where you have to scurry up one, ring a buzzer, and win a prize. The Jacob's ladder in this case would be hanging vertically. Once the PL hit the crest of a wave, we were supposed to grab hold of the ladder and start climbing as fast as we could. The PL would then dip down into the trough of the wave. We were told to start climbing immediately because once the PL began to rise in the crest, there was a very good chance we would slam into the boat as it rose rapidly. We were to go up one man at a time, and we were to climb the ladder sideways, which was supposed to be the easiest way. Once we were at the top, there would be Shipmates to pull us up off the ladder and onto the ship.

It sounded simple enough, except for one thing: I was terrified of heights. I'm not terrified of them any more thanks to doing things like this both in the line of duty and as a conscious effort to quell those fears. But at this point in my life, I had neither the opportunity nor inclination to face that fear. I wondered why they hadn't flown us on by helo, or why they wouldn't authorize us to rent a car and drive up to meet them in Mayport when the ship pulled back in two days hence. Such ponderings were, of course, pointless. My narrow ass was going up that ladder.

The PL boat shuddered and shimmied against the angry sea. We didn't seem to be getting any closer, but the range was definitely decreasing, albeit slowly. Our knuckles were white and ached from the death grip we had on whatever stable object we were clinging to. It seemed as though the closer we got, the slower we went. Sara seemed oblivious to the raging sea. She maintained her composure and seemed to hold her ground despite the wave's insistence. Eventually, we came alongside and all you could see off the starboard side of the boat was an enormous haze grey wall. The tiny PL boat which fought tooth and nail against the tide was dwarfed in comparison. The Boatswain's Mate barked the plan again, and we went up one by one. The PL pulled away several times because we were in danger of being smashed against the hull of the aircraft carrier. I stayed back for last, hoping whatever God there was would calm the seas, offering an alternative to this madness. Alas.

"You're the last one Shipmate! Let's go!" I stared blankly.

"SHIPMATE!" The Boatswain's Mate grabbed me by my shoulders and stared at my ashen face intently. His intent was to snap me out of my frozen state. Successful, his voice calmed but was no less stern.

"You've gotta get up that ladder. We can't stay here. We are all in danger. Once we hit the crest, grab the ladder sideways and climb as fast as you can." I nodded in understanding and crept towards where the ladder would soon be once we hit the crest. I stared hard at the ladder, and the wave propelled us up faster than I hoped. I clutched the rungs sideways as the PL boat dropped from beneath me.
"MOVE YOUR ASS, SHIPMATE!!!"

The PL was coming up FAST. I climbed as fast as I dared. The PL began to pull away. It was getting too close to the ship. I slowed my pace considerably. I heard two people shout "CLIMB" almost in unison. One came from below and was unmistakably the voice of the Boatswain's Mate. The other came from above. I made the mistake of looking up. I could see the ladder swing and sway. What little salt I had in my veins came to my rescue and blocked three days' worth of cheap beer from coming up. "DON'T LOOK UP SHIPMATE! JUST CLIMB!" I resumed my ascent, shaky but steady. There were several voices coming from above, the most prominent one belonging to the one who shouted "don't look up" a momentary eternity ago. The voices were close. I focused on the rungs and saw there were no more to grab hold of. The "don't look up" voice barked "GIVE ME YOUR HAND". I didn't have to look down to know it was a long way down, and I knew if I fell, that was it. I'd be hanging out in Davey Jones' Locker in no time. "GIVE ME YOUR HAND" the voice repeated. I loosened my grip on the top rung and made a feeble attempt at extending my hand, then instinctively brought it back down and resumed a death grip on the top rung. "GIVE ME YOUR GODDAMN HAND, SHIPMATE!" I bolted my hand up like a third-grader who knew the answer to the teacher's question. A hand gripped my wrist and I gripped the wrist of his hand and felt a violent and urgent yank. Other hands grabbed my arm and any other place they could find purchase. My body was hefted up and I landed on the nonskid of the sponson. I lay upon the deck like a trophy fish who was too tired to fight.

"You're ok, Shipmate," the voice said. I looked up and saw a fouled anchor. A Chief. He wasn't "my" Chief, but in that space, in time he was absolutely my Chief. "You're ok, Shipmate" he repeated and helped me to my feet. Stacey was standing nearby. He had a look that said, "what the hell just happened". We stared at each other in disbelief, shook our heads and, as we turned to get into some dry clothes, we heard someone report "Last man aboard".