Listen, for years, whenever anybody asked me how I was doing, I had a stock response:
Well, I haven’t been fired or indicted.
This to indicate my very low threshold for ‘doin’ OK.’
Alas, while pawing through the detritus of my misguided youth the other day I suddenly came to the realization that I’ve been misinforming my faithful readers and hangers-on for years.
True, I’ve never been fired.
But it turns out that, lost in the windmill of my mind, is that time I was indeed subpoenaed, indicted, tried and severely punished for my alleged transgressions.
But I said then, and I’ll say it again now.
I was framed.
By a kangaroo court.
Manned by sadists.
Who had it in for me.
An innocent man.
Hell, I even question this alleged court’s jurisdictional authority.
Long story short: It was June 3, 1968. And I was doing my patriotic duty on the USS Steinaker.
We had been defending life, liberty, the American Way and God knows what else in the Gulf of Tonkin (GOT). When, suddenly, we were off to Singapore for a liberty call.
Which I thought was really cool. Having seen Hope and Crosby in “The Road to Singapore” more times than I wish to acknowledge.
And the truth is that, by this point in our WesPac cruise I was feeling rather like I’d been shanghied by a press gang.
So I was grateful to be anywhere other than the above mentioned GOT.
Alas, turned out that Singapore is tantalizingly close to the equator. And it required only a slight zig to the south to give our on-board kangaroo court (aka shellbacks) leave to keel haul and humiliate me and much of the rest of the crew (aka pollywogs).
What was I indicted for?
I will cite the alleged legal document served me.
For being a slimy beach-combing, cargo-warming, chicken-chasing, four-flushing, liberty-hounding drug store cowboy.
Listen, I’d never flushed a four in my life.
I objected, of course.
But I might as well have been contesting a speeding ticket in south Georgia for all the good it did me.
I will spare you most of the sordid details, friends and neighbors.
Suffice it to say that this exercise in juris prudence mischief involved a lot of belly squirming on the deck and being coated with a slimy substance, the nature of which does not bear contemplation.
And finally, being compelled to kiss the equally slimy foot of the ugliest ”queen” in all of Neptune’s realm.
And you wanna know the absolute worst part, friends and neighbors?
Having been tried, found guilty and punished, I have never had the opportunity to mete out similar humiliation to others.
Which is to say that I haven’t had the chance to cross the Equator on a ship since.
I mean, what’s the point of being a shellback if I can’t lord it over lowly pollywogs?
Heck, the last time I crossed the line I was on a crowded airliner soaring several thousand feet above sea level. And I knew damned well that it was packed to the gills with pollywogs.
But when I suggested we do the requisite ceremony, the steely-eyed response of the flight attendant suggested that she wasn’t having it.
She may have muttered “kiss my foot.” But I’m not entirely certain of that.
Thanks a bunch Neptune.
FreeGNV 