The Runaway Punt

United States Submarine Veterans

Chesapeake Base

The Runaway Punt

The Runaway Punt

by Paul Benton

Long before a high bridge spanned the bay between Coronado Island and San Diego, and before the Navy's last operating seaplanes stopped vying for space in the channel with ships and small boats -- even before the submariner's elusive dream of pier space all their own, not to be shared with the skimmers, was fulfilled at Point Loma -- two Submarine tenders were moored to buoys in San Diego Bay. Then San Diego was a small "Navy town" with an aircraft manufacturing industry and the best weather in the 48 States. The weather has not changed.

The bow of both Nereus and Sperry were each moored to a permanent buoy while anchors and ground tackle laid out aft kept the ships from swinging around their buoys, and in line for'd and aft to each other. Nereus, with Submarine Squadron 5 embarked and several pig-boats nested outboard to port, pointed toward Point Loma and the Bay's entrance. Sperry and Submarine Squadron 3, also with its pig-boats moored fast alongside to port, was a safe distance aft. Legend holds that submarines were dubbed "Pig Boats" because when alongside their tender, they resembled suckling pigs at the sow. The mooring buoys were close to the Coast Guard's seaplane ramp on the San Diego side, and in line with NAS North Island's seaplane ramps. The tenders could be seen almost anywhere from the downtown Embarkadero area; however, there was a particularly good view for the tourists from the newly constructed Shelter Island.

The submariners rode in small boats every day, evening, and night to get on the beach from the nests and to return. If a sailor had an extra quarter in his pocket; "Goofy," "Barney Googles," "Minnie Mouse" or one of the many other sleek covered launches of United Water Taxi was the fastest way to the foot of Broadway. Their boats were fast, clean, and barring extremely foul weather -- mostly on time. If a sailor did not have the fare, then the Navy's launches were free. But they were usually crowded; on a sparse schedule; strictly regulation; and sometimes made additional stops at the Sound Lab on Point Loma, or Coast Guard Landing before the 25 minute ride to the Fleet Landing -- several blocks south of Broadway. Because of their extra pay, submariners could afford the 15 minute ride in the frequent water taxi's, while most of the skimmers rode the Navy's boats.

Waiting at the water taxi terminal for a late shipmate or for a boat to be called away could be quite an experience. Often summertime tourists, who frequently strolled by sightseeing, would walk up and chat with the sailors about the Navy and the ships. Once they found a submariner they would bend an ear for as long as he was there. This wasn't a one way street either -- most would offer to buy a round of cold drinks or other refreshments, and pass around cigarettes. These people were interested in our work and proud of their Navy, and were especially awed by Submarines -- it was no trouble to talk with them and puff out your chest with pride in your boat and fellow citizens. However, there were some hi-jinks and Smoke Stacking in the wee hours, but the Shore Patrol CPO who frequented that part of Harbor Drive ran a tight watch and kept things in order.

There were, in regard to servicing boats alongside, arguable differences between the two tenders: One had a better electrical repair shop -- the other a better gyro shop. One had a better machine shop -- the other a better torpedo shop. One would let the sub-sailors pick up small items (nuts, bolts, tape, etc.) without a requisition -- the other insisted on the correct paperwork for everything. There was, however, no argument over which tender had the best Gedunk. The Nereus' Gedunk was substandard. Pogey bait and canned soda were the only treats offered to the skimmers and the occasional submariners who dropped in for a Coke. Sperry was another matter -- anything which wasn't completely up to par, as far as services provided to the boats alongside were concerned, was redeemed by the excellence of her Gedunk. Once when Nereus was underway Sparky discovered this truth.

Sparky's boat had to moor in the nest alongside Sperry to finish a minor repair period. The gedunk area was near the double doors in the side of the hull where the submarine sailors regularly passed to cross the brow from the nested boats to get to the tender's Quarterdeck and the liberty boats. For Sparky it was love at first sight. This was not the run of the mill gedunk with canned soda languishing in the rusty tepid water of waist high steel ice chests; and with open boxes of assorted candy bars, pretzels, and potato chips strewn about on a small table behind the server at the counter. All most unappetizing. Sperry had a real soda fountain, where each frosty delight was concocted individually by an attendant wearing a white jacket.

Waiting in line for his turn at the counter, Sparky was overwhelmed by anticipation watching the master of the gedunk plying his expertise. This maestro of the soda fountain, could mix two sodas at a time: Pulling a lever on one of the two high curved spigots, which resembled draught beer dispensers, he directed carbonated water with the business end of a long handled mixing spoon, into tall paper cups of ice cream and flavoring set to either side of the spigots mouth. First into the one cup, then into the other -- spilling nary a drop. Simultaneously two steel cups full of fresh milk, hand-dipped ice cream, and flavored syrup hung from green whirring, buzzing mixers blending "milk shakes" for the Southern boys, or "ice cream frappes" for the Easterners. This was just like the Ice Cream Parlor in the Spreckles Hotel over on Broadway. There were even benches to sit on while enjoying the confections; and tidbits neatly displayed in a glass case to tempt those waiting in line into spending an extra dime. This is what was on Sparky's mind that fateful day.

Previously, in other Sea Stories, I have explained that my shipmate Sparky had not always been a sparky. Having never met a job in a submarine which he didn't like, Sparky had worked in the boat's Operations Department as a Sonar and Radar operator. Later as a Nuke he was trained as an Electronics Technician. Then after sliding into disfavor with the fuckin'- nukes, he was salvaged by a wily old Master Chief Electrician's Mate who knew that young men full of piss and vinegar needed purpose and direction. Thus he became a sparky. However, before ending his meandering down these various pathways, later to focus on a meaningful Navy career, Sparky was an apprentice seaman hard at work in the deck gang.

Submariners in the deck gang actually worked for the Weapons Officer, and usually a senior Gunner's Mate left over from deck gun days. Their job was to do most everything which the other crew members were not assigned to do: be lookouts and planesmen underway; load torpedoes, small arms ammunition, and pyrotechnics; man the two 50-caliber machine guns (the only crew-served weapons aboard); and, keep the topside areas in ship-shape condition. The most important job topside was to fight rust and to maintain the paint scheme. Generally parts of the boat, like the tank tops and planes, which might be visible from the surface were painted dull black, while the tall sail and sides of the superstructure above the tank tops were gray. The dull gray, darker than on the other boats, was especially suited for camouflage in Arctic operations.

Sparky and his mates actually did a good job, when they had the proper supervision -- notwithstanding, the time the tender filled their requisition with the wrong type of gray paint. Instead of flat gray paint, they had received enamel gray. In their trust and ignorance in the Navy's supply system, they dutifully spray painted the sail in record time. She shone like the sun from dawn to dusk, until months later when she went into the shipyard for a sand blast and regulation paint job.

Actually it was the superiority of the Sperry's gedunk and the need to paint the boat which precipitated the incident of the punt. The boat was the furthest outboard in the nest. The Gunner's Mate had gotten low pressure air blown into the main ballast tanks to raise her tank tops higher than usual out of the water; and also to list the boat first to one side -- to be cleaned of light rust and grassy growth and painted -- then listed to the other side for more of the same . To make the job easier and a bit safer for Sparky and his mates in the deck gang, the Gunner's Mate had arranged to borrow the Nereus' paint punt from one of his old pals on the tender. The punt was a small flat bottom, slab sided, rude wooden boat about 12 feet long, and blunt on each end. Its purpose was to be drawn by ropes from the main deck around the ship's waterline, where its two passengers could clean and touch up the waterline paint job of the tender. Submariners did not normally use a punt for this work, but with a paint gun in one hand and holding a rope tied about their waist with the other hand, swung like monkeys from the rope attached to the boat's deck. They rappelled in a wide arc with their feet while spraying flat black paint in the general direction of the tank tops. After moving to another spot they repeated this procedure until most of the tank tops were -- sort of -- painted. The problem was that the tank tops began to taper and narrow just for'd of the sail and could not be painted in this fashion. Thence the Gunner's Mate's innovation of using the Nereus' paint punt.

The Gunner's Mate gave his troops their working orders, then he went on the beach early -- as he said, "... to inspect yards and docks ... ." Pulling the workers around the boat's waterline in the paint punt was so much more efficient than swinging from monkey ropes that Sparky and the boys finished painting the outboard side that first afternoon. Since it was mid-afternoon and the work was progressing so well, they decided not to mix a fresh pot of paint but do a quick clean up and finish painting the other side of the boat the next day. This by itself was not altogether a wrong decision.

It had been a beautiful summer day on San Diego Bay, calm with almost no wind, which helped in painting the waterline, but made the boys a bit warm after their hard day's work. The boys of the deck gang sat around the After Torpedo Room hatch sharing a pitcher of tart green "bug juice" and planning the next day's work, while solving all of the Submarine Force's perceived problems. During the bitching about Nereus and their lack of support for the Squadron's submariners, the inevitable comparisons were made with Sperry. Perhaps it was while gulping the tepid liquid that thoughts of Sperry's gedunk surfaced during the conversation. But how could they get to that repository of frosty delights? The major obstacle to the fulfillment of their desires was not 1000 yards of the now placid San Diego Bay between them and Sperry, but the Officer of the Deck of Nereus.

The Watch Officer who was responsible to ensure that all manner of the ship's daily routine was not only announced to all hands, but also accomplished with alacrity and accuracy was the Officer of the Deck; in Navy parlance abbreviated OOD. When swinging from her moorings Nereus' OOD watch station was the Quarterdeck. Here in front of the gangway, in addition to the ship's inport routine, he controlled the comings and goings of all persons transiting the vessel. This included the submariners from the nest, or elsewhere. The OOD watch was stood by the junior officers who were Junior Grade Lieutenants and Ensigns; and a cadre of Warrant Officers. Now most of the junior officers were decent sorts, who may just as well have been standing around on the Quarterdeck for their four-hour watch, as doing anything else in the ship. The Warrant Officers, however, were a different matter. They were all former enlisted men who had came up from the fo'c'le, and had been recognized by the Navy for their exemplary leadership as sailors, and master tradesmen. Most were in charge of various divisions within Nereus, which were paramount to the ship's operation and the continued good repair and provisioning of the pig-boats alongside. It isn't that they hated these four-hour watches amidst their busy working day, they all understood their military obligation; but as key officers in the tender's mission, they had a heavy responsibility to both the ship and her submarines to provide the best services possible. However, when duty called they often had to leave important administrative matters or delicate priority work to a less experienced subordinate. This is why sometimes the Warrant Officers seemed, shall I say -- testy -- while standing the OOD watch.

The one exception to this was the Ship's Boats'n -- he was testy all of the time. Sparky did not know this officer by name, but knew him by sight and reputation. The word was that this ex-battleship sailor, the most senior of all the Warrant Officers aboard Nereus, hated submariners. That's why he hassled them, especially the unqualified junior men, about their wrinkled uniforms and dirty "white hats" as they saluted him to leave the ship on their way to the water taxi and liberty. If he saw genuine patent leather Hong Kong Wellington Boots instead of shined regulation Navy shoes during his quick once over, one could bet on missing that liberty boat too. He even hassled the rumpled working submariners in dungarees who tried to catch a boat to Sperry on business. Thus, the crux of Sparky's and his mates in the deck gang's problem.

Once the boys of the deck gang had decided that a treat from the Sperry's gedunk was in order, they crossed each boat's brow with a spring in their step, on the way to the tender's Quarterdeck and a boat to Sperry. This trip was not unusual, since at one time or another most of the submariners in the group had rode one of the launches to Sperry on official business. Now they marched, in staggered single column, up the starboard side of Nereus' main deck. As they drew closer to the Quarterdeck, that white macrame and polished brass gateway to the gedunk, an officer suddenly stepped out of the for'd athwartships passageway near the quarterdeck. He stood tall in immaculate dress whites, to face the rag tag group of submariners. It was the Ship's Boats'n replete with a face like a leather road map; a chest full of ribbons; and a brass Spyglass, signifying his authority as the Watch Officer, handily clamped under his left arm and held tightly in his left fist -- Old-Navy style. He confronted the young submariners.

"What is your business here?"

They suddenly became aware of their own sweat-soaked and paint-stained dungarees, and the smudges of dirty fingerprints on their white hats. Knowing that the Boats'n would not let them off the ship, and wanting to avoid an ass-chewing for trying -- Sparky said coolly that they were heading for the Boat Deck and must have taken a wrong turn. The OOD gave them directions and watched bemused as Sparky and his mates retreated whence they had come.

Undaunted by this setback, Sparky suggested another tack -- Why not use the punt? After all it was at their disposal. Sparky had ample experience handling row boats and canoes, and the Bay was so calm that a dish would float atop it, it was "dish calm." Sparky persuaded two other of his mates in the deck gang to join him in the punt as crew. There were no regular paddles for the punt, but the motley crew improvised with some split boards which they had used to stir the paint, there were enough long ones for a two-paddle-power propulsion system.

The trip from outboard their boat to the outboard boat alongside Sperry went rather well. The nearly slack tide and just a hint of sea breeze aided their journey, and it only took a bit of vigorous paddling to come alongside the outboard boat and secure the punt. Imagine the amazement on the face of the topside watch when Sparky and his mates scrambled up the side of the submarine and asked him to keep an eye on their "boat." On to the gedunk!

The flawless trip from the Nereus' nest had emboldened the young submarine sailors, and they tarried awhile in Sperry while drinking their frosty milkshakes, returning again to the gedunk line for some extra pogey bait. Fully refreshed, with their spirits rejuvenated, they pushed off in their borrowed punt from its borrowed mooring. They had overstayed the tide. They didn't feel the full effect of the flood tide until they cleared the nest. Sparky in front and his mate astern both paddled "balls to the wall," as their passenger sat on the floor of the punt, keeping as low as possible. They were holding their own against the tide until the punt drew nigh Nereus' stern anchor mooring. Redoubling their paddling effort they made it to the anchor chain for a rest, and held on against the freshening breeze. Since they were more afraid of being exposed as imbeciles than of drowning, rather than trying to attract attention and get rescued, this tenacious crew made a final effort to reach their submarine. Their efforts were in vain. With the wind upon the tide the punt was set down between the two tenders -- toward the Coast Guard landing a couple of miles (or so) across the now choppy Bay.

Fortunately for the wayward punt and its struggling crew, time was nearing Liberty Call, and there were more ship's boats than usual standing off waiting their turn at the accommodation ladder. The Coxs'n of a big 50-footer, who had just loaded passengers, was now headed for Nereus to top off with passengers before heading for Fleet Landing. He stood at attention on the stern deck with the boat's tiller clamped in his right hand, and loosely held the bell rope in the other. Before the 50-footer passed near the rude punt, Sparky heard the Coxs'n signal the boat's Engineer, clang-clang-clang, to idle the engine lest their deep wake swamp the wayward punt. The punt's crewmen realizing that this was their last chance to make the gangway of Nereus, rather than the first page of the local newspaper, began waving frantically at the closing boat. As the 50-footer drew within earshot they all shouted, "Throw us a line." The Coxs'n motioned to his bowhook who ran aft and threw the stern painter, which had lain neatly flemished aft awaiting use, toward the wayward punt. His aim was good, but there was no way to make the line fast to the punt. So Sparky, sitting on the floor of the punt with both feet propped against the flat front boards, held on to the line with both hands.

The punt could now be clearly seen from both tender's Quarterdecks. However, the OOD's attention must have been diverted inspecting the liberty party and controlling the boats coming alongside. The daring rescue was unnoticed -- and going well. The Coxs'n slowly took up the slack in the tow line and headed toward Nereus. Holding tightly onto the tow line, but not overly straining himself, Sparky began to relax and banter with his mates. They assured themselves with bravado that this had been a good idea, and pitied their thirsty mates back on the submarine. They were home free.

The Coxs'n, perhaps in his haste to get alongside Nereus and keep to his appointed schedule, must have forgotten about the punt astern. Clang-clang-clang-clang! Sparky and his crew clearly heard the bells above the roar of the engine, order full speed ahead. As the big 50-footer increased speed, the wake from its powerful screw churned up deeper and deeper, until there was so much strain on the tow line that Sparky could barely hold on. They shouted to no avail to slow down, as the blunt ended punt was slowly being sucked into the trough of the 50-footer's wake, The Coxs'n could not hear them. All in the punt was confusion: The roar of the boat's engine; the unheeded shouts of its crew; salt water breaking over the blunt bow threatening to swamp the runaway punt; and Sparky, with aching arms and a wet ass, undecided whether to let go and be swamped while cattywampus to the wake, or to hold on and be sucked under. Suddenly Sparky's burden became lightened when his mate in the back end -- whether through serendipity, or some latent knowledge manifest through their current predicament -- had used a flat board paddle to steer the punt out of the wake's trough and up onto one of its wave tops, where the punt rose high out of the water and began to surf on its flat bottom.

Just about this time the Nereus' OOD noticed what -- at first -- looked like a punt trying to overtake a 50-foot utility boat. The ship's Boats'n watched in amazement as the little punt surfed high on the boat's wake, with its blunt after end violently fishtailing and threatening to flip it, and its crew, back into the wake's trough. Overcoming his disbelief that something like this could ever happen on his watch, the Senior Warrant Officer lifted a large megaphone to his lips and shouted.

Everything seemed calm and under control, at least momentarily, to the boys in the surf punt: they were no longer being sucked down into the wake; they were rapidly closing in on Nereus' accommodation ladder; and, the pain in Sparky's hands and arms was now at least bearable. Then Sparky heard a bell-clear voice above the mayhem. It was calm, forceful, and commanding, and seemed loud enough to be floating out to them in the ether.

"Let loose of that painter! Let loose of that painter!"

Sparky gave a fleeting glance toward the tender. Oh Christ! There he stood, the meanest and most aggravating Warrant Officer in Nereus, in his immaculate white uniform shouting orders to him and the boys through a megaphone.

"Let loose of that painter! Let loose of that painter!"

Now the Boats'n was not using one of those new electric-powered "Bull Horns" to hail the punt. He had a large megaphone, like cheerleaders used at football games. That voice now seemed even closer and more commanding than before. But after all of their trouble to get this far, Sparky was not about to let go.

"Screw you, Sir." He spoke low each time the Warrant Officer shouted. But Sparky was afraid to even look in the direction of Nereus and the Boats'n. He just winced and kept his head down. Amidst the Boats'n's shouts, the boat's Coxs'n finally cut his engine. The surf punt shot by close aboard the 50-footer riding the crest of its dying wake.

"Coxs'n, take those men aboard and bring them here to me immediately." The agitated Warrant Officer ordered.

The three unfortunate submariners stood at attention in Nereus' athwartships passageway while the ship's Boats'n -- in today's parlance -- verbally abused them. Sparky thought that he must have written the Navy Correspondence Course on how to chew ass, since his knack for use of Navy vernacular in describing the foolish actions of three young men lacked nothing. This Warrant Officer went to the head of Sparky's list of most accomplished ass-chewers, and remained there until someone flattered a matured Sparky with that distinction (I'm sure that the old W4 Boatswain had been long retired by then).

The runway punt's crew got their ass chewed out again the next day by the Gunner's Mate, not for stupidity, but because the paint punt would never again be lent to the submariners.

God damn! That Sperry had a great gedunk.

�1997 Paul D. Benton (reprinted from the Silent-Server, CAUSS