Sea Stories from Uncle Sam's Canoe Club
Or, what they don't mention in recruiting advertisements.
Here is a tale from my days as a Sailor in the US Navy. Total truth, or just another sea story? You be the judge.
This story occured on a six month (which became eight months by extensions) deployment in support of The Global War on Terror campaign of 2007 in the Persian Gulf.
While deployed on the USS HAWES (Hell All Week even Sunday), the daily routine onboard ship becomes monotonous. Imagine you and 200 of your best (not) friends waking up at 0600, eating breakfast, then working a 12-hour shift from 0700-1900. All in an area the length of a football field, but only 25 yards at her widest point. Same food, same ocean, same work, etc. Hell, even the programming broadcast on the TVs in the berthing lounge and ships cafeteria were the same. It seemed as if the Eddie Murphy movie Norbit was stuck on a repeat loop. I swear it felt like the movie was always on. The phrase “Groundhog Day” is the perfect metaphor for days at sea. Because of all this, stopping in port for a few days offered a brief respite from the deployment grind.
Everyone was excited the morning we pulled up pier side in the small country of Bahrain. Although a Middle Eastern country, Bahrain is moderately westernized, and offered amenities an American (or any sailor) sailor wanted. Namely bars and fast food. The time off from ship duty in Bahrain was to be three days, and I wanted to get a hotel for the first night to get away from the constant hum of the ship's generators and to take a hot bath to wash the “Boat” off of me. “What is Boat?” you ask? Well, being on the ship for extended periods surrounded by the equipment, the generators, workspaces, and fumes tends to give an individual a certain, let’s say, aroma. Yes, there are showers on the ship and I took one daily, but the stench of Boat inhabits one’s clothing and self regardless of personal hygiene habits.
With all this in mind, myself and a friend off the ship we will call Larry departed the ship and headed into town by taxi. We asked the cabbie for recommendations on hotels within our budget. He suggested the Best Western so we agreed for him to take us there. When he pulled up to the hotel it was still early afternoon and from the outside, the Best Western looked much like the ones in the US. We walked into the lobby and I noticed the hotel bar. Most hotel bars are unremarkable, but this one had a wild west saloon theme complete with the familiar swinging doors and John Wayne portrait above the bar. Suffice to say, it was a bit jarring to hear George Strait songs playing in a Middle Eastern hotel.
The room was your standard 2-bed setup with a TV and sitting table by the window. The window did not have much of a view, but I did not care about that. The bed and the bath were the main benefits to me. You see, while underway on the tin can the living arrangements are Spartan style. You have what they call the berthing compartment where you and about 50 of your shipmates get to share. Imagine a space about the size of a Starbucks filled with 3-person bunk beds stacked inside it. Nut to Butt is the apt description for life aboard ship. Sleeping in a real bed and taking a long bath was a luxury reserved for these port calls.
It was early afternoon so I told Larry I was gonna take a nap for a few hours, and that we could go get something to eat and then hit the town after that. I quickly drifted off to sleep while Larry watched TV; endlessly complaining that they did not have ESPN. Sometime later I was in that moment while sleeping where one could vaguely hear what was going on around them. I kept thinking I was hearing the TV because of the sounds of girls giggling. The soft laughter continued to the point where finally, I opened my eyes.
Sitting on the other bed were seven Russian women dressed in lingerie staring at me. “You like group sex?” the biggest one who I swear could have been Roseanne Barr’s sister asked me. Before I could collect my thoughts and respond, Larry yells out from the bathroom “Get one dude, they’re great! I got two in here with me!” Now I’m no prude, but I am most definitely a hypochondriac when it comes to paying for sex. Always a firm believer in the motto: “Whatever is overseas-can stay overseas.”
I politely gathered my stuff (sorry, I don’t trust hookers) and told Larry that I would be downstairs at the John Wayne bar. 30 minutes later, he walks into the bar and sits down. I asked him how we ended up with half the Russians in Bahrain in our hotel room. He told me that after I had been asleep for an hour or so, the room phone began ringing. He answered it and the person said, “Hello my friend. Are you interested in some entertainment?” Larry replied, “Sure. What kind of entertainment?” The voice on the other line tells him “We have lovely Moroccans, Lebanese, and Russian ladies who want to meet you.” Larry told him to send all the Russians. So, that was how our room was invaded like the eastern front in WWII by the Russian Hooker Brigade.
“Larry, how much did you spend for those Russian escorts?” I asked him. “Only 600” he replied. At first I thought that was a reasonably cheap price, but then I realized something. I asked Larry if he paid that price in US Dollars, or in the local currency of Dinars. He said he paid it in Dinars. “Um, Larry?’ I said. “You know you just paid the equivalent of around $2500 US for those girls.” His eyes widened as he finally remembered the calculation of the exchange rate: 3-1 US dollar to Dinar. “FUCK!” he yelled. Needless to say, he drank heavily that night, steaming over the enormous amount of money spent for his reenactment of a cold war fantasy.
^ Sounds about right.