Chapter 8
Memories Of Liberty In The Caribbean: Nassau, Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico, The Pier at Frederiksted on St. Croix, Snorkeling by Day and a Night to Remember
Memories Of Liberty In The Caribbean: Nassau
As we approached the ‘Tongue of the Ocean’ (TOTO) off of Nassau Island, I was told that I would be off-loaded with about a dozen other crewmen onto a small boat and we would be granted a two or three day liberty. Meanwhile the submarine would go off for some sonar related exercises in TOTO. At the end of that time, we would again rendezvous with the submarine. We might re-board then or possibly we might return to Nassau for another 2 or 3 days, depending on whether the exercise had been successfully completed. At the time, I didn’t understand any of it and merely looked upon it as an opportunity to kick up my heels on Nassau. Now, from the perspective of 50 years, I presume the Boone would be going through some top secret routines. Perhaps people would be coming on board and my bunk was needed. I didn’t know any answers then and I don’t know any now. What mattered to me was that I was going to Nassau.
We went topside and boarded a small boat in open ocean that was standing alongside. The boat stayed nearby for a few minutes. We planned to watch the submarine dive. I had my 35 mm SLR camera at ready and I was planning to take some shots of the submarine sinking below the surface. But the actual dive took much longer than I expected. I started snapping pictures as soon as I heard the diving alarm followed by the whistling sounds of escaping air. By the time the moist sea air became visible above the open ballast tanks, suspended above the boat like an agitated discolored curtain, (which was really something to see), and the bow actually slipped beneath the waves, my color slide film had reached the end of the spool. I caught nothing. (If only I had had my iPhone then!)
With the disappearance of the submarine and nothing on the surface to show where it had been, we motored to Nassau Island. Along with a couple crewmen, I checked into a modern beachfront hotel offering all the amenities. I don’t remember anything special in Nassau other than some luxurious days spent on a sandy beach, lolling about, and drinking Piña Coladas. On the morning of the day we were due back for our rendezvous with the Boone, we met some girls on vacation sharing an adjoining room. They were just beginning to show an interest in us, and I prayed we would meet the submarine and again be sent packing for another 2 or 3 days in Nassau. Reaching our point of rendezvous, we saw nothing. Then, while we bobbed on the surface, the submarine suddenly and majestically rose out of the depths. Alas, we were taken on board, much to my everlasting monumental disappointment.
Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico
We only tied up at a pier at the Roosevelt Roads Naval Base for 24 hours overnight. All I really remember was piling into a car with some other Naval officers at dusk and driving 50 miles west to San Juan. We ate at a fine restaurant and then hit the bars. I was finally able to act out the curse thrown to me by my mother whenever she disapproved of anything I did while growing up: “You’re acting just like a drunken sailor!” Indeed I was, but somehow I made it back to the boat in one piece.
The Pier at Frederiksted on St. Croix
We spent a number of days on St. Croix, tied up at the end of a long pier in Frederiksted, on the far western end of the island. The sea floor is shallow all around the island and supports an extensive coral reef. As a result, the ports of St. Croix have never been able to handle deep draft shipping, and that has always hindered the island’s commercial development. However, the shallow waters and surrounding coral reefs have proven to be a magnet for scuba divers and snorkelers, and nourishes a flourishing tourism industry. In a similar, but unrelated way, the vast expanse of the surrounding shallow seas proved to be an ideal spot to test torpedoes.
As far as I remember, the test firing of torpedos was only done on the surface. Even though we were on the surface, the outer torpedo doors were still underwater and I suppose the mechanics of firing a torpedo were the same, regardless of the depth. We fired a special green colored test torpedo, called a sabot, (a new word for me). The sabot was fitted with sensors and devices to facilitate recovery. Even though the seas were shallow, the sabots still had a tendency to get lost and they were expensive to replace. I suppose this was the real reason for siting the torpedo test facility off St. Croix.
But I have to interject here and say that memory can be peculiar, particularly when trying to access it after many years. A memory cannot be accessed unless it has first been laid down, filed away or stored somewhere between our ears. We generally will not remember anything routine and commonplace. Only events that are dramatic or out of the ordinary have a chance of generating memories that might still be available after a long period of time. Like almost all my activities on the Boone during the shakedown, from my own limited personal perspective, my sensory impressions, of any kind, tended to be routine and common place. I might observe some events from the control room, but most of the time I was either in my cabin or the wardroom. If a drill was happening, I would be sitting in crew’s mess. There was usually never a reason to remember.
One afternoon while we cruised on the surface, I was invited by the Captain to come up to the bridge and witness a torpedo firing. I had been up to the bridge while we were in port, but never when the submarine was actually underway. The forward part of the sail is open and the bridge itself is no more than a metal shelf running the sail’s width, located about 4 feet beneath the top edge of the sail. There was room for 7 or 8 people to stand. The bridge was a safe protected perch where you could look out in all directions, a full 360 degrees. You were positioned at the highest point on the submarine, like the crows nest of an antique sailing ship, although nowhere near as high.
The actual firing of the sabot struck me as anticlimactic. If I remember, you saw a shimmering green shadow snaking out of the boat’s bow. it was silent and accompanied just by a few bubbles. I was more impressed by the sea itself. Looking miles off, in all directions, you saw the unbroken line of the horizon, sweeping around where the surface of the Caribbean sea met the sky. It was like the hem of a dull metallic colored skirt, encircling the boat, spreading out in all directions. Being at the center of the sea with this unobstructed view, you could easily get a sense of the ocean’s vastness and, if you chose, your own insignificance.
Snorkeling by Day and a Night to Remember
It seems we had substantial liberty on St. Croix. It wasn’t all just running out and firing off torpedos. I remember one day going off with a party of fellow crew members. We rented a small boat and were taken out to the open water, in an area of sunken reefs, six feet under the surface, known for the abundance and variety of its sea life. Like everyone else, I put on fins, a mask with snorkel, and slipped over the side of the boat. Looking around, I could see we were in a small channel, bounded by large underwater coral formations on both sides. I was then a young man and like all young men had a lot of stamina. I could easily breathe while snorkeling on the surface, enthralled as beautiful coral formations passed by underneath. We saw Caribbean lobsters crawling on the bottom between the reefs, and Moray eels with their fearfully toothed open mouths, watching us warily. But nothing could compare with the massive schools of fish that swam by, all in tight formation, beautifully colored, turning and moving in a type of synchrony beyond imagination. I would take a deep breath and dive down, becoming my own little submarine, heading straight for a massive school of fish in front of me. There were hundreds all around me, so close it seemed that I could scoop one up merely by reaching out. But always they easily eluded my grasp. And then I would head directly into a wall of swimming fish. They would part cleanly, with a silver flash as hundreds of fish tails simultaneously snapped to one side. Decades later, I would see something similar in an IMAX ocean documentary. I was young, it was true, but swimming back to the boat left me out of breath and I knew that would not have been the case 5 years earlier. I was tired but it was worth it.
At the other end from where we were tied up, was Christiansted, the capital and main tourist center of the island. I know we walked around Christiansted like tourists. I just remember the multitude of small pastel colored stores with luxury items in their windows. Later in life, vacationing with Sondra, I would recognize this as characteristic of all Caribbean capitals.
The evening before we departed St. Croix, we drove out to the main posh entertainment site, particularly for Naval officers on the island at liberty. This site looked like an inland country club between Frederiksted and Christiansted. It had a large swimming pool and around the pool were colored lights and tables where you could have dinner outside, under the Caribbean moon. The night was warm and lovely. There was music and an area had been set aside for dancing. And there were girls there as well. Not overflowing with them, but word had been passed that this was a place for girls on vacation to meet Naval officers. Somehow or another I met and started talking to one of these girls.
She was visiting from the mid-west. We had dinner side by side and we danced cheek to cheek. She was pretty and shapely, and I thought definitely out of my league. (I had very little confidence as far as women were concerned. Three years later, married and watching the movie, “American Graffiti”, I could still recognize aspects of myself in the character of Terry, the Toad.) Perhaps wearing the white uniform of a naval officer with insignia on my collar identifying me as a doctor, gave me some extra confidence. After all, why did I go into medicine — surely many reasons, but one was definitely to make myself appear more desirable to a nice attractive young woman. In my uniform that night, I did not have to appear gauche, walking around with a sign saying “Doctor”.
It has now been over 50 years and her name has been lost. Do not assume that my failing to remember her name indicates some sort of casual discard. I am sure it is a symptom of my life-long difficulty with names, what I have learned to accept as my own personal form of dyslexia. I may have forgotten her name but I will never forget her or that night. She was a normal midwestern girl, quiet, sweet and slightly shy. She had gone on a well-deserved vacation from her job. Apparently, she had come down with friends and they had rented a house in Christiansted. As the club closed, a group of us all went back to their house, and after midnight both she and I sat in the living room. There were 7 or 8 of us, mostly sitting around as couples. Sitting alone in an easy chair was our Captain, holding forth as someone exalted, dispensing his version of wisdom. I was also sitting there, snuggled up against my new girlfriend, sensing what I hoped would be her warmth and willingness. I strongly resented my Captain’s presence. When would he go back to the boat! Would he ever go back to the boat!
Finally, around 4 AM our Captain at last got tired and left. Later, I remember seeing the dawn break through the shutters of her bedroom. It was the end of our quiet night together, a gentle night, but a night that had never happened to me before. Someone attractive and desirable had met me, we had connected, and before the night had ended the magic had occurred. It was the apotheosis of a long series of dreams finally realized, dreams that I had almost given up as impossible.
I went back to the boat that morning and later she came with her friends to see us off. I had taken a few pictures (now lost like her name), and I wrote down her address. Back in Charleston, we actually wrote each other a few times. Although our meeting was for me a highly improbable event, the rapid petering out of our correspondence was to be expected. We never saw one another again.
But on that morning, I still remember the intense pride I felt in her presence. I needed do nothing. With her simply by my side, I could not help but show her off to the crew. I really cared for her, and from the vantage point of 50 years, I truly hope our meeting was as consequential for her as it was for me.
I credit her for finally laying to rest a dream, that was so enticing and appealing, that it brought paralysis in its wake. The dream was the idea that there was something up ahead that was magical. I just had to put aside today and wait for tomorrow. Finally I had tasted the magic but only a little reflection was needed to recognize it as thin and ephemeral. I knew I had something more substantial. Within 6 months, I had asked Sondra to marry me. She accepted. That step, taken over 50 years ago, was the best thing I ever did. If I had any success in life, if there was anything I was proud of, it was a consequence of Sondra. Seen from one perspective, nothing came from that wonderful night in St. Croix — from another perspective, everything.