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The Coast Guard We Once Knew
I liked standing on the bridge wing at sunrise with salt
spray in my face and clean ocean winds whipping in from the four
quarters of the globe – - the cutter beneath me feeling like a living thing
as her engines drove her swiftly through the sea.

I liked the sounds of the Coast Guard – the piercing trill
of the boatswains pipe, the syncopated clangor of the ship’s bell
on the quarterdeck, the harsh squawk of the PA system, and the
strong language and laughter of sailors at work.

I liked CG vessels — nervous darting 255s, plodding buoy
tenders, and light ships, sleek 327s and the steady solid hum of the
twin engines on the HH16E.

I liked the proud names of Coast Guard ships: USS Bayfield,
USS Cavalier, Taney, Cosmos, the Wind class
Icebreakers and the Bibb just to name a few.

I liked the lean angular names of CG “shallow water
cutters” the 82 footers, Pt Hudson, Pt lookout, Cape Trinity and the Cape
Higgon. Named for locations around the states. I liked liberty call
and the spicy scent of a foreign port.

I even liked the never ending paperwork and all hands
working parties as my ship filled herself with the multitude of supplies,
both mundane and to cut ties to the land and carry out her mission
anywhere on the globe where there was water to float her.

I liked sailors, officers and enlisted men from all parts
of the land, farms of the Midwest, small towns of New England, from the
cities, the mountains and the prairies, from all walks of life. I
trusted and depended on them as they trusted and depended on me – for
professional competence, for comradeship, for strength and courage. In a
word, they were “shipmates”; then and forever.

I liked the surge of adventure in my heart, when the word
was passed: “Now set the special sea and anchor detail – all hands to
mooring stations for leaving port,” and I liked the infectious
thrill of sighting home again, with the waving hands of welcome from
family and friends waiting pier side. The work was hard and dangerous;
the going rough at times; the parting from loved ones painful, but
the companionship of robust CG laughter, the “all for one and
one for all” philosophy of the sea was ever present.

I liked the serenity of the sea after a day of hard ship’s
work, as flying fish flitted across the wave tops and sunset gave
ay to night. I liked the feel of the CG Cutter in darkness – the
masthead and range lights, the red and green navigation lights and stern
light, the pulsating phosphorescence of radar repeaters – they cut
through the dusk and joined with the mirror of stars overhead. And I
I liked drifting off to sleep lulled by the myriad noises large and
small that told me that my ship was alive and well, and that my
shipmates on watch would keep me safe.

I liked quiet mid-watches with the aroma of strong coffee
and PBJ sandwiches — the lifeblood of the CG permeating
everywhere. And I liked hectic watches when the exacting minuet of haze-gray
shapes racing at flank speed kept all hands on a razor edge of
alertness.

I liked the sudden electricity of “General quarters,
general quarters, all hands man your battle stations,” followed by the
hurried clamor of running feet on ladders and the resounding thump of
watertight doors as the ship transformed herself in a few brief seconds from
a peaceful workplace to a weapon of war — ready for anything. And I
liked the sight of space-age equipment manned by youngsters clad in
dungarees and sound-powered phones that their grandfathers would
still recognize.

I liked the traditions of the CG and the men and women who
served so valiantly. These few gave so much in service to their
country. A sailor could find much in the CG: comrades-in-arms, pride
in self and country, mastery of the seaman’s trade. An adolescent could
find adulthood.

In years to come, when sailors are home from the sea, they
will still remember with fondness and respect the ocean in all its
moods – the impossible shimmering mirror calm and the storm-tossed
green water surging over the bow. And then there will come again a
faint whiff of stack gas, a faint echo of engine and rudder orders, a
vision of the bright bunting of signal flags snapping at the yardarm, a
refrain of hearty laughter in the wardroom and chief’s quarters and
mess decks. Gone ashore for good they will grow wistful about their CG
days, when the seas belonged to them and a new port of call was ever
ver the horizon. Remembering this, they will stand taller and say,
“I WAS A COAST GUARDSMAN ONCE.”