A Little Dock Talk: I Wish I Could Forget

In the summer of 1976, not long after I had sewn on the stripes of a Navy chief journalist, I hopped a plane and headed to the Middle East, with orders to serve a year's unaccompanied tour of duty as public affairs officer to Commander Middle East Force (CMEF), who, at that time, was the late-Rear Adm. William Crowe. I knew this assignment was going to be different from most the moment I walked into the admiral's office for the first time and found him with a Kleenex hanging out of his mouth. As he quickly would explain, though, he had a bad case of bleeding gums, and I often would find him this way over the course of the next year.

Before I go any farther here, I probably should let you know I had been dreading this assignment for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact I knew I wouldn't be doing any bass fishing for a whole year. I truly hated having to leave the Military District Washington Bassmasters and the Commonwealth Bassmasters, a group I helped organize, behind. There wasn't a doubt in my mind but what I would be suffering deep withdrawal symptoms by the time I again would have a chance to palm a baitcaster.

Unfortunately, I let those feelings goad me into making a mistake that took me a long time to make the necessary amends for, as far as my wife was concerned and to ease my conscience, too. You see, I decided to spend my last day at home before deployment fishing the first day of a two-day tournament with my club. Oh, I was nice enough to take my wife and son along with me, but that didn't help my case any. And to make matters worse, I ended up having the same thing happen to me at weigh-in that first evening that I watched happen to a good friend of mine several years later. As I was lifting a 6-plus-pounder--my only fish of the day--from my buddy's livewell, she shook her head hard, I lost my grasp, and she bounced once on the boat before going over the side.

I don't need to tell you that the drive back home that night--a long one, at that--was horrible for me, for a number of reasons. I couldn't believe I had been so shortsighted as to fish my last full day at home for a year, and as bad as it was to have lost that fish at weigh-in, I also had to deal with car problems on the trip back home in the wee hours. As best I recall, I ended up getting a couple hours of intermittent sleep that night before having to bail out of bed and begin a 13-hour flight to Manama, Bahrain. I said "intermittent," because I also was trying to apologize to my wife for the way I had done her and my son. Let's just say it was one of those "worst of times" moments that, try as hard as I may, I simply can't forget.

Now I'll get back to the story as I began it. The flagship for CMEF in 1976 was USS LaSalle (AGF-3), seen in the photo at left. Unlike most other Navy ships, LaSalle was painted white to help reflect the hot rays of that Middle East sun. She accordingly picked up the nickname "The Great White Ghost of the Arabian Coast."

I had adjusted to life aboard ship again after a longer-than-most tours of shore duty and rarely left the ship, except to accompany the admiral on various diplomatic trips by helicopter to different ports while underway, or to spend an evening in the base CPO Club when we were tied to the pier in Manama. One day past the halfway point of my tour of duty, though, a brochure crossed my desk, talking about a Special Services-arranged fishing trip when the ship arrived for a port call in Karachi, Pakistan. All you had to do, according to the brochure, was sign up, then show up at the designated location on the appointed day, and you'd be treated to a day of fishing the local waters, with all the necessary gear provided. Lunch even would be provided aboard the fishing boat. What a deal! I thought.

Yeah, I knew there wouldn't be a bass boat waiting at the pier, and I knew, too, the gear wouldn't be what I was used to, but, hey, it was going to be a day on the water with P-L-E-N-T-Y of sunshine and a high likely of 110 or better. The admiral gave me his blessings, even though I couldn't be sure of that until I asked, 'cause I recently had gotten an order for a thousand new Welcome Aboard pamphlets screwed up, thanks to the language barrier. Instead of 1,000 pamphlets, as I had ordered, showing up on the pier, 10,000 arrived. I wouldn't doubt if some of those pamphlets still weren't on board LaSalle when it was decommissioned and sunk some years ago.

Anyway, when my fishing day arrived, I was more than a little ready. I had "bathed" in sunscreen and had the tube in my pocket as I headed to the pickup point. We asked about picking up our fishing gear before leaving the ship but was told it, the food, and everything would be provided on board the boat. So off we went, not knowing what lay ahead.

When we got to the pickup point, we were looking at a boat that only could be described as ready for the scrap heap. And, of course, the crew seemed overjoyed to have us, although we couldn't understand a word they were saying. Nevertheless, we embarked, took a seat, and then nearly choked to death from fumes as the boat's motor sprang--and I use that word loosely--to life. When barely away from the dock, the crew started passing out some hitherto unheard of name brand of beer to everyone who wanted it, and needless to say, most accepted a can, because it already was hot, and the beer was cold, even if wasn't tasty. I could only hope the beer was safer than the water the crew also had offered us. I made it a point to avoid all water the entire year I was overseas after seeing what it had done to a couple of my buddies.

Soon, we all were settling in for whatever was to be our lot for this day, watching LaSalle grow more distant by the moment. None of us put words to what many of us were beginning to think, and that was: Do you reckon we'll ever get back in this thing? To make matters worse, we hadn't seen the first life jacket to this point in time.

In the next hour or so, as we motored farther away from land, we all kidded one another about how our day was shaping up and swapped sea stories. Along the way, we kept seeing snakes on the water that would dwarf the kind of moccasins you see around here, even the largest ones. And the odors hitting us, from the boat, as well as the water, were unbelievably bad.

Finally, the driver backed off on the throttle and killed it. Then crewmen grabbed a wooden box, dragged it out, opened it up, and started passing out, of all things, hand lines. The collective groan that went up from all of us was deafening. Just the same, we sat out there drifting all day under the hot sun, catching some of the ugliest fish I've ever seen--yes, even worse than grindle--on cut bait that was as hard to look at as it was to touch and smell, and bemoaning the fact we hadn't all stayed on the ship. There were plenty more snakes to keep our eyes on, too.

At day's end, when the crew collected our lines and asked who all wanted another "cold one" for the ride back--at least, that's what we figured they were saying, 'cause as we shook our heads yes, they started passing out more beer. The reality of the day's toll came to the forefront during the ride back to the dock, when a number of the guys started feeling the sting of the hot sun from not staying lathered up with sunscreen. I had offered my tube to several throughout the day, as I watched their skin start turning crimson, but most declined.

I felt disheartened that I hadn't been able to hold a baitcaster in my hand that day, even though it likely would have been a saltwater model, but most fellas just felt pain--not only that day but for several more to follow.

There's no doubt in my mind that these two fishing adventures far exceed any other "bad" days I've ever had on the water--before or since. Thank God I've learned the difference between "obsession" and "passion" and when to give mama her due. As a result, my life is a lot more pleasant.