Now Available in Paperback and Kindle at Amazon.com
As those who have been following chapter excerpts on my blog know, these memoirs covers my Coast Guard Career from Academy days to retirement. I am proud to share these back of the book blurbs.
“In my experience, the best way to learn something is to find a teacher who blends historical facts with the art of story-telling. Dick Marcott proves he is the master in “The View from the Rigging”. Those of us who paralleled his professional life, can smile often and remember our own experiences as Dick reviews his Coast Guard career. Others are introduced to the extraordinary blend of the professional and personal commitment of both the service member and the family of those who dedicate themselves to public service in the uniform of their country. It’s a story told well and highlighted with very real moments of serious accomplishment at work and at home. We should all be so fortunate to have such stories to tell our grandchildren.”
James M. Loy ADM, U. S. Coast Guard (Retired) Commandant, 1998-2002
“I never cease to be amazed at what I learn from Captain Marcott’s memoirs of a fascinating life I never knew existed. The stories are a tribute to his service that he sells with beautiful detail, humor, and pathos.
Dani Weber, Asst. Prof. of English, SUNY Sullivan
“If you’ve ever been to sea, you’ll enjoy my friend Dick Marcott’s tales of Coast Guard Duty. If you haven’t, this book might count as your first deployment.”
David Poyer, author of TIPPING POINT and ONSLAUGHT
Rotating off a year’s isolated duty, I expected my assignment request would be honored; I asked for shore duty at a district or group office, anywhere on the west coast. I felt a little disappointed when I received orders to the Reserve Training Center, Yorktown, VA. In the first place, Carol and I hoped to see more of the country. Yorktown was thirty miles away from Norfolk, VA. Secondly, I didn’t know what a Reserve Training Center was, nor what type of duty that would mean for me.
So, I didn’t get what I asked for. But, what I got—proved to be a wonderful career-defining assignment that both Carol and I have cherished as our favorite duty station in a twenty-eight year career.
We were familiar with the area only as day tripping tourist when we were stationed in Norfolk. This time we were digging into what was probably going to be a four year assignment. Heading south on US17 we crossed the peninsulas made by the great rivers that raced from the mountains of Virginia toward the Chesapeake Bay: the Potomac, the Rappahannock, and the York. We drove through villages with homey names like White Marsh, and Ordinary.
The landscape morphed into a rural postcard. Flat sandy soil dotted with scrubby clumps of grass stretched from the narrow highway. White farm houses sat sheltered in an oasis of trees protecting families from the hot sun of clear-cut farm land. You could almost see them sitting on the wrap-around porches waiting to offer lemonade or a pint of stout to friends arriving by carriage up the long circular drive. Roadside signs every twenty miles reminded us we were traveling the George Washington Memorial Highway. We knew we were in the south again, but one that somehow seemed more honest and pure than Norfolk.
When we came to a sign that pointed the way to Gum Fork, we knew that the George P. Coleman Memorial Bridge that spanned the York River at the pinch point between Gloucester and Yorktown was right ahead.
We wanted to buy a house. A four year assignment made that reasonable. We had managed to save some money in the last year. I had spent hardly any of my salary on Loran duty in Okinawa, and Carol, who stayed with her parents in Roosevelt, Long Island, worked as a teller at the Meadowbrook National Bank. In addition, within a year, we could expect a big raise as I went over four years service as a lieutenant. Our income would be double what he made since we last managed a household in Norfolk, VA. It was time to buy.
We had contacted a realtor earlier, and he was ready to show us options. Newport News was about 10 miles south of the base. We quickly settled on a three bedroom rancher on a cul-de-sac in a new development at 721 Roslyn Road. Offer made and accepted—our first home cost $15,500. The following day, we were ready to move in, except we had no furniture.
Our realtor recommended a large furniture store on the north end of town. Carol and I had a great shopping day and the salesman an even greater one. We bought furniture for every room in the house in one day from one store. Dinning room table, chairs, china closet, buffet, two complete bedroom sets, desk and bookcase for a den, and a roomful of living room furniture highlighted by a curved sectional, coffee tables, and end tables. We furnished the whole house. We had a ball doing it.
We sat watching the salesman filling out the sales slip with a big smile he couldn’t hide.
I said, “You know, we bought a lot of stuff here today. Are you going to throw in at least a couple of lamps?”
“Rich!” Carol visibly gasped as her eyes darted soundless messages at me.
“What?” My response was a slow, whisper-like sing-song above hunched shoulders.
“I’ll have to check with the manager.” the salesman broke in, as he disappeared with a quizzical look.
“God, Rich! My mother would die if she knew what you just did.” Her face was still red. Her mother was a furniture adjuster in Abraham & Straus, a well known department store on Long Island.
“What do you mean? Everyone does that. It’s standard practice in Bradford.” I continued, “After all, nobody’s going anywhere, the buyer or the seller. Bradford sales clerks know they sell to generations, and they know how to keep customers.” A new suit would always get you a free tie. An expensive one would net you a shirt and a tie.”
The salesman returned. “The manager will be glad to add two living room end-table lamps to your order, sir. No cost, of course, and thank you.” He looked as surprised as Carol. Who raised these people?
The furniture was delivered in a day. We took another two to get it arranged then our attention turned to the back yard. We needed a fence. The back yards were all open to each other, including those on the next street. Carol was already hinting for a dog. We decided on a three rail board fence, nothing fancy, 1 x 6’s between 4 x 4’s. I thought it would be a do-it-yourself project until I attempted to dig the first post hole.
The “sandy soil,” was but inches deep. Beyond that was clay—hard packed, battleship grey, shovel sticking, back breaking clay. I didn’t have the time, nor the energy to do it. We asked the realtor for suggestions for a fence contractor.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “you can get that done a lot cheaper just hiring a couple day laborers to dig those post holes then nail the rails up yourself, or you can let them do it. Can you be around to supervise?”
“Yea, I guess, but how do I get them?”
“Well just drive down to the lower end of Jefferson Ave, toward the water. You’ll see a bunch of niggers standing around on a street corner, just jiving with each other while “they look’n fo’ work.” His tone was mocking. “But, those who are really serious will have a handkerchief tied to the parking meter and will be standing near by it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Just pick out a couple of big bucks and ask them if they’ll give you a couple of days digging fence-post holes. They’ll give you an honest day’s work, but you gotta be there to tell ‘em what to do and keep an eye on ‘em.”
That was 1961. It was obvious there was not much progress in racial attitudes from the three-bathroom (Men, Women, and Colored) filling station we encountered three years ago in Norfolk. They were nice guys, worked hard, and I had my fence in two days, including a redwood stain. As someone once said, “The past is never dead—it ain’t even past.”
I fingered the slim strip of paper with the indecipherable Kenji characters for the umpteenth time. I was about to step into the foreign world of Okinawa armed with nothing but these instructions for a taxi driver to get me to the Yakina village boat docks.
I pushed open the double doors with my B-bag and stepped into the hot August sun and saw long line of yellow taxi cabs. The first cab scooted curbside to a tire squealing stop directly in front of me. The driver bounded out, grabbed my bags, threw them into the trunk and took the paper strip from my outstretched hand. I watched as he fingered the wrinkled sweat stained two inch paper strip. I wondered, “Is the Coast Guard the only service too cheap to provide instructions on a full sheet of paper?”
We drove past business strips with unattractive two to four story block buildings, whitewashed to a eye squinting white. Some had recessed balconies, New Orleans style, with wrought iron fences. Storefronts displayed garish circus-like banners of bright red, yellow and green Kenji characters advertising their wares.
Street lamp poles sprouted from the narrow sidewalks, far enough away from the curb to be pedestrian hazards. Their lights hung in an arc over the streets. Sagging wires stretched across the intersections with horizontally hung traffic lights, green to red, left to right. Odd mini trucks and bantam cars filled the streets, leapfrogging each other with every change of the light as if they were in a frenzied race to get out of town.
My mind was clogged with survival thoughts: How will I ever understand these people? Will anyone from the station be at the boat basin in Yakina? If I miss a scheduled departure, will I have to stay overnight? Where? What kind of shape is the station in? What is Ike village like? The people? God, I miss Carol already! How am I going to make it for a year?
Just then, we capped a rise that revealed a panoramic view of the east coast of Okinawa, exposing a chain of islands on the horizon, a few miles across the small bay, the northernmost being Ikeshima, my ultimate destination.
A thin line of white clouds joined the low islands to separate the blues of sky and bay. It was a scene like a travel brochure that promised an island paradise. A few red roofs and white houses peeked through the green tree clusters as the road curled downhill toward the fishing village of Yakina. The paradise image was soon destroyed by the unwelcome smell of fishing docks. The soaring temperature and stagnant air did not help. High concrete walls squeezed the road. Cement-block houses, with no pretense of architectural design, ugly stains bleeding through their bad whitewash, clustered in protected enclaves.
The docks were busy. Fishing boats, twenty to thirty feet long, were moored the length of the pier. They had low freeboard and open decks. Some had small cockpits on the afterdeck for the engine housing and an open wheel house.
Workers arranged their gear in the shallow well-decks while women, squatting on the pier, knees fully bent, feet flat, repaired damaged nets. They could work in this position with broad brimmed straw hats providing their only shade, for hours on end. One boat was unloading her foul cargo into a miniature truck for transport to market.
The island hopping taxi boat was filling up with passengers and cargo. Men and women in casual kimonos or shorts hauled their shopping trip bounty onto the boat. Children, typically in student uniforms of black pants, white or black shirts, and beanie ball caps, covered the landscape like Maine black flies. Everyone wore rubber flip-flop sandals. Passengers found space among wooden boxes and unattended cargo of chickens and goats in open crates. I found a bench seat near the stern. I was the only non-Asian, wearing a service dress khaki uniform to boot, and I did not turn a single curious head.
The taxi-boat had wooden poles crudely mounted vertically on the sides with a sagging canvas awning stretched between them like a canopy on a four-poster bed. Passengers pushed, shoved, even stepped on each other, as they found space. The Japanese politeness I expected had, apparently, been suspended. Animated motions and raucous high pitched Japanese voices filled the air as everyone squeezed into seats on the deck and cargo boxes. Some even perched atop the rail hanging onto the awning poles to keep from falling overboard.
The taxi-boat captain controlled our departure time based on his estimate of the state of the tide. Neither a clock nor shouted pleas moved him. Shallow reefs and sand bars between the islands lay in wait to punish those who ignored nature’s time. Our captain misjudged it.
We weren’t ten minutes into the trip when a loud scraping sound of the bottom crunching in the sand and coral, brought the boat to an abrupt stop, engine running. Passengers lurched forward, grabbing their flying packages, chicken crates, and each other—we had just run aground.
Arguments ensued, everyone talking, the coxswain shouting directions.
Suddenly, four men passengers jumped over the side into water up to their thighs and began pushing the boat backwards. The captain shifted to full astern, engine whining, the churning propellers now making a frothy, dirty sand and coral backwash swirl around the volunteer salvage-assistants. As we slowly moved off the sand bar, the captain cut the engine, and people settled down, accepting the grounding as just another glitch in their crossing. The men jumped back into the boat, their wet clothes dripping on everyone, and we were on our way again.
As we approached the Ike village pier, my spirits lifted with the sight of a grey Coast Guard jeep and a chief petty officer standing beside it. Chief Armstrong, wearing a tropical khaki short uniform with an overseas cap, saluted smartly. He was tall, and thin with a deeply lined and tanned face that made him look older than his years. He wasted no time hanging around the village. He grabbed my bag threw it into the jeep and said, “Hop in, skipper. You’ll have plenty of time to explore the village. Let’s get you out to the station.”
It was August 1960. Carol and I sat in the American Airlines lounge at Idlewild Airport (later named JFK International). We talked quietly, self-isolated in our morose bubble from the faceless people around us. It was hard for me to look at her when we did talk; moist eyes were not suitable for an officer in uniform. We had been married a little over two years and we now faced a one year separation.
After twenty-two changes of orders in the last four months, thanks to Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, I had finally been dropped from the international political whipsaw. I now held orders to be the Commanding Officer of the Coast Guard LORAN Station Okinawa, Japan. My footlocker, however, a victim of the fiasco, was aboard a U.S. Navy transport being delivered to the other side of the globe—Naples, Italy.
The garbled PA announcement sounded like they called my flight. I turned in my seat to face Carol, a strained smile on my face, “Remember, although I’m boarding this plane for San Francisco in a few minutes, you cannot believe I’m really going to end up in Okinawa until you get a post card from there.” She smiled back weakly, gave me a publically presentable kiss on the cheek, and said good bye. I turned and walked toward the boarding ramp. I never looked back.
My initial orders were to station Tarumpitao in the Philippines. But, I was a designated standby emergency relief, so I attended LORAN school one cycle early and my orders read “….unless relief is required elsewhere earlier, report for duty to the CG LORAN Station Tarumpitao Point, Philippines Islands. “Unless” was the key word.
I had focused on Trumpitao. The station was located on the western tip of the island of Palawan in a heavy jungle area. I exchanged letters with the current CO who shared a few photos and gave me a heads-up as to what he found to be important concerns: Keeping the jungle from encroaching on the grass air strip, the station’s lifeline; preparing for the inevitable raid from hostile Borneo Pirates (an active tribe of headhunters from nearby Borneo); and avoiding the poisonous cobras that were often found on the station, most recently, one wrapped around the door handle of the CO’s quarters.
I could prepare for the first two. I would keep hacking away at the jungle, and give the pirates whatever the hell they wanted. They usually took food and a small weird selection of “trinkets” for souvenirs. It was the King Cobras that gave me pause.
My first change of orders came two days before I completed Loran school. I was now assigned as the PCO of a new Loran C station that the Coast Guard was building at the site of Rite 3. That was the classified code name for a secret location that the headquarters message assured me, “I would know when I needed to know.” The people at Loran school couldn’t even answer my question, “So, do I pack a fur parka or pith helmet and shorts?”
Eventually, I knew I was going to L’Estartit, Spain, on the Mediterranean coast in the crescent of the Spanish, French, and Italian Riviera. I was to report during the last phase of construction in July and be the CO when it was commissioned. It would eventually be a family station, a two year assignment, and I could bring Carol over probably for the second year.
That is, until the NY Times Headline on May 1 1960.
“Soviets Down American Plane;
U.S. Says It Was Weather Craft;
Khrushchev Sees Summit Blow.”
President Eisenhower issued statements that our U-2 spy plane was a “weather observer” that had navigational problems and inadvertently drifted over the Russian air space. Then Premier Khrushchev, in one of the great diplomatic “gottcha” moves, revealed that he had in fact captured our pilot and his pictures of their ICBM sites. Colonel Powers was now in a Russian prison. The Eisenhower administration, greatly embarrassed, caught spying and lying, needed to lay low, especially after Khrushchev’s speech, “….U.S. must not build another military base on foreign soil…”
After twenty-one go-nogo changes to my orders, Carol and I were on leave at her family’s house on Long Island, only a few days from my departing for Spain, Then, the Western Union man came to the door. Of course, the message was for me, “Report without delay to CCGD3(p) for change in orders”. Carol and I made the short drive to New York City without comment. Carol cooled her heels in Battery Park while I seethed my way to the third floor of CG District Office. Now I was going to Okinawa, Japan.
I gazed out my window seat in the Boeing 707 across the tarmac to the large terminal windows knowing that Carol was among the crowd watching the takeoff. Cross country flights with the new jet powered passenger planes, only in their second year, still drew a crowd who cheered each takeoff in amazement.
I had a short stopover in San Francisco and a long flight to Honolulu where I met with a few other Loran CO’s for a two day logistics briefing from the 14th District engineering staff. Then on to Tokyo and a short welcome from the Commander, Far East Section. His yeoman handed me a piece of paper and said, “Sir, this has instructions in Japanese for you to show the taxi driver. You’ll have to catch a local taxi-boat from Yakina Basin to get to your station. Good luck, Sir.” Finally–I was on the last leg to Okinawa. I thought, “If our marriage stood up through this transfer, we were meant to be.”
At the Tokyo airport I stopped at the magazine counter, picked up a picture postcard of an Okinawan Shinto shrine and its famous Torii Gate and scribbled a short note, “Finally on a plane to Okinawa for last leg. Wish you were here. See you in a year. Love, Dick.” My footlocker arrived in November
I headed my Toyota out of the CG Air Station in Washington DC bound for the Smithsonian Castle. I needed to get Ambassador Elliot Richardson there for a dinner speaking engagement and I didn’t have much time. I never understood Washington traffic. Why were people snarled inbound on the 14th street bridge? They were supposed to be getting out of D.C. not trying to get back in.
The light rain didn’t help. At the slightest sprinkle, cars, like automatons, merged into tight jams. Drivers had fought hard for their own precious space, and they were protecting it. I was blocked out of the only exit I knew, two lanes over, not enough time. Now I was headed into unknown territory, downtown Washington at dusk. When I glanced at the Ambassador to explain our situation, I saw his head swivel to the right lamely pointing at the familiar red castle as it passed down our right side, a quarter-mile away. “I think that’s where we are supposed to be going,” he said as the castle faded out of sight. No Shit!
“Sir, I’ve been forced out of the exit lane and we are headed into the heart of DC. I don’t know the city well. Could you help me with directions?”
“I’m sorry, he said, “but I don’t know the city at all. Someone picks me up in the morning. I sit in the back seat with that little over-the-shoulder-pin-light and read the overnight mail that the driver brings with him. Now, that I think about it, I don’t think I could even find my way to work.”
Of course he couldn’t. Why should a Secretary of Defense waste away his time finding his way to work, fighting traffic while he hunts for the best rout? This man operated in a whole different world than I couldn’t even imagine.
“That’s all right, sir, we’ll make it in plenty of time. I’m sure I can feel my way around a block or two.” Did that sound convincing?
My strategy was to go far enough north, then head east for a few blocks and turn south. We should run into the Mall and then I’d be home free. It was working…for a while. Without warning, my street split into four lanes. The right and left lanes offered exits to the Mall, the center two continued to a down ramp that disappeared. Blocked out of an exit again, I entered the short tunnel, and then I saw the sign, “Welcome to Virginia.”
I don’t know how that happened. I tried not to react and hoped the Ambassador did not see the same sign. He didn’t. I calmly felt my way into a return loop, crossed the 14th Street Bridge back into D.C. again, successfully this time, just like it was the plan. I don’t think my passenger was even aware.
This could have been the end to a good story, except, I was not at the front entrance to the Smithsonian Castle when I did find it. I was on the back side, no obvious way to get in. I spotted a uniformed guard walking the perimeter, and I pulled to the curb.
“I’ll be just a moment, Ambassador,” I said. I jumped out of the car, called to the guard, explained the situation, and asked if he could help. He could. I returned to the car, opened the front door for the Ambassador and said. “Sir, this guard knows exactly where you are to be and will escort you there. It’s been my pleasure to meet you sir, good luck with your speech.” No sweat…fifteen minutes to spare.
On the way home, I envisioned what the Washington Post headlines could have been: “Coast Guard Captain lost for hours in endless loop from DC to Virginia: Ambassador Richardson late for Macmillan honors.”
With apologies to Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well.