my days in the Coast Guard

Recently I presented a post about my days in the Coast Guard and my acumen in boat seamanship. It didn’t start out that way by a long shot. My first mission in that 44’ MLB (Motor Life Boat) came by accident. Not only that, it was recorded on television! And…I contemplated shooting myself afterwards.

Until that first sortie, I had operated the 41’ UTB (Utility Boat) which unlike the MLB, had an aluminum hull and fiberglass superstructure. The UTB was designed for moderate to flat seas and could reach speeds of about 28 knots with its large turbo-charged twin 903 Cummin’s engines. Unlike the motor life boat, if this vessel flipped over, it stayed over. This was deemed problematic, hence the protocol to not take it out in heavy seas. We had two at the station, CG41367 and the 41369. The first two numbers designated the length, the next three were the number in production.

Being new at Coast Guard Station Monterey, at this time I was certified to operate the utility boat, but could only ‘crew’ the MLB.

We had received a call from the Coast Guard Cutter Cape Hedge—a 95’ patrol boat, out of Morro Bay that they found a boat which had been declared lost several days earlier. They found it almost 100 miles off Big Sur California and happily, the lone fisherman was alive. The boat, approximately 16 feet long had experienced engine trouble and the hapless sailor was drifting south west along with the currents and winds. They had him in tow and they brought him into Monterey where he began his fishing trip.

Our 41-footer was out on a call near Santa Cruz and there weren’t any certified coxswains (pronounced ‘cox’ns’ to you landlubbers) around. The CO looked at me and said, “Nielsen, take the 44 and meet with the Hedge, take the boat into side tow into the marina.”

I responded, “Uh, sir, I’m not certified on the 44. I’ve only operated it a few times.”

He looked at me a moment, then said, “You are now. You’ll have a crew by the time you reach the dock.”

“Aye aye, sir.” With no small amount of trepidation, I walked the quarter mile from the station to the docks. Awaiting me were a seaman named Stanley (last name) and engineer, Harris. The two experienced men knew my experience, or lack thereof. I climbed onboard, Harris went below, opened valves, pushed breaker switches, then gave the okay and I pressed the buttons to start the port engine, then starboard. Both GM engines rumbled into life. Able to tow vessels over 100 feet in length and take on stormy seas, these steel-hulled powerhouses were like Clydesdales of the seas.

Near the breakwater, the Cape Hedge slowed with the little boat in its wake. We cast off lines and made ready to take it in tow with a bow, stern, spring line and fenders. Motoring past the sea lion and gull covered rocks we came alongside the small boat and unhooked the Hedge’s tow line.

I took the radio mike and clicked the transmitter: “Coast Guard Cutter Cape Hedge, this is the 4-4-3-4-6, your line is free and we’re taking the boat in alongside tow. Coast Guard Station Monterey, do you copy, over?”

“4-4-3-4-6, this is Cape Hedge, we copy and will dock and refuel. Out”

“4-4-3-4-6, this is Station Monterey. Acknowledge. Out.”

With the boat snugly along our port side, the skipper asked, “Do you guys have any water or food?”

My crew and I all looked at each other. Everyone shook their heads.

“Oh,” I said frowning. “Sorry. We didn’t bring any.”

The haggard looking man in his early 30’s looked even more forlorn. He slumped down on the seat as we cruised past the moored boats and to the harbor entrance. This is the amusing part of Monterey marina as vessels are required to sound their horns as warning to vessels leaving or entering. On the 44-footer, the horn is a modified ship’s horn, capable of being heard miles away which is very helpful when seeking lost mariners in the fog. However, if you’re a tourist leaning on the rail fifty feet away, watching the grand Coast Guard boat with its blue light flashing, waving at the young crew members (we felt so proud), the last thing you expected was: BLAAAHHHHH!

It never failed to make us laugh. Birds would take flight in terror, children screamed, adults screamed, everyone jumped. As the last echoes reverberated around the marina, we passed the entrance, then slowly turned to the left down one of the wider fairways that lead to the small boat docks.

Here’s where operating the 14-ton motor life boat differed greatly from the far lighter utility boat—it drifts as you turn. I noted this as we rounded the corner and compensated by reducing RPM’s on the port engine, which turned the boat faster to the port. I noted that in a PR opportunity, our Station Commanding Officer, along with another officer and two petty officers, stood at one of the far docks along with KSBW channel 8 television news reporters.

“Wow,” I thought. “I’m going to be on TV!”

We came to the next turn, which was to the right. On the Wharf #2 side port/left was a dock with a sail boat, then the Sand Bar and Grill restaurant overhanging the water. On the starboard/right were the docks with two small boats secured. The passage was somewhat narrow. In the utility boat, it wasn’t a problem.

It was just after noon, the high tide was at its peak and the restaurant was full. Diners lined the window tables and watched as the TV news cameras rolled, an entourage of Coast Guard officials stood waiting on the docks and a large white Coast Guard boat motored forward. With the tide at its crest, I literally looked down into the restaurant. People were smiling and enjoying a variety of seafood. I felt so excited, so proud to represent ‘The Guard.’

Then, we started the turn and it all went to…feces.

Afterwards, yes, afterwards, I was told to, ‘think a boat-length of what you’re about to do.’

This would have been helpful had I known it then.

However…

In making the turn, the heavy 44-footer slid like a truck on a frozen lake.

I pulled the starboard engine control back, slowing the engine. The boat now moved sideways towards the restaurant.

The diners began to take note. Some stopped eating.

We were only moving at less than two knots, but it was fast enough.

I turned the rudders until the wheel locked and gently goosed the port engine. Now the boat pointed in the right direction, but continued to slide. My heart began racing, cold sweat oozed from every pore. I jerked the wheel again to no avail.

The people in the restaurant now ALL had stopped eating and stared, many wide-eyed and open mouthed at the huge Coast Guard boat bearing down on them. I’m sure to them, it looked gigantic.

I pressed both engines gently forward. Too fast would kick the stern end around.

No longer in danger of drifting into the sailboat, the boat seemed to take a kamikaze attraction with the Sand Bar and Grill.

My crew stopped what they were doing—preparing to dock the boat in a slip—and stared at me.

“Uh…Nielsen?” Stanley stammered.

The small boat’s occupant looked at the restaurant, then me, then back at the restaurant. He started to back away as far as his little boat allowed, stumbling across fishing gear.

I pushed the throttles a bit more, then turned the wheel to rudder amidships to insure a straight course.

It was as if the boat turned into a giant magnet and the restaurant a block of iron. All laws of physics morphed into a void. The boat did not turn in the least. It hated me.

The patrons were no longer diners, they were a frightened mob. Chairs overturned as they evacuated the corner tables and dashed for the far side of the restaurant or for the opportunists—outside. The manager ran outside and was bellowing in Italian. At that time, most restaurants on the wharves were owned by Italians. As my linguist skills were limited to English and high school Spanish, I (probably thankfully) couldn’t understand what was being relayed.

I glanced over my shoulder to see my commanding officer, slack-jawed, observing the slow-motion impending disaster. The Channel 8 News cameras were pointed my way. The reporter held her microphone at her side, eyes huge, mouth agape.

The 14-ton Coast Guard steel-hulled Motor Life Boat pressed the little fiberglass runabout effortlessly into, then under, the restaurant.

It is truly amazing how time slows during times like these. Details become crystal clear, everything seems in amazing focus. The screams of the crowd inside were quite audible as was the Italian dialogue streaming from the pier. The rumble of diesel engines below deck. The crunch of a small boat being pushed under a restaurant, now almost literally an arms-reach away. The sad expression of a guy who after being lost at sea for three days, only wanted to return home—on the other side of the marina fairway.

I jammed the starboard engine in reverse, the port forward.

The boat, now partially under the Sand Bar and Grill, moved to the windshield. It bent a second, then the tempered glass EXPLODED in a geyser of crystals. Each tiny fragment capturing a bit of sunlight and casting pretty colors all over the boat cockpit, our boat, and spraying across the restaurant windows.

For a moment we stopped. I looked at my engineer, a guy with years of experience, and said, “Can you take the helm?”

He shook his head and crossed his arms, his eyes narrow. “You’re in command. Do something.”

For a moment, time froze as I stared, fighting tears of frustration and embarrassment. Then, time started up again. Something happened inside, as if a star had gone nova. Clarity returned.

“I am in command,” I said, my voice deeper, startling me as if someone else spoke the words. It was as if the Sea Gods bitch-slapped me into realizing what my job was and who I was. “I am in command,” I repeated.

I pointed, “Stanley, take the boathook and fend off the, uh, restaurant. Harris, grab the other hook and lever the little boat out from underneath.”

They jumped to action. I moved the engine controls back and forth. The grinding sound told me that we were pulling the boat from under the restaurant. And I was incurring more damage by the second. I visualized my third class Boatswain’s mate rank being lowered dramatically, my pay docked for the next fourteen years, possible time in the brig, the family dog slinking away at my presence.

The final fiberglass crunch echoed into silence. The Italian, and crowd screams, however, continued. We cleared the restaurant, again the odd clarity had me noting that customers had left some tasty-looking meals on the tables, but I wasn’t hungry and probably wouldn’t be for the next year or so.

We moved to the fairway and brought the 44 to the appropriate slip. Harris and Stanley walked the now ravaged boat to dock and secured it to cleats. I glanced at my CO and the others, who happily were focused on the sailor. The TV cameras rolled as his wife and two children ran down the dock.

That was a wonderful made-for-prime-time moment. The four of them collided with joy, hugs and kisses. The camera, thirsting for drama, recorded every moment.

My CO walked over. I stared at the fathometer, then the radar, watching the green sweep designate the marina details.

He stood next to the boat and cleared his throat.

With the enthusiasm of facing a firing squad, I turned at looked at him. Lieutenant David Lyons was a good man and commanded well. I respected him and didn’t think I could have let him and the Coast Guard down any further.

“Nielsen.”

“Yes sir?” Shall I withdraw my rigging knife and commit seppuku, sir?

“You can turn the blue light off now.”

I reached up and flicked the switch.

“Sorry sir.”

He looked at the boat, the happy family, then at me. “The important thing is the skipper is back home alive. We’ll talk when you return to base.” He gave me a wry smile, then was engaged by the KSBW reporter.

Harris and Stanley climbed aboard and we returned to the station. As we passed by the Sand Bar and Grill, Stanley said, “Well, that’ll be known as ‘Nielsen’s Corner’.”

We laughed.

Upon returning to the docks, we followed the routine: store the lines and fenders, wash and fuel the boat, check for readiness. Go up to the command center and report on what happened.

As we entered the com center, Stanley burst out laughing. “Fucking Nielsen ran into a restaurant!”

It took probably four minutes before everyone on base knew. Happily, the story was told and retold without my short-term emotional breakdown or asking Harris to take over. Kudos to them for allowing that shred of dignity.

The commanding officer informed me that the Coast Guard would take care of repairing the boat. Everyone was grateful that we brought him back alive.

At the six o’clock news, most of the off-duty personnel were present in the break room to watch what they showed. Cheers arose when the 44-footer was videoed cruising down the fairway, blue light flashing. The reporter giving a narrative as we approached, crediting the Cape Hedge for finding the lost sailor so far out to sea. I started to cringe. The next shot was of the man and his family, with our commander alongside. Everyone was smiling. The sailor gave a short statement of his ordeal. His wife offering an amusing stern expression when he described the engine failing. In the background, a rather demolished 16-foot boat lay moored to the dock.

And then, weather.

Two days later I received my orders: Report to Small Boat Handling School in Alameda. A two week class on boat operations.

It helped.

That’s where I learned to think ‘a boat-length ahead’.

All in all this experience, which I laugh about to this day, was the turning point that taught me about what being in command or in charge means.

The moniker: ‘Nielsen’s Corner,’ lasted for years.

More sea stories to follow…