I made the run from Charleston to the Mayport Naval Station in Jacksonville Florida in just less than four hours. There was no traffic at all on the Interstate after midnight on a Tuesday. Stopping at a Waffle House outside the base I loaded up on coffee and a steak and egg breakfast. I used their restroom to change into my Class “A” Air Force uniform complete with coat, tie and the bus driver style hat. I needed to be in uniform when I got to the pier where my brother’s ship was docked.
I caught the leading edge of the morning Navy Yard traffic and drove slowly down the row of docks looking at all the sharp angled warships sporting masts and guns resplendent in gray paint. I was reminded that I was the black sheep of my Navy family. Between Grandpa, Dad and my brother, Frank, we Wentworth’s served in ships and submarines in every war and conflict from World War I to Desert Storm. I opted for Air Force blue, Dad said he was proud of me but sometimes I really wondered.
I saw the gangway sign for the USS Jesse L. Brown and pulled into the parking lot across from the pier entrance. Grabbing my back pack from the back seat I snaked my way through the myriad dockside flotsam being coiled, crated or loaded onto the frigate. I reached the top of the gangway and handed my identification card to the Deck Officer.
“Captain Wentworth? Ah, yes, here you are,” he said checking me off the list on his clipboard.
“Permission to come aboard, sir?” I said while rendering a hand salute.
The Deck Officer returned the salute with a slight smile, “Permission granted, Captain. Welcome aboard the Brown.”
“Thanks, would you know where I can find my brother, Lieutenant Commander Frank Wentworth?”
“He should be just forward near the gun mount.”
I made my way forward until I saw Frank talking with a rating near the five-inch gun mount. Closing in behind him, I yelled, “Captain on deck.”
He and the sailor stiffened to attention for a few seconds and then he turned to face me. “Joe, will you cut that out. You’re not a Navy Captain and you do that all the time just to start crap.” Frank dismissed the sailor with a wave of his hand before shoving it out to me.
Grinning, I shook his hand. “Sorry, can’t help myself. Thanks for inviting me on this Dependent Cruise.”
Over the next five hours, he showed me through his ship, shared coffee in the wardroom and generally talked about our respective families and careers. We avoided talking about Dad until we were up on the fantail, aft of the helicopter hangar.
Frank looked at his watch, “We’ll be reversing course soon and heading back to Mayport, now is the best time to do it.”
“I have his ashes in my back pack.” I unzipped the back pack and removed a large cigar box. Frank gave me that quizzical, raised eyebrow look I knew so well.
“What? I filled his urn on the mantel with fireplace ashes. Our stepmother of all of six months will never check. We both know this is what he really wanted.”
Opening the box, I removed the bag containing Dad’s ashes. Frank and I held the bag together and then, as one, opened it and let Dad go. You are returned to the seas that you loved so well. Sailor, rest your oar!
~~~~~
And that is my entry in the weekly writing exercise on G+ as part of the Writer’s Discussion Group for this week. Everyone submits stories in the comments of the post at the link and anyone can +1 their favorites. In the end the story with the most +1 votes gets a little recognition. This is a weekly thing and this time the story is based on this image.
