Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2017 14:51:06 +0100 From: James Rozo <jrozonavydod@gmx.com> Subject: USS Independence CV62 Chapter 8 USS Independence CV62 By Ensign James Rozo, USN - - - - - - - - - - - - - Author's Notes. The sea possesses some intrinsic characteristic that stimulates ardent yearnings for adventure and exploration. Both neophyte and seasoned mariners experience excitement watching line handing boatswain's mates unmoor the ship, severing the tether with ashore concerns. The colors shift, the ship slips away from the pier, sweethearts wave good-by, and you are underway! - - - - - - - - - - - - - Chapter 7: Shift Colors "Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh. Farewell to foreign shores. We sail at break of day, day, day, day. Through our last night ashore. Drink to the foam. Until we meet once more. Here's wishing you a happy voyage home. Ooh, rah! Go Navy!" ~ Anchors Aweigh, Official Song of the U.S. Navy ~ Independence will get underway with the next high tide. Sailors with orders, experienced petty officers from shore duty and fresh seafood straight from boot camp, report aboard and plus-up Ship's Force. After completing the check-in process and indoctrination training, the new crewmen will be seamlessly integrated into divisions based upon their rating and the needs of the ship. Forty midshipmen, delicious fare for enterprising diners, also report for summer cruise. - - - - - - - - - - - - - In Medical, HM1 Coyne is conducting physicals. Rank having its privileges, the corpsman vectors the choicest non-rates and midshipmen to his examination queue. With a backlog of personnel requiring check-in physicals, he expedites the process and simultaneously accommodates three young sailors in a group short-arms inspection. For enlisted sailors, privacy is non-existent aboard the carrier. Being similarly equipped, the sailors strip without hesitation. Lining up, standing evocatively with shameless confidence, the naked sailors proudly display their masculinity. Although they have seen hundreds of recruits at boot camp, the inherently curious boys still surreptitiously checkout each other's gear, assessing their completion. One blue-eyed sailor is particularly inquisitive. On his arm, worn as a badge of pride, is a small anchor tattoo - an ambiguous nautical symbol with diverse meanings. Embracing alternative inclinations, for him it represents triumph over adversity, peace in turbulent waters, and an unwillingness to compromise and conform to society's dictates. The impressive display of young flesh and potent virility pervades Coyne's senses. With an elevated pulse, the corpsman's body radiates a subtle aroma of worn leather, fragrant herbs, and bright citrus. "Stand at parade rest," Coyne orders. Assuming the submissive military position, the sailors crisply snap arms behind their backs and spread their feet shoulder width apart. With heads straightforward gazing at destiny, on display for their superior, the compliant sailors await further instructions. Savoring and the erotic landscape, the appreciative corpsman walks slowly around the sailors and admires the quality of the latest catch. Commencing the physicals, caressing the sailors' musculature, he pokes and prods and annotates their medical records. Progressing downwards, Coyne inspects the sailors' gear for physical abnormalities, urologic problems, and signs of venereal disease. One sailor, a Latino with a silky-smooth cognac complexion, is exceptionally well endowed with a meaty uncircumcised cock. "Okay, bend over and spread them," the corpsman orders. Complying, the asses are on display for Coyne's viewing pleasure. Inspecting the pliant rings, seeing signs of normal usage, Coyne is relieved that the sailors were properly trained at boot camp. The ship doesn't need any more ripped and ruined rectums like FA Darges - the mess cooking kid from Repair Division. As expected, the tattooed sailor's orifice is significantly more bruised and battered than his shipmates. The lucky recipient of extra military instruction, the slightly gapped aperture is enveloped by an auroral splendor of pale chartreuse and mauve. Undoubtedly, the crew will enjoy furthering his education. Identifying the sea-pussy, Coyne annotates the sailor's medical record with an unofficial code known only to select corpsmen. Once underway, a follow-up appointment will be scheduled, and a thorough private examination employing more intrusive medical procedures will be conducted. The Latino sailor's generous foreskin will also be properly addressed. Completing the physicals, demonstrating leadership and teamwork, Coyne volunteers to examine another midshipman. Motivated by unconventional predilections, the corpsman cannot resist inspecting baby-zeroes... the Navy's future leaders. Next in the queue is Midshipman 3/c Brian Klodaski. Assigned to Engineering Department, Repair Division, the boy will cycle through the various work centers - gaining an appreciation for the difficult life of fleet sailors. The progeny of a Polish and Irish union, the slender boy is classically handsome with fair skin, a smooth face, striking grey eyes, full burgundy lips, and a prominent high-bridged nose. Hesitating, dreading the inevitable, the nervous midshipman slowly removes his uniform. Uncomfortable being naked around enlisted men, he attempts to shelter his gear behind large hands. "Stand at parade rest," Coyne orders. Surrendering, Klodaski assumes the position and exposes his package. It's shockingly small. In antiquity, the hairless genitalia of youth - the socially sanctioned object of veneration, was considered aesthetically beautiful. Conversely, it was the ithyphallic satyr who was portrayed with an exaggerated erection - an indication of animality and not virility, and cause for mockery. Unfortunately for the midshipman, that enlightened perspective is no longer in vogue. And the prevailing consensus is that bigger is definitely better... especially in the Navy. "Wow, that's amazing," Coyne exclaims, admiring the diminutive gear. Looking to satiate prurient curiosity, Coyne manipulates the tiny shaft until an erection is achieved. Taking meticulous measurements, he records the data in Klodaski's medical file. Kneading the miniature pink purse, deftly rolling the grapes between knowledge thumb and fingers, he checks for abnormalities. Reluctantly moving on, he focuses attention on Klodaski's academy ass - the boy's most redeeming feature. While observing mostly unspoiled landscapes on University ROTC midshipmen, Naval Academy boys typically exhibit extensive utilization - a byproduct of their unique male-centric environment. Surprisingly, Klodaski's ring is almost pristine. "Oh my god... it's beautiful." Transfixed by the exquisite sight, eyes sparkling with desire, Coyne is mesmerized by the fierce beauty. Revealed in all its glorious splendor, the flawless ring invokes profound adulation. An experienced breeder of midshipmen, the corpsman knows the crew will exhaustively utilize Klodaski, injecting him with a punishing fleet education. An amazing adventure, rewarding and satisfying, the corpsman plans to sample the midshipman's ass before the kid is gapped and ruined. Fatigued from swimming in a sea of testosterone, needing a constructive outlet for his suppressed desires and sexual energy, the petty officer eagerly anticipates the day's final assignment - a follow-up examination of ABEAN Wetter, V2 Division. Fortunately, Wetter will provide actionable relief. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Standing outside patient consulting room 2, Wetter knocks on the non-watertight door. The sailor's perspiring body radiates the unforgettable scent of English Leather Cologne, a rich and complex fragrance of citrus, wood, moss, and leather. Suffusing the passageway, the distinctive and enticing scent is ideal for a night on the town or enjoying special times with shipmates. "Reporting as ordered," the sailor announces. "Excellent... come in," directs HM1 Coyne. Knowing the routine from numerous past consultations, Wetter automatically strips without being told. Physical property of the Navy, the service owns his enlisted ass. Undressing, a well-toned chest, small elliptical areolae surrounding brown nipples, tight abdominal muscles, generous genitalia, and heavily corded quadriceps are revealed. Standing completely naked, Wetter submissively awaits further instructions. "Get up on the table." A sturdy stainless steel examination table, upholstered in soft black leather, featuring an adjustable backrest, pullout leg rest, and stirrups, is prominently positioned longitudinally in the compartment beneath a maneuverable-arm diagnostic floodlight. Wetter's inflated cock swing as he obediently mounts the table. Back in the shipyard, while under suspicion of arson, Wetter was publicly stripped and marched to Medical for an extensive survey. Identifying chronic phimosis, Coyne initiated aggressive manual stretching therapy - an enjoyable endeavor for the corpsman, not so much for Wetter. The recalcitrant foreskin, however, refused to fully cooperate. Secretly delighted, the corpsman tightly pruned the disobedient bonnet. Indulging his harmless fetish, Coyne performed the circumcision, greedily adding the fleshy trophy to his impressive collection. A dedicated and vigilant professional, he ensures all crewmen enjoy the hygienic benefits and enhanced esthetics of the elegant procedure. "This is healing nicely. How does it feel?" "It's very sensitive. And I get uncontrollable erections." "That's normal... the sensitivity will decrease over time." The corpsman carefully examines the circular scar, tracing the telltale bright pink discoloration halfway down the appendage. Exposed, the glans is slowly adjusting to its new unsheltered reality. Manipulating the shaft, stroking up-and-down, maximum rigidity is quickly achieved. "I think it's too tight," adds Wetter. "It seems smaller." "Really? Hmm... let me check." Reviewing Wetter's medical chart, the corpsman finds the annotated preoperative data - the fully erect length and circumference. Positioning a disposable paper tape measure along the shaft, root to tip, he slowly smiles with justifiable pride. Sure enough, the stunted organ is now a half-inch shorter. "No, no... it's perfect, just right," avers Coyne. Elated, the corpsman knows the sailor's cock will never see any action. A confirmed homosexual craving domination, willingly surrendering his masculinity for consumption, Wetter is destined to be aggressively used by alpha-males and other appreciative revelers. "Time for the DRE. Scooch down on the table." Following directions, Wetter assumes the required position. Firmly secured in stirrups, with hips rotated, knees bent, and legs spread wide apart, the asshole is readily accessible. Adjusting the table's trim, inclining it 10 degrees, Wetter is bow down with his face almost level with Coyne's expanding crotch. Exposed and vulnerable, under the corpsman's complete control, Wetter's leaking erection twitches uncontrollably as he anticipates another comprehensive and invasive examination. Running knowledgeable fingers between the sailor's splayed legs, caressing the curvaceous ass, Coyne is intoxicated with the authority to inspect and manage government property. Undoubtedly, the Hospital Corpsman rating is unsurpassed in benefits. The enraptured corpsman methodically examines the anus, perineum, and perineal raphe. Residing at the bottom of a deep indentation, the battered and bruised hole, gaping and showing signs of recent use, is encircled by a stunning palette of crimson, carmine, and burnt sienna. "It's beautiful. When were you last fucked?" "Umm... today, after the noon meal," admits the ashamed sailor. Dispensing with needless preparations, employing only a minuscule amount of anesthetic lubricant, Coyne presses a large stainless steel speculum against the swollen ring. With practiced efficiency, he drives the medical device home in one continuous fluid motion. "You shouldn't feel any discomfort." Spinning the ratchet, opening the device's jaws, the shamefully compliant sphincter, knowing the routine from numerous inspections, instinctively dilates. Repositioning the diagnostic floodlight, the oculus is brightly accentuated. The interior space... the chambered passageway, undulating pink folds, and luxurious moist lining, is dramatically illuminated like a priceless object at the Chrysler Museum of Art in downtown Norfolk. Suddenly without warning, the non-watertight door opens. Two grinning third class hospital corpsmen in scrubs, a handsome Latino boy and a towheaded shipmate, greet the HM1. "W... what... what's going on?" Wetter questions. "It's okay, they're under my instruction," Coyne assures him. Aboard seagoing commands, senior corpsmen commonly take junior personnel underwing, providing practical hands-on instruction. Discounting patient confidentiality concerns, bottom dwellers on the food chain are routinely utilized as effective teaching tools. Seizing the opportunity to augment their knowledge of internal male anatomy, the two inquisitive corpsmen eagerly accept the invitation to assist in Wetter's examination. Seeking adventure, they also share many of Coyne's sexual predilections. With everyone present, the festivities can now commence in earnest. - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1MC: `Now set condition Yoke. All departments make reports to Damage Control Central'. All ship fittings and closures, identified on compartment check off lists - either watertight, airtight, or fume tight - are marked with conditions of readiness: xray, yoke, zebra, and circle or dog derivatives. Each condition increases compartmentalization, affording greater levels of protection. Thirty-five divisional damage control petty officers set condition yoke throughout the ship, improving Independence's damage control posture prior to getting underway. The fixtures also provide increased privacy for initiations, ceremonies, and other unorthodox activities. Affording a greater level of protection and early warning, aggressive predators confidently engaged in clandestine maneuvers with inferior shipmates. Valuable territories, secure compartments are accessible only by invitation. - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Come in, you're just in time," Coyne greets the corpsmen. Gawking at Wetter - obscenely splayed and helpless, the captivated corpsmen become aroused. With insufficient quarters to stow their inflating gear, tumid shafts and swollen testicles are clearly discernible inside the protruding pale-green medical scrubs. "Damn, that's a sweet ass," the towheaded HM3 asserts. "Oh hell yeah... this is going to be fun," adds the assertive Latino corpsman. Anticipating an amazing opportunity, they eagerly enter the compartment with a heightened sense of adventure. Distracted, they momentarily forget to secure the non-watertight door. Reminiscent of the luscious reclining nude in the `Venus of Urbino', an unapologetic erotic painting devoid of allegorical trappings by the Italian master Titian, Wetter is exposed for public viewing. A crush of shipmates traversing the adjoining port passageway, like patrons at Grand Central Station in New York City during rush hour, slow down, stop, and stare at the spectacle. Surrendering to primitive compulsions, the voyeuristic sailors maneuver for unobstructed views of the illuminated ass. With unprecedented acuity, every facet is memorized and the indelible erotic imagery filed away for future masturbatory fodder. Restrained on the bench, flushed with embarrassment, the compromised sailor is unable to preserve his dignity. Nauseous from the overwhelming humiliation, Wetter closes his eyes, takes quick shallow breaths, and mentally retreats from the wolfish grins and cachinnations. "Look at that fucking hole," a sailor shouts. "Damn, they got it wide open," burbles an excited crewman. "I want get inside that," declares another, raping Wetter with licentious eyes. Fascinated by the exquisite sight, brazenly stroking demanding erections, many sailors envision breeding Wetter. Sailing the high seas for extended periods without access to women, having limited viable options, sea-pussy is an attractive alternative. Not merely naked, exposed, and utterly humiliated, but much worse, Wetter's reputation and illusion of masculinity are irreparably damaged. Scuttlebutt will quickly spread his shame, and the homosexual will be relentlessly targeted by demanding predators and curious shipmates. There's no doubt about it, he's fucked. Exercising leadership, taking charge of the evolution, Coyne terminates the spectacle. Dispersing the rowdy crowd, securing the compartment's door, he refocuses on the evening's objective... the thorough exploration deep inside Wetter. "So this is the faggot you mentioned," said the Latino HM3. "Yeah... ABEAN Wetter, V2 Division." Grinning impishly, the audacious brandy-skinned corpsman grabs Wetter's solid shaft, and gives it an aggressive squeeze. Inspecting the circumcision scar, impressed with the clean overly tight procedure, he smiles knowingly, recognizing the distinctive signature of Coyne's handiwork. "Nice job... way to cut that cock," he congratulates Coyne. "You keep the skin?" "Of course. I'll show you my collection someday." Unable to contain his enthusiasm, the Latino corpsman boldly extracts his insistent gear. Holding Wetter's head, he aggressively whacks the boy's startled face. Administering a substantial bitch slapping, the sound reverberates throughout the compartment and down the passageway towards the forward galley and crew's mess deck. Radiating power, the physical embodiment of masculinity demands respect. "Suck it faggot," the HM3 commands. Mesmerized by the authoritative appendage, Wetter instinctively pays homage to the superior male. Enthusiastically extending his well-trained tongue, sampling the oozing offering, rich and spicy, he detects exquisite layers of flavor... amusing undertones of cinnamon, vanilla, and cayenne pepper. Impatient, grabbing Wetter's hair, the corpsman lunges forward. Piloting a circuitous route, traversing dangerous shoal waters and teeth, he searches for the guarded entrance to Wetter's throat. Probing deeper, successfully navigating the restricted channel, perched upon the defenseless precipice, he finds safe anchorage inside the welcoming throat. "That's it cocksucker... take it all." "Yeah, throat fuck him," encourages the blonde HM3. Two-blocked, with bloated balls pressed against Wetter's flush face, the HM3 is prevented from proceeding any deeper. Stuffed, unable to breathe and babbling incoherently, the feeding sailor makes desperate choking sounds... mostly vowels. "Oh hell yeah, choke on it." Having little choice, Wetter complies... providing excellent entertainment for the amused corpsmen. Working with monomaniacal energy, the moment of reward is rapidly approaching. "That's it... I'm almost there." Luxuriating in convulsing accommodations, the HM3 discharges a searing torrent of navy jam. Feasting on the substantial meal, Wetter swallows repeatedly to get it all down. Nutritious and delicious, the creamy goodness provides profound satisfaction for the starving sailor. Descending from the euphoric high, without a glance or any acknowledgement of appreciation, the expended Latino sailor vacates Wetter's battered throat with an audible pop. Retreating, the corpsman makes way for his shipmate and the next feeding. Moving towards the examination bench, the blonde corpsman notices jam splattered on Wetter's abdomen. The unauthorized discharge, glistening in the bright light, slowly collects and pools. "Look at that, he busted a nut just by sucking your cock!" "Damn that's pathetic... what a fag," responds the Latino HM3. Unable to muster a credible defense, Wetter wallows in shame. Adding to the humiliation, Coyne deftly squeezes and milks the leaking appendage between experienced fingers and thumb, root to tip, and forces several chunks of white jam from the traitorous cock. Selecting a tongue depressor from a supply cabinet secured to the forward transverse bulkhead, he scrapes together and collects the discharge. Like a devoted mother feeding her toothless toddler pabulum, Coyne extends the nourishing custard to the chagrined sailor. The Staff of Asclepius, the traditional symbol of medicine - a roughhewn rod with a single snake twined around it, is tattooed on Coyne's right forearm. On the left arm is the Caduceus, the symbol of the power to harm or to heal - a staff entwined with twin serpents, topped with a pair of wings. "Open up," Coyne cajoles with a playful grin. "Yeah, feed the cocksucker," the Latino barks. Reaffirming his insignificant position in the military hierarchy, Wetter obediently complies. Consuming his own jam, like a scrumptious éclair from a fine Parisian patisserie, the creamy egg custard flavor and hint of chocolate is satisfying and leaves him wanting more. Enjoying the spectacle, the blonde HM3's erection is painfully inflated. Growing up, the kid's Schlitz Tall Boy 16 oz. beer-can-sized appendage, disproportionate to his slight stature, was a constant source of pride. Strutting around naked, showing off his masculinity, the pendulous cock was simultaneously admired and feared by his friends. Fascinated, many boys surreptitiously stole glances whenever possible... not wanting to be labeled as fags. Masturbating nightly, they fantasied about the magnificent appendage. "It's my turn to feed him," exclaims the blonde corpsman. Excited, experiencing an elevated pulse, the HM3's perspiring body radiates the distinctive fresh scent of brisk citrus accented by lemon and oak moss. The cologne, Canoe from Dana, evokes a sense of old-world timelessness, elegant charm, and masculine sophistication. Extracting the freakishly large organ with difficulty, he takes station off Wetter's starboard bow and makes preparations for getting underway. "Damn... you have a huge fucking cock!" notes the impressed Latino. "Yeah, it's too big for its own good sometimes," laughs the proud boy. In high school, rumors spread of his immense appendage. Frightened, many girls refuse to address his impossible needs. Fortunately, several gays cloistered in the drama club and other fag hangouts covertly approach him with insatiable curiosity and offers of assistance. Meeting clandestinely, they nervously submit to the superior male. With eyes larger than their mouths, possessing more enthusiasm than ability, they struggle to accommodate the tumid shaft. Desperately begging for leniency, receiving none, their protesting throats are brutally stuffed by the enormous glans - like a wine bottle with a cork. Choking, flailing arms about widely, almost blacking out, they eventually consume a sumptuous meal. Devastated but addicted, driven by natural forces like salmon returning to spawning grounds, the gay boys instinctively return for additional feedings. Enjoying a magical senior year, respected and celebrated by classmates, the legendary cock graduates high school... and seeking adventure, enlists in the Navy. "I bet it's the biggest fucker aboard," responds the Latino HM3. "I've never seen anything larger on a white kid," adds Coyne. Of course black and Latino sailors are altogether another mater. Having conducted thousands of physicals over his career, the HM1 has encountered some freakish appendages... immense weapons three standard deviations above the accepted medical community mean. Meanwhile, lost in thought, Wetter is transported back in time. A nominal heterosexual, never really developing an interested in girls during his formative years, he buried the knowledge that he was different deep down inside. Enlisting, provided a seminal education at boot camp, he discovered his true vocation in the Navy, where his life path was irrevocably established. Assigned to Navy Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes, Wetter is immediately immersed in a masculine wonderland. Furtively studying the naked recruits in the open barracks and showers, he is mesmerized by the staggering variety of sizes and shapes. And the prodigious cocks on parade suffuse his senses. Staffed by motivated chief petty officers - professionals imbued with a strong sense of duty and a commitment to military excellence, the seasoned mariners skillfully transform America's troubled youth into effective defenders of freedom. Garnering special attention, Wetter's superiors ensure he is properly trained and prepared to join the Fleet. Providing extra military instruction, the alpha males feed the alacritous sailor generous quantities of Navy jam, stuffing him full of the potent drug like narcotics peddlers. During digestion, a protein in jam releases opiates that interact with the brain's dopamine receptors, triggering an addiction. Craving pleasure, the sailor embarks upon a lifelong dependency. A natural submissive, insatiable and inherently talented, Wetter earns high marks as he enthusiastically consumes a stunning assortment of addictive custards. The fortunate sailor's remarkable ass also absorbs advanced, graduate level lessons. "Open up cocksucker," the blonde HM3 demands. Firmly entrenched in the corpsmen's clutches, unable to temper his cupidity for cock, Wetter acquiesces without superficial resistance or comment. Clearly, there's no point in pretending anymore. Craving another dose of decadent jam, he is driven by pleasure endorphins like a desperate heroin addict searching for his next fix. Placating his addiction, he sucks the corpsman inside his greedy mouth. Feeding on the leaking mushroom cockhead, consuming the entheogenic chemicals, the sailor experiences strong psychoactive effects. Inducing transcendence and revelation, Wetter's altered state of consciousness is deeply spiritual. Savoring the magical journey, replete with synesthesia, the tripping sailor's perception of time is altered as he communicates with his personal god. "Oh yeah, eat me," insists the ecstatic HM3. Intoxicated with the power of supremacy, persistently thrusting inside the enraptured sailor, he brutally punishes the throat. Hermetically sealing Wetter's airway with the bell-shaped mushroom cap, he relishes the amazing tightness of the desperately convulsing throat. Gripping the boy's head tightly, trembling involuntarily, he explodes and feeds Wetter another substantial serving of the addictive elixir. Appreciating the moment, he's thankful to be a Navy Hospital Corpsman, trained and authorized to address the needs of enlisted men. "Swallow it all," he needlessly instructs. Instinctively, Wetter's throat contracts, consuming the potent drug. Somnolent from overindulging, breathing slowly, releasing the deflating cock, the crapulent sailor's eyes slowly roll up. Sedated, unresponsive to verbal commands and tactile stimulation, Wetter won't be regaining situational awareness for at least another half-hour. Taking full advantage of the situation, it's time for the main event. Donning latex examination gloves, the three corpsmen take station between the sailor's spread legs. Its mission completed, the stainless steel speculum is closed, and easily extracted from the swollen ring. Beautifully opened, the aperture has increased in circumference under Coyne's capable leadership. Trembling with eagerness, studying the bruised entrance, committing every detail and nuance to memory, they are mesmerized by the intrinsic beauty. "Damn, that's awesome," the blonde HM3 whispers reverentially. Inherently, all beauty is transient, containing the seeds of its own demise. Used persistently by appreciative shipmates, already stretched and gapped, the aperture's ultimate destruction is assured. Enjoying unfettered access, they take turns exploring the defenseless sailor's crimson chute. Forcing inquisitive hands deep inside, the asshole slowly slides down their muscular forearms as they brutally traverse the serpentine passageway. Discussing anatomical structures, the excited corpsmen meticulously document the tantalizing landscape like a cartographer mapping the new world. In the Navy, rank is everything. And life for a corpsman is an amazing adventure. For a gay sailor assigned aboard an aircraft carrier, it's an inexhaustible supply of addictive jam and a guaranteed ruined asshole. - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1MC: `Aboard Independence, make preparations for getting underway. Set the sea and anchor detail. Make ready for sea reports to the OOD on the bridge.' Departing Norfolk with the high tide, an additional 2.8 feet of water under the keel, the crew has approximately two hours to accomplish countless tasks. Getting underway is an amazingly complex operation. Obsessively through, leaving nothing to chance, the Navy has developed a myriad of detailed manuals, instructions, guides, procedures, and checklists for its accomplishment. Associated with every piece of equipment, system, and evolution, detailed documents provide operators and watch standers with normal operating parameters, interoperability requirements, and causality control procedures. Below decks in Engineering Main Control, 4-132-0-C, the Main Propulsion Assistant is studying the 15-foot main propulsion plant status board. Containing hundreds of lights, gages, indicators, and sensors, it provides the officer with the operating status of machinery and plant valve alignment. The captain's internal command announcing system, the 21 MC squawk box, comes alive with direct communications from the OOD on the bridge. 21MC: `Engineering Control, Bridge, standby to answer all bells'. 21MC: ` Bridge, Engineering Control, standby to answer all bells, aye'. With boilers making supersaturated steam, the turbine engines are ready to engage the main reduction gears, providing unimaginable torque to the 21-foot propellers. It's time, and Independence is ready to get underway. Mariners being inherently superstitious, believe that there are definitely lucky and unlucky ships, good and bad omens, and deleterious spirits which must be placated with offerings. One enduring superstition is that any voyage commencing on a Friday will encounter misfortune and end in disaster. Hence, a naval ship will never get underway on that unlucky day. Mere seconds before the last brow is lifted, a sailor dashes madly across and just makes ship's movement. Recognizing HTFA Cramer, several master-at-arms escort the returned deserter to the MAA Shack and notify the XO and Ensign Rozo. A burble of industry resonates as line handlers sequentially single up and slack off bow, spring, breast, waist, and stern lines. Casting off, removed from pierside bollards and bitts, the ship's Boatswain's Mates heave-in the 10-inch circumferential braided nylon lines. On the ship's focsle, 02-H-0-Q, BM1 Sanders, Deck Department's 1st Division senior BM, issuing orders and coordinating capstan operations, exchanges curses with a junior sailor, BMSA Punderson. Smiling malevolently, he knows Punderson will regret his insubordination. Unmoored, three YTB tugs ease Independence away from the pier. 1MC: `Underway... shift colors'. Sounding a prolonged blast on her steam whistle, the National Ensign is hauled down on the flagstaff and Streaming Colors fly on the main mast. Manning the rails in summer whites, the crew watches as family, lovers, and ashore concerns quickly recede. Outward bound, maneuvering through restricted waters, the ship crosses over the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel I-64, applies a 15-degree right-rudder at Fort Monroe, and enters the 1,000 foot wide, 13 nautical mile long Thimble Sholes Channel. Dredged to 50 feet, following the `Rules of the Road' - green can buoys to starboard red nuns to port, steering 120 degrees, she traverses the Chesapeake Bay. Passing over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel US-13, the ship accelerates to 12 knots towards the Atlantic Ocean and the Virginia Capes operating area. Underway, making way, Independence will practice the art of waging war. Conducting exercises with surface, subsurface, and air assets, demonstrating mission capabilities, obtaining requisite qualifications, the crew will prepare for the eventual exam in battle worthiness: the Operational Readiness Exercise, conducted by the Fleet Training Group in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Upon certification, the ship will deploy to the Indian Ocean for 6+ months, steaming the Arabian Sea under the operational control of COMIDEASTFOR, Commander, Middle East Forces. Training extensively, suffering together, strong bonds will be forged as the officers and men connect to an ancient seafaring tradition steeped in legends and myths. Embarking upon a profound journey of self-discovery, the young midshipmen will explore the wonders of the high seas. Life underway is inherently a spiritual enterprise. And the call of the mysterious deep, primal and undeniable, resonates in the subconscious, haunts the imagination, and intrinsically stimulates ardent yearnings for adventure and exploration. Make no doubt about it, there is nothing like it, being a sailor at sea. - - - - - - - - - - - - - The voyage aboard Independence continues in Chapter 9: Underway Making Way. Comments and readers' experiences with sailors, shipboard or ashore, are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com