Station Atlantic City, NJ. May 9th 2015
It was a duty Saturday, not the kind of thing you get excited for. I was slow waking up, still a bit dazed from getting sea sick the night before, as my BM2 (Boatswains mate, aka people who drive the boats) at the time was adamant at getting as many night hours as possible. When I finally made it downstairs I got a stern talking to by the very same BM2. He was a poet when it came to chastisement. “DAMN IT JOEL! I know you can get sea sick on a moored boat, but I need you doing boat checks on time! You know we are a skeleton crew today!”
After the excitement of boat check number 1037, I made my way back up to the main building. I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye. Our front gate was wide open, and stuck that way. This being Atlantic City, I knew this was like throwing up an “ALL DRUNK PEOPLE WELCOME!” neon sign. I ran inside our main building and informed our small crew. Well, my BM2 wasn’t having any of this; ISIS could march right inside without any problem GODDAMMIT (Forgetting that half our base is open to a large ocean inlet, completely unprotected). So my MK3 (machinery technician, aka people who fix the boats) and I promptly went about trying to fix it.
Soon a fog straight out of a Stephen king novel showed up, and what was already a dim day by May standards, turned an almost fantasy dark. Now, if you haven’t realized this by now, my BM2 (who was OOD {officer of the day, aka the boss} this weekend) was convinced that he was born to be the second person to receive the Medal of Honor in the Coast Guard. This ominous fog was a sign from God! ISIS will soon strike with the force of thousand men! (I’m certain he was thinking this at the time). Soon every last man was armed to the teeth with the very best the coast guard could afford to give a small boat station. Shotguns, M-16s, Sig pistols, and body armor were being passed out like candy.
Once the A-team was geared up, we made our way outside. BM2 posted a guard at the front (a newly reported BM1), while the rest of us searched the perimeter of the base. We slowly made our way around in pairs. Everything seemed fine until we saw it. A hole, the size of an average man, was cut into our fence on the far side of the base. At this point even I started to get a little freaked. I don’t think I have ever seen a man so excited as when my BM2 discovered the hole. This was surely the beginning of WWIII.
We left the only Coastie with a shotgun to watch over the hole and made our way back to our watch room in the main building. Then it went pitch black. We lost power, completely. I can’t be sure, but I have this strong feeling that My BM2 was very close to God in this moment. I could almost see the dawn of the apocalypse in his horrified face. We passed out flashlights and MK3 went to try to fix the generator, leaving just BM2, myself, and a young BM3. Now just for some clarification, this was no ordinary BM3. This was a BM3 who took it upon himself to bear the weight of every single negative stereotype that comes with the esteemed rate (job) that is Boatswains Mate. He in all seriousness referred to himself as the Boat-God, and insisted that he be called such.
BM2, the Boat-God, and I slowly made our way to the barracks building on base to clear out any sneaky ISIS insurgents. As we got to the main door, Boat-God counted to three and ran inside. Not wanting to be outdone, BM2 ran in as well shouting all sorts of French words. We made our way down each hall and room, being as tactical as a non-rate, a navy seal wannabe, and someone who calls himself Boat-God, can possibly be. With our flashlights as the only source of light, every shadow seemed a living thing, and I was grateful the building wasn’t very large. Once everything was cleared, we went to check on everyone else.
While the evil fog spread its wide fingers through the darkness, my MK3 franticly tried to fix the generator to give us some light. Nothing was working, and he eventually had to give up. BM2, who has seen every John Wayne film at least twice, knew that this was his moment. Surrounded on all sides, hopelessly outgunned, out-manned, and without hope of rescue, this was our Bastogne! Our ALAMO! KILL OR BE KILLED! He placed his men as best he could for the undeniable battle that was soon to come.
I found myself at the top of our main building, in a crow’s nest if you will, with a pair of binoculars and a pistol. Not my ideal situation, but I made do with what I had. Everyone was confused and nervous, most of all me. I comforted myself that if our unseen enemy killed me, at least I could get some sleep. From my vantage point I could just make out BM1, standing by the open maw of the gate with his long-gun. The lone Coastie guarding the hole was somewhere lost in the fog to my right. Boat-God and BM2 were patrolling around the base, and MK3 was walking toward BM1 and the gate. That’s when it happened.
The Atlantic City sky, full of fog, still danced with the many colors that only casino lights can boast of. These lights were commonplace, an eyesore to anyone who lived there for a long period of time. These lights betrayed me, because when I saw the vehicle head lights, it was too late. It was already inside the base.
BM1 screamed for the car to stop, and only a man with a M-16 being pointed at him can stop a car so fast. I looked through my binoculars and was only mocked by the wall of fog obscuring my view. I saw BM2 sprinting to action with the always faithful Boat-God beside him. Details started becoming clear through the fog. It was a tan sedan, with only one person in it. He slowly made his way out of his car. My BM1 yelled commands that carried across the base to my elevated position. “HANDS UP! DON’T MOVE!”
The A-team slowly approached the car, guns drawn, gripped tight as can be. The lone man held his hands up, shaking, that wasn’t a good sign in my eyes.
Suddenly the man cried out “I BROUGHT THE PIZZA! I WAS TOLD TO SING HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
Apparently it was the newly reported BM1s birthday, and his girlfriend had sent him a pizza for lunch, unknown to him.
As it turns out, the hole in the fence was just some construction workers, doing some normal work on the base earlier that week. The power loss was due to some downed tower, and the generator didn’t work because, well, we’re the Coast Guard and nothing we have works. And the stuck open gate? Well after that day, that gate never really worked and we had to set up a permanent gate guard. A position, that might I say, was quite terrible to find yourself in during the NJ winters.
(on a side note, the only thing the command took away from all of this was that there was a man sized hole in the far side of the fence for a few days and it took this long for anyone to notice. They were furious and we were all punished with being forced to wear our fancy [and very uncomfortable] uniforms to all hands meetings and on every watch for a month).
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