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As a teenager, Ron
Marlett's sense of humor was influenced by MAD
magazine, especially the one-page cartoon strips contributed by Don
Martin. In 1970, Ron joined the Coast Guard and was stationed aboard
the 255-foot cutter Winnebago,
homeported at Honolulu, Hawaii. The following year, the Coast Guard
14th District Office was in need of a driver who would also serve as a
representative in their public relations office. Ron was chosen for the
position, and within a couple of weeks he was spending most of his time
answering phones and working on the monthly news magazine called Pacific Shield.
The public relations officer Lt Gary Boyer came up with the idea of
having Ron create a small cartoon strip that would run every month in
the Pacific Shield. Ron drew
a four-panel strip about coastguardsmen being inspected by two officers, and
JO1 Jim Gilman wrote the dialogue for the characters. Gilman named the
tall, skinny ensign in the strip "Ensign Bafflestir." Ron liked the
name so much that in the next issue of the Pacific Shield, Ron presented the strip as Ensign Bafflestir.
Ron took over the responsibility of writing his own storyboard and the
strip eventually became a full-page piece. Ensign Bafflestir became
famous within the Coast Guard, which allowed Ron to experience a
celebrity status during the next three years of his enlistment.
After Ron's discharge from active duty in 1974, he pursued a career in the fine arts and Ensign Bafflestir was shelved. In 2008, Ron created a mixed media portrait of Ensign Bafflestir
that was fashioned after a painting of Vice Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson
and submited it along with information about the cartoon's history to
Wikipedia. To read Wikipedia's article on Ensign Bafflestir, please go
to wikipedia.org To enjoy the cartoons, click on one of the pictures to the left.
| Fender Man
This essay was written by Ron Marlett to preserve his experiences aboard the USCGC Winnebago while serving in the Coast Guard from 1970 to 1974. |
In the 1970s, the United States Coast Guard still maintained many
old ships that were built during World War II. The USCGC Winnebago was named in honor of the Winnebago people of Wisconsin and
was launched in July 1945. The Winnebago was built as a patrol
gunboat but never saw action for the war was over shortly after her
commissioning. After the war the Coast Guard subsequently refitted
the Winnebago for peacetime
service, which included, search and rescue, enforcement of maritime
laws, medical assistance, navigation assistance, and weather
monitoring. The 255-foot cutter had a complement of 148 officers and
men. After I graduated from Coast Guard Boot Camp, I was assigned to
the Winnebago as a crewman. Every other month, the Winnebago would take up a position near the shipping lanes between Japan and Midway Atoll. The Winnebago
would remain on station for 2 weeks and then she would be relieved by
another Coast Guard cutter. On our voyage back to Hawaii, we refueled
at Sand Island which is one of three islands that make up Midway Atoll. After filling our tanks with diesel fuel, the Winnebago
slowly backed away from the pier. A coastguardsman hoisted the American
flag on the mizzen gaff as Navy sailors cast off the last mooring
hawser.
I was the fender man. I wish I could have been someone more
important, like a line handler, or a quartermaster, or the Captain; but
I was just a fender man. Every time our ship would dock or get
underway, I would stand near the boatswain with my little cushion tied
to a skinny line and watch everyone participate in working the ship.
While standing near the boatswain, I would carefully coil my skinny
line so that I appeared busy. The coiled line
rested in my left hand. My right hand maneuvered the small fender into
imaginary situations while I waited in vain for an order. Everyone knew
his job well, and I became an expert at watching them: the line
handlers pulling in the huge dirty mooring hawsers and stowing them
into the hawser locker; The quartermaster quickly raising the ship's
identification flags up to where the Coast Guard ensign proudly snapped
in the Pacific sea breeze; The Captain on the bridge wing looking about
with a keen eye to the activities taking place on his ship. During the
ship's maneuvering into the channel, I could smell the greasy soot coming
from the funnel. The stack-gas odor always reminded me of burning
plastic. I coiled my skinny line again to keep myself busy. Suddenly,
the stinky stack-gas smell dissipated, replaced by the fresh scent of
the sea and Midway's coconut palms. It was refreshing not to breathe in
the foul fumes of the gigantic diesel turbines. I looked up at
the funnel and noticed that the stack was not belching out smoke. The
Captain left his position on the bridge wing and entered the
wheelhouse. Everyone on deck stopped working and looked at one another,
hoping that our problem was short lived. A ship that loses power while
maneuvering near fuel lines can be dangerous.
The old ship's engines broke down and the ship was now adrift.
I followed the boatswain over to the decktalker who was plugged
into the superstructure outlet. The Captain was coordinating the ship's
functions through the decktalkers whose officers were standing nearby.
The order was given to the deck officer that everyone was to muster on
the fantail with the exception of the fender man. The boatswain gave me
instructions to go forward and place my fender between the ship and the
pier. The adrenalin began to rush through my body as I walked forward,
passing crewmen who were making their way to the stern. I wanted to
prove to my shipmates that they could count on me to accomplish my
mission. Our ship was in a precarious situation. The vessel became a
colossal weathervane as the wind pushed the ship's stern sideways. The
ocean currents conspired with the wind; and together, they forced our
ship on a deadly course torward the fueling pier. Now was my moment of
truth. My job was to save the ship! I passed the forward superstructure
and saw the Navy seamen who were tending the lines on the pier begin to
run. The sailors on the pier were running for their lives. Fear
overcame me and I froze. It was a paralyzing fear that held me fastened to
the deck as if the steel I stood on metamorphosed into hundreds of
hands that gripped my legs, ankles, and feet. My sweaty body was
shaking and my hands could barely hold my fender. I faced my comrades.
Their backs were against me as they hurriedly stumbled aft, the deck
officer behind them like a cowboy herding cattle. I was running torward
something that everyone was running away from and I became a
coward.
The old ship's bow was moments away from cutting the fuel line and causing an explosion.
One comrade turned to see the tragic event unfold. Other
shipmates turned and soon the entire deck force stopped and stared at
me. I could see their distant faces fill with disappointment over my
inaction to the crises. The crew was silent yet I could clearly hear
their voices within my mind. "I knew he was a loser," said one. "I knew
we could'nt count on him," said another. If only I could get a signal
from the deck officer, or an encouraging cheer from the crew. I needed
an inspirational gesture that would break the evil spell my fear cast
upon me. The deck officer became angry. He stepped forward and
violently jabbed his finger torward my destination. He became a knight
who slammed Excalibur down on the deck, cutting my iron restraints, and
setting me free. I ran to the bow jumping over hatches and vents as
though the obstacles were merely tiny bumps on the deck. My body and
mind became a finely tuned machine that was focussed on placing the
fender between the ship's bow and the fuel pipe. I could not hear or
feel. My eyes fixated on only what my mind needed to know to complete
the mission. I wrapped myself around the jack staff and lowered
my fender down. There it was; the sharp bow of the ship and the old
rusted pipe full of explosive fuel. I positioned the fender beside the
pipe and watched the knife like bow slowly press into the pillow. The
pipe began to buckle against the oncoming weight of the ship. The
pylons that the pipe was secured to began to bend inward and the pipe
line became distorted. The old wood mooned and creaked against the
unwanted intrusion, but the solid pier robbed the ship of her forward
momentum. It was like watching a tennis ball bounce off a wall in slow
motion. The ship drifted away from the pipe and I could see that the
fender prevented the ship's bow from cutting open the fuel line. I
brought up my fender, which resembled a torn and shredded pancake, and
I felt a sense of relief that the threat against our ship was over.
The old ship's engines started up and the ship backed out into the channel.
I turned to the wheelhouse and saw the Captain walk out onto the
bridge wing. I held the fender up high to display my trophy and the
Captain smiled and waved. The Captain regained control of his ship and
he issued orders that steered our bow to the waves. The smelly smoke
poured out of the funnel and faded into the clear cerulean sky. I never
thought I would feel so good to see the soot coming out of the stack,
but the soot was our ticket to the open sea. The ship's horn made a
loud blast and the quartermaster lowered the identification flags. The
deck force returned to their duties of stowing the mooring lines,
securing the hatches, and positioning the starboard small boat into its
launching position. We passed the brown remains of a water barge, which
marked Midway's channel entrance, and our ship began to pitch to
the ocean's blue swells. I placed the flattened fender and coiled line
next to the various tools in our storage locker and secured the steel
door. I paused from my duties to reflect on what had happened to
me at the pier. Was I a coward or a hero? Maybe both of those human
responses were part of the person I became during my moment of truth. I
felt a sense of accomplishment and self worth, but most importantly, I
understood that I was capable of taking
one step beyond the shackles of fear.
The old ship steamed out to sea.
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