Cuban Crisis
In October 1962, a surly crew of sailors was stopped short of dropping off our Marines and vehicles at Morehead City, North Carolina. The USS York County LST1175 had been ordered to return to Norfolk, Virginia. 
An LST is a Tank Landing Ship renown for such assaults as the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal in World War II. A flat bottom ship with bow doors that open to deploy tanks and trucks ashore filled with Marines. Our amphibious fleet had been on maneuvers in the Mediterranean since May. I was still reeling from the enchantment of Europe but most of the crew had been looking forward to being home. Rumors abound in a military world where little outside information is received. When our diverted ship arrived at the docks of Little Creek, a fleet of supply trucks lined the pier. This could be an indication of some serious deployment. Common sense pointed to the fact that we were battle-ready with our complement of armament. They announced that Section One (of three) Liberty Crew would be allowed to go ashore until seven AM the next day. All others remaining aboard were required to carry stores from the waiting trucks. Given the luck of the draw, fourteen others and I in our Engineering crew decided it was better to play than work. At nineteen years of age, I laid no claim to maturity when a sailor’s mentality took over. In two overloaded taxis, we headed 
for The Strip, a string of sailor-class bars not far from the base. It was about seven in the evening when I broke the first rack of eight-ball pool and vowed to make a full night of it. It was not unlike me to toil all night to repair components in my realm as Interior Communication Electrician so why not give this parting shot a good try. We kept the pool tables filled and the beer or rum and coke flowing. At midnight they quite serving alcohol and half of our crew were fading. The Mole came to me and said he and six others were getting a room at the motel next door but needed us to roust them so we could all return to the ship in the morning. As a token of his submission, he handed me his duffle bag with a fifth of 151 proof Ron Rico Rum. I took the bottle to the restroom where I placed it conveniently in the ceiling tiles. Alerted, my dedicated Salts and we spiked our fountain cokes all night long. The conflict of our adventure was that the bars started serving again at seven AM and our ship was to get underway at that time. Priorities in order, I got our compliment of crew members from the motel; called for a round of beer; and summoned two taxis. That seven AM beer was ceremonial, not tasty. By half-past seven the taxis were awaiting us. In the lead taxi, we approached the end of The Strip. I signaled for one more stop and another round of beer. Satisfied, our crew of fourteen arrived at the pier; an enraged Chief Petty Officer Combs stood at the top of the gangplank shaking his fist, and we all stumbled aboard. Under normal circumstances, we would have been written up as AWOL. 
The Chief and others were just happy to have us aboard since without a complete Engineering crew the ship could not get underway. Within minutes we were off to the Caribbean. By the next day, we had recovered. Russian ships were encountered; battle plans were discussed, but fourteen sailors had a bond of irresponsibility that yielded a grin amongst us for the next three months at sea enforcing Kennedy’s Cuban Blockade.
An LST is a Tank Landing Ship renown for such assaults as the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal in World War II. A flat bottom ship with bow doors that open to deploy tanks and trucks ashore filled with Marines. Our amphibious fleet had been on maneuvers in the Mediterranean since May. I was still reeling from the enchantment of Europe but most of the crew had been looking forward to being home. Rumors abound in a military world where little outside information is received. When our diverted ship arrived at the docks of Little Creek, a fleet of supply trucks lined the pier. This could be an indication of some serious deployment. Common sense pointed to the fact that we were battle-ready with our complement of armament. They announced that Section One (of three) Liberty Crew would be allowed to go ashore until seven AM the next day. All others remaining aboard were required to carry stores from the waiting trucks. Given the luck of the draw, fourteen others and I in our Engineering crew decided it was better to play than work. At nineteen years of age, I laid no claim to maturity when a sailor’s mentality took over. In two overloaded taxis, we headed 
for The Strip, a string of sailor-class bars not far from the base. It was about seven in the evening when I broke the first rack of eight-ball pool and vowed to make a full night of it. It was not unlike me to toil all night to repair components in my realm as Interior Communication Electrician so why not give this parting shot a good try. We kept the pool tables filled and the beer or rum and coke flowing. At midnight they quite serving alcohol and half of our crew were fading. The Mole came to me and said he and six others were getting a room at the motel next door but needed us to roust them so we could all return to the ship in the morning. As a token of his submission, he handed me his duffle bag with a fifth of 151 proof Ron Rico Rum. I took the bottle to the restroom where I placed it conveniently in the ceiling tiles. Alerted, my dedicated Salts and we spiked our fountain cokes all night long. The conflict of our adventure was that the bars started serving again at seven AM and our ship was to get underway at that time. Priorities in order, I got our compliment of crew members from the motel; called for a round of beer; and summoned two taxis. That seven AM beer was ceremonial, not tasty. By half-past seven the taxis were awaiting us. In the lead taxi, we approached the end of The Strip. I signaled for one more stop and another round of beer. Satisfied, our crew of fourteen arrived at the pier; an enraged Chief Petty Officer Combs stood at the top of the gangplank shaking his fist, and we all stumbled aboard. Under normal circumstances, we would have been written up as AWOL. 
The Chief and others were just happy to have us aboard since without a complete Engineering crew the ship could not get underway. Within minutes we were off to the Caribbean. By the next day, we had recovered. Russian ships were encountered; battle plans were discussed, but fourteen sailors had a bond of irresponsibility that yielded a grin amongst us for the next three months at sea enforcing Kennedy’s Cuban Blockade.
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