Lawrence Markworth
US NAVY
Lawrence is an elder warrior, published author, dream group facilitator, and retired librarian. He holds a B.A in geography and a master’s in library science from UCLA. Prior to attending college, he served four years in the U.S. Navy during the war in Vietnam. In 1964, on a weekend pass from his ship, he visited the museum at ground zero in Nagasaki, Japan. That visit forever changed his views on war and nuclear weapons. He is married, with two grown children, and two grandchildren. His hobbies are writing, dream work, reading, fishing, hiking, swimming, classic cars, and travel.
The following chapter is from Lawrence's memoir in progress: Rowing through a Sea of rubble—A Warrior’s Journey Home.
Chapter 9: Typhoon
We’ve done well in ’65 dodging typhoons in the South China Sea. Until our luck runs out. Mid-year, tropical storm Amy has reversed her projected direction and quickly overruns us as we’re heading home to Japan.
Is it you, Poseidon, maker of earthquakes, god of the waters, protector of seafarers, a shadow lurking with us on Castor, as the typhoon teaches lessons in mortality?
Today, we witness the power of Amy. She’s beating the snot out of us. Castor, at the top of a wave — take turns, quickly opening the engineering quarters hatch to the main deck. An opportunity to briefly glimpse the terrifying tempest. Surrounded by massive walls of water, we look straight up to see the angry gray sky. Typhoon force waves as big as hills, green and white-water raging everywhere. As Castor reaches the peak of the wave, we quickly slam the hatch shut, knowing what would have been in store for us as we slide down into the trough.
We’re almost completely submerged at the bottom of the receding wave as we dive into the next monster. Somehow, the ship rises to the surface again as we begin the steep ascent up the next swell. Our turbine groans under the load of water, wind, and gravity, and slowly hauls our 450 feet and 6000 tons up to the next crest. We hear seawater escaping, pouring from our decks, as if we are a Phoenix rising to the apex of the colossal mountain of water. We tilt over the top, bow plunging down, our screw lifts out of the salty deep, the steam turbine revving up under no load. On the harrowing descent, the WOP, WOP, WOP of the prop punching the wave as we once again slide into the abyss.
At night death casts its long shadow over our vessel as wave after wave batters us. We take steep rolls port and starboard, fore and aft. Sleep impossible. Many of us seasoned sailors seasick, the stench of puke permeating our quarters. On the most horrible pivots, we pray Castor will right itself and not capsize. If we do go over, even if we escape the sinking hull, there’s no possible way we will survive in the mountainous waves and howling winds. No, if we do not stay upright, we’re all going down with the ship.
I’m terrified. Is this how it is going to end—lost at sea, and no one finds my body? Mom and sister, Andy, crying over an empty coffin? How will they cope with the men of the family gone?
The nocturnal darkness feeds into our fears, when wham, we hear the loud crash as if a cannonball slams into something solid in our quarters. “What the fuck was that?” someone calls out.
“We’ve collided with something in the water,” another voice speculates.
“Nagai, I think your bowling ball has escaped,” says Buchanan. Nervous laughter throughout the bunkroom, loud enough to hear over the cacophony of the storm. Nagai’s beloved custom-made bowling ball breaks free of his unsecured locker, wreaking havoc. The hard polyester plastic sphere careens about our sleeping quarters unchecked. As we lie in our bunks, in near dark, we call out the location of the marauding ball. “Headed your way, Minnis, watch out.”
On a steep wave it speeds by my bunk faster than a professional bowler can sling it down an alley. No one in their right mind will crawl out of the safety of their bunk and be blind-sided by a speeding bowling ball. Buchanan calls out, “Over here, in my corner.”
We dive into another trough, immediately going into a steep port roll. We hear the ball hit the bulkhead and not move. Someone calls out, “Buchanan, jump on it.”
I hear his loud groan as warrior courage pushes him out of his bunk. He jumps on the ball. His arms and chest capturing it before it breaks loose from the corner to continue its rampage. Now the sound of his locker slamming shut. “Got it,” he shouts. We all whistle and cheer. One small crisis resolved.
From sunrise to sunrise the giantess batters us.
After the longest day and night of my life we are spared, somehow the wrath of nature grants us special dispensation. Despite my miseries in serving on her, my respect for Castor’s abilities grows. Now we know she’s typhoon seaworthy.
Our souls shaken—but not broken. Our prayers of redemption answered by some
benevolent sea god. Is it you, Poseidon?