The day we invaded The Bahamas …for real...

Cay Lobos…or The Day Cutter GRAND ISLE invaded the Bahamas…for real

What’s that you say?  An invasion?  Impossible!! Never happened!!  Couldn’t happen!!

Well, it did.  And like any good sailor spinning a sea story…this has a grain of truth to it.

Mighty GRAND ISLE was nearing the end of a two-month trip deployed out of Coast Guard Base Miami Beach (the astute reader of this blog will recall the night that never happened…or maybe you don’t).  Other than successfully evading Hurricane Mitch it was an overall boring trip—a few boardings here and there; chasing surefire leads based on hot intel (if you are in the Coast Guard or were, you may insert laughter at that sentence).  Regardless it had been a trip of not much account…until…

We were only a few days until we OUTCHOPPED and made our way back home; just in time for Christmas.  The crew tried to fill days with whatever work they could; days grew to tremendous lengths at the end of a patrol.  There is a combination of dread and longing—no one wants the big case at the end; diverted to some unknown mission imperiling the last day and the trip home. Everyone wants to go home—50 plus days so far on a 110, even with portcalls, is a long time.  Its gets…close. 

GI and its crew were minding our own business…patrolling the Tongue of the Ocean…again.  We were planning on departing the OPAREA in a day or so, sail to Miami, top off on gas and food and head home.  Plans are so cute…

“SHARK Three Eight this is Miami.”  The 7^th Coast Guard District is busy and has a ton of law enforcement cases each year and over on open frequency they did not use out name but the ubiquitous Shark along with the last two hull numbers.  Truly, I never knew what advantage we gained as an organization…but come on…SHARK 3 8 sounds pretty cool.

“Miami, SHARK 3 8 go.”

“Come up on secure.”

The bridge watch about got seasick in unison…never a good sign and the impending, dreaded, final mission loomed…

I’m not much of a writer; if I were I could describe how difficult it is to talk on a secure frequency back in the late 90s (it may be easier now but I suspect there are obstacles still).  So imagine if you will, someone talking on a cell phone, outside, in the wind, by a highway, with marbles in their mouth, skipping every third word…you might be close to how it was.

“GRAND ISLE, Miami. You need to proceed at best speed to Cay Lobos.”

I have to say, I really wanted to ask “What’s a Cay Lobos?”  I did not…

“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLE, say again.  Cay Lobos?  Do you have a position?”

The command center relayed a latitude and longitude; it was a small island north of Cuba that has a lighthouse.  And that is it.  The island is maybe 40 or so miles from Cuba.  Look it up on Google Maps…its nauseatingly close to Cuba.  And we were going there; an American Coast Guard cutter…well this was going to be fun.

After finding out we were sailing to just an inch from the lion’s den I radioed back with, what I would think, was a very compelling request.

“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLA; what is our tasking once we get there?”

“A helo spotted a boat and what they believe are migrants on the island.  You are to go there, verify that intel, and if possible extricate the migrants off Bahamian territory.”

Extricate…what…so I have to send a team ashore to get these people off the island.  As a gentle reminder…I did not join the Marines…we were in the Coast Guard and we were not one to send an armed landing party on foreign soil. [Technical note:  We had a Bahamian Defense Forces sergeant aboard that gave legal permission to pursue this course of action…but, hey, we still invaded!!]

This was our mission, nothing more to discuss.

“Roger, Miami.  Will advise of ETA and provide SITREP once on scene.  GRAND ISLA, out.”

Heavy sigh…I have no need to make an announcement to the crew…everyone knows.  The XO and Chief are on the bridge.   My QM3 plotted a course and said it was about 6 hours away at 15 knots.  We should be fine on gas and it will get us there around sunset.  I wanted some daylight but thought running out of gas was not such a good option.

“We need a plan.”  XO was Johnny on the spot. I thought he already had one and I was right.

The district said there would be about 7 to 10 migrants on the island.  We had 17 people on board.  XO’s plan was straightforward.  Launch the boat with our primary boarding team and the Bahamian sergeant with a total load of seven people.  They would do an initial sweep while the small boat came back to embark an additional four people to sweep behind the primary team to see if they flushed any migrant into the open. With the boat crew that left six people on GRAND ISLE.  Not good at all. The Chief and I would be the EPO and OOD with the remaining four people there in case of an emergency.  What emergency six of us could respond to was beyond me, however.  With both landing team fully armed, we cleaned out the armory of side arms and sent an M-16 in the small boat. 

Well…that was our plan.  I never did tell the command center how many people would be left aboard GI…they couldn’t help and the less they knew the less they would try to micromanage the operating.

We arrived just at sunset and by the time we got in a position to launch the boat it was dark. 

Great.

We were close enough to Cuba to hear radio transmissions and at one point I was pretty sure they were talking about GRAND ISLE.  We were quite outside their territorial sea but did not relish meeting a Cuban gunboat at night. 

Great.

GRAND 1 was away to starboard enroute Cay Lobos.  We had sent several of our coded radios and we should be close enough to maintain comms with the landing party.  The back up team was at the rail and waiting the small boat’s return so they could join in the search. 

“GI, Landing 1…safely ashore. No sign of anyone but there is a boat on the beach.  We are moving inland.”

“Roger.  Landing 2 will be away and enroute shortly.”

Now all I could see was the flashlight beams slowly making their way along the beach; the radio quiet.  Landing 2 got away without a hitch.  I was glued to my bionos and looking at the island when all of the flashlights starting making wild movements and a breathy call came over the radio.

“We have movement and have spotted a migrant!”

“Roger that, Landing 2 is there.”

And how.  Their lights immediately assumed the frantic gyrations I just saw and congregated close to what I assume is the first landing team.

Long silence…and trust me…one of the most difficult aspects of command is the waiting. I was not on scene; my XO was in charge.  I wanted to know what was going on, how they were—but it was his call. 

“GI, Landing 1.  We have 5 migrants.  They say that is all there were.  We want to sent them back.”

“Roger that.”

At this point the logistics get a bit dry but the short of it is we needed to make multiple runs with the migrants keeping enough security on the small boat and then the cutter to control the situation.  We had set up the fantail for the migrants; it wasn’t going to be comfortable but we would have blankets, a tarp to help with the spray, and food and water.

Once the whole gaggle was safely returned the junior office who was a Spanish speaker took each of the migrants to the foc’sle and did an impromptu interrogation.  I couldn’t hear him but watched him and could figure out what was going on.  It took a few round but he found his mark.  He took a pack of smokes out of pocket and offered one to the migrant.  He gave him a lighter. It was like watch a cop drama on a Saturday night. 

An hour or so later he and the XO met me on the mess deck and told me they thought two more migrants were ashore.  I knew we would not find them at night so we made a show of heading north with Cay Lobos astern and I hoped the migrants thought we were leaving. 

Just over the horizon we extinguished our running lights and waited until morning.  I reported to the command center what we had found and finally got some sleep.

The crew got up 0400 and launched our primary boarding team just over the horizon and they followed us back to the island.  The plan was to have them dash ahead once the island was in sight and surprise remaining.

The remaining migrants didn’t even make an attempt to run.  With little effort we got them aboard.  We contacted the command center had arranged for the Bahamian Immigration Officers to take custody of the Cubans in Nassau.

Before the Landing team finished they radioed:

“GI, Landing Party.  What do we do with the boat?”

Easy one. 

“Scuttle it.”

“Roger that.”

This may have been one of the time I needed to ask a few more questions.  I thought they would put some holes in the bottom and be good.  They thought: “BURN IT!!”

Have you ever seen fiberglass burn, fiberglass that has been doused with gasoline, and then shot with a flare.  Well besides from being spectacular it puts enough black smoke in the air to violate most EPA regulations.  And there is the “hey were are just north of Cuba” thing too. 

After politely informing my landing team the need for alacrity, we brought them back aboard and slow steamed to Nassau in order to keep a calm ride for the migrants and to conserve fuel…we were a litte low.

I went to the fantail and brought my translator; I told them what was going on.  For each of them it was routine. They had all been caught previously and returned to Cuba.  I asked them what would happen.  They said they would get a small fine, spend a night in jail, and then try again as soon as they could.

Remember…we were at the end of the patrol.  If we made it to Nassau on time we would only have a day left.  We would need to top off fuel then head back to Miami, top off fuel again and hug the coast home.  Unless you have a crazy engineer…

“Sir.” In his English accent.

“Yes Chief.” 

“We can make it home without getting more fuel.”

“What??”  A straight shot home would take us 600 miles offshore.  The Atlantic in December is unforgiving and unpredictable at best.  If we hit any trouble we were on our own.

“Captain, I talked to QM1 and XO…we have enough gas to make it home.”

And that…is a tale for another story…

Watch and learn, Mr. Dow

I read an article by Stephen King about a story's opening line…like it’s THE most important part of any story.  So here are a few…

“Call me Jeffrey.” Not quite the same…

“Hello, I’m Jeffrey Dow.” No…I don’t have the pipes like the Man in Black

“It was the best of time, it was the…ok of times?” Really not good…

Just a lot of pressure…anyways…

For you, loyal readers, this is a prequel to The Parachute I & II…so it’s the third part of a trilogy…that is first…whatever…

So, as recounted in the aforementioned Parachute…it had been a BRUTUAL buoy trip.  A good pounding on the way to GANTSEC (awesome acronym that basically means the Coast Guard Base in San Juan, PR) and a major casualty to one of our Main Diesel Engines made the trip just short of insufferable…ok, it really was right at insufferable forget “nothing short of” crap.

Our sojourn to GTMO lay several weeks ahead of us and we were steaming along the south side of Puerto Rico.  It was hot, morale was low, and we were days if not weeks behind schedule.  The Captain had been aboard for six months and the XO reported only a few weeks before sailing.  The entire crew was sluggish and clearly wanted to be somewhere other than USCGC LAUREL.

In early stage of my career my primary duty was serving as the Executive Officers Admin Assistant.  Which meant I did his bidding…not a glamorous position.  I took care of the basic admin for the XO; correspondence, plan of the day, working with the yeoman and storekeeper.  I thought it was a bad collateral job and a dead end…I was wrong.  [EDITOR’S NOTE:  I learned A TON about being an XO and running a cutter which was INVALUABLE for my next tour…hey what did I know…I was an Ensign]. 

So, we were transiting along Puerto Rico’s south shore enroute another harbor to work buoys.  It was hot…I mean HOT…like hit in the head with a sledgehammer hot, humid to make you drown if you took too deep a breath hot.  It was less than fun on a trip that had descended into boredom, and increasing delays.  In summation:

“For the most part it stays on its regular run from Tedium to Apathy and back.  It makes and occasional trip to Monotony, and once it made a run all the way to Ennui.  It performs its dreary and unthanked job, and it performs it, if not inspiredly, then at least adequately.” [EDITOR’S NOTE: Significant bonus points to the first to identify that quote and the significance to my tour on LAUREL.]

With this as the backdrop…enter the XO.  The astute reader will remember that the XO had only recently reported aboard LAUREL and did so with no buoy tending experience…the dreaded “white hull sailor” and the strict adherence to rules and regulations, spit and polish, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.  We, the Junior Officers, feared this newcomer and what he might just represent.  Well, were we ever wrong—but we didn’t know that yet.

So, we were transiting south of Puerto Rico.  It was a Sunday as I recall and we august members of the Wardroom had gathered in front of the XO stateroom for our daily Officer’s Call (basically a meeting to get a rundown of the day).  Quarters, an all hands meeting on the fantail, immediately follows Officer’s Call.  There are six of us patiently waiting for XO to exit his stateroom—Officer’s Call is his meeting.

XO opens his stateroom door wearing a set of deck coveralls and proceeds to give us a run down of day’s schedule and upcoming items on the ship’s calendar.  Through all of this I am eyeing the XO in his coveralls…we are all in our standard undress blue uniform; suitable for working on the bridge but the XO was attired to be on the buoy deck working…except he is wearing a well blackened pair of decidedly non-steel toe leather shoes. 

So…feeling an allegiance to my XO and being his direct assistant I felt obligated to point out to the XO his obvious uniform glitch (NOT a wardrobe malfunction, mind you).

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Dow?”

“Ah…sir, why are you wearing coveralls?”

“I’m glad you asked Mr. Dow.  I am showing solidarity for the Deck Department…they have been working hard and doing the best they can to get us back on schedule.”

“Yes, sir.  But why are you wearing leathers?”  “Leathers” was a holdover from the Academy to distinguish the much more military leather shoes than the ugly (and in my view, cheating) Corfam plastic shoe.

“Mr. Dow, I’m not actually going to WORK on the buoy deck; I am doing this to show solidarity!”

“Yes, sir…but…ahh….XO…”

“Yes.”

“Never mind.”  It’s his funeral. 

So, with this set up we, the Wardroom, make our way to the fantail where the 55 or so sailors aboard mighty LAUREL await.  The Captain is already there at the head of the formation and the officers fall in with their departments.  I am, almost, feeling nauseous at what is about to happen.  After a few mundane announcements the XO breaks ranks and begins to recount our buoy trip and all the various and sundry mishaps. 

“But, I want to go over some of the highlights we have had so far.”

“The Deck Department has been breaking records the last few days trying to get us back on track.  Nice job, keep this up and we will make it home right at Thanksgiving! [EDITORS NOTE: We did NOT make it back for Thanksgiving…see previous stories].  Now, we just need all the Departments to pull their weight like the Engineers have been doing.”

This may seem innocuous but it was an implied slight to Operations…my department.  One of our more colorful shipmates was the second class quartermaster (QM2).  He was a solid shipmate, do anything for you, good navigator and quite possible crazy.  As the XO continued to intone about the Deckies, the QM2 started mumbling, in a slow  whispering, maddening manner:

“He can’t say that…that’s not right…what the…”

Again and anon he is getting riled.  Our leading department first class petty officer was the Martin to QM2’s Lewis. 

“Dave…keep it down…quiet…that is the XO!!” (not sure if you can use explanation points when you whisper…but it was certainly implied.

Our intrepid leader, XO, kept heaping the laudations on the two other departments.

“The Engineers…now what a job back in San Juan…the ship was down, dead and you brought the old girl back from the dead.  Just like Lazarus rising himself!!”  OK…not only does that make little sense, I don’t think he said it that way exactly…but you get the idea.

Dave is continuing his running mumbling discourse with Tony trying to keep him corked.

At this point the XO says:

“This takes us to Operations, really the one department that is not helping out.  If we can get you back on track we MAY actually get some work done”.  Now, Dave is red…and that is not hyperbole…his face is as red as I have ever seen in a human being.

“HE CANNOT SAY THAT!” 

Tony is now pleading with his QM2 to be quiet or at least tone it down.

The XO is relentless…picking apart the department for every infraction going back to the beginning of the trip…just brutal.  Dave is about to pop and his comments reach the XO and the rest of the assembled crew.

XO didn’t even take a breath…in fact it was an impressive display of oration.

Finally…Dave blew:

“YOU CANNOT SAY THAT XO!  I WILL NOT TAKE THIS ANYMORE!  I WANT TO GO HOME!”

Yelling at an XO…any XO is not particularly career enhancing…even with Dave’s peculiarities this was going over the edge.  At best he was going to get a Captain’s Mast…at worst…*shudder*.

And with that…about 50 miles off the south coast of Puerto Rico…Dave walked overboard.  He didn’t jump…just undid a safety chain where the brow attaches and walked over the side into the ocean.

Stunned is not even close to the reaction of the crew…no had ever seen this before…EVER.

The only person not stunned…yes…the XO.  Unnoticed he had walked over to where Dave went into the drink.

XO declared:  “YOU CAN’T GO WITHOUT ME!!” and he too walked overboard.

For those of you with seagoing service experience or just avid sailors…practicing for a man overboard is the most common drill with rote actions and procedures drilled into sailors starting at boot camp or swab summer.

No one moved…there was a bleak “man overboard” call…but that was it.  I mean silence…

Until the Captain…who had also unnoticed, made his way to the bridge and announced:

“Now swim call, swim call.  Swim call authorized on the starboard side.”

It was brilliant.  The only three onboard who knew were the Captain, XO, and Dave.  The crew needed a morale boost and a break.  We got it.  It was clearly a highlight of the trip (remember GTMO lay in our future—but for now this was what we needed).

I consider Fred White the best leader I have served with and a mentor though good times and the most difficult times of my life.

Oh…by the way…while we were getting our bearings Dave and Fred were in the water for at least 10 minutes fully clothed…over the side you could hear Fred say:

“A little help…hey…how about a life ring…HEY…”

The Night That Didn't Happen

Somewhere in the North Atlantic…(even better than “It was a dark and stormy night”)

Well actually it was the Bahamian Sea which is technically the North Atlantic but somehow doesn’t sound as cool…

The mighty GRAND ISLE was forwardedly deployed to Miami from our homeport, Gloucester.  Our mission (and we had no choice but to accept it) was to support a drug interdiction operation running around the Bahamas.  Now, that may sound like a tip of the spear type endeavor but not so fast my friends.  Our job was to stay covert in a place just south of the Tongue of the Ocean (its real—Google it!!)…we were tasked with doing a BARPAT (fancy term for steaming back and forth along a one trackline…over and over (and over!!) again.  So, not the glamorous patrol I was hoping for this far from home.

This particular patrol started with a trip down the coastline stopping a couple of times along the way for fuel.  The Coast Guard felt that more resources in and around the Seventh District could help stem the tide of illegal drugs.  GRAND ISLE’s normal mission was enforcing  “living marine resources” regulations.  That is a relatively fancy term for fish boardings…making sure that the New England fish stocks…ah what the hell…it’s a boring conversation anyway…

So, GI had been working for a couple of weeks burning holes in the ocean with very little to show for it (during the patrol we had to evade Hurricane Mitch; a whole other sea story for a different day…and really not a funny story at all…actually that would fall under the horror genre if I do say so myself).  We were now pros at the stealth patrol—avoiding contacts—which went against all of my professional instincts. 

This particular evening was OPS NORMAL…so my Chief Engineer and I sat down to drink some coffee, play a little cribbage, and watch Braveheart (pre Mel meltdown).  Right before the first MAJOR battle scene the whole ship experienced a brown out…somewhat eerie I might add but not completely out of the ordinary.  That said my Chief felt it would be solid idea have a quick look in the Engine Room.  So naturally I kept watching the movie…

A good, whole three minutes later I heard one of the main diesel engines just stop…most unsettling.  Chief opened the Engine Room hatch and said he would get this fixed right away…no worries.  I was the Captain so of course I worried my way up to the bridge.  My OOD was suitably concerned and on the sound powered phone with the Engineer of the Watch.

I settled in the Captain’s chair with a cup of coffee and…the second engine shut down.  Not really what I was expecting when Chief had said “No worries”.  In fact I would say this is the exact opposite of no worries.  EDITORIAL NOTE:  Those of you who know me well understand my Zen-like calm that I always exude…ok you can stop laughing now.

So…every instinct says to stay on the bridge and wait for Mick (my Chief) to let me know what is going on…then one of the generators shuts down.  Deep breath now…until…the final generator shut down and then everything else on the ship too…

We have battery back up for a few systems…radar, some radios…that’s about it.  And if we are not inport the batteries are what we use to start…everything: generators and engines.

Now I cannot help myself and head below decks to the engine room to find out what is going on and what I can do.  What I saw was…something less than reassuring.

Mick is standing on one of the generators and his department is running around the engine room with five gallon buckets of diesel fuel.  Not what I was expecting…to say the least. 

Mike looks at me and for the first time since he has been my Engineer he seemed a bit…hmmmm…put off…

“Captain” he started and at this point I knew we might have a slight problem “this is REALLY not the time…get back to the bridge!”

Now, normally as the commanding officer the crew refrained from giving me orders…in this case I felt discretion was the order of the day; I went back to the bridge.

So, we are dead in the water, middle of nowhere, no power, no long range radio and a battery backup that was our only chance to get this righted.  My XO and I discussed every possible option; shutting down all systems, breaking out the flares, getting the EPIRB ready, deploying a sea anchor…but at the end of the day the all came to one conclusion…we were going to have to call the Coast Guard for a tow…lamentations promptly ensued.  I think I said something like:

“I don’t care if we drift until the Second Coming, we are NOT calling another patrol boat for a tow!!!”…something like that…there may have been a few more colorful adjectives, nouns, adverbs….

Waiting…and waiting…for my chief to come up and tell us what happened.

Still waiting…

And…yep…still waiting.

In all actuality it was probably 20 minutes but you get the idea.  I am genetically predisposed with the patience of a 7 year old on Christmas morning.

I hear some doors opening down below and on queue Mick bounds up the ladder to the bridge.  He is not looking optimistic in fact his demeanor is downright downtrodden (can you do that…two consecutive words starting with down?  The world wonders).

By the way Mick is from England so imagine this with an accent.

“Sir…not sure how it happened but we bleed air throughout the whole fuel system.”

What he really said we filled with engineering language (and colorful metaphors) that I did not understand then and certainly can’t remember 15 years later.

“What we need to do is replace one valve and prime fuel into the whole system.  Then, if that works, we light of a generator using the batteries.  If that works we will be fine…if it doesn’t…”  Mick let it hang there knowing what it would mean.  Very calmly I reiterated my desire to avoid calling the Coast Guard for a tow.

Mick got all in place…called to his head mechanic and told him to start one of the generators.  Imagine if you will every horror or action movie when the car NEEDED to start…what happens…the whole theater hears the engine cycle but not turn over.  That’s what we got here…THREE TIMES!

On the fourth try I am doing my best not to have an aneurism on the bridge when the GEN catches and turns over.  Imagine if you will the Ewoks on Endor when DS II explodes…same thing on the bridge of the mighty GRAND ISLE.

With the power from the first generator we light of rest of the systems including the Main Diesel Engines and we amble along our way.  Total time maybe 90 minutes…if that long; felt like a month and a half.

I went down below to talk to Mike…where was he you ask?  With a bag of popcorn, fresh pot of coffee, and Braveheart paused waiting for me.  Before I could ask anything he said:

“Never happened”.

“What?”

“Never happened.”

“You mean tonight?”

“What about tonight?”

“So, I never happened?”

“What didn’t happen?”

And that was The Night that Never Happened aboard GRAND ISLE.