This is no s***, and it happened around 1974 on the USS Dixon. Designated AS-37, she was a nuclear submarine tender. Basically Dixon was a floating factory designed to service the material needs of SS diesel/electric, SSN nuclear fast attack and SSBN nuclear ballistic guided missile submarines. If was broke, most generally you could have it repaired alongside or on board Dixon.
The Hull Maintenance Technician(my rating) credo is "We can fix anything except the break of day, or a broken heart!", and that’s a strong statement coming from a bunch of dumb hammer mechanics. We had a large whimsical cartoon beneath the plexiglass of the pipe-shop office desk. It was a picture of a fat ol’ sow (DIXON) laying in the mud with a litter of piglets(Subs named Gurnard, Swordfish, Snook, Pintado, etc.) sucking on her teats.
On board Dixon, we had the best food around, soft beds, Hollywood showers, an excellent medical staff, weapons repair, instrument repair, carpenters, Shipfitter/Pipefitters, laundry, optics, fleet machine shop, foundry, movies, barber, tin benders, Ship’s store, electronic technicians, electricians, small boat repair, divers and on and on.
The divers we had are main characters in this sea story. Our ship’s divers were usually camped out at the foot of the pier, working off of their diving barge. The work they accomplished was a vital part of our repair operations and security. When the divers were between work orders, they trained and trained some more. Some of the training they did do was very beneficial to the Dixon’s Repair Department Annual beach party picnic.
Three hundred yards or so to the west of Dixon’s starboard side was the U.S. Coast Guard station at Ballast Point. The Coasties had a couple of old cutters and a couple of small boats attached there. Coasties kind of kept to themselves and rarely socialized with us common sailors that much. They would come calling on the Dixon with regularity though, wanting us to repair or make a part for one of their decrepit cutters or boats. Yea, then, we were their buddies. We’d feel sorry for them, and we’d help them out as best we could. No strings attached, no paperwork involved, then we’d send them on their way.
Then one fine day our ship’s divers started harvesting their fish, lobster and crab traps for the up and coming Annual Repair Beach Party. Timing was perfect for the Coasties. Those fine fellows showed up on our pier as the divers were finishing salting and icing down the last drum of fresh seafood. "Poaching", was the word they used. "Illegal Contraband" were a couple more. So "five", fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego harbor’s finest seafood was confiscated by those knotheads. Back to Ballast Point they went. It seems as though the Coasties had been watching our divers at work for sometime, and they too were contemplating having a little beach party of their own. So bold and brazen were they, that evening they made a huge bonfire and had one heck of a beach party shindig at our ship’s divers expense. A fair amount of the Dixon’s duty section kept a watch on the Coasties’ beach party through the "Big Eyes" on our signal bridge. Meanwhile, our beach party was postponed. Scuttlebutt got around. The whole Dixon crew was pissed at the Coasties. Word had it that our old man wanted to use Ballast Point for a shore bombardment exercise, but our guns wouldn’t train that low. The X-O passed the word for everyone to stand down, especially our divers. The situation was being resolved, supposedly.
That very evening, as luck would have it, one of the Coasties old cutters came back limping into port in need of more Dixon bailing wire and band-aids, so they could get back to their patrol. These Coasties had no idea what evil deed their mates had pulled on the Dixon's divers while they were out at sea. They had troubles of their own. The broken cutter’s greasy Coastie mechanics weren’t allowed across our Quarter Deck without being in a clean uniform-of-the-day. The second visit the Coasties made, their men were all told not to come back until they had shaves and regulation haircuts. Then the broken cutter’s Engineer accompanied his men to the Dixon Quarter Deck on their third visit, and was told to clear the gangway until he removed his unauthorized vehicle from the Dixon’s pier. The Coasties were really miffed with our O.O.D., but still had no idea why Dixon’s hospitality had dried up. They took off in a huff and were gone for quite some time. The broken cutter Coasties busted the Ballast Point beach shindig, and in short order had "four and one half"-fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego Harbor’s finest seafood, all iced down, loaded on their flatbed truck and delivered to the foot of Dixon’s pier. Our beach party was back on.
We helped the broken Coastie cutter out and got them underway. A day later, and a half a barrel short of seafood didn’t seem to matter to our crew. Our beach party was as good as our last, if not better. There was great food, drink and times to be had by all who attended. Sometimes things do have a way of working themselves out.
The Coasties never regained the popularity they’d once had with the Dixon. We were usually out of whatever they needed, or our equipment they needed service of, was usually down for repairs. So with regret we’d direct them over to the U.S.S. Sperry pier (our older sister tender,) there the Coasties had always been given the cold shoulder.
dz
The Hull Maintenance Technician(my rating) credo is "We can fix anything except the break of day, or a broken heart!", and that’s a strong statement coming from a bunch of dumb hammer mechanics. We had a large whimsical cartoon beneath the plexiglass of the pipe-shop office desk. It was a picture of a fat ol’ sow (DIXON) laying in the mud with a litter of piglets(Subs named Gurnard, Swordfish, Snook, Pintado, etc.) sucking on her teats.
On board Dixon, we had the best food around, soft beds, Hollywood showers, an excellent medical staff, weapons repair, instrument repair, carpenters, Shipfitter/Pipefitters, laundry, optics, fleet machine shop, foundry, movies, barber, tin benders, Ship’s store, electronic technicians, electricians, small boat repair, divers and on and on.
The divers we had are main characters in this sea story. Our ship’s divers were usually camped out at the foot of the pier, working off of their diving barge. The work they accomplished was a vital part of our repair operations and security. When the divers were between work orders, they trained and trained some more. Some of the training they did do was very beneficial to the Dixon’s Repair Department Annual beach party picnic.
Three hundred yards or so to the west of Dixon’s starboard side was the U.S. Coast Guard station at Ballast Point. The Coasties had a couple of old cutters and a couple of small boats attached there. Coasties kind of kept to themselves and rarely socialized with us common sailors that much. They would come calling on the Dixon with regularity though, wanting us to repair or make a part for one of their decrepit cutters or boats. Yea, then, we were their buddies. We’d feel sorry for them, and we’d help them out as best we could. No strings attached, no paperwork involved, then we’d send them on their way.
Then one fine day our ship’s divers started harvesting their fish, lobster and crab traps for the up and coming Annual Repair Beach Party. Timing was perfect for the Coasties. Those fine fellows showed up on our pier as the divers were finishing salting and icing down the last drum of fresh seafood. "Poaching", was the word they used. "Illegal Contraband" were a couple more. So "five", fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego harbor’s finest seafood was confiscated by those knotheads. Back to Ballast Point they went. It seems as though the Coasties had been watching our divers at work for sometime, and they too were contemplating having a little beach party of their own. So bold and brazen were they, that evening they made a huge bonfire and had one heck of a beach party shindig at our ship’s divers expense. A fair amount of the Dixon’s duty section kept a watch on the Coasties’ beach party through the "Big Eyes" on our signal bridge. Meanwhile, our beach party was postponed. Scuttlebutt got around. The whole Dixon crew was pissed at the Coasties. Word had it that our old man wanted to use Ballast Point for a shore bombardment exercise, but our guns wouldn’t train that low. The X-O passed the word for everyone to stand down, especially our divers. The situation was being resolved, supposedly.
That very evening, as luck would have it, one of the Coasties old cutters came back limping into port in need of more Dixon bailing wire and band-aids, so they could get back to their patrol. These Coasties had no idea what evil deed their mates had pulled on the Dixon's divers while they were out at sea. They had troubles of their own. The broken cutter’s greasy Coastie mechanics weren’t allowed across our Quarter Deck without being in a clean uniform-of-the-day. The second visit the Coasties made, their men were all told not to come back until they had shaves and regulation haircuts. Then the broken cutter’s Engineer accompanied his men to the Dixon Quarter Deck on their third visit, and was told to clear the gangway until he removed his unauthorized vehicle from the Dixon’s pier. The Coasties were really miffed with our O.O.D., but still had no idea why Dixon’s hospitality had dried up. They took off in a huff and were gone for quite some time. The broken cutter Coasties busted the Ballast Point beach shindig, and in short order had "four and one half"-fifty-five gallon drums of San Diego Harbor’s finest seafood, all iced down, loaded on their flatbed truck and delivered to the foot of Dixon’s pier. Our beach party was back on.
We helped the broken Coastie cutter out and got them underway. A day later, and a half a barrel short of seafood didn’t seem to matter to our crew. Our beach party was as good as our last, if not better. There was great food, drink and times to be had by all who attended. Sometimes things do have a way of working themselves out.
The Coasties never regained the popularity they’d once had with the Dixon. We were usually out of whatever they needed, or our equipment they needed service of, was usually down for repairs. So with regret we’d direct them over to the U.S.S. Sperry pier (our older sister tender,) there the Coasties had always been given the cold shoulder.
dz
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