A Day at a Coast Guard Station
Bonk, bonk, bonk! That's "Bessie." Are there any women on Metompkin Inlet Coast Guard Station? No, this is an Eveless Island. "Bess" is the official service horse of the station. She is kicking off the flies that pester her in the stable, hence the monotonous bonk, bonk, bonk. There is another female of the species on the Island. Her name is "Beck." Her husband's name is "Grit." And they have a family of twelve children, the finest puppy dogs you ever saw. Wait a minute, here comes two more creatures. Her name is "Virginia" and his name is "Pink Nose," the kitten. Over yonder are hens, roosters and baby chicks, pets all. Sand fiddlers with miniature claws, seagulls, wild ducks and all manner of sea birds make up the rest of the Zoo of the place.
Sand, sand, sand, wherever you look surrounds the white buildings that house the men of the service. These men belong to that other half of the world submerged in their duties for Uncle Sam. What does the average landlubber know about men who go to the sea in ships, lighthouse keepers, coast guard officers and enlisted men? What does he know about the brave lads that patrol the long coast line night after night, year after year? Or what does he know about the crew of the cutters of the United States Coast Guard who see to it that icebergs do not rip open the side of another "Titanic?"
In a study of the life of Coast Guard men the question of contentment forces itself to the front with tremendous force. Are these lonely men happy? What is the nightmare of these servants of the trackless sea? The nightmare is loneliness, stark loneliness! No wonder they surround themselves with the things that make for happiness. The pets one finds at the stations are pets indeed. You should hear them talk of the dogs. You should see the flash of the eye when the visitor is permitted to look at the pups. "Don't you think now, that they are the finest doggies you ever laid your eyes on?" They are.
You see, it is the home instinct that ever asserts itself. One man has built for himself, by permission of the department, a cozy little home. A condemned boat house gave him his start. Boards and timber, boat hatches and strips of wreckage that forever wash ashore did the rest. Not a piece of wood was bought. The sea that never ceases pounding was the kind mother that brought this son of the sea the wherewithal to build his little home.
A picture of a relative, a perfumed letter, a text book carried away from public school, a game, a magazine with a thrilling story, Lindy's "We," a Victrola with records that have the home touch and the Radio furnished by the Department, chase away the spectre of loneliness. After saying all this, I am prepared to say that these men are happy after all. They are a carefree lot. Why should they not be free from care? The menace of unemployment does not haunt them, neither do hard times frighten them. Uncle Sam is good to them. They live in excellent quarters under ideal conditions of health. The allowance for food is sufficient. The officers are kind and at the end of the trail of thirty years is the pension. Should ill health overtake them, there is free medical attention at their disposal.
These men have learned through long contact to understand the fine art of living together in peace and harmony. If there is a growler in the bunch, his shipmates will soon tame him. All the peculiarities of human nature are an open book. It is a fine thing to witness eight men in charge of a Warrant Officer, men who obey orders with a smile and who feel that the entire crew is one family.
The Warrant Officer who ranks Boatswain, is familiarly called "Captain." Like a father he watches the interest of his boys. Their cares are his cares. The motto of all is ASSISTANCE. That word is a technical term and appears repeatedly in the reports sent to the Treasury Department of Washington, D. C., Headquarters of the Service. All day long and all night long an enlisted man is stationed in the "lookout." With the help of binoculars and a powerful telescope, the trained eyes of these surfmen scan the horizon. A speaking tube carries the cry of distress to the crew. A flashing light connected with a battery is directly in front of them to exchange dot and dash signals with ships that pass in the night. In the day time the semaphore and wigwag system of signalling may be used. The men are also familiar with the International Code of Signals, adopted by all nations. Each hoist has the same meaning in all languages. Merchant vessels, navy vessels, pleasure craft, fishing boats and, last but not least, rum runners are watched all the while from the "lookout" or "crow's nest."
Underneath the "lookout" are the sleeping quarters of the crew, the officer in charge has his own office and sleeping quarters and underneath the sleeping quarters are the mess hall, the dining room, and the kitchen. Hard by the mess room which is the living room of the enlisted men, is the self bailing surfboat, always ready for duty. In another boat house is the power boat. A turn of the crank will start the twenty Horse Power engine as quickly as you snap your fingers. Fine boats these. They are copper fastened and positively unsinkable. As long as weather conditions permit their launching, they will float in the roughest sea. All the skill accumulated during the decades since the service evolved in sailing ship days has gone into the building of these graceful boats. Through eternal vigilance, paint, fresh water, soap and varnish, these life saving boats are kept free from rot and corrosion that arch enemy of the service. The heavy salt air will eat into any metal that will rust. Between drills, patrol duty, lookout, meals and liberty, there is always something to do. It is the duty of the men of the service to render assistance on land or sea. To that end all equipment for the saving of life is kept in A 1 condition.
The writer arrived in the morning as the guest of Captain G. H. Bromley, officer in charge of Metompkin Inlet Station, District Six, with Headquarters in Lewes, Delaware. Shortly after arrival I was informed that a "capsize drill" would be in order that morning. Would I like to have part in it? I surely would. Garbed in a borrowed shirt and overalls the preacher, who, in his younger days, had spent many years at sea, climbed aboard the surfboat with the crew. We are off! Listen to the commands. "Up oars, shove off, let fall, give way together and way enough." We have arrived on the spot where the boat will be capsized. The officer in charge snaps out: "Capsize drills." The next command is: "In oars." Now watch. Mr. Bromley orders again: "Man starboard righting lines." Listen: "Capsize." The men stand erect on the rail of the boat, haul back on the righting lines and capsize the boat. Eight men are sprawling on the briny deep. Their life preservers keep them afloat. As soon as the boat is capsized and drifts with the tide bottom up, the men climb up on the bottom, carrying the righting line with them, stand erect, and brace their feet against the keel. The preacher in boyish glee jumped when the boat turned over and swam back after she was righted. He was in for a bit of mild scolding for he had forsaken the boat. The unpardonable sin of a surfman is the giving up of his boat. While the boat turns a somersault, the surfmen hold tenaciously to their righting lines and when they come up they may still hold the lines in their hands. Of course they do. The saving of life is their business and that boat is the one and only carrier of the most precious thing the world: life!
This drill is only part of many drills engaged in from day to day. If there is any fear that these men might get rusty on the job, just look at this list of drills: Monday: Wigwag and Semaphore; Tuesday: Signal Lights and Boats; Wednesday: International Code Signals; Thursday: Compass, Motor Boat Laws, Rules of the Road and Beach Apparatus; Friday: Resuscitating of the apparently Drowned, Fire Drill and Boat Drill. Saturday is given over to cleaning up and mending clothes. On Sunday, all unnecessary work is left off. And so it goes; ever vigilant, ever ready for assistance, the lads of the Coast Guard protect your friends aboard ship and the crews of freighters that carry spices to your table and bric-a-brac to your mantle piece. If you go fishing in a motor boat, there is an eye fixed on you in yonder lookout. Should motor trouble arise, here are your rescuers. If you are sporty enough to take a trip in a hydroplane and you are marooned for want of sufficient gas, that power boat of the station will soon be alongside for assistance. If these men were not so modest, a book could be written of unusual interest and full of thrills for every station on the coast or Great Lakes. Sometimes a bit of grim humor enters into daily routine of saving life. On one occasion a small fishing boat was seen to be in distress. The surfboat went to the rescue. The fishermen were wet on the inside as well as on the outside. Just as the surfmen started for the station, one of the fishermen fell overboard, for prohibition had not as yet made an impression on him. He was fished out of the water and saved.
If the breeches buoys of the stations scattered along the coast could speak, what tales of heroism and excitement they would tell. Most landlubbers are familiar with the operations of this simple but effective device. What prayers of gratitude have ascended after passengers or crews were carried safely ashore, when all hope of saving the ship had been abandoned. Even when the masts have fallen overboard there is still a way out, for instead of using the breeches buoy that is being pulled back and forth the life car is brought into service. When is a car not a car? When it is a life car. This is a small boat hauled back and forth on the hawser by means of the buoy block. The lyle gun that shoots the "shot line" to the ship in distress as a first means of communication is an instrument of peace. Other guns are used to kill. The lyle gun is made to save.
Night comes on. The pale moon gives everything a ghastly white appearance. How beautiful the scene as the crescent throws its silvery beams across the Inlet. Over there where the broad Atlantic rolls ceaselessly, two strings of electric lights are plainly visible. They do not move. They are the decklights of two fishing boats, waiting for the break of day, probably anchored, for their running lights do not show. Rest in peace, merry fisherman, the Coast Guard Station is not asleep. On the Island, sand, sand, sand. It is eight bells and almost dark. May I go with the first patrol? "Glad to have you" was the reply of the surfman. He swings his haversack over his shoulder as well as the "time detector" and we are off. To the left sand, sand, sand. To the right the mysterious sea. All day long and all night long you can hear it as it breaks on the beach. It is low tide. The beach is as smooth as a boulevard. Sand, sand sand, with the exception of a tuft of grass here and there, or a piece of wreckage. At high tide nature's boulevard is covered with salt water and the sand higher up is soft and the patrol has to wade laboriously through it. Did you ever walk for two hours through deep soft sand? Suppose for a moment that it is blowing a gale and you are garbed in oil skins and boots. You have must turned out of a warm bunk. Sand is flying all around you. It cuts your face, it cuts your hands until you are almost at the bleeding point. Sand to the left, sand to the right, sand in the air. It cuts the glass of your lantern until it is frosted. All you can do is to keep on your feet. The spray flies all around you and your face feels as if it is being sandpapered. Move on, you are on patrol duty. Over there are the ships. Hark, above the shrieking of the storm you hear it distinctly. A steamship siren pierces the night air. Look, are you mistaken? No, a sky rocket'. Man, she is on the reef. What to do? Take the torch out of your knapsack, twist its handle. It burns, it glows, it pierces the sky. The man on the lookout sees it. All hands turn out and the surfboat is launched. Another page is added to the long record of the service. All are saved. A short newspaper notice. It's all in the day's work.
But this is a fine night. The man on patrol duty tells me of home, father, sweetheart, the future. We have come to the extreme end of the beat. My guide punches the "time detector" and we walk back. The moon smiles peacefully. Who can tell, but tomorrow another Northeaster will play havoc with shipping? But all is serene tonight. Back at the station I turn in for the night, but cannot sleep. I am thinking of the boys of the service, for they are my boys and your boys. I know many men of the Coast Guard. Not the least of these is my new friend, Bromley. Will you not breathe a prayer sometimes for these lonely, but contented men who protect your kin and you and you?