Confessions of a Drunken Coastie, Part 6
Editor’s Note: From 1988 until 1991, Crash Barry served as a sailor in the U.S. Coast Guard aboard a 210-foot-long ship that patrolled from the Gulf of Maine to the Caribbean. This is the sixth in his series of true stories about fighting the War on Drugs and the War on Haitian Refugees.
The hundred elementary school students on the field trip giggled and clapped when Ebony, the first official Coast Guard Drug Dog, arrived on the foc’sle of the cutter Tumultuous. The teachers hushed the crowd so everyone could hear the dog’s handler, Boatswain Mate First Class Peterson, explain how a baggie of marijuana was hidden nearby and that Ebony, a fearless and highly trained soldier in the War on Drugs, would find the contraband.
Three of us stood on the bridge wing, watching the spectacle from above. D-Man spit his chaw into an empty soda can while I lit up another cigarette. “Lemme guess,” Staples drawled, taking a sip from his fourth cup of coffee. “Ebony is gonna find weed in the…” — he paused to beat a short drum roll on the bridge’s railing — “red toolbox.”
“I bet you’re right.” D-Man grinned. “Good thing smugglers usually stash drugs in red toolboxes. Otherwise, we’d be screwed.”
“That poor dawg,” Staples moaned. Ebony reminded him of his boyhood black-Lab mix, Bo, who died of cancer when Staples was 10. “Downright cruel making her do these durn tricks. And you fellas know how I feel about making a beautiful pooch live aboard a ship and go out to sea. Friggin’ inhumane.”
“I know.” D-Man nodded. “I mean, it’s bad enough for humans.”
“Yeah, dogs are supposed to be running free. Chasing rabbits and squirrels.” Staples shook his head. “Not shitting in an aircastle or going for a short walk on the flight deck.”
A collective murmur rose, followed by a round of applause. BM1 Peterson – standing next to his red toolbox – smiled broadly and held up the baggie of weed.
“Jeezum crow.” Staples sighed. “I really want to get high.”
•••
“OK!” Peterson hollered, as the motor surf boat pitched and rolled along the starboard side of a Gloucester fishing vessel we were boarding in the gray waters of Georges Bank. The wind was blowing about 25 knots from the southwest, but the real issue was the six-to-eight-foot chop that made jumping between two boats a little dicey. “I’M READY!” he yelled, just before leaping over the trawler’s gunwale and landing on deck.
Our law enforcement team was already aboard the vessel, inspecting the catch and nets. A couple crew members seemed suspicious to the officer-in-charge, so he’d radioed the Tumultuous, requesting the drug dog and handler. As the small-boat-crew seaman, it was my job to hold Ebony’s tether while Peterson hauled the nervous pooch aboard the fishing boat. Before Peterson unbuckled the sling, the poor dog shat. She had the runs something wicked. Less than a minute later, she puked, then shit again.
•••
“The Captain has issued a direct order.” The First Lieutenant was pissed. The drug dog program was under his purview. Ebony had boarded 30 vessels without finding a single joint. Plus, her habit of shitting on people’s boats was embarrassing and unprofessional. “Any sailor caught feeding Ebony will be brought up on charges! The Coast Guard has invested tremendous resources in this dog. And as a trial program, we’re under a lot of scrutiny.”
“Yeah, c’mon guys,” Peterson whined. “She’s almost 15 pounds overweight.” The rest of us knew he no longer wanted the job of dog-handler. It was too complicated and required extra work. But Peterson was the only one who had attended the special DEA school for canine detection. “Everybody knows she’s on a special bland diet so it doesn’t affect her sense of smell.”
“How’s that different than our chow?” D-Man asked. Everyone laughed.
“This is a serious matter.” Peterson looked at our table. “Unauthorized food is ruining her nose.”
Sure, Staples and I fed her bacon and ham on a regular basis, but we weren’t the only sympathetic dog lovers aboard the ship. The chief cook and the quartermaster chief had been spotted slipping Ebony hamburger. Other shipmates, we were sure, used the cover of darkness to supplement her boring kibble with treats.
•••
Peterson was an unlikely candidate for the dog-handler position. First of all, unlike most boatswain mates, he wasn’t a salty, adventure-loving swashbuckler who drove small boats through surge and storms to pluck drowning mariners from death’s grip. The bulk of Peterson’s 19-year career had been spent ashore as a land-lubbing pencil-pusher and paper-shuffler in charge of deck swabbers, scullery technicians and lawn mowers.
Plus, he was a short timer. With just a year and a half left before retirement, it didn’t make sense that Peterson got a gig that required so much training. Most lifers made chief by the time they got out. Not Peterson. He was never gonna get his anchors. His lack of rank was connected with his drinking. Multiple alcohol-related incidents, rumor had it, stained his permanent record. He still drank, though. At least during the week, while bunking on the ship. Probably a different story on weekends when he visited his wife at home in Ellsworth.
Like most “geographical bachelors,” Peterson was on a strict budget that didn’t provide enough cash to booze it up in the bars. Instead, he bought a couple cheap bottles at the nearby Air Force commissary and made ’em last all week. He’d drink in his car almost every night — by himself, mostly. On many occasions, the fellas and I came back from a night of carousing in town to find him passed out behind the wheel in the parking lot with the engine running and a smoldering ashtray.
•••
“Coast Guard Intelligence suspects the mother ship is still out here, supplying smaller boats with coke and pot.” The First Lieutenant looked up from his notes. It was midnight. We were a hundred miles off the coast of Rhode Island, still hung over from our 48-hour patrol break in Newport, which had ended that morning. “There’s a good chance we’ll see some excitement. The boarding team will consist of three boarding officers and the canine detachment. Petty Officer Peterson, is Ebony ready for action?”
“Yes sir,” he replied. “Fit as a fiddle.”
The dog had lost weight since we’d stopped feeding her. Staples thought she looked terrible and kept coming up with elaborate schemes to liberate her from her job.
“Poor dog couldn’t find shit in a cesspool,” Staples said, under his breath.
“What’s that?” the First Louie asked. “Seaman Staples, did you have a question?”
“No suh! Not me.”
•••
Boatswain Mate Second Class Black was at the helm of the orange rigid-hull speedboat, getting ready to offload the boarding party onto the suspect vessel. The seas were relatively calm and the moonless sky was black and clear, filled with stars. As we pulled alongside the 40-foot sailboat, homeported in Newport, a gray-haired man rigged a fender to keep us from scuffing his white hull. His matronly wife and two terrified tween-agers huddled in the cockpit.
“I wonder what makes this boat ‘suspicious?’” Black asked. “They don’t look like smugglers to me.”
Peterson was first on the boat, followed by Ebony. Then, one by one, the heavily armed boarding team climbed over the gunwale. By the time all the Coasties were aboard, Ebony had done her business. The captain of the sailboat was visibly angry, berating Peterson.
“Don’t blame him a bit,” Black said to me with a snort as we pulled away empty-handed. “Though it’s too bad that dude can’t see the bright side. He’s lucky she doesn’t have diarrhea.”
