A Phone Call for Seaman Apprentice Parker

How one impossible ship-to-shore call welcomed a new Coastie aboard USCGC Tamaroa

Back in the mid-1980s, aboard USCGC Tamaroa, we had a brand-new Coast Guardsman reporting for duty. We called someone that new a “boot”—a young Coastie fresh out of basic training and still learning how life aboard a cutter worked.

In order to protect the guilty, for this story, I’ll call him Seaman Apprentice Parker.

This was long before cell phones, the Internet, or satellite phones were part of everyday shipboard life. On Tamaroa, we had VHF marine-band and AM high-frequency radios on the bridge. The more sophisticated communications equipment was in the Radio Shack, located one deck below us.

What we did not have was a convenient way for an ordinary crewman to receive a telephone call while we were underway.

Parker did not know that yet.

I was standing Quartermaster of the Watch on the bridge. The Quartermaster of the Watch—or QMOW—helped maintain the ship’s navigation and kept track of our position, course, and progress. With permission from the Officer of the Deck, who was responsible for the safe operation of the cutter during the watch, I picked up the microphone for the 1MC, the ship’s general announcing system.

My voice went throughout the cutter:

“Seaman Apprentice Parker, lay to the ship’s office for a phone call.”

To “lay” somewhere in Coast Guard language simply meant to report there.

Parker promptly made his way to the ship’s office.

The Storekeeper on duty looked at him with understandable confusion. There was no phone call, of course. There could not possibly have been a phone call.

But the Storekeeper quickly realized that something was underway and decided to play along.

Parker picked up the telephone handset.

There was nobody there.

The Storekeeper explained that the connection must have been lost. He told Parker to go up to the Radio Shack and ask the Radioman to reconnect the call.

The Radio Shack was a restricted space, so Parker could not simply walk inside. He stood outside and explained his problem to the Radioman: he had been piped to the ship’s office for a telephone call, but the connection had been lost, and he had been told that the Radio Shack might be able to reconnect it.

The Radioman listened carefully, said he would see what he could do, and sent Parker back down to the mess deck to await further instructions.

Then the Radioman called me on the bridge over an internal communications circuit.

By that point, the operation had expanded.

The Radioman and I agreed that I would play the part of a Marine Operator—the person who supposedly handled ship-to-shore telephone connections.

A short time later, Parker heard his name over the 1MC again and returned to the Radio Shack. The Radioman met him outside the restricted space and handed him a telephone handset.

I was waiting on the other end.

“This is the Marine Operator,” I told him.

I made a show of trying to complete his call. After a suitable amount of effort, I informed Parker that the connection had failed. I told him to ask the Radioman to try another frequency.

Parker faithfully relayed my instructions.

The Radioman told him that establishing the connection would take some time and sent him back to the mess deck once again.

While all this was happening, another Quartermaster happened to be monitoring the internal circuit between the bridge and the Radio Shack. He heard what we were doing and volunteered his services.

He would play someone from Recruit Training Center Cape May, New Jersey—the home of Coast Guard boot camp.

The pieces were falling into place beautifully.

Once again, the pipe went out over the 1MC.

Once again, Seaman Apprentice Parker made the trip to the Radio Shack.

The Radioman handed him the telephone.

I came on the line as the Marine Operator and announced that I had finally established communications between USCGC Tamaroa and Recruit Training Center Cape May.

Then the other Quartermaster joined the call.

He introduced himself as Chief Jablonski from the Training Center.

“Chief Jablonski” told Parker that there was a serious problem with his training records. According to the official paperwork, Parker had not actually completed basic training. He was short credits in physical education.

That meant he had been graduated and sent to Tamaroa by mistake.

Parker was given his instructions. He was to pack all his belongings into his sea bag, change into his dress blues, and prepare to leave the cutter. A small boat from Cape May would come alongside and take him back to the Training Center so he could complete the missing portion of boot camp.

The story might have been too ridiculous to believe anywhere else.

Unfortunately for Parker, Tamaroa was steaming down Delaware Bay and heading out to sea. We really would be passing Cape May.

Even the geography supported the prank.

Parker went to pack.

By now, word was spreading and more of the crew were becoming involved. The ship’s Yeoman—the person responsible for much of the cutter’s administrative paperwork—even prepared a sealed envelope that looked like a set of official travel orders.

Parker packed everything he owned into his sea bag. He put on his dress blues, collected his supposed orders, and went aft to the fantail, the open deck at the stern of the cutter.

There he stood, sea bag beside him, watching and waiting for the small boat that would carry him back to boot camp.

Tamaroa continued down Delaware Bay.

Cape May came into view.

Parker waited.

We passed Cape May.

No small boat appeared.

The shoreline began falling astern as Tamaroa continued out to sea.

Eventually, the Quartermaster who had played Chief Jablonski walked onto the fantail. He found Parker standing there in his dress blues beside his packed sea bag, still trying to understand what had happened.

“Hey buddy,” he asked casually, “what are you doing?”

Parker told him the entire story.

He explained the pipe over the 1MC, the telephone in the ship’s office, the lost connection, his trips to the Radio Shack, the Marine Operator, and the call from Recruit Training Center Cape May. He explained that his records showed he was short physical-education credits and had never properly completed basic training. He showed him the sealed travel orders and described the small boat that was supposed to take him back.

Finally, Parker said that Tamaroa had sailed right past Cape May and he could not understand why the boat had never arrived.

The Quartermaster listened patiently until Parker had finished.

Then he held out his hand.

“Hi, I’m Chief Jablonski—and welcome aboard the Cutter Tamaroa!”

The Coastie He Became

When Parker eventually returned to the bridge, everyone was laughing. Even the Captain was smiling. The Captain stepped forward and shook Parker’s hand.

It was an elaborate and thoroughly ridiculous welcome to life aboard a Coast Guard cutter. Parker had reported aboard as the new boot, and the crew had formally—and very informally—accepted him as one of our own.

More importantly, Parker went on to become a great Coast Guardsman.

Years later, in the late 1980s, our paths crossed again at Captain of the Port New York. This time, Parker and I were assigned as partners. The young boot we had sent to the fantail in dress blues, carrying a sea bag and waiting for an imaginary boat from Cape May, had become an excellent Coastie and a valued shipmate.

He was also one of the best guys I met during my years in the Coast Guard.

The prank was how we welcomed him aboard Tamaroa.

The man he became was how he earned our lasting respect.