Ship of Ghosts - James D. Hornfischer [8]
In the twenty-four days that ensued, the president would for the third time win his stripes as a friend of the Houston and a fisherman worthy of the tallest tales. When he fished, he shunned the sleek, custom-built forty-foot cabin boat, perched on deck with its black hull trimmed with gold plating and a gold presidential seal affixed on each side of the bow. He preferred the cruiser’s regular motor launch. And instead of venturing out accompanied by the chief boatswain’s mate, the motor machinists, and a select cadre of officers, FDR asked—insisted, in fact—that a twenty-year-old coxswain named Russell be his personal guide. He liked the kid. Hailing from coastal Maine, Russell had fishing in his blood. That was good enough for Roosevelt. As soon as the carpenter’s mates had removed the special chair from the presidential cabin boat and bolted it to the deck of the launch, the aviation crane hoisted out the small craft and Coxswain Russell and his crew of enlisted kids went fishing with the leader of the free world.
Yellowtails and sea bass, groupers, big jacks and small sharks—they hit ravenously and often. The president, flush with jokes and stories, had the boat party rolling with laughter. Returning to the ship one evening, he told Russell to take the boat out again and angle alone for a change. Spotting his coxswain pulling away in the launch without orders, Capt. George Nathan Barker ordered him sharply to come back alongside. Whereupon, Red Reynolds recalled, “the President turned and told the Captain to simmer down, that he had told Russell to fish some if he liked. That was one of a number of times the Captain had to tuck his tail and back-water. Barker was captain of the ship, but Roosevelt was the Supreme Commander.”
FDR had a knack for remembering names and faces from previous times on board. When the baker, Donahue, offered him a doughnut, the president said, “Get Kielty to give us some coffee.” He went up to another sailor he recognized, a gunner’s mate named Wicker, and said, “I thought you told me in ’34 you were getting out of the Navy. What did you do, ship over?” Wicker replied, “Well, sir, I was going out, but I figured you’d make another cruise on Houston, so I shipped over for another four years so I could be with you again.” Roosevelt smacked him on the hip and said, “Don’t give me any of that blarney. You’re a career man.”
Barker ran a tight ship, but the buoyant presence of the president encouraged him to let up. One day the boatswain’s pipe shrilled and routine inspections were called. There followed a pause and then another rising whistle. “Belay that last word,” came the announcement. “Repeat, belay that last word. There will be no field day; there will be no inspection…. By the word of the President all of us are on a three-week vacation.”
Whatever virtue lay in the idea of recreation lasted roughly until the Houston had crossed the equator, on its ninth day out of San Diego, July 25. The enlisted men at that point discovered their commander in chief’s well-developed fondness for membership in exclusive clubs. It was on boisterous display during the traditional crossing-the-line ceremony, the gaudily theatrical hazing ritual inflicted upon sailors who have not sailed across the equator before by those who have. The pollywogs learned to their dismay that FDR had crossed the line eighteen times already. As “senior shellback,” the president reveled in the festivities. Though his entourage of aides and Secret Service agents declined to participate in the silliness, their demurral did not withstand the power of high-pressure saltwater hoses and some time to reflect while bound