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We seamen (Sonarmen, Firecontrolmen, Weapons Underwatermen, Weapons Surfacemen and Botswains) used to stand at positions of the Watch on Deck when sailing in the Fourth Degree of Readiness. The positions to be manned were wheelhouse, port and starboard lookouts, lifebuoy sentry, and bosn’s mate.
One night Cye Farh – a Weapons Surfaceman – was on the helm and it was time for him to be relieved. The normal procedure was to ask permission to be relieved from the Officer of the Watch (OOW) on the bridge over the microphone system between the two stations. The voice procedure went:
Helmsman: Bridge Wheelhouse (wait for answer)…
OOW: “Bridge” (answer)…
Helmsman: Permission for Ordinary Seaman Bloggins to take the wheel sir?
OOW: Yes please.
Now, Cye Farh had a problem; he stuttered badly. The exchange of words between poor old Cye and the OOW went as such:
Cy: B-B-Bridge W-Wheelhouse
OOW: Bridge
Cy: P-P-P-Perm-mission for Or-Or-Ordinary S-Seaman B-B-B-B… Oh f-f-f-f-f-fuck it. I’ll t-take it for an-n-nother hour!
Anyone who remembers Cye Farh mentions the preceding incident whenever his name comes up in conversation. There is another story about old Cye that is not as well known.
Cye was a skinny little Newfoundlander standing about 5 feet, 4 inches tall; he hailed from Argentia. One day while at sea a message came in that Cye’s father had passed away. Luckily for Cye, the ship was only a day out of Halifax on return from a cruise, so if he hurried, once alongside, he could make it home for the funeral. He’d have to go straight from the ship to the train station where he’d catch the train to North Sydney. From there he would take the ferry to Port aux Basques, where he’d catch the connecting train that would carry him home.
Time was tight. He didn’t even have time to stop at the Fleet Club lockers in order to change into civilian clothing, but went straight from the ship to the station, arriving just in time to purchase a ticket before the train pulled out.
Having just returned from a foreign port, he was carrying his duty free bottle of rum. Well, in order to drown his sorrow about the loss of his dear old Dad, Cye got into that forty-ouncer of rum on the train and on the ferry. He purchased another one once reaching Newfoundland shores and polished off on the train. Needless to say, he was drunk when he arrived home.
In fact, he arrived with only one hour to spare before the funeral. Trying to conceal the fact that he was drunk from his Mom, he just shut his mouth and only spoke when spoken to. His mother interpreted the silence as sorrow and didn’t detect his drunken state.
The graveside part of the funeral followed the service within the church. It was drizzling rain and there was mud beside the grave. Cye’s mother wanted the family to stand at the edge of the grave as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Cye, who was still in uniform, was standing back a bit, reluctant to get too close to the hole. His mother said, “Come on Cye, come up and join the rest of us.” His brothers and sisters also encouraged him.
With that, Cye moved forward, but wouldn’t you know it; he slipped. Being as skinny as a rake, he slid on the mud and passed between the coffin and the side of the grave, and right into the six-foot deep hole.
If that wasn’t enough, he started yelling, “Hey…Hey! Wr-wrong guy! Wr-wrong guy! Lemme out of here!”
Afterwards as Cye told the story he said, “N-n-nobody was a-amused! The only one who woulda gotten a l-l-laugh out of it was the Old M-man. But he was as d-dead as a d-d-doornail and s-six feet under”.
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