*Coast Guard ships are called "cutters"
The difference between a fairy tale and a sea story is
a fairy tale begins, "Once upon a time...," while a sea story begins, "This is no shit..."
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I was a young hotshot petty officer, 22, when I reported for duty at what was in 1963 the Coast Guard Recruit Training Center on Government Island in the estuary between Alameda and Oakland, California.
I learned to my initial dismay, notwithstanding my exalted status as a journalist, second class petty officer, one of my duties would be conducting tours of both the base and any available one of the three large cutters (large in CG terms; Taney of 327' and Dexter and Gresham each of 311') based at Government Island. But as a horny young guy I soon changed my attitude. I came to relish these tours. This is the story of how that change occurred.
Many, the great majority of these base or cutter tours, or both were for youth groups, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, church youth groups, school students, and etc. Invariably they were accompanied and overseen by young matrons whose children were members of the groups. The vehicle of my attitude change did not have wheels but rather it, more properly, she had legs. Her name was Ramona Artfelder,
One Saturday morning on schedule for 0930 hours, Ramona and four other women arrived in a church bus with 17 "Webelos" (older cub scouts) in tow for a cutter tour. I met them and would be with them through the tour.
Only CGC Taney was in port. I had extracted a begrudging agreement from the Captain, Ezra "Goddamn" Hazard, a very salty mustang WWII veteran of North Atlantic convoys. He was ex-enlisted up through the ranks from the deck gang to command of his own ship. Captain Hazard would suffer his ship to be boarded by this bunch of goddamned civilian women and children. It being clearly understood that I, the fucking PIO guy, would be responsible for them while aboard and goddamned sure not let any of them out of my sight. And they were not to interfere with goddamned ship's business, understood? Anything happened it would be my goddamned ass, understood? Oh, and another thing, you conduct the goddamned tour and don't be trying to shove it off on any of his goddamned crew, understood?
I thought, goddamned right. But I said, "Aye-Aye sir."
There are a few things to understand as this "sea story" continues. Stairways on naval, including Coast Guard ships are properly called ladders. Whether vertical or inclined any non-moving shipboard construction meant to allow human passage from one level to another is a ladder. That is ship's nomenclature taught in boot camp, as fundamental to Coast Guard culture as learning an altar boy's Latin responses once was to Roman Catholic ritual. Moreover to call a ladder a stairway in the fleet was to incur ridicule from and the contempt of real sailors. On Taney there were numerous inclined ladders. Because space is critical on a warship, such ladders are quite steep, much more so than conventional stairways ashore. Using them requires both physical and mental adjustment by landlubbers.
Also, in 1963 the cultural revolution of that decade was not yet (although to be before the year was ou) born of the national trauma, anger and loss of innocence precipitated by the violent death of President Kennedy. Americans lived in the myths of Norman Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post covers and gift cartons of Camel cigarettes sent weekly with grateful thanks to the residents of this or that VA hospital. Hair down to here or down to there could get a male roughly arrested as a sexual deviant. Women still wore nylons and garter belts, full cut undies, pointy tit bras, foundation garments and dresses, high heeled shoes, matching purse, hats and gloves to go shopping in the city; downtown in the city, where seedy characters dared not venture lest they be caught in the glare and under the truncheon of Officer O'Toole.
Many ladies were used to looking their best when they ventured further than the end of the driveway in the early morning to fetch the paper. Few ladies had any notion of what a ship tour involved. So many of them put on day dresses or sun dresses but left at home their foundation garments, hats and gloves. They did wear panties, hose and garter belts; after all they were not going to abandon all propriety. In one concession to safety, in the advance packets I did tell them it would be best to wear flats rather than high heels. But I did not mention that slacks might be preferable for the ship tour. At first out of my naïveté in a then virtually all male service, I simply didn't think to mention it. But when it became quite apparent to me that slacks were in order for the sake of matronly modesty, my horny element won out and I deliberately wrote or said nothing more about appropriate attire.
Part of my paraphernalia for conducting these tours was a 35mm Yashica with which I photographed the members of a tour in a group shot with the ship just toured behind them and a dozen candid shots during the tour, making an effort to include each person in at least one of these shots. Later I put together an album of the tour sent with the complements of the Coast Guard.
I also took upskirt pictures for my personal diversion. Okay so I used them as masturbation enhancers. This was risky business but when my common sense said, not a good idea, my libido and my gonads said, fuck common sense. I took the pictures. Surreptitious upskirt photography was not taught in the journalist basic school I attended. So I had to learn through OJT. My technique is not worth describing as it is irrelevant to today's technology. Ramona Artfelder was about to show me an exhibitionist's response to an upskirt voyeur.
Ramona
Ramona was a woman built for comfort not for speed. She had not an obese, but a fulsome rather than lithe body; a pretty but not stunningly beautiful face, full breasts and a pronounced broad ass underpinned by two shapely legs. She was 37 at the time of this story, about 5'4" and carried probably an additional pound a year for each of the twenty years since graduating high school, some of it carried in a pillow tummy that I liked. She had dark blonde hair and striking green eyes. She wore a pale blue sundress with narrow straps and a lace edged square cut bodice that offered a view of tanned cleavage and inviting crescents of breast that could be glimpsed from time to time. When she walked her hips swayed from side to side.
She was the group leader. I introduced myself as Petty Officer K and she slid her hand into mine in greeting. That simple but seductive grasp made my dick twitch. Still holding my hand and looking directly into my eyes she said softly how handsome I was in my sailor's white uniform. When she finally slipped her warm soft hand from mine, I passed my sweaty palm down my trousers leg, cleared my throat. Pants bulging, I explained the tour plan. She smiled before she turned to the group and explained almost word for word what I had just told her.
I managed to recover some emotional equilibrium and led them to the ship. The officer of the deck or OOD gave permission to come aboard. When all were on deck the group gathered and I explained we would first go to the ship's bridge pointing out where it is and the route we would take. I set out initially in the lead and Ramona trailed behind coming last to make sure no one became separated from the group.
Despite Captain Hazard's colorful admonition not to involve his crew it turned out the executive officer had instructed the OOD to have a seaman yeoman from the ship's office assist me. So I sent him ahead to assist members of the group as they reached the top of the ladder at the 01 deck. I remained behind at the base of the ladder on the main deck. When Ramona was halfway up the ladder I had a cock-swelling view up her dress all the way to her panty covered ass and crotch. I drank in the purloined sight of her most private anatomy. It was just as she put one foot on the next higher step thereby enhancing an already mesmerizing sight. The Yashica clicked and Ramona paused in her ascent for an ever so fleeting moment and continued. A general alarm went off in my head. Had she heard the click of the camera? Did she ken what she heard? If so did she further intuit the focus of the camera?
We visited the bridge and I explained the features for steering, speed, navigation and communications. The tour continued until, as we were about to move on forward to the 5" gun mount, Ramona paused next to me and said, soto-voce, she needed the "ladies room."
I responded quietly, "Ma'am this ship doesn't have any ladies room. The crew is all male."
"Oh shoot," Ramona said, "I have to pee or I am going to wet my panties. Can't you do something?"
"Okay. Look, I will take you to a head, I mean a toilet, and stand outside to make sure nobody comes in while you go. .
So I escorted her to chief petty officer country, an area for senior enlisted men, and after checking waited by the entrance while she used a stall. I could hear the rustle of her clothing as she lifted her dress and pulled her panties down. Then I heard her pee and she sighed.
"Ahhh, oh yes. I couldn't have held that in for another minute. Thank you petting officer K."
"Ma'am that's petty officer," I said, smiling to myself.
