You probably aren’t aware of this, but the
odds are that you, gentle reader, are a slimy
polliwog.
Unless of course you have
crossed the equator in a Navy warship, been introduced to King Neptune, and
kissed the baby’s belly.
The line is the equator, of course – and
crossing the equator for the first time qualifies you as a slimy wog, the lowest
form of sea life. But not to worry, the Trusty Shellbacks in the
crew will partner with King Neptune and his retinue to bring you into the fold,
after a suitable
cleansing.
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The
Crossing of the Line ceremony on Navy ships is a received tradition, believed to
date back to the Viking days (although their parallel was almost certainly
something north of the equator). Passed on by them the Angles, thence to the
Anglo-Saxons, thence to the Royal Navy and then to
us.
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Parenthesis:
Did you ever wonder why it is the Royal Navy, but the British Army?
Stay
tuned!
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I
first crossed the line in June of 1987 – it was after we’d finished
our line period in the North Arabian Sea, and were wending our way home, via
Australia. As we closed within several degrees north of the equator, there was a
suspicious whirr of activity among those of my shipmates that had cruised
before; conversations whispered behind hands, evil grins and an obvious sense of
anticipation. Preparations for something nefarious were clearly in a forward
state of readiness as the equator
approached.
The day prior to our
crossing, the minds of all the uninitiated on the ship were preoccupied only
with this question: If we flush the toilet exactly at the equator, which way
will the water spin as it drains?
That
night, preparing for the evening movie in the ready room, our wa was disturbed
by an announcement over the ship’s loudspeaker system. Someone claiming in
a stentorian tones to be Davy Jones, and representing the interests of one King
Neptune, was essentially asking the ship’s CO what the hell he thought he
was doing, bringing all these slimy polliwogs into the King’s domain? The
CO averred that he had in fact sinned, but offered to make up for his miscreancy
by conducting a cleansing ceremony, starting that very
night.
The novices among us went to
sleep that night somewhat unsettled in our minds, and wondering what the morrow
would bring.
In the event, it brought a
pounding on our doors at a very early hour – the veterans of our crew
waited without, dressed in appallingly self-made pirate gear, garishly painted
about their faces and swearing energetically into our uncomprehending faces.
They claimed to be Trusty Shellbacks,
and it seemed we were expected to put our khaki pants on inside out, wear only a
t-shirt and boots, and duck walk down to the ready room. Duck walking is just
like it sounds – you bend over at the waist and with your hands behind
your back, and you waddle around the passageways squatting on your haunches.
Rather than quack like a duck, you are required to grunt “wog, wog”
with each step.
Now, even for a young
and supple Lex, it was no simple feat to duck walk down the series of ladders
and hatches that made up our nautical home. Once arriving in the ready room, we
were subjected to several of the more familiar and lesser humiliations until
sunrise. At that moment, sensing a lessening in the intensity of our
harasser’s interest and a momentary shift in the balance of power (several
of them had gone to the head), we polliwogs fomented a brief rebellion, which
was ruthlessly put down by the returning shellbacks.
Our time having come, we were asked to
crawl up to the hangar bay on hands and knees. While waiting for an aircraft
elevator to take us to the flight deck, various members of the shellback mafia
treated us to tests of physical endurance while chastening the large muscles
between the back of our legs and our lower back with the caress of a shillelagh
– a cut down piece of fire hose. It didn’t really hurt at all, but
it did make a satisfying (for the shellbacks) “thwack” as it struck
home.
We got eventually to the
elevator, and having been hosed down by several fire hoses, energetically
applied at a volume sufficient to save a burning apartment building, we made it
to the “roof.” Once there we were introduced to more crawling around
on hands and knees in unspeakably filthy slime, and we were doused again with
colored water. Once cleansed, we were asked to “kiss the baby” (the
belly of the ship’s most obese chief – I do not want to even try to
guess where this tradition came from) and were finally introduced to King
Neptune and his retinue.
The King,
behind his locks of hempen hair and beard, looked suspiciously like the
ship’s Supply Officer. A retinue of “Wog Queens,” female
sailors, who had avoided our fate by dressing in a most provocative manner,
attended him. Some of them looked pretty damn cute,
actually.
Which was strange, because
this was 1987, and there were no females at sea on warships, in those
days.
And it occurred to me on closer
observation that these were not females at all. There were far too many
Adam’s apples, among all those
Eve’s.
One
of the things I never figured out (because I was afraid of what the answer might
be) was how it came to pass that these Wog Queens, in exchange for avoiding the
more uncomfortable aspects of the crossing the line ceremony, managed to cruise
for four and a half months with brassieres, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels
stowed away in the very little space available to a Sailor at sea, while waiting
for Just This Day!
I’ll also
point out that the Navy no longer countenances certain aspects of this ceremony
– the physical abuse for example, as gentle as it was, is mostly gone. Wog
Queens are seen no more.
I do not miss
them, personally.
The King gave
us a dressing down, gave us a shower and welcomed us into the fold. It was all
good fun, when all was said and done – it broke up the monotony of a long
and uneventful transit, and gave all of us initiates something to look forward
to on our next
deployment.
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
