Flashback Friday – Gundecking

Just out of Boot Camp and knowing almost nothing about how the Navy worked, I sat by as sailors and petty officers senior to me decided how to explain their idleness on a log sheet. My impression of the workday was that it had been full of BS, coffee, and some very random work.

It was also my introduction to Gundecking. The term Gundecking Derives from the Royal Navy. Midshipmen, officers in training, would take their noon navigational sights of the sun, scurry below to the gun deck, and “fix” the position of the ship in the ocean, often by cheating. Gundecking became the modern naval name for report fixing.

The first-class petty officer introducing me to the mysteries of fixing logs without getting caught was the erudite bosun’s mate, John O’Toole. John deliberately shunned anything that might get him a rocker under his crow and transform him into a chief petty officer.

By the time I came along, Gundecking could be an art form in the hands of a master like O’Toole. Most Gundecking is the simple checking off of boxes on reports for maintenance or inspection. More elaborate needs could require Quiji Boards, modified game spinners, and, critically, the Magic 8 Ball.
Modern Gundecking (pencil whipping in the non-naval services) is complicated. And compounded by the sheer bureaucratic nature of military or civilian life. In the years since I was discharged I can only imagine the absurdities introduced by computers. Everything has a checklist, report, protocol, diagnostic formula, or decision tree. Procedural paperwork can get in the way of effective performance. You can become enmeshed in meaningless BS. Perhaps that’s why the verb “to Gundeck” is offset by the adverb “gundeckable.”

It had to have been an officer or senior Non-commissioned Officer like O’Toole who derived this term because, as we all know – problems always move up the Chain Of Command, and shit drops down. By the time you become a senior in any organization, you should either know all the tricks or have an intuition. Remember, that pencils, Magic 8 ball, Quija boards, and game spinners have been around a while. If only to protect yourself (enlightened self-interest), you better figure out how gundeckable the reports and inspections in your organization can be.

Remember that the general principle dates back to Bronze Age sailors. There are thousands of years of received sophistication going on here.

A few years ago, I looked into the open drawer of my financial advisor’s desk. His Magic 8 Ball was right there. I rapidly confirmed from the Honorable Discharge displayed on the wall that he was a Navy Veteran.
Think about that next time your advisor says: “hold on. Let me check on that answer”., and opens the lower desk drawer. Here are a couple of guidelines: If he or she has any of the following on their wall: Plank Owner Certificates, certificates showing that they are Pollywogs, Shellbacks, etc., or pictures of their last ship, get out fast. Another sure warning is if they start every story with “Now, this is no shit,” – this TINS warning is especially dire, being that it’s the traditional start of any Sea Story. Of course, you should also check the premises for signs of Quija boards, spinners, and the Magic 8 Ball. Full disclosure forces me to admit that one sits on my desk as I write this.

Is there an actual cure for Gundecking? Probably, putting less emphasis on forms would help. Putting a greater focus on actual performance, pride in the job, and professionalism would be critical. But, until that happens, remember your best defense is knowing or learning the angles yourself so no one would even consider Gundecking you.
I leave you with these words from the immortal petty officer first class John O’Toole: “Luck is what you stumble upon in life. Providence is what God plans for you, and planning is how you thread your way between the two without getting crushed.”

Ruby Tuesday

Memory is an iffy sort of thing. I’ve had friends with major disconnects in their lives; they had adult children but somehow seemed to think it was still July of 1967. July of 1967 was a great time, mind you. It was pure frolic. But it is very much gone.
Before you go snickering about how people in your grandparent’s generation are living in second adolescence, I’ll dispel any feelings of youthful superiority. Remember last week when you were reminiscing about the good old days of 2015? That’s right. In thirty years, you, too, will be an embarrassment to your children as you get caught doing some weird dance step that was justifiably forgotten before they were born.

To be honest, my father warned me about this. But in the flush of youth, I ignored the warning. He just smiled. I guess because he knew what was coming. He exercised constraint, knowing that in the future, he’d be watching me from the way beyond as I embarrassed myself in front of my children.

So take a bit of advice. Next time you wander into the living room and see Granpa dancing around and singing the words to ” Ruby Tuesday,” cut him some slack.

The Dumps

A warning, this is a trashy story.

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Back in the day, the dump was a sort of special place. You'd take your trash and garbage to the dump Saturday. Everyone else in town would be doing the same thing. You'd socialize, and of course, you might selectively "pick" for items you might find a second home for.<br>Who can forget driving to the dump covered in a carpet of dirty white gulls and watching the waves of birds parting magically before your car?Back in the day, the dump was a sort of special place. You’d take your trash and garbage to the dump Saturday. Everyone else in town would be doing the same thing. You’d socialize, and of course, you might selectively “pick” for items you might find a second home for.
Who can forget driving to the dump covered in a carpet of dirty white gulls and watching the waves of birds parting magically before your car?

Being from New York, this had not been my experience. New York City incinerated much waste, and the rest was trucked to landfills, or barged out to sea for dumping.
Manhattanites never saw the end result of their waste. When I got to Maine, I became curious about why grown adults would fixate over their dump days. So I tagged along to find out.

One of my acquaintances, Carl, had mentioned several times there had been a private dump at the old Island Hotel near Widows Cove Rocks. He was sure that it was full of old bottles and ceramics that could be sold to the Summer Complaints. Carl was convinced that it would be a great site to find old Poland Springs Water Moses bottles. These were eagerly collected.
The plan was to go and scout the property on Sunday afternoon. We took a rake, bucket, bags, and a shovel. The hotel had been abandoned in the Great Depression and burned for the insurance.
We knew much of value had been salvaged before the fire. Half the better houses in town had woodwork retrieved before the fire. The elevator motor was pulled out and used on the marine railway at Spinney’s boatyard. Because of this information, we wouldn’t bother with the site of the hotel itself. The real deal would be the old hotel’s private dump. Towns were not big on trash collection in those days.
Even with Carl’s hunches on the location, it took some time to locate the site. Our first solid lead was when I fell through some rotted planks into the half-filled cellar hole of an old building. This was it. The old cellar was full of trash. Everything: 1920’s electric fans, chamber pots, half-rotted medicine clubs, a Depression-era gutta-percha pessary, rusted cans, and bottles – all in about six inched of mud. On the way down, I had scraped my arm badly and torn my pants. But there I was so I might as well start handing up goodies. Most everything was broken. The process for dumping was to toss it in. The inconsiderate fools had never thought of the future value of late 19th-century medicine bottles, gin bottles, or Poland Springs bottles. However, we did come away with about two dozen intact pieces, including a 1911 clear Moses bottle.


On the way home, I started limping from a puncture wound in my foot. My share of the proceeds did not cover the tetanus shot, or the antibiotics the doctor put me on. My abiding memory of the event was of feeling the ground suddenly giving way under me and falling into the hole.
After that, I restricted myself to visits to the Town dump and left the flooded basement to Carl.