It was, without a doubt, the most miserable day of my twenty-four-year military career.
It was Shellback Initiation and I am certain anyone who has gone through it will agree with me. This ritual is a centuries-old tradition that takes place at sea whenever a ship crosses over the equator. All who have never been there, called Pollywogs, must participate regardless of rate or rank.
I spent initiation day on my hands and knees wearing thick gloves and bubble-wrap knee-pads. I ate despicable things designed to induce vomiting. All day long I wore a dead, nine-inch, well-ripened fish hanging on a short chain right under my nose. My ass end, protected by more bubble-wrap, was beaten with wooden paddles and leather straps. I could fill up pages but you get the picture. For your viewing pleasure, here are a few delighted Pollywogs awaiting their fate.
The final indignities of the day were kissing the well-greased belly of the “Royal Baby” (fattest crewman on the ship) then crawling through a trough overflowing with an evil gruel of brown sludge embellished with chunks of vile foodstuffs. When I emerged from that trough;
I had never felt so filthy in my life.
The final step, highly welcomed, was to squish my way to the fantail and strip bare-ass naked so I could throw my disgusting clothing into the sea and get hosed down by a waiting fire-fighting crew. (This was, of course, in the days before females were assigned to Navy warships.)
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