The Wing Commander, or “CAG,” filled out the trio of senior leaders aboard Coral Sea. Like Wilson, Captain Tim Matson was a Hornet pilot, six years his senior. He was also an easygoing friend since Matson had taught him to fly the Hornet long ago when Wilson was new to the airplane. Wilson considered himself fortunate that his boss was also a friend, and Wilson’s wife, Mary, was close to Matson’s wife, Barbara. Tonight, however, Wilson’s friend and boss needed to support his boss in this forced-fun function.
The barge cast off from the camel, and at the request of the Captain, traversed the starboard side of the ship before turning to shore. The officers’ eyes automatically inspected the hull of the steel mountain floating next to them, some looking at spots of rust, others at refueling stations and others at the tails of aircraft sticking over the flight deck sixty feet above. Wilson thought of the immensity of it. He was continually amazed carriers like this were built by human hands. Holding Coral Sea in place were three hundred and twenty-five pound links of anchor chain that stretched tight from the hawse pipe to the sea. The coxswain turned the barge left under the shadow of the bow on their way to shore.
The motor thrummed them forward as the boat rolled and pitched gently in the light swells. As the sun sank lower in the western sky, Wilson and the others inspected the green hills of St. Thomas through the windows and watched the waves crash against the rocky shoreline. The smell of hibiscus and agave filled the air when the barge grew close, and Wilson noted a large white-hulled cruise ship standing out from the Charlotte Amalie terminal. The ship was ready to begin her night’s voyage on the smooth sea caressed by the gentle trades. Puffy clouds dotted the horizon, and far to the southeast an impressive line of thunderstorms reflected the light of the setting sun.
Ten minutes after leaving the ship, the pitch of the engine changed as the coxswain maneuvered the barge along the wooden pier. Someone commented on the hundreds of wooden stairs along the cliff leading to the resort above. Annie smiled. Navigating the stairs in a skirt was a small price for her to pay, knowing her husband was waiting for her at the top of them.
As the experienced coxswain manipulated the throttles, a deckhand jumped off the barge and tied the bow line to the cleat, then secured the aft mooring line thrown by his shipmate. Once the barge was tight against the pier, the officers disembarked in order of seniority. A lieutenant greeted the admiral with a salute and led him to the reception. The rest of the white-clad officers trudged up the stairs in order, glad to be ashore after two weeks underway. Many of them commented on the iguana that sunned itself on the rocks in the remaining light, its disinterest in the noisy humans quite evident.