THE HORSE AND COW About twenty five miles north of Berkely california lies a small town named Vallejo. The primary feature of the town and the major source of local income is the Mare Island naval shipyard. Mare Island is a big slab of mud and sand that has been reclaimed from the water by artificial means. Dredges must work constantly just to keep the main channel open and they deposit their bounty of slime on the island to keep it from washing away. Periodicaly, deep holes are drilled in the island and huge concrete and steel posts are driven down into the muck below in a vain attempt to keep the whole mess from sliding into the water. Next to Mare Island is a vast swamp of mud flats disappearing over the horizen to the west. The whole area presents a dismal view to be sure, from the gross yellow sheet metal of the navy barracks to the profiles of the massive shipyard cranes that clutter the sky. As ugly as Mare Island might seem to the average person it offered quite another perspective to the submarine sailors docked at her yards for overhaul. After a pacific ocean cruise of seventy days under water without seeing the sun even a garbage dump would seem like heaven. The life of a submarine sailor is damn hard. There are seemingly endless voyages spent locked in the belly of those great machines. Aside from the obvious isolation and close quarters, there is plenty of other unpleasentness to be had. The atmosphere on board is never quite right as the mixture of gases is artificially maintained. After years on a sub, you begin to develop some pretty bizzare skin conditions due to the poisons inherent in the air. The heat in certain areas of the boat can be as high as one hundred and twenty degrees. It is common knowledge to all sub- mariners that the air conditioning systems exist soley to prevent equipment failure. If the air conditioning plants ever went down, as they often did, the engine room watches could die if not relieved often enough. Fresh water is scarse as all of it must be distilled from the sea. There is allways fresh water rationing with a minimum amount allowed for showers. If the the distilling plant should break then showers were forbidden altogether. This happened often enough to leave many memories of going to sleep covered in slime and grit. The nature of the game is such that if any piece of equipment should fail then repair was essential and immediate. Sleep for maintainance personel was secondary. Sub sailors soon learn to fall asleep instantly when the oportunity arises. Often during a big job, work would have to halt due to the nessesity of some part replacement. One man would go forward to obtain the required part while the others would literaly drop on the deck wherever they were at and sleep the ten or fifteen minutes until he returned. Upon the return of that one man, the whole group would rise as from the dead to continue the job. The total effect of these adverse conditions on a submarine crew is considerable. These conditions have led to the develop- ment of a unique form of culture among submariners. Such social habits as shyness or embarassment are flatly denied any right to exist. It's impossible to spend seventy days in close proximity to one hundred and twenty men and not become immune to all matters of personal hygine. The free expression of wild and crazy thoughts is also nearly manditory since if you don't let your anxietys out they'll eat you alive from the inside. There is a trait among all sailors that has grown to legendary proportions in the submarine fleet. This is the ability to remain unruffled in any situation as if whatever happens is just old hat. In Vallejo in the bad part of town (there really was no good part) there was a bar named "The Horse and Cow". This bar was owned by an exsubmariner who's idea of a dream in life made most peoples nightmares look tame. He had an old wreck of sheet metal up on the roof that look vaguely like a sub. The side of the wreck always had the hull number of some boat painted crudely on its side. The numbers would change with whatever pigboat was in port at the time (pig boat is the affectionate term in the fleet) Most sailors however would be to drunk to climb up on the roof so you could hardly call it a rivalry between crews. "The Horse and Cow" was nicknamed "the Equestrian, Bovine Sanctuary and Memorial Ballroom" and there was no dancing, if you take my meaning. Calling this bar a dive simply would not do it justice. Where other dives settled this one kept on diving until way past test depth. For most people just seeing the rows of harleys out front was enough to scare them off. For the brave a rare treat awaited them. The bikers loved our bar because it was more disgusting then anything even they had ever seen. In one corner of the main room was wall and ceiling covered with the underwear of both sexes in various states of cleanliness. These were the trophys of the countless scivy checks done on the premisis. The initiated knew that you simply didn't wear them to the horse and cow, it just wasn't done. There may have been some case of complaint due to manhandling in the H&C but I doubt it. You have to understand the nature of the clientel that frequented the joint. There was a small faction of bikers that added a taste of class to the decorum, but the bulk of people there were always sailors in varius states of drunkeness. There was the occation stranger who stumbled in lost. These would usualy stay until they finished their one beer before high tailing it. Then there were the hoggers. The hoggers were fat girls or ugly girls or ugly, fat girls, who frequented the place because they could get someone to pay attention to them. They had no competition in the bar because if any good looking women walked in they usualy didn't get passed the entry way before they ran for their lives. There are some who would argue that the hoggers were taken advantage of, but I don't buy it. This was probably the only bar in the state where they felt comfortable and welcome. There was one guy from our boat who would actualy walk in the door and begin calling "Hoggers!" over and over again. Far from being insulted these prizes of womanhood would crowd around him like bees on honey. They knew who they were and he treated them better then they would get elsewhere. Sometimes the guys would have a contest to see who could pick up the grossest, fattest, ugliest woman in town. They would meet back at the H&C for a kind of a banquet. The most horrible girl there would win a prize of some kind and be crowned queen of "The Horse and Cow." The owner had regulation bells,horns and diving alarms rigged behind to the bar that he would switch on playfuly from time to time. The alarms signaled rituals to the regulars for things like guzzling, nuzzling and skivy checks. I remember one girl named mary who was crippled and stuck in a wheel chair. She was a regular's regular and her lips of tender mercy had serviced a huge percentage of the submarine fleet. One night I was sitting at the bar drinking a beer when out of the head comes this wacked out sailor. He had taken off all his clothes and stuffed a twenty foot long piece of toilet paper between the cheeks of his ass. He lit one end on fire and began walking through the bar with a long tail of flame slowly closing on him. Truth be know this did not cause even a ruffle from regulars who'd seen much stranger stuff than this. He came up to me and explained that this was his imitation of a flaming asshole. Once some bumpkin came in with his date. She was a good looker so I was checking her out. All meat in that bar subject to inspection. Well she noticed and started to flirt with me right in front of boyfriend so I walked on over and charmed my ass off. He got real pissed off and did the traditional macho man revue complete with "Lets us go out in the parking lot and deal with this like men". Well I smiled at him like a big hungry dog. Knowing that in this hole I could just wack him over the head with a pitcher all of a sudden like and honor would be served perfectly. I took pity on the poor boy though since he seemed so out of place and naive. I told him right there in front of the babe that she didn't have any honer worth fighting for. I said "Take a good look at her and decide if she's any reason to get your head beat in." I guess he was at somewhat of a disadvantage it being my bar and all because he started looking kind of edgy. Maybe the true nature of his surroundings began to sink in. The fact is the H&C just isn't any kind of territory that anyone would think of defending and as to the honor of anyone who would walk in that door, well there just wasn't any. The regulars were hanging around grinning for blood and betting on the big dog and that girl up and split quick as a wink while the gitting was good. The bumpkin followed soon after with his false bravado trailing behind him like a flaming asshole. It's not that we don't welcome stangers to the H&C we do they just have to be our kind of folks. B.E.