Sea Witches

The witch stood at the prow of the ship, letting the sea winds ruffle his short-cropped hair like an affectionate uncle. It was still dim, and he could just see the first sliver of the sun peaking over the flat horizon. 

The broad, flat sea and chilling winds reminded him of his home in Alaska, and he allowed himself a moment of homesickness before he began his morning ritual.

Silently and without gesture he began, breathing in the fire of the sun, feeling the power of the winds, mentally connecting with the ocean and the Earth far below. 

Mother Earth, Mother Ocean, embrace us, heal us, give us the tranquility to make it through another day. Father Sun, Father Wind, give us the power to complete the challenges that await us this day. Let the circle remain unbroken, and help us to remember Your presence.

He smiled, feeling the elemental energies coursing through him, and vaporized one of the high, wispy clouds floating sun-reddened over the horizon, just for fun.

Blessed be, he intoned silently, and let the energies fade into the back of his mind. Turning, he again faced the ship, glancing idly up into the windows of the bridge where he could see the officer of the watch staring. It’s a good thing I didn’t do it the way I wanted to, he thought. Sad that it should be so rare for someone to come up here to watch the sunrise.

Pretending he was unaware of being watched, the witch stuck his hands in his dungaree uniform pockets and casually descended the ladder into the interior of the ship, and headed to the messdecks for breakfast.

* * * 

“Hey, Padre, what’s with those Goddam’ Satan worshipers?”

I groaned inwardly at this. I’d been expecting this sooner or later, and the fact that loud-mouthed, ignorant Jenkins was the one to interrupt my breakfast with it surprised me not at all. 

“Satan Worshipers?” I asked innocently.

“You know who I mean,” said Jenkins, leaning close and flinging bits of egg about as he wildly gestured with his fork. “Those witches you let meet in the Library. That’s gotta be against the regs, right?”

As casually as possible, I defended my breakfast from this onslaught of food particles and gave the mildest answer I could. “Actually, Bill, the Army has recognized Wicca as a valid religion for a number of years now. And they’re not,” I added, with a slightly imperious lift of the eyebrow, “Satan worshipers.”

“Hmph,” Jenkins snorted, mercifully returning his fork to his own plate. “Father Winston woulda’ never allowed it.”

I bit back the obvious retort, since my predecessor’s court martial for sexual misconduct was not for public consumption, and gathered my bespattered breakfast and headed for the scullery, making a vague excuse about having a meeting.

Of course, the meeting I was referring to wouldn’t take place until that evening.

* * *

The witches’ meetings were completely by the book. When ships are at sea, boredom and depression can be a big problem, and for this reason more than any concern for Sailors’ spiritual welfare, the Navy encourages religious activities of all sorts, from Bible studies to mass to Passover Seder on the messdecks. So when a member of the newly-sanctioned Old Religion came to me and offered to lead Wiccan services, what could I do but agree? As a Catholic, I had to admit a little fear of these people. As a Navy chaplain, my job was to espouse no religious beliefs over any other, and keep track of the paperwork. As an Ivy League seminary liberal who fancied himself an intellectual, however, I had a great deal of curiosity. 

So I did what I was supposed to do, and ran the appropriate paperwork up the chain. Within a day I got a call from the Old Man, asking for more information. Part of my job is running the minimal ship’s library, so it was no problem to step around the corner from my office into the compartment used for the purpose and pick up a couple useful books. Fortunately we had just received a comparative religions text more current than the ancient encyclopedia, whose best words on the subject were “rumors of cannibalism among witches are probably overstated.” I had my aide run off some copies and deliver them up to the Captain’s office. Within an hour he called to okay using the library for the services.

With his okay, I told the young Sailor, a well-spoken young Operations Specialist named Digby, he could go ahead and lead the meetings. I also warned him that some of the officers might decide to drop in to spy on the first few meetings, and that regulations prohibited excluding anyone.

All this was unknown to the crew at large until Digby put a notice on the bulletin board.

“Pagans Unite! Join us each Thursday night at 2000 in the ship’s library for teachings, meditations, and Magic.”

As soon as I’d seen it, I’d known I’d be defending myself at breakfast.
When I arrived at my office the phone had already been ringing. “Did you authorize that notice?” demanded an irate voice that had to be the executive officer. 

“No sir.”

“Thank you,” he said curtly, and I was holding a dead line. 

Of course, I thought, if it had read “Christians unite,” no one would have questioned it. Next-century technology and last-century morality, that’s the Navy all over. Of course, as Tailhook and certain closer-to-home scandals have shown, Navy leaders don’t necessarily live by those standards. I sighed my all-to-frequent “oh, well” sigh and got to work. Nine-tenths of a chaplain’s work aboard a ship is administrative, and requires 110% of the time.

* * * 

USS Waikiki is a huge amphibious assault ship that carries over 3,000 Sailors and Marines and a huge variety of vehicles designed to carry the Marines to the beach, where they do what they do best. Her back end opens into a huge well deck from which boats and LCAC hovercraft can be deployed, and the entire back of the ship can be lowered into the water to flood the well decks, facilitating entry or exit of water-bound vehicles. At the moment she was deployed on a six-month cruise to the Middle East and other, as-yet unspecified destinations, as an exercise for the Navy and the Marine Corps, and also to show off to the Bad Guys (whoever they might be this week) how tough we are. Rumor had it we were also testing some Top Secret new weapons systems, but nothing a chaplain would ever know about. 

* * *

So on this, our first Thursday underway, and many weeks away from our first destination, Digby prepared for the meeting. He’d brought some of his own supplies, and gotten special permission to store a knife with us for use in the ritual. “We don’t cut anyone,” he’d assured me, “this is just symbolic.” All the chaplain’s office had to supply were candles.

I was a little concerned that no one would show up since Digby’s notice had reappeared on the bulletin board somewhat more reserved and a lot less noticeable, but the turnout was pretty good for the first service.

Digby arrived early to prepare. I sat at the librarian’s desk and pretended to do paperwork, but I was watching his setup. In his hand was an antique suitcase monogrammed with the initials “GFM.” 

“I got it at a garage sale,” he said as he propped it on a folding chair and opened it.

First he took out a rumpled muslin shirt and threw it over the back of the chair. “I’m not sure if this is technically allowed,” he said, “but I can work a lot better out of uniform.”

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I have to put on robes when I do mass.”

So he changed shirts, and the conjunction of the bell-bottomed uniform pants and the long white pirate shirt reminded me of my college days. Of course, he was too young to remember that far back.

Next he took out a bundle of sage and lit it, walking around the room waving it in circles and mouthing something I couldn’t hear. He paid special attention to the doorway and the window between the library and my office. “Purifying the space,” he explained.

Then he turned to the altar. It was the same table I used for mass, and he draped it with a white cloth. He set up candles, a wine glass full of water, an incense burner and a bowl, then retrieved the knife from the office safe. He took a container of salt from his case and poured some into the bowl. He pulled a disposable lighter out of his pocket and wagged it with a smirk. “Holy Bic.”

I looked at my watch. It was just after 2000 and no one had showed up yet. He noticed the gesture and told me not to worry. “Pagans seem to run on a different time zone,” he said. “By the way, are you staying?”

“Yes, I’m sure the Captain’s going to want a report. You understand this is all very new to most of us.”

He sighed melodramatically. “I suppose. You don’t usually have spies in the Bible studies, though, do you?”

I could only laugh. “No, no spies. To tell you the truth, I’d probably come anyway. I’m very curious about all this. I never thought of myself as sheltered, but this is something I’ve never seen before.”

“Good enough,” he said. “Ideally, I’d like you to participate, but if you feel you can’t, um, try to stay out of the way. Sir.”

“You don’t have to ‘Sir’ me, son. Based on what you’ve told me, I doubt there’s much happening here tonight that’d cause me any trouble.”

Just then the first participant arrived, a tall dark-haired radioman named Lloyd. He seemed a bit embarrassed, but as soon as he saw Digby with the pentacle around his neck he relaxed. “Looks like I’m in the right place he said, pulling a similar pendant out from his shirt front.

“Smells good in here.”

“I’m Jack,” Digby introduced himself. “You probably know Chaplain Moore.”

I smiled and stood to shake his hand. “Call me Tom here,” I said. I didn’t want to be the only one there addressed by title.

“I guess that would make me Matt,” said the newcomer, and sat in a chair in the corner. 

“We’ll be starting when a few more people show up,” said Digby. 

* * *

The Waikiki was on its way to Thailand, a 30-day trip without passing within sight of land. Morale being 

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