Here it is the 28th of April. I awoke this morning thinking of my eldest grandson Robert who is sailing this morning aboard the Canadian frigate HMCS St.John’s, and how it has been about 45 years since I went to sea for the first time on my old frigate. What I wouldn’t give to step aboard alongside him and head to sea again. Alas, I couldn’t even take the wheel again because they don’t have a wheel any more; it’s just a little gizmo the size of a video game controller. Furthermore, they don’t have any steam aboard her except maybe when water is boiled for coffee or tea. I would be lost.

I can still recall that first time I went to sea – November, 1961. It was not to go out on patrol but to take part in a burial at sea.

After home leave I arrived in Halifax and reported to HMCS Stadacona, the main East Coast shore base. My ship, the frigate HMCS Cap de la Madeleine, was still at sea and would not be in for about another week. After several days in ‘Stad’ I noticed my name, along with a few of my Cornwallis mates, up on the Watch and Quarter Bill with an order directing us to report to the duty petty officer. It seemed an ex sailor had passed away and his family had requested a burial at sea. We were fresh out of basic training, knew the drill, and better yet, our uniforms were complete and clean. We were the ideal candidates for guard duty.

We were driven out to a local scrap yard where we picked up a slab of steel that had been cut to fit into the bottom of the coffin. The four of us wrestled it into the truck and delivered it to the undertaker where it was placed into the coffin.

The day of the funeral was dreary. It was now November in Halifax and the rain and snow swept the harbour. Eight of us manned the brow of HMCS Fort Erie as the casket was lugged aboard. We stood to attention, and, I think, we probably looked rather good in our Great Coats, white belts, gaiters and our F.N. rifles. [F.N. -- Fabrique Nationale, NATO issue rifle made in Belgium] The coffin was placed on supports on the quarter-deck, a White Ensign draped over it.

We split into two groups of four. The first watch would guard the coffin (one man on each corner, heads bowed, resting on our arms reversed) for the first half hour then get relieved. This routine would last until we had reached a position at least 50 miles off shore. Suffice to say steaming at about 12 knots; this was going to take some time. The plan was sound. The sea did not cooperate.

We cleared the harbour and the swells picked up. Before long the frigate's quarter-deck was twisting like a cork screw and it was becoming impossible to keep one’s balance beside the casket. We were finally called in after one violent lurch sent me toppling over the coffin. As the ship’s bosun’s mates lashed down the casket we made our way down into the cafeteria and held on for dear life.

It wasn’t until about 1300 hrs (1 p.m.) that we arrived at the burial position. Engines were stopped and lower decks were cleared (that is, every man came up on deck and formed a hollow square around the coffin) and our guard took up positions by the coffin. The after guard rails were broken down and the widow and chaplain approached the casket. The ship was still rolling but we picked up the timing and swayed with the movements.

I was watching the minister as he read the service. His face grew ashen then took on a greenish hue. He then bolted to the side and vomited over the rails. Unfortunately this was done into the wind and when he took up his position to finish the readings he was in quite a state. The service finished, the coffin-rest was tilted and the casket with its cargo slipped from under the Ensign and dropped below the waves. The Ensign was then folded and presented to the widow. She proceeded to the wardroom, the guard rails were put back in place, the screws [propellers] began turning and we headed back to Halifax. It is a strange and lasting memory of the sea. And it was my introduction to the navy rum tot but that’s another story.