Bermuda Beach Party!!!

Mr. Warren was our Weapons officer. He had joined the Royal Navy as a boy seaman and transferred to the RCN after the war. He was probably the best officer I ever served under.

On this occasion we had just come into Bermuda after several weeks of strenuous exercises with the Yanks. Mr. Warren invited all the senior weapons rates to a beach party near Fort St.Catherines -- his treat.

The following afternoon about fifteen of us plus Mr. Warren walked to the beach on the other side of the island. Sandwiches, pop, and plenty of booze. Several hours were spent pissing it up on the beach when Mr. Warren said, "Come on then, lads, lets go to the Sportsman's Club (a bar on St.George's Island) and I'll stand you a few more drinks. Off we went.

By early evening we were pretty boisterous. Mr. Warren entertained us with stories and songs from his old RN days and we in turn sang the standard filthy RCN ditties.

Another round of beer and rum was placed on the table and Mr. Warren said, "Now, men, I shall treat you to an old naval custom." He went up to the bar and came back with a few pages of newspaper. Grabbing his beer he climbed on the table and began another rousing bawdy song. All of a sudden he dropped his shorts and underwear, stuffed the paper between his rear cheeks, set a match to it and began to dance. "The dance of the flamin' arseholes boys!," he called out as he jigged around the table top.

We all cheered and cheered.

When the flames got perilously close to his arse he hollered, "Now, lads!" We all grabbed our drinks and threw them at the flames. The flames went out and smoke swhirled from the charred remnants of Bermuda’s daily newspaper, The Royal Gazette. We gave another rousing cheer.

The bar man threw us all out.

The following morning we had to sail for where I can’t remember but we were up early breaking down those damn awnings that we rigged in foreign ports. I was not well. I was on top of the quartermaster's shack hanging on to a gun director as I worked on the awning, and worked on not throwing up. From the deck Mr. Warren cheerily called up, "Good morning, Steel, everything okay up there?" "I've been better, Mr. Warren," I claimed, "but I'll survive." "Good, good, Steel, carry on then." Off he went down the deck, smiling and greeting everyone he met.

He never mentioned the infamous dance and no one who was there ever brought it to his attention. He was just too good a man to embarrass.

And we sailed off into the mystic.