The night before Christmas...A Nautical Poem

Late in October 1985, I was a deckhand on a 96’ utility boat called the Kristy G, working in the Gulf of Mexico.
We were about 100 miles south of Morgan City, Louisiana, when we got the warning that a tropical wave was developing and was on its way. We needed to evacuate.

The Kristy G was standing by to assist in evacuating the workers from an oil-rig platform located in East Cameron, block # 299. The developing tropical wave soon turned into Hurricane Juan.
The oil company that owned the platform was using helicopters for the evacuation and they simply waited too long to evacuate the men on the platform. Resulting in seventy good men being left behind.

The storm and the high seas caused dangerous conditions and we were unable to load the rest of the personnel from the platform onto the Kristy G. After much consideration, we chose to stand by the platform and we tied the Kristy G to a nearby buoy close to the platform.

By the third or fourth day (I can’t remember which) of standing by in the hurricane, I began writing this poem about Christmas.

Oh, the riverboat in the picture is not the Kristy G. I believe it's the Delta Queen.

’Twas the night before Christmas

All’s quiet on the boat.

It's sitting in the water like a castle in a moat.

It was dusk when we moored at the dock.

Now it is midnight, I can see the town’s clock.

I came on watch at eight, relieving the cook.

I had every intention of reading a book.

I had just marked my page, so I could make the rounds.

When all of a sudden I hear these terrible sounds.

There was a BOOM! And a CRACK! Then a BANG! And a CLANK!

I thought the generator had just broken its crank!

I made a dash toward the engine room; I stopped dead in my tracks!

When up popped a head through the hatch by the stacks!

He pulled himself up with precarious form.

This fat little man in a strange uniform.

It was dirty, and red, and spotted with grease.

It looked like red long johns, trimmed in white fleece.

He snapped a salute, gave his heels a click.

How could I have known that this was St. Nick?!

He reached through the hatch, pulled out a dirty red sack.

Then he marched right past me, with that sack on his back.

He went to the crew’s quarters. He leaped in with a bound!

He spread slickers and boots, without making a sound.

Then off to the galley, which is under the bridge.

He put on some coffee, and then raided the fridge.

He poured himself a cup, ate a leftover T-bone.

He left the cook a set of chef's knives, and a new sharpening stone.

Then he went to the Captain, and this is no hype.

He gave our good Captain a fine meerschaum pipe.

He went to the bridge. Then he climbed up on top.

He started climbing the mast! I couldn't get him to stop!

He climbed to the top. Then he reached for the sky.

He clapped his hands once. I heard a jingling in the sky!

He tipped his hat to me, and then jumped in his sleigh.

With a muffled command, he was up, and away!

Christmas is for children. That's what they say.

But I know God...and Santa. Both work in strange ways.

You know it’s getting rough when…

Your boiled eggs come out of the shell scrambled.

You know it’s getting rough when…

Your salad tosses its self.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You unconsciously start humming the theme song from Gilligan’s Island.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You see a flock of Gulls flying backwards.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You have 2ft seas in the toilet.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You look through the boats windshield & see fish looking back.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You have to sit to take a shower.

You know it’s getting rough when…

You unconsciously start humming “The Ballad of the Edmond Fitzgerald.”

You know it’s getting rough when…

You need a seat belt on the toilet.