Chapter 2 - Zack the Steward
On the morning of November 27, 1959, I stood at Sangley Point with 24 other young Filipino men, my heart pounding in my chest. I was about to take an oath that would change the course of my life. We were enlisting in the United States Coast Guard as steward recruits—the lowest possible rank. And we all knew what it meant: once we took that oath, there would be no going home.
As the words were spoken and our right hands rose, I felt the weight of it settle in. I was now a U.S. military serviceman. But along with the pride came a gnawing ache—I wouldn’t see my family again for at least four years. Unless, of course, I failed and was sent home unfit for duty. That fear clung to me like a shadow. We all looked around at one another, our eyes wide and uncertain. Nobody said it aloud, but we were scared.
That first afternoon, we filled out paperwork until noon, then marched to the mess hall for our first official meal. I had never seen anything like it.
The food was laid out cafeteria-style: crisp green salads, fried chicken, thick slabs of roast beef, trays of assorted cakes, and a mountain of ice cream. My eyes widened. So this is how Americans eat, I thought. No more fish heads and rice? Maybe I can get used to this.
Then I spotted a bowl of what I thought were duhat—my favorite fruit from the Philippines. Without hesitation, I heaped them onto my tray. But as I sat down and bit into one, a violent bitterness filled my mouth. I gagged. These weren’t duhat. They were olives—strange, foreign, and foul. A server nearby had chuckled earlier, warning me: “You’re in for a big surprise.” He was right, Still, despite the olive ambush, it was the best meal I’d ever had.
While awaiting transport to the U.S., we were given dirty jobs—cleaning mess halls, picking up trash, and dumping garbage around the base. We shipped out aboard the USNS Barrett, and en route to San Francisco, we were assigned to the galley as mess cooks. I didn’t mind. We were finally headed for America.
Upon arrival, we were sent to Fort Mason and then placed under quarantine at the U.S. Public Health Service Hospital. For the first time, we could rest.
Eventually, we merged with the other recruits—white, Black, and Filipino—at boot camp on Government Island, Company LIMA 29. Our Company Commander was a hard-edged Frenchman named BM1 Roche. Training was grueling: eight weeks of marching, drilling, and relentless pressure. Some dropped out. All 25 of us Filipinos made it through.
Then came four more weeks of steward training—polishing silverware, serving food, and perfecting the art of invisibility. After steward training, I received orders to report to the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station in St. Petesburg, Florida.
Being the most junior steward in St. Pete was not fun. I was constantly homesick, and on top of that, I had to take orders from the old-timers—Busabos, Manese, and Amano. I was stuck with all the menial tasks and had very little time to myself. When I could, I spent my free time writing letters, strumming my ukulele, or dabbling in art.
One evening, after serving the evening meal to the duty officers, I was tidying up the pantry when the Mess Treasurer, Lt(jg) Bain, walked in on his way to his quarters. I had left some of my sketches and a rough watercolor on a small table. He paused to look them over and complimented my work. The next day, he called me into his office and asked if I would be willing to restore a deteriorating mural in the wardroom—a scene depicting Coast Guard ships and sailors in action. The paint was peeling, and the wall needed serious attention before an upcoming VIP visit from the District Office.
I hesitated at first but quickly realized I’d rather be painting than washing dishes or scrubbing toilets. I accepted the project—much to the dismay of Busabos and the gang, who had to pick up my usual chores.
It took me about three days to restore the mural. The VIPs came and went, and they saw my work while being served lunch in the wardroom. Later, Mr. Bain congratulated me and said the District staff, including the District Commander, had praised the mural. Word of my artistic ability spread around the base, and I was given other art-related tasks—painting signs and notices, even designing displays for the Coast Guard Exchange.
But I wasn’t enlisted to be an artist.
When there were no more art jobs, I returned to my usual duties. Apparently, I was doing them well enough—Busabos recommended me for promotion to E3 when I hit my time-in-grade requirement.
I had learned that to succeed in the Coast Guard, you had to keep advancing. Promotion was everything. Unfortunately, promotion in the steward rating was notoriously slow. The structure was like a pyramid—lots of workers at the bottom, very few supervisors at the top. It could take five years or more to reach E4 (Third Class Petty Officer), while other ratings often achieved that in two or three years. And moving up beyond E4 was even harder. After 20 years as a steward, you could expect to retire as an E6—while others might reach E7, E8, or even E9 in the same time.
Still, I was determined. I completed all the required correspondence courses and practical factors. The only thing left was to prove to Busabos that I had what it took to be promoted—that meant preparing a dish for the wardroom officers to judge.
By then, I had married Louise. I asked her advice on what to prepare, since I always loved her cooking. Although I wasn’t much of a dessert person, her pineapple upside-down cake had become a favorite of mine. I decided to make that for my test, and she agreed to help. We followed her recipe from the Betty Crocker Cookbook.The galley cook, CS1 Spencer—a 250-pound man who looked like Aunt Jemima—was a good friend. We played poker and craps together. When I told him I needed to use the oven for my test, he gave me permission.
inner that night featured Prime Rib au Jus by Busabos, and my pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. The original recipe served six, but I had to prepare enough for twenty officers. I multiplied the ingredients by 3.33, thinking it would scale up easily. Somewhere, I must have messed up the math—probably confusing teaspoons with tablespoons. I ended up using way too much baking powder.
As the cake baked, it rose uncontrollably, spilling over like a lava flow. The oven door popped open, and cake batter oozed onto the floor. Spencer saw it happen and was furious. He ordered me to clean the mess and wouldn't let me leave the galley until it was spotless.
I salvaged what I could of the cake and served it anyway, too embarrassed to face the officers while they ate dessert. I later asked Busabos how it went. He said LT(jg) Bain had reported that the officers liked it and unanimously recommended that I be allowed to take the service-wide exam for promotion.
That surprised me. I always suspected it wasn’t the cake, but the mural I had restored—and the impression it made on the visiting District staff—that tipped the scales. Maybe they saw potential beyond my baking.
I passed the service-wide exam, but my standing was low due to the hundreds of stewards ahead of me in seniority. Realistically, I would have to keep testing for a few more years before I could expect to be promoted.
After three years at the Air Station, I was transferred across the harbor to the USCGC Nemesis, a 165-foot cutter patrolling the Gulf of Mexico and the Florida Straits. While on board, we rescued many Cuban refugees trying to reach Miami in homemade rafts and boats. This was my first sea duty—and I got seasick a lot.
There were only two stewards on the Nemesis: myself and Steward Third Class Felix Aguilar. Whenever I was seasick, I couldn’t function, and Aguilar had to do all the work. He became fed up and once told me I was useless—that I’d never make anything of myself in the Coast Guard. I couldn’t argue. I had a wife and two kids to feed. I told myself I had to tough it out, no matter how miserable I felt.
One sunny Sunday afternoon, the sea was calm, and I wasn’t seasick. I had just cleaned up after lunch when I heard we had rescued about 20 Cuban refugees, including women and children. They were being kept on the fantail, fed and given blankets.
With two hours of free time before the evening meal, I stepped out for fresh air, strumming my ukulele. I approached the refugees, but they didn’t understand my English. Two young boys smiled and pointed to my ukulele. I played “Cielito Lindo”—the only Spanish song I knew. The kids started singing. Soon, the whole group joined in. Then came “La Cucaracha,” followed by English songs like “You Are My Sunshine” and “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Even some of the crew joined us.
When I looked up, the captain was watching from the bridge wing. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. That moment lifted my spirits. Even Aguilar was proud of me that day.
Not long after, I became a U.S. citizen—thanks to my marriage to Louise, the process was quick. I received my citizenship in late 1963. While still on the Nemesis, I submitted a request to change my rate from Steward to Electronics Technician. The captain gave me a strong endorsement.
I passed the Electronics Technician exam and cleared the background check for a Secret security clearance. I was re-designated from Stewardsman to Seaman and received orders to attend the Electronics Technician “A” School at the Coast Guard Training Center in Groton, Connecticut.
It was a great feeling. My time as a steward had finally come to an end.
It was very unfortunate that I never had the chance to meet you in my 7 years with the USCG. We have so much in common. Chess, Table Tennis, Guitar, electronics and Morse Code ( 2 years schooling). If we did, I probably would'nt have left the US Coast Guard.
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