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The term "sea aitch ship" is often misunderstood and confused with the phrase "sea-hate ship." Sea aitch ship is actually a term used to describe a specific type of sea vessel that starts with the letter "H" in its name. Sea aitch ships can refer to a variety of vessels such as a hark or a hopper, but the most commonly referred to sea aitch ship is a helicopter carrier. Helicopter carriers are naval ships designed to operate as a mobile and flexible base for helicopters. They have extensive and specially designed flight decks and hangar facilities to accommodate multiple helicopters. These ships are essential in various military operations and can serve as a crucial asset for aerial assault, support, and reconnaissance missions.

From Pole Canyon (190 miles) to Geyser Pass Road Aid Station (205 miles), it then became a three-way battle at the front as Pelletier forced himself into contention.

The pair were in close proximity at the Needles Aid Station at 163 miles and again at Rd 46 at 176 miles before Kubala took the lead for around three miles. The button-down shirts from the Canal Jean bins had tiny collars, and the trousers were all straight-legged and cuffed, a bit of a neo-bumpkin look about them particularly when the trousers rode above the ankles, a fate I had more or less accepted for myself, being so tall.

These ships are essential in various military operations and can serve as a crucial asset for aerial assault, support, and reconnaissance missions. Helicopter carriers not only provide a platform for helicopters to take off and land at sea but also offer a range of supporting capabilities such as refueling, maintenance, and storage. One of the primary advantages of sea aitch ships, especially helicopter carriers, is their ability to enhance the overall operational capabilities of a fleet.

Murder, Muggers, and Rottweilers: Stories From My Best, Worst Apartment

In this excerpt from his new memoir, Thurston Moore, of Sonic Youth, remembers life in Alphabet City, 1978.

J. D. King, the tall drink of water I met at Cutler's Record Store in early December 1976, had passed me his address and phone number that day. I proceeded to write him long letters on yellow tablet paper expounding on my experiences — about seeing bands at CBGB and Max's and hoping sometime soon to be on those stages, starting new wave punk rock fires for the world to be scorched by.

By the late summer of 1977, J.D. — along with some of his RISD pals had relocated to 85 South Street — a loft space at the very tip of Manhattan, overlooking the infamous fish markets, where trucks and trolleys full of that day's catch were delivered onto docks lit overhead from midight until morning.

Spending more and more of my time at the South Street loft, I scoured the Village Voice for a place of my own.

I could live with an old man rent-free if I didn’t mind taking care of him: walking him, feeding him, giving him his meds. Economically sensible as it was, it seemed depressing, possibly dangerous. I had never heard of anyone living to tell such a story. I passed.

After looking at some real ratholes, I settled on a third-floor walkup at 512 East Thirteenth Street between Avenues A and B. The rent was $110 per month, a manageable enough sum—if I could land a job.

The building was typical for the East Village in 1978, especially for the stretch that residents called Alphabet City. No buzzer system at the door; tiny black-and-white-tiled floors, all chipped and grimy. The tenant above me was a barely functional ex-con and drug addict who had a couple of high-strung rottweilers, which he would drunkenly whip and yell at throughout the night. Above him lived an alcoholic couple who stumbled up and down the stairs. When I crossed their path, they would urge me to take a sip from their sloshing bottle of booze. The woman once began screaming maniacally in their apartment, then proceeded to climb down the fire escape at the front of our building, yowling—

She tried to open my window, sobbing and bleeding, begging me to protect her from her husband, who had evidently smashed a bottle over her head. I noticed him trundling down after her, just as drunk and clumsy as she was, trying to grab her by the hair and drag her back into their hell zone. I didn’t own a telephone so I couldn’t call the cops. I pre­tended not to know how to open the iron gates that barred the window.

The ex-con upstairs had a strung-out buddy with no teeth who would hang with him once in a while. He would see me, cackle, and call me “Slim.” I must have amused him, the skinny, tall, corn-fed boy just out of his teens living in this godforsaken building. One afternoon, I ducked out of the rain into a doorway on Avenue A, only to find no-teeth guy standing there as well seeking refuge. He was delighted to see me — Slim, of all people! He told me that I should think about selling drugs for him and his friend. He said I could make good money. He added that I could fuck him in the ass if I wanted —

“I’ll suck your dick too.”

I politely turned him down before leaping back into the downpour and heading home.

Each time I approached the corner of Avenue A and Thirteenth Street, I would break into a sprint to my doorway. It ensured, among other things, that I wouldn’t get stopped by the local teens, who thought nothing of ganging up on a new guy in the neighborhood, mugging him for money or kicks. I would be on high alert whenever I headed east toward Avenue B too, a crime scene waiting to happen. I took a chance late one night, walking quickly to a bodega on Avenue B and Thirteenth to grab a pack of cigarettes and a can of Pepsi. On the way back, three kids strolled by, all of sixteen years old. One of them eyeballed me and slapped me on the back, saying, “Hey,” before continuing toward Avenue B.

I picked up my pace, and sure enough the kids backpedaled, surrounding me. They wanted money — ridiculous, as I had probably three dollars on my person. They threatened me with a knife, and I froze. One boy reached into my back pocket and took my wallet; another snatched my bag with the Pepsi and the cigs. They said if they saw me again, they’d kill me, then ran off laughing and yelling, throwing the soda can past my head and onto the street, where it sputtered. I swooped it up and bolted the half block back to my apartment, shaken and terrified. After gathering my senses, I opened what was left of the Pepsi, slowly sucking on its fizzy sweetness, wishing I could smoke a thousand cigarettes.

For weeks I was gripped with paranoia whenever I left my place, mostly from the possibility of seeing those same street kids again, whether in the neighborhood or on a nearby L train subway platform—but it never happened. I had a slow, sober realization. The demons at play in this teeming metropolis were largely figments of my imagination. The crime and violence were real, but they were more or less arbitrary. Also, I probably shouldn’t be walking alone around Alphabet City at three in the morning.

The drug-dealing dude with the rottweilers disappeared one day. It was after I had heard a relentless, low moaning outside my doorway, coupled with an insistent thumping. The sounds from around the neighborhood were always disturbing and alien, so I put up with it for a while, but I eventually opened the door to see what was going on.

I found the toothless guy who had propositioned me lying on his back, his feet crumpled against my door. He must have been bleeding for some time from some unseen wound, because the entire hallway was swamped in blood. I sensed that he was expiring, his leg jerking spasmodically against the door. I leaped over the lake of blood and ran upstairs to bang on the ex-con’s door. I told him his friend was in trouble. He hurried down, eyeballed the situation, and told me he would take care of it. I leaped back over the bloody dude and into my apartment, staying there for as long as I thought it was safe.

I could hear him dragging his friend’s body—clunk, clunk, clunk—up to his room, then the thunk of it hitting the floor above my ceiling. Eventually the landlord appeared with the police, and I told them what I saw, nothing more, nothing less. Cleaners arrived, scrubbing and disinfecting the hallway, but there would always remain streaks of dried blood in the cracks of the aged tile. The guy upstairs soon vacated the building, escorted by cops, his dogs mysteriously gone with him.

I could hear him dragging his friend’s body—clunk, clunk, clunk—up to his room, then the thunk of it hitting the floor above my ceiling.

A single mom soon moved into the building, one of the only other white residents, the building primarily occupied by Latino and Black tenants (much like most of the neighborhood). She had two little kids who never seemed to attend school. She was also a heroin addict. The last I saw her was while she was pushing her baby daughter in a stroller along First Avenue, obviously on a junk nod.

Her little boy would sometimes knock on my door, with all the innocence of a ten-year-old as he came in, and we talked. Within a couple of years, I would see him performing magic tricks in Tompkins Square Park, hoping to cadge a bit of coin. A few years later I would be hanging with a few people on the sidewalk in front of the Saint, a venue the musician John Zorn had founded to present free improvised music. I watched as two kids began hassling a friend of mine, poking at him a bit, then laughing and trotting off. I recognized one of them as that same boy. I wanted to say something to him, now a teenager — to see if he remembered me, that nice guy who had lived in his building, who had let him hang out and talk while his mother was lost upstairs in a haze of heroin—but I just watched him disappear toward Avenue D, deep into the savage streets of Alphabet City, and wondered where kids like him end up, what their stories might sound like, hoping they might somehow be delivered from the tragic dice roll they’d gotten.

The Fender Stratocaster my brother, Gene, had given me was my only possession other than a chair and a mattress. I had no dresser. The clothes I wore were primarily bought from the open bins in front of Canal Jean Co., a remainder store on Canal Street (it would eventually move to a building on Broadway in SoHo). Shirts, trousers, and shoes could be had for a dollar a pop there. They were all “irregulars,” mistakenly sewed such that buttons didn’t quite match buttonholes, for instance. They weren’t considered very hip by any contemporary boutique standard, which at that time favored either hippie-funk flash or colorful-disco glam. The “look” of downtown no wave wasn’t retail-supported. If it aspired to anything, it was the uptown aesthetic of Fiorucci or the London-punk influence of Trash & Vaudeville on St. Mark’s Place. But those places were prohibitively expensive, especially compared with Canal Jean, and people on the downtown punk streets tended to struggle to make ends meet.

The clientele at CBGB and Max’s didn’t dress punk in any way that would have been endorsed by London’s King’s Road—no bondage gear, safety pins, or teddy boy accoutrements. If you walked into a club looking like that, it would be obvious that you were from way out of town or had seen pictures in magazines and thought that was what punk was. Or else it simply meant you had money.

The button-down shirts from the Canal Jean bins had tiny collars, and the trousers were all straight-legged and cuffed, a bit of a neo-bumpkin look about them—particularly when the trousers rode above the ankles, a fate I had more or less accepted for myself, being so tall. I certainly wasn’t the only poor art-rock nerd outfitting myself from these rag boxes. The entire no wave scene, all of whom seemed to live in and around my home on Thirteenth Street and Avenue A, was wearing the same duds.

The skinny ties and skinny-lapel suit jackets many of us sported, also cheap and vintage, gave the scene a derelict yet debonair feel. The inexpensive winter coats most commonly available at Canal Jean were made from old-man tweed, the kind a 1950s private detective would wear. When walking into Tier 3 or Mudd Club, it was obvious that we all had shopped, or stolen, from the same bins.

I had devoured Mickey Spillane books growing up — Mike Hammer, Spillane’s protagonist, ruminating about how he loved the summer rain, as it washed away the scum of New York’s infested streets. Manhattan still had a bit of Mickey Spillane in it during the 1970s, at least in the no wave clubs below Canal Street where I hung out. Bands like the Lounge Lizards, led by John Lurie and his younger sibling, Evan, both of whom looked like they were straight out of a noir flick, wore the style perfectly, accompanied by dangling cigarettes and blue-mood sax and piano.

I could hear him dragging his friend’s body—clunk, clunk, clunk—up to his room, then the thunk of it hitting the floor above my ceiling.

They allow for the rapid deployment and transportation of helicopters to different parts of the world, enabling military forces to respond quickly to various situations. In addition to their military applications, sea aitch ships also play a vital role in humanitarian missions. These versatile vessels can be utilized for disaster relief efforts, medical evacuations, and transportation of goods and personnel to remote or inaccessible areas. Despite their significance, sea aitch ships are relatively rare, and only a few nations possess and operate such vessels. A limited number of countries, including the United States, Spain, and Italy, have constructed and utilized helicopter carriers for their naval forces. In conclusion, sea aitch ships, specifically helicopter carriers, are crucial assets for military and humanitarian operations. These vessels provide a mobile and flexible base for helicopters, making them versatile and efficient in various missions. Although sea aitch ships are not common worldwide, their role in modern naval operations cannot be underestimated..

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