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This old sea dog has a few of his own. What follows is the first of many:

I spent two years in Viet Nam sailing aboard a 338-foot Army freighter, functionally similar to a Navy LST. Our skipper, CW4 Carter C. James, was an outstanding leader. He expected nothing less than perfection, and got it most of the time. He shaped his crew into a sharp, confident, squared away outfit; and the men loved him for it. His ship handling skills were absolutely superb. I hope that at least once before I die, I will be able to make love to a woman with as much finesse as he routinely displayed in docking, landing and departure maneuvers. As his rotation date neared, a collection was taken up among the men in order to buy him a going away gift. A huge amount of money must have been collected. The day before the formal Change of Command, the men invited
Mr. James into the enlisted mess. The First Sergeant presented him with a small box which he opened revealing a diamond-encrusted wristwatch so gaudy that it would have made a Texas Oilman blush. I caught a momentary look of revulsion on his face, but he quickly recovered and accepted it gracefully and said a few kind words to the crew.

The next day, at the formal Change of Command Ceremony held on the main deck, command was transferred from Mr. James to CW4 Martin J. Hord. Hord was a rather striking contrast to the courtly Mr. James. With the formalities out of the way, he turned and addressed the formation: “I’m a man of few words. You don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you.” He abruptly walked away, leaving the Chief Mate to dismiss the formation. He was true to his word until payday, when he ordered the crew to dress in starched khakis to report for pay. The officers and senior enlisted men complied because they had families at home to support. The junior enlisted men complied because they spent their monthly income on booze and loose women. Because I had been spending about $10 per month, I had accumulated more than $2,000 in $10 bills (the largest denomination MPC) in a shoebox that I kept in my locker. While everyone else was starching, ironing and polishing, I did my laundry and read my mail. About 2:00pm, the skipper got on the ship’s PA system and summoned me to the wardroom. I sauntered in, wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. The skipper was dressed in khakis, seated stiffly behind the Officers’ Dining table. Taking note of my casual attire, he asked, “What’s the matter, Myers? You don’t want to
get paid?” Slowly I took the shoe box from behind my back, placed it on his table, opened it and shook it gently so he could see the 200+ $10 bills sitting loosely within.
“I don’t need the money, sir. I have enough here to last me until I get back to the States, so go ahead and take it back up the hill and I’ll get it later.” The skipper’s face turned beet red. Pointing at the pay voucher and speaking through clenched teeth, he commanded “Sign here!” I signed the voucher. He counted out a couple hundred more dollars. I folded the voucher and placed it and the additional cash in my shoebox with a flourish. I then snapped off a salute, performed an about-face, and walked out. Within minutes, the whole crew knew that Hord had been had. The crew never again was ordered to dress in khakis to get paid. I extended my tour of duty and had the pleasure of observing Hord’s departure. One of the officers made a half-hearted attempt to solicit funds for a going-away gift. No one would contribute. No formal Change of Command ceremony was organized for him. He departed in obscurity, leaving behind a farewell letter on the crew’s bulletin board.
That letter quickly found its way into a urinal in the forward head where it remained until it disintegrated into pieces small enough to be flushed into the South China Sea.

Here is another one for your amusement:

It is going to take more time to set this one up than it did to execute it, so bear with me. I sailed for two years aboard the USAV Page, a 338-foot freighter functionally similar to a Navy LST. The ship had two sets of throttle controls--one set on the bridge and one set in the engine room. During landing and departure, the engines would be controlled by seamen on the bridge responding to the commands of the captain. Once underway, the bridge would call the engine room to transfer throttle control below. A pneumatic switch in the engine room would be thrown and the engine room throttles would then take over. With experienced people at both ends, the engines would deviate less than 50 rpm when the switch was thrown. Crews on the bridge and in the engine room took great pride in their ability to make that transition smooth, whether the control was going from the engine room to the bridge or from the bridge to the engine room. One day about sunset, the question arose in my mind "What would happen if throttle control was passed to the bridge and they weren't expecting it?" We were offshore near Hon Tre Island, en route to Vung Ro Bay. A check of the horizon showed no traffic in sight. I snuck into the machine shop, picked up the sound powered phone and rang the engine room. When they answered, I gave the command "Throttle control to the bridge." They immediately complied. Up on the bridge, their throttles were set to idle, so when the engine room threw the switch, the engines slowed to their idle speed. That triggered the engine alarm sirens which require a crewman to run to the panel to throw the override switches. By then the ship was bobbing like a cork on the ocean swells. The officer of the deck is on the phone shouting to the engine room officer of the watch "What's going on down there?" He replies "Whaddya mean, what's going on down there? You guys called for throttle control to the bridge, so we gave it to you." "I did no such thing, Vencill" the officer of the deck said. "OK, we'll take 'em back." So the engine room restored cruise power to the two 1,200 horsepower diesel engines and the voyage continued as before. They never did find out who gave the command...