Barracks Observation | Deck Seamanship Sailors: Tying Their Dreams to the Warship
Singing the Song of Youth on the Journey to Strengthen the Military (强军征程)
■ Luo Jiale
A nation's future lies in its youth; an army's future rests on the choices young people make and the responsibilities youth shoulders.
At the rally celebrating the 105th anniversary of the founding of the Communist Party of China, Chairman Xi emphasized that the Chinese youth of the new era must unwaveringly listen to the Party and follow the Party, establish lofty aspirations, courageously shoulder the responsibilities of the times, integrate personal pursuits into the cause of the Party and the nation, seize every moment and not squander their prime years, run well the historical relay race on the new journey, pave the road with youth, and let ideals shine! These earnest expectations are heartfelt and weighty; these sincere exhortations urge one to forge ahead.
The choices of youth have always been intimately bound up with the fate of the nation. "That was an era when people accomplished great things at a young age, and lost their lives at a young age." At Nanhu in Jiaxing, 13 Marxist believers with an average age of only 28 created an epoch-making event in Chinese history; on the Long March, countless young Red Army soldiers fought bloody battles and turned the tide of the Chinese revolution from peril to safety; since the founding of New China, generation after generation of outstanding young people have steadfastly followed the Party, allowing the Party's cause to continue unbroken and pass the torch from one generation to the next.
Waves surge, waves swell. In the long river of history, the waves of youth rush ever forward. "Today, the Chinese youth of the new era are living in the finest period of the Chinese nation's development. They face both a rare life opportunity to render meritorious service and establish achievements, and the era's mission of 'heaven is about to place a great burden upon this person.'"
"This prosperous age is as you wished." The People's Army is forever composed of youth as its main body and its vanguard. Standing on the embankment of the new era's long river, facing a brand-new age of soaring clouds and surging waves, can the young officers and soldiers of the new era shoulder their mission and responsibilities? History has already told the future; the waves that follow are now offering comfort to the waves that came before.
Take root downward, cultivate deeply at the grassroots to let youth bloom (向下扎根，深耕基层绽芳华). "Seedlings that are hardened in the ground can sink their roots deeper and stand more firmly, resisting lodging in wind and rain." Young men with long whips and great ambitions; military uniforms that do not fail the homeland. Midsummer arrives, graduation comes. In recent days, countless military academy graduates have made their choices about where to go: to the frontiers, to the grassroots, to wherever the motherland needs them most. Practice has proven that when young officers and soldiers merge the small self into the greater self, and merge their combat posts into the goal of strengthening the military, the flower of youth will inevitably bloom in full splendor.
Charge at difficulties, stand at the forefront and scale the heights (向难攻坚，勇立潮头攀高峰). In his time, Li Dazhao expressed this hope for youth: "In the dictionary of youth, there is no word 'difficulty'; on the lips of youth, there is no phrase 'obstacle.'" A soldier's shoulders carry a burden of enormous weight. To fight and win the battle to achieve the centenary goal of the People's Liberation Army, young officers and soldiers must be willing to carry the heaviest loads, gnaw on the hardest bones, and take the hottest potatoes, injecting into the cause of military strengthening a ceaseless supply of youthful energy through the spirit of overcoming difficulties.
Press forward with steadfast resolve, pass the torch and create the future (向远笃行，薪火传承创未来). Across ten thousand rivers and mountains, never forget the road you came from; though a tree grows a thousand feet tall, its roots lie deep in fertile soil. With faith in one's heart, there is strength beneath one's feet. "The aspirations of youth are fulfilled through steadfast practice (青衿之志，履践致远)." When every young officer and soldier illuminates youthful dreams with scientific theory, fuses red genes into the bloodstream of youth, lets the banner of faith fly high, relies on solid capabilities to shoulder the mission, uses the engine of innovation to soar, and charges toward the future with a spirit of hard struggle, they will surely write a blazing chapter of youth on the new journey.
It is believed that every young officer and soldier will firmly remember their original aspiration and mission, courageously shoulder the responsibilities of the times, write an extraordinary youth on an ordinary combat post, and sing the song of youth on the journey to strengthen the military: "Listen — the bugle of the new journey sounds, the goal of a strong military beckons ahead, the nation must be strong and we must bear the responsibility, the battle flag is inscribed with the glory of iron and blood… Unafraid of powerful enemies, daring to contend, to win decisive victory for the motherland on the battlefield…" This is the heartfelt declaration of young officers and soldiers to the Party and the people, and also a powerful answer to the "question of victory in war (胜战之问)."
Deck Seamanship Sailors: Tying Their Dreams to the Warship
■ Rong Junyun
PLA Daily Correspondents Xu Yiyang, Hu Danqing, Qi Yunting
[Photo caption: A certain naval center conducts underway replenishment training. Photo by Ma Ying.]
[Photo caption: Li Han, a corporal at a certain naval center, heaving a heaving line. Photo by Wu Kunlong.]
The night is ink-black. Between wave crests and troughs, two vessels of a certain naval center sail abreast, preparing to conduct underway lateral replenishment training. On the bridge, navigation lights trace a streak of light across the pitch-dark sea.
"Heave the line!" At the commander's order, on the bow of one vessel, a soldier swings a heaving line with a monkey's fist attached, whirling it into a circle two meters in diameter above his head. Seizing the moment when the two ships are relatively stable, he releases it sharply. The line head lands precisely on the forward deck of the other vessel twenty meters away.
In the Navy, this action is called "heaving the line" (撇缆), and the person who performs this series of actions is a deck seamanship sailor (帆缆兵).
In daily life, few people pay attention to this group. They stand at the bow, upright on the deck, closest to the wind and waves. What they operate is not missiles, not torpedoes, but lengths of rope that appear ordinary.
The mooring line is the "rein" by which a warship leaves and approaches the pier, the "link" during at-sea replenishment, and the last resort in moments of crisis.
Tie your dreams to the warship, and even an ordinary youth will shine through shouldering responsibility with pride. Our reporters approached this group of deck seamanship sailors to record the time they spend alongside their lines, and to record the stories of struggle that have been tempered by those lines.
To master the wind and waves, you must first tame this line
When interviewing deck seamanship sailors, their memories of seeing a mooring line for the first time are all the same: a brown-yellow line coiled on the deck, like a sleeping giant python curled up there.
"From now on you'll deal with it every day. To master the wind and waves, you must first tame this line." Deck seamanship sailor Zhang Peng still remembers: in the early summer of 2021, after completing recruit training he was assigned to serve aboard a certain vessel — that was his first encounter with a mooring line. Not paying close enough attention, he was tripped up by it and nearly stumbled. The squad leader bent down, straightened the line, and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder.
All naval officers and soldiers know that being a deck seamanship sailor is no easy matter. Deck seamanship work requires both the physical strength to swing a heaving line and the delicate skill (绣花功夫) to coil a line neatly.
New recruits first encounter the heaving line. After countless training repetitions on land they can heave the line far and accurately, but once aboard a vessel, the rolling hull and the rising bow cause the heaved line to veer off course.
Zhang Peng recalls his first at-sea heaving experience. That year, after completing a certain at-sea mission, the vessel came in to shore for replenishment. He stood at the bow, facing the approaching pier, his heart both excited and apprehensive. When he imitated the veterans and swung the line overhead and flung it hard, the line traced an imperfect arc through the air and plunged straight into the sea. In that moment, Zhang Peng's face burned red with embarrassment.
"Let me do it!" Staff Sergeant First Class Li Lifeng, standing nearby, swung the line, gave it two easy rotations, and tossed it — the line head landed precisely on the pier.
That evening, Zhang Peng came alone to the stern deck to practice extra. A light drizzle that had begun at dusk soaked his dark-blue combat uniform; the sea breeze carried a thread of chill. The sound of the line cutting through the air as it swung rang out with particular clarity in the quiet night.
"Twist your waist and push your hips, find the right moment to release, use smart force to heave it far and true." At some point, Li Lifeng had appeared behind Zhang Peng.
That night, Zhang Peng understood one truth: more tempering is what it takes to walk the military path well.
Nearly all deck seamanship sailors have had similar experiences — palms rubbed raw by the line, knuckle joints worn into blisters by rope knots, pain even when lifting a bowl to eat.
Someone asked Zhang Peng why he pushed himself so hard. His answer was direct: "Being the first one called to heave the line — that is my comrades' trust in me. I must give my utmost effort to make sure every heave is accurate and steady."
Facing setback and failure again and again, and rising again each time, through years of grueling daily training, Zhang Peng grew into an outstanding deck seamanship sailor.
Once you've locked horns with training, you cannot let go
If leaving and approaching the pier is the deck seamanship sailor's basic skill, then the at-sea two-vessel towing exercise demonstrates hard capability.
That year, a certain naval center launched a realistic combat-scenario training exercise in a certain sea area. Suddenly, lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and a torrential downpour fell. A certain vessel entered the designated sea area and, as planned, conducted towing training with the tug Beituo 736.
Deck seamanship sailor Wu Chang stood at the bow. Rainwater flowed from the brim of his cap into his eyes; he dared not blink, fixing his gaze on the position of Beituo 736. The helmsman held the course and speed steady; Wu Chang had to make a comprehensive judgment of the impact the heavy rain was having on the heaving operation and rapidly adjust the firing angle of the line-throwing gun.
"Fire the messenger line!" At the commander's order, Wu Chang pressed the firing button. The messenger line, trailing the mooring line, pierced through the curtain of rain and landed precisely on the receiving platform of the opposite vessel.
Splicing the steel cable is grueling work — no machinery, all manpower. The six-strand steel cable is stiff, covered in grease, slippery and tough; splicing it together must be airtight, achievable only through the hard skill built from hundreds and thousands of repetitions of bitter practice. To develop precision, the skin on his hands was worn away layer after layer; he put on gloves and kept practicing.
"Once you've locked horns with training, you cannot let go," Wu Chang said.
What truly completes the deck seamanship sailor's transformation is those sudden moments of crisis. One autumn, a typhoon struck. To avoid the brunt of the wind, the vessel needed to reach the anchorage ahead of time to drop anchor and ride out the storm.
"Report to the commander: the brake pad on the starboard anchor windlass is broken and needs to be replaced." If this kind of malfunction occurs during gravity anchoring while a vessel is underway at sea, it will cause the braking system to fail. The anchor — a three-ton "behemoth" — could break free of the windlass and sink to the seabed. Once the anchor cannot be fixed, the vessel will drift out of control.
There was little time left before the vessel was to depart port. In flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder, Li Lifeng led several deck seamanship sailors straight to the anchor windlass.
The hull lurched violently in the wind and rain. Li Lifeng went down on one knee and, with the help of his comrades, using the faint light of a flashlight, braced hard against the 40-kilogram brake pad. It took more than half an hour to remove over 60 fixing nuts.
By then, his combat uniform had long been soaked through with rain and seawater. With everyone working together, Li Lifeng completed the replacement of the anchor windlass brake pad. To ensure the brake pad would not fail in use, Li Lifeng dropped anchor on the spot to test it. After the test succeeded, he reported to the commander at the first opportunity, and the vessel immediately proceeded to the designated anchorage to drop anchor.
"A sailor must grow in wind and rain." That night, Li Lifeng understood: the line in a deck seamanship sailor's hands is tied not only to the vessel itself, but also to the lives and safety of every comrade aboard.
Doing the "fine work within rough work" requires a tenacious spirit
The deck seamanship specialty appears to have "no technical content," yet it is a discipline of "fine work within rough work" (粗活里的细活).
Today, Li Lifeng — who has grown into a specialist — has worked with deck seamanship for 20 years. He has distilled his experience into a training method of "looking from the small details, starting from the practical." Most of the soldiers aboard have been trained by him into specialist hands.
When asked what his secret is, he spreads open his callus-covered hands: doing the "fine work within rough work" requires a tenacious spirit.
Last year, several new recruits reported for duty. At the first heaving-line training session, recruit Zhou Jiaping, due to improper technique, got himself thoroughly wrapped up in the line he had just heaved and sat down hard on the ground.
Li Lifeng walked over, said nothing, squatted down, and helped him re-coil the line.
"Squad leader, am I too stupid?" Zhou Jiaping asked, red-faced.
Li Lifeng shook his head and said: "The first time I heaved a line, the line wrapped around my neck several times. Which one of us deck seamanship sailors hasn't been hog-tied by a line at some point?"
That evening, Li Lifeng took the new recruits to the deck for extra practice. The sea breeze blew gently, the vessel rocked softly, and the sounds of lines cutting through the air rose and fell one after another. He suddenly thought of that night years ago when he had practiced alone in silence.
After training ended, Li Lifeng wrote in his diary: "This line is like a bond, tying us deck seamanship sailors tightly together with the sea, the warship, and those days of battling wind and waves."
In truth, what this bond holds is far more than just one man.
In the order of battle of the People's Navy, the deck seamanship sailor is a specialty post that is often overlooked. When equipment trials succeed, they are not mentioned; when aircraft take off and land safely, they are not mentioned; when a mission is completed and the ship returns in triumph, they are not mentioned either.
But when every warship leaves or approaches the pier, they are the ones standing at the very front; when every at-sea replenishment operation begins, they are the ones standing in the most dangerous positions; when every storm strikes, they are still the ones charging to the front.
The lines in their hands — one end tied to the warship, the other tied to the home port; one end tied to the officers and soldiers, the other tied to safety.
Not long ago, the vessel organized a night departure and approach training exercise. Zhou Jiaping stood at the bow once again. The night was deep, sea conditions complex. He drew a deep breath and swung the line into a circle.
That heave cut through the darkness and landed precisely on the designated position.
The warship pressed forward through the waves. And that line, crossing wind and waves, will continue to be heaved this way by generation after generation of deck seamanship sailors — precise and powerful. The deck seamanship sailors of the new era stand at the crest of the tide in the currents of the times, writing with their youthful selves and their striving selves a chapter of the era that does not fail the times and does not squander their prime years.
The Warship's Other Pair of Eyes
■ PLA Daily Correspondent Hu Danqing
Five-thirty in the morning. Fog rises from the sea. On the forward deck of a certain naval vessel, Staff Sergeant First Class Li Lifeng stands quietly, his gaze directed into the depths of the fog.
At first it was only a thin mist. Before long, only the blurred outline of the bow anchor windlass could be seen.
"Much thinner than that fog seven years ago," Li Lifeng said to the reporter accompanying him.
That year, the vessel was returning from a training mission. Midway through the voyage, thick fog rose from the sea. Visibility dropped from 100 meters to 10 meters; the forward deck became a blur.
"Radar approach to berth." The vessel's commander, Liu Yunhua, assessed the situation comprehensively and issued the order.
At that moment, although the radar waves could pick up the reflective surface of the pier, they could not precisely feed back the distance between the vessel and the pier. The vessel's approach to berth depended entirely on the eyes of the deck seamanship sailors on the forward deck.
Liu Yunhua gripped the intercom and looked toward the bow — in truth he could see nothing; he was only listening.
The vessel moved slowly forward on its momentum. The engines had been shut down; the entire ship was silent except for the sound of waves slapping the hull. No one knew how much time had passed when Li Lifeng, standing at the bow, made out a dark shape through the thick fog. It was the pier. Relying on his pair of "eagle eyes" (火眼金睛), he rapidly assessed the distance.
"Distance 10 meters, 9 meters, 8 meters… Heave the line!" Li Lifeng's voice came over the intercom. A yellow-green fluorescent glow flickered and flew precisely toward the pier. That was the monkey's fist — the head of the heaving line. Immediately after, the sailors ashore hauled the thick mooring line over inch by inch.
The warship came alongside steadily. Liu Yunhua recalled that those were the longest two minutes of his military career. He stood at the ship's side, unable to do anything, only listening. Listening to the voice of a deck seamanship sailor to judge how far the warship was from the pier. "Deck seamanship sailors don't simply heave and retrieve lines — they must also report the vessel's position at any time. They are the warship's other pair of eyes," Liu Yunhua said.
Liu Yunhua shared another experience with the reporter — one night last August, the moon was bright and the stars sparse. The vessel was anchored in a certain sea area, and the officers and soldiers were sleeping soundly with the waves as their pillow.
"Drift net spotted on the sea surface." At midnight, the watch officer's report suddenly came over the intercom. Liu Yunhua led several deck seamanship sailors rushing to the forward deck.
"The tide rises at night, and the drift net moves with the current. If it gets tangled in the propeller, we'll have a serious problem," Li Lifeng said anxiously.
On the sea surface, a large mass of faintly glowing floating material was slowly drifting toward the warship with the tide. By visual estimate, it covered an area the size of two basketball courts.
For the next hour or more, the officers and soldiers used poles and hooks to slowly push that enormous drift net away from the vessel. By the time the last piece of netting drifted past the stern, the sky was beginning to lighten, and the vessel received orders to get underway.
One story after another. In the course of the conversation, Liu Yunhua had already led the reporter to the observation platform atop the bridge. On the scene, several deck seamanship sailors could be seen on the forward deck, bent over coiling lines. Lines thicker than a fist were being coiled by them into neat, even circles.
Deck seamanship sailor Zhang Peng stood to one side, binoculars in hand, looking in the direction the warship was heading.
"What are you looking at?" the reporter asked.
"Everything," he said. "Fishing boats, buoys, unidentified floating objects… The captain said we are the warship's other pair of eyes." He lowered the binoculars and smiled at the reporter. The sunlight fell on his dark face; his eyes were clear and bright.
In the distance, the deep-blue sea stretched to the horizon without end.
They Are Outside the Camera Frame
■ PLA Daily Correspondent Xu Yiyang
The vessel got underway, and a mooring line caught the reporter's eye. Above the rising bow, several soldiers in combat uniforms retrieved the line, coiled it, and secured it — the whole sequence of movements fluid and practiced.
The soldiers smiled and greeted me; their palms were rough as sandpaper. Deputy Political Commissar Tong of a certain vessel said to me: "They are deck seamanship sailors."
Aboard the ship, they stand at the very forefront of the deck. Before a vessel leaves or approaches berth, you generally see the line fly out before you see the men; during underway lateral replenishment training, you see the taut line between the two vessels before you see them leaning over the side adjusting it.
They are not the stars of this vessel, but every departure and every homecoming cannot do without them.
Recruit Zhou Jiaping has been aboard for less than a year, yet his fingers are already calloused — worn there by day after day of heaving lines.
Splicing steel cable: the deck seamanship sailor must straighten and braid the steel wire tightly; one moment of inattention and the sharp wire will cut the hand. Heaving the line: swinging, flinging, and releasing over and over, practicing until the arm swells and the palm is rubbed raw, before that line can trace a perfect arc through the air. Flat knot, clove hitch, Luban knot (鲁班结)… every knot must be practiced until it can be tied with eyes closed.
As Deputy Political Commissar Tong said this, a deck seamanship sailor was squatting on the deck splicing a broken steel cable. His hands were very steady; the marlinspike threaded between the steel wires like a tailor sewing a garment.
I asked that deck seamanship sailor: "What is the hardest part of deck seamanship work?" He thought for a moment and answered: "When coming alongside at sea, the swells pull the two vessels apart and the line goes taut like a drawn bow. At that moment, you absolutely cannot let go."
Aboard the vessel, I watched deck seamanship sailors do routine maintenance work. They carefully inspected every line for broken strands, checked every spot of rust, and inventoried every piece of life-saving equipment.
"The deck seamanship sailor, who seems unremarkable in ordinary times, holds an indispensable post for the safe navigation of the warship," Deputy Political Commissar Tong said.
Later, when I looked it up, I learned that deck seamanship sailors have existed since the age of sail. Back then they climbed masts and handled sail lines — the sharpest soldiers on the ship. Today's vessels no longer use sails, but the specialty has been retained — heaving lines, anchoring, small-boat operations, hull maintenance… all of it is their business.
On the afternoon of the day I left the vessel, the sun was setting in the west. The warship lay quietly in the naval port; a mooring line hung down from the bow, casting a long shadow on the water.
Two young deck seamanship sailors were practicing heaving the line, their movements still a little unpolished. The setting sun lit up the sweat stains on their combat uniforms.
What the line holds is not just one vessel — it is the confidence to sail far and the steadiness of the return. The deck seamanship sailors standing on the forward deck are always outside the camera frame, but every safe homecoming is their moment in the spotlight. With solid skills and forceful action, they vividly embody the mission and sense of responsibility of the young officers and soldiers of the new era.