After my stint with Dave, his girlfriend managed to hook me up with a job working for a subcontractor in the San Diego shipyards. It was gritty work—removing asbestos from Naval vessels. They paid a whopping $5 an hour, and before we were let loose on the ships, we sat through a brief but terrifying class about how asbestos exposure was going to kill us all. Armed with that grim knowledge, a positive air mask, and a hook knife, I was sent to work on the USS Halsey, docked under the stunning San Diego-Coronado Bridge. The setting was beautiful; the job, not so much.
The Halsey was still operational, which meant the asbestos we were removing—used as insulation on the ship’s endless maze of pipes—was baking in the heat of the still-functioning boilers. There were 210 of us hired for the task, a rotating army of expendable labor. The process was tedious and miserable: we’d seal off entire boiler rooms with layers of plastic sheeting, duct-taping everything airtight. Positive airflow systems and air monitors were everywhere, and exit chambers were set up to prevent contamination from leaving the workspace. We looked like a sci-fi movie crew battling a deadly virus, clad in white coveralls, duct-taped gloves and boots, and full-face masks.
The real fun began when we started slicing through the asbestos insulation with our hook knives. A single swipe along a pipe would rip through layers of fiberglass cloth, 40 years of baked-on paint, and the dreaded calcium asbestos fibers. The raw pipes underneath radiated enough heat to burn through your suit if you leaned on them for too long. Every layer we removed made the room hotter and more unbearable, but we soldiered on, bagging the toxic waste in thick red Hazmat bags emblazoned with skull-and-crossbones warnings. By the end of each shift, we’d have hundreds of bags ready to be dumped into dumpsters off the side of the ship.
The days were long—10 to 12 hours of backbreaking work—and the turnover rate was ridiculous. Guys would come in one day and disappear the next, unable to handle the heat, the monotony, or the danger. After a few months, I noticed the faces around me were changing faster than ever. The initial crew of 210 dwindled down to just me. Somehow, I was still there. Maybe it was stubbornness, or maybe I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.
One day, as I stood there drenched in sweat, a group of workers from Continental Maritime strolled down the pier. They had this air of arrogance about them, swinging their canvas tool bags over their shoulders and wearing green hard hats like badges of honor. These were “laggers”—skilled insulation workers who installed the very materials we were ripping out. They approached me, asked if I was in charge, and after a brief conversation, they offered me a job.
The pay was nearly double, and the work? It sounded better than removing asbestos in hellish boiler rooms. Without hesitation, I accepted.
My first task as a lagger was learning how to “rag.” A lead man handed me a roll of fabric, a bucket of some sticky goop they called “airball,” and pointed me toward a freshly insulated section of piping. He didn’t offer much in the way of instruction, so I figured it out as I went. I cut the fabric to size, dipped it in the airball until it was thoroughly soaked, and carefully wrapped it around the pipe. I made sure there were no visible seams, taking my time to make it look perfect. By the end of the job, the lead man was impressed. My attention to detail—though slower than he’d like—made my work stand out. From then on, “ragging” became my specialty.
As I gained confidence, I moved on to more complex tasks: cutting and installing fiberglass pipe insulation, making precise miter cuts, and wrapping pipes so seamlessly that they looked like one continuous piece. I took pride in my work, treating each pipe like a piece of art.
The team noticed my dedication, and before long, I was given more responsibilities. I learned how to measure, cut, and install calcium silicate insulation—a golden standard in the industry. It was a meticulous process: applying a layer of adhesive goop to the pipes, fitting the calcium silicate perfectly, securing it with wire wraps, and then finishing it off with fiberglass mud to create a flawless surface. I’d rag my own work afterward, ensuring every seam was hidden, every corner smooth.
I’d gone from a guy scraping asbestos in a sweaty boiler room to a journeyman earning journeyman wages. My tools became my identity. I invested in a high-quality canvas tool bag, a top-of-the-line saw, industrial-strength scissors, specialized knives, and custom staplers for making thermal blankets. I became part of a core group known as the “Six Amigos.” We were the backbone of the team, the ones who stayed when others rotated in and out. Together, we tackled massive projects, from custom thermal blankets for valves to intricate insulation systems for entire boiler rooms.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I was a guy with a bad conduct discharge from the Navy, someone who’d spent time in the brig, and yet here I was—back on Navy ships, working alongside sailors, making good money. Every morning at 8:00 a.m., when the national anthem played, I’d stop what I was doing, face the flag, and cover my heart like any good sailor. It was surreal.
I spent my lunch breaks sitting on the edge of the pier, looking out at the ships and wondering where my life was headed. I was 20 years old, technically an ex-con, and yet I’d found a trade I was good at. For the first time in years, I felt like I was part of something, like I had a purpose.
The job gave me stability, but it also left me with questions. Was this my future? Could I build a life out of this work? Or was this just another pit stop on a road I couldn’t see the end of?
For now, I focused on the present. The work was tough, but it was rewarding. It felt good to take something broken and rebuild it, to turn chaos into order. Maybe that’s what I needed most—a way to piece myself back together, one pipe at a time.
