Leaving home to join a ship was seldom a
simple matter. Some complication usually
arose, which meant that going back to work was often an adventure and sometimes
a misadventure. Factors such as flexible
schedules, weather delays, changing dock assignments, and personal emergencies
contributed to the confusion, but they were all part and parcel of the
transportation business and so were understandable. Sending a crewman to join a ship which by its
very nature was moving most of the time could be a hit-or-miss affair. But sending someone to join a vessel that was
parked in a drydock seemed like a comparatively simple job, since the ship was now
a stationary target.
On Saturday, May 24, 1980, I left New
York aboard a United Air Lines DC-10 bound for San Francisco. In my third assignment as third mate, I was
on my way to join the Mercury, then
in drydock in Alameda, California. I had
spent the previous day at company headquarters in Bayonne, New Jersey, where
the powers-that-be had prepared me for my flight west and my subsequent new position
aboard ship. For my part, I had complete
confidence that they had fully prepared me for everything and that it would all
proceed smoothly and with no problems.
How naïve I was! Sitting
comfortably on the airplane as I crossed the North American continent for the
first time, I remained blissfully ignorant of the disarray that awaited me on
the West Coast.
On landing in San Francisco, I was to
take a taxi to the Islander Motel in Alameda, across the bay from the
city. The crew was being billeted there
until the shipyard work was complete, and then everyone would move on
board. I was to be one of the last
crewmen to join the ship; most had already arrived. There would be a lot of work to do on a tight
schedule, but by the end of the coming week, the Mercury would sail. Being
young and ambitious, and after two months at home, I was ready to go!
After the aircraft landed I collected my luggage,
went out front, and found a taxi. As I put
my suitcase in the trunk, I told the driver that I was going to the Islander
Motel in Alameda. He gave me a confused
look, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Where dat, man?”
Startled by this inquiry, and thinking
that of the two of us he should know, I replied with, “You’re asking me?”
Leaving me to wonder what I had just
gotten into, the driver stepped into the dispatcher’s office. Through the window I could see the two men
studying a map. After several minutes he
returned to the taxi and said, “Ees okay.
I find eet.“ Away we went, then, over the Bay Bridge, across Oakland,
and then through a tunnel. Emerging into
the daylight again, the driver turned to me and announced, “Deesa
Alameda.” The Islander Motel stood a moderate
distance farther along.
In an attempt to situate myself, I asked
the driver about the locations of the motel, the shipyard, and the subway. I specifically asked him, “Can I get the BART
subway here in Alameda?” I preferred to
use that instead of paying for expensive taxi rides. The driver assured me, “Yay, ees right by dee
hotel.” And a moment later we arrived
there.
As I checked into the Islander Motel, I
explained to the desk clerk that I was to be a crewman on the Mercury and was joining a group of
shipmates who were already registered there.
The clerk stared at me uncomprehendingly and replied that there were no
crewmen from any ship staying at the Islander.
Seeing my bewilderment, he then inquired about the Mercury and my business with her.
In the course of this very confused conversation, it became clear that my
employer had sent me to the wrong place.
Feeling bad for me, the clerk placed a
call to the shipyard so I could try to get some information about the Mercury and her crew. The yard bird who answered the phone resented
my inquiries and threw a minor tantrum:
“There ain’t no Mercury here! She’s still the Illinois! You guys don’t
even own the thing yet and yer askin’ me all these questions!! How am I supposta know this stuff? I ain’t no infermation booth!! Why don’t you come over here and see fer yerself? There’s a couple a yer guys on the
thing. Maybe they kin tell ya what’s
goin’ on!”
I had already decided to do just
that. After all, I had gone out there to
work, not to just sit around and wait for something to happen. So I asked the desk clerk to point me the way
to the subway station that the taxi driver had said was near the motel. He looked at me in astonishment. “There is no BART station in Alameda,” he exclaimed. “You need to go into Oakland for that, and
it’s much too far to walk. I can’t imagine
why he said there’s a BART stop here.
That’s just crazy!” He called
another taxi for me instead, and off to the shipyard I went.
The Todd Shipyard was a modest affair
situated on the north side of Alameda Island and across the Oakland Inner
Harbor from Oakland itself. Aboard the Mercury I introduced myself to Captain
Edward Lanni. Completely surprised by my
unexpected arrival, he asked me many questions.
“How did you get here? What are
you doing here? And why are you here on
Memorial Day weekend? Did you just come
out from the base in Bayonne? You got
any luggage?” And so on. Another very confused conversation followed,
and it left my new boss feeling exasperated.
“You gotta be kidding me!” the Captain finally
exploded. “Those folks in Bayonne! They need to look out the window once in a
while!” Counting on his fingers as he
spoke, he continued, “First, they send you out here on a holiday weekend. They don’t want to pay overtime, so the crew
isn’t working until Tuesday. You could
have stayed home with your family longer!
Second, they send you to the wrong hotel. We’re all put up at the Jack London Inn.” Pointing across the water, he went on, “It’s
right over there in Jack London Square.
Nice place, good neighborhood, great restaurant, and a short walk to
downtown Oakland. You can get the train
there and go into San Francisco. Third,
they don’t tell you anything about the ship.
We don’t even own it yet, but we’re here anyway to get her into
shape. She still belongs to States
Lines, and she’s still officially the Illinois,
and they’ve got their own skipper and chief mate here to help us out. Fourth, there is no way this ship is going to
sail a week from now. It takes more time
than that to bring a ship this size out of layup and put her back in
service. And finally, I suppose they
didn’t give you any cash for your taxi rides or your dinner tonight. Am I right?
Yeah, I knew it!” He threw up his
hands and shook his head in disgust.
It was by now getting late in the
afternoon. With nothing for me to do
just yet aboard the Illinois-Mercury,
and with my belongings in a room at the Islander, we agreed that I would spend
the night there and join everyone else at the Jack London tomorrow. Captain Lanni would dispatch another young
mate with the company car on Sunday morning to help me change hotels. Come Tuesday, he would have the purser
reimburse me for my taxi rides and dinner tonight. Finally, he ordered me to have some fun:
“This is a great port. Go out! See the sights! Have a good time while you’re here! Just be ready to work on Tuesday morning.”
As promised, the second mate arrived at
the Islander Motel with the company car the next morning. He was Manny Subda, a graduate of Fort Schuyler
and a few years older than I was.
Delivering me to the Jack London Inn, he described the crew’s work
schedule and duties while the Illinois-Mercury
was undergoing her renovation. Everyone
lodged at the hotel because the ship was as yet uninhabitable. We would all move on board when the domestic
mechanical systems became fully functional and the company officially took
possession of the vessel. Then the Mercury would sail, probably in
mid-June. This was good to know, and I
started to feel better about everything.
Then, after settling in at the correct hotel, I followed Captain Lanni’s
orders to “go out” and “see the sights,” and San Francisco soon became one of
my favorite cities!
On Tuesday, May 27, I went to work. The company vehicle shuttled the crew between
the hotel and the ship, which over the holiday weekend had been refloated and
towed to the Military Ocean Terminal on the west side of Oakland. One of my first duties was meeting with
Charlie Malone, the purser. While
grumbling about the time and money that Bayonne had wasted in sending me to the
wrong place, he did all the paperwork necessary for me to recoup my
expenses. “One of us could have gotten
you at the airport with the rental car and brought you to the Jack London,” he
lamented. “No need to send you chasing all over California!”
As things turned out, I joined a good
ship and a good crew. I spent many hours
working with Manny Subda, the second mate, stockpiling and organizing nautical
charts, navigational publications, and related materials, and we became quite
friendly. I also assisted Paul Dino, the
chief mate, with several projects relating to cargo stowage and emergency
equipment. He, too, was a very good
shipmate, and also a mentor for many of the younger fellows. In my free time in the late afternoons and on
weekends, I explored San Francisco and its environs, using the BART system as
inexpensive and reliable transportation.
No more taxi rides for me!
In due time, through the good work of all
thirty-five crewmen, the Illinois-Mercury
became fully ready to go to sea again. Some
bureaucratic snags delayed the transfer of ownership, and we officially took
charge of the Mercury on Friday, the
13th of June. That same day
we all checked out of the Jack London Inn and took up residence aboard
ship. At 9:00am on Fathers’ Day, June
15, 1980, the Mercury departed from
Oakland and went to sea. It was my first
time sailing on the bright, blue, and beautiful Pacific.
While this assignment got off to a bad
start, it had a happy ending. More importantly,
this experience taught me valuable lessons.
Never again would I blindly believe everything the Bayonne folks told me
about a shipboard assignment. Never
again would I assume that a taxi driver knew where he was going and what he was
talking about. Never again would I fly
off to a place I had never been before without first studying it on maps and
memorizing its salient features. Never again
would I leave company headquarters without company cash in my pocket for the
inevitable unexpected expenses. Never
again would I enable such a fiasco to take place. Skepticism and improved self-preparation
would replace naive gullibility and misplaced trust.
Church leaders in recent years have
spoken extensively about life experience, self-reliance, and preparation,
applying these points to both spiritual and temporal matters. President Thomas S. Monson once asserted that
“Life is a school of experience,”
and that “Preparation for life’s opportunities and responsibilities has never
been more vital.”
Wise people prepare as much as possible for
everything, learn from both good and bad experiences, and avoid repeating
mistakes. By following these simple
principles, we find assurance that “The day will come when we will look upon
our period of preparation and be grateful that we properly applied ourselves.” My trek to join the Mercury taught me both the educational value of experience and the
practical value of preparation.
