The Four College Degrees

When I joined the freighter Comet in October of 1983 in Bayonne, New Jersey, Mr. Z was already embarked as the chief mate.  About the same age as my parents, he was a graduate of the United States Merchant Marine Academy and held an unlimited license as Master.  After one voyage to Europe and back, he left the ship, went on vacation for a month, and then returned aboard.  Prior to his vacation, he was an unfailingly pleasant and helpful shipmate.  After his vacation, however, this started to change.

At first it was just little things.  A snide comment here, an undeserved criticism there, then starting arguments, and finally an attitude of resentment and superiority.  Mr. Z had difficulties with numerous crewmen, including several of his fellow officers.  Almost all of these problems were trivial in nature and hardly worth the effort of getting upset.  For the most part, I continued to get along well with him, but I became increasingly puzzled by his behavior toward and his remarks about others.  Central to his new attitude was his level of education, which he began to advertise more than was either necessary or appropriate.

Mr. Z claimed to have four college degrees.  The first of these was his bachelor’s degree from the Merchant Marine Academy.  A second reportedly came from Columbia University.  The sources of his third and fourth degrees he did not identify.  He also never mentioned if he had studied the humanities or the sciences, or if he held graduate or undergraduate degrees, or for that matter, if these were actual degrees or just certificates for having taken a few random courses here and there.  For all that he repeated about having four college degrees, he never really said anything specific.

Mr. Z often raised the topic of his four college degrees during or after a dispute with someone else.  For example, after a minor disagreement with Captain Iaccabacci, Mr. Z stuck his nose up in the air and asserted, “Well, I’m still smarter than he is!  I have more education than he does!”

After a second such episode with Captain Icky, Mr. Z similarly stated, “Well, he may be the Captain, but he never went to college!  I have four college degrees.  I’m better educated than he is!”

College educated or not, Captain Icky was one of the most cheerful and affable shipmasters in the fleet.  He never had an unkind word for anyone, even when it was deserved.  Just why Mr. Z was having disputes with him seemed very strange indeed.  But it was not just Captain Icky.

One day an ordinary seaman ran afoul of Mr. Z.  Evidently tired of experiencing the superiority complex and hearing about the four college degrees, he spoke his mind on the matter.  “Dat don’t be raahht, mate.  Ah know yo’ went tah college an’ awll dat, but we be equal, man.  Di’ here be Amer-hicca, mate, and we awll be equal!”

Mr. Z disagreed strongly and replied, “Look, we may have been equal when we were born, but not anymore.  I have four college degrees, and you don’t.  I have a Master’s license, and you don’t.  I’m smarter and better educated than you are.  So we’re not equal at all.  I’m vastly superior to you!” 

Even without disputes with his shipmates, Mr. Z frequently raised the subject of his four college degrees with no obvious prompting.  A typical soliloquy would include, “I have four college degrees.  I’m the smartest and best educated person on the ship.  I went to Columbia University.  I have an Ivy League education.  I should get more respect than I do.  What do these guys think I am?  I have four college degrees!”   It was comical for a while, but then it grew tiresome.  Perhaps the prophet Jeremiah said it best: “How long shall thy vain thoughts lodge within thee?” (Jer. 4:14).

One day, I had heard enough about Columbia University.  Desiring to take the wind out of his sails, I mentioned to Mr. Z that my mother had also attended Columbia University, and that she had a Master of Arts degree from Columbia.  He paused momentarily, and then asked me what kind of work she did.  I replied that she had taught in the public schools in East Meadow, Long Island, for forty years.

Recovering his stride at this information, Mr. Z launched into another soliloquy.  “Well, if all she did was teach, then she probably went to Teachers College, which is not really a part of Columbia University, but a separate school that just wants to be with Columbia in order to get in on the name....”  Perhaps it was naive of me, but I had expected a more professional and less denigrating response than this.  Clearly, Mr. Z thought otherwise, though, and on he rambled.  I walked away, regretting having said anything to him on the matter.

Mr. Z got his comeuppance one day in Oakland soon after the Comet had returned from the Far East.  The newest ship in our fleet, the Stalwart, was tied up across the pier from us.  At lunch time, Mr. Z went ashore and started over to this vessel to take a look around.  Standing on the bridge deck and watching him come across the pier were the Stalwart’s Master, chief mate, and maybe one other person.  Of course, Mr. Z had no authority over them, and they knew it.  As he approached the Stalwart, one of these fellows shouted, “Look!!  There’s [Mr. Z]!!  The man with more degrees than the thermometer!!”

Mr. Z stopped short, looked up at the source of this announcement, and turned red in the face.  Then he angrily shook his fists in the air, grunted loudly, and turned away and stomped back to the Comet.  Everyone who witnessed this performance burst out laughing.  After this we heard no more about the four college degrees.  It was a fine illustration of the scriptural assertion, “He that exalteth himself shall be abased” (D&C 101:42).

Following her return from the Orient, the Comet discharged her cargo and then spent four mostly idle weeks at the pier prior to being taken out of service.  I was frequently on night watches with little actual work to do, so I used this down time to study stability in preparation for the chief mate’s license exams.  I had purchased a stability textbook at a nautical supply shop in San Francisco.  With this book and several papers full of drawings and diagrams spread out on the chart table, I set to studying.

Mr. Z worked in the daytime hours and almost never went ashore, so he had little to do and often appeared bored in the evenings.  When he found me studying stability while I was on watch, I asked him if he would like to help me, as he obviously valued education, and I felt somewhat deficient in the subject.  This he seemed happy to do, and the arrangement worked out well.  Mr. Z was a very good tutor.  He had a tremendous talent for explaining complex material, and he did me a great service which I appreciated very much.  But once again, things changed.

On Saturday, May 18, 1984, the Comet participated in the Maritime Day festivities which were held in Jack London Square in Oakland.  The ship was open for public tours, and we hosted many visitors.  On the previous day, the ship had shifted berths from the Military Ocean Terminal to Jack London Square, and on the Monday following the event, she shifted berths again and returned to the Military Ocean Terminal.  This entire operation proceeded quite smoothly, but something about it sent Mr. Z over the edge.  Angry about everything and at everyone, and with absolutely no provocation from anyone, he lashed out at me just after the Comet docked again on Monday morning.  Now, I’ve been called many things in my time, but Mr. Z’s outburst was the most grossly obscene appellation I’ve ever endured.  Several of the deckhands witnessed this, and they stared at him in complete astonishment, as did I.  Then Mr. Z stomped away in a huff.  As I watched him go I recalled him saying many times previously, “I don’t like to use that kind of language.”

That was a small point, though.  More memorable were his final remarks to me later in the day.

I was discharged from the Comet that Monday evening, May 21, along with three other men.  We were all due to leave from the San Francisco airport that evening.  Captain Icky, ever the soul of kindness, volunteered to drive us to the airport so we would not need to pay for an expensive taxi ride.  Before leaving the ship, I said good-bye to my colleagues.  Wanting to depart on good terms with no lingering ill will, I made it a point to bid farewell to Mr. Z and thank him for his assistance with my study of stability.  This interview did not go well.

Finding Mr. Z in his quarters, I offered my valedictions and my gratitude, and we shook hands. Then he turned on me.  “I’m going to give you some advice,” he began.  “You’re never going to be more than a third mate.”

Startled by this pessimistic prediction, I reminded him, “I’ve sailed as second mate.”

“Well, then,” he retorted defensively, “you’ll never be more than a second mate!”  He then fired a long and bitter stream of invective at me.  This tirade did not contain a shred of advice or even harsh but constructive criticism; it was nothing but blatantly insulting vituperation, the purpose of which completely eluded me.  Finally, with tremendous volume and great agitation, he concluded with, “You’re nothing but a night watchman!!  That’s all you are—a night watchman!!”

Well, I had not come to listen to this, and I did not want to argue with him.  That would be pointless.  Besides, Captain Icky and the others were waiting.  So I simply said good-bye and wished him well and walked away.  The subsequent ride to the airport passed uneventfully.

I had a long wait at the airport as my plane wasn’t scheduled to depart until shortly after midnight.  During this interval, I considered Mr. Z’s remarks and thought everything over carefully.

Never more than a third mate?  I had spent ten months on the Waccamaw as second mate and one month on the Comet as second mate when the original second mate went home for a family emergency.  Furthermore, when this second mate had joined the ship—his first assignment as such—he turned to me for help with the voyage planning and great circle sailing calculations.  And now, with more than enough sea time, I was poised to take the exams for the chief mate’s license.

Nothing but a night watchman?  I had spent many nights at sea working on star sights, coastal navigation, weather observations, shiphandling, and more, and also many nights in port docking, undocking, working cargo, and assisting Mr. Z with emergency equipment.  My most intense nighttime experience was threading the Comet’s way through the enormous fishing fleets off the coasts of Japan and Korea.  I had learned the techniques of this difficult business previously by watching Captain Viera maneuver the Rigel through the fishing fleets off the coast of Spain.  I sweated through those busy and stressful nights while Mr. Z slept in his quarters.  Not bad for a night watchman, I thought.

Joseph Conrad expressed it very succinctly in describing the career of a young mate:  “he had to bear the criticism of men [and] the exactions of the sea.”[1]  The sea, which strictly obeys the laws of Nature, is a stern but inherently fair taskmaster.  Men, however, subject to the laws of abnormal psychology, are as often as not merely capricious.

One thing that impressed me was the irony of it all.  When I had left the Waccamaw the previous year, Captain Rigobello had bestowed upon me more praise than I thought I deserved.  Now, on leaving the Comet, Mr. Z bestowed upon me more condemnation than I thought I deserved.  I had gone from one extreme to the other!

Back home on the East Coast, I studied diligently for the license exams.  It was hard work, but I passed them and emerged with an unlimited license as chief mate, plus a limited-tonnage endorsement as Master.  Then I sailed as second mate on the Bartlett and afterwards as chief mate on the Kane.  So much for never being more than a third mate.

A dozen years later, I was working as a college librarian and simultaneously studying toward a college degree.  My colleagues—librarians, professors, and administrators—all held multiple degrees.  Many had three; several had four or five; one man had six, of which two were doctorates.  None of them ever advertised the number of degrees they held.  I learned of their credentials only from reading the college catalog.  As part of my academic program, I went to Columbia University one day in April of 1995 to do some research in the famous Butler Library.  There I beheld the names of the ancient luminaries inscribed in stone over the main entrance: Homer, Herodotus, Sophocles, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, Cicero, and Vergil.  I was studying these and other authors, and I thought of Mr. Z.  Somehow he just did not fit in with these great minds of ancient Greece and Rome.  But other men I had sailed with, such as Captain Rigobello, for example, most certainly did.  I could easily see him not only as a student but also as a very distinguished professor at Columbia.

I also learned that Columbia, like other large universities, is subdivided into several academic units such as Columbia College, Barnard College, Teachers College, the Columbia Law School, the Columbia Business School, and so on.  Teachers College is thus very much an integral part of Columbia.  My mother’s master’s degree, which now hangs in my home library, unmistakably reads, “The Trustees of Columbia University in the City of New York. . . ”  and is signed by both the President of Columbia and the Dean of Teachers College.  So much, then, for Mr. Z’s allegations about Teachers College.

Whether or not his claim of having four college degrees was true, Mr. Z was intelligent and possessed valuable skills and talents.  For all his education and travels, though, he displayed no interest in culture and demonstrated no knowledge of any language besides English, both standard indicators of intelligence and higher education.  When not advertising his four college degrees and promoting himself by sullying others, he talked only about his work and making money.  One would have expected better of such a supposedly well-educated man, for “unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more” (Luke 12:48).  And since “the test of a man is his conversation” (Si. 27:6, JB), Mr. Z failed to measure up.  Quite sadly, he manifested intellectual mediocrity in place of the superior knowledge and wisdom that his colleagues would naturally expect from one so extensively educated. 

With the retrospect of three decades, I feel sincerely sorry for Mr. Z.  I understand better now than I did at the time that there are compelling psychological reasons for such inappropriate speech and deplorable behavior.  Emotional instability, personal insecurity, insufficient self-esteem, egregious immaturity, and other factors can combine to bring out the worst in some people.  I think Mr. Z was essentially a very unhappy man.  He did not really hurt me or anyone else by his remarks and actions, but he did himself a great disservice, and he illustrated Saint Augustine’s point that “every disordered mind should be its own punishment”[2]  He ought to have been capable of so much more!

If Mr. Z could have just seen the good in others, I believe that he would have discovered the best in himself, and thereby he would have been a much happier person.  After all, “men are, that they might have joy” (2 Nephi 2:25). 

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[1] Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., p. 6.

[2] Saint Augustine of Hippo, The Confessions of Saint Augustine, tr. Msgr. John K. Ryan, Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1960, p. 55 (I:xii:xix).

The Stream of Consciousness

In a shoreside job that is not always intellectually stimulating but often quite mundane, I frequently find myself being led by the uncontrollable force of memory to the sea.  While performing my appointed tasks largely on autopilot, thoughts of ships and voyages and ports and crewmen crowd upon my mind.  They come and go in a steady stream.  Some enter, pause only briefly, and then leave as quickly as they came.  Others linger longer and allow me some time to focus on them.  Still others remain for hours and induce me to take notes and look something up after I get home.  And a few special thoughts compel me to write about them.

Like a character in a Modernist novel, I do my work amid “the flow of thoughts of the waking mind”[1] with its “impressions, emotions, [and] reminiscences, often without logical sequence.”[2]  Thus I may start the day recalling a transpacific voyage aboard the Comet, then consider the calculations for the local hour angle of Aries, next remember taking evening stars aboard the Rigel in mid Atlantic, and finally recall the stability formulas for determining a ship’s center of buoyancy and metacentric height.  By then, it’s time for lunch.  I resume my seafaring stream of consciousness in the afternoon.  Often I think of people—crewmen full of tall tales because they’ve gone everywhere and done everything, and docksiders full of even taller tales because they’ve gone nowhere and done nothing.  And frequently, as interruptions from the job at hand arise, my mind flits idly from one thing to another “without logical sequence.”  Hence my meditations on the sight reduction tables may be cut short and replaced by recollections of my first transit of the Panama Canal aboard the Mercury.

Then, at the end of the workday, I return to the present, go home, and tend to the family.  It’s a good life.

For all these hours of idle reminiscing, though, there are greater hours of philosophical contemplation on what I think of as the mysticism of the sea.  The cargo ships that carried me across the oceans were, of course, man-made objects built for strictly utilitarian purposes.  There was really nothing spiritual or mystical about them, no matter how remarkable they may have been as works of engineering and technology.

The sea, however, is an element of Creation. As such, it abounds in spiritual and mystical qualities.  I think of this often.  In my mind’s eye I gaze upon the surface of the sea and then look upward to the dome of the sky.  I recall many dark starlit nights, and some nights with a full moon faintly illuminating the gray horizon.  I remember many sunrises and sunsets, some with extraordinarily colored cloud banks hovering in the distance.  I consider the action of the wind upon the water, and note the undulations of the waves and swells across the surface.  I feel these elements of Nature, too, as the ship rides through the water and as the wind blows through my hair.  The wildlife of the sea participate as well.  Dolphins frolic in the bow wave.  Flying fish dart from wave crest to wave crest.  Seagulls perch in the rigging,  The sciences of oceanography, meteorology, astronomy, and biology surround the ship and its crew, and their natural beauties bear witness to the genius of a Creator-God.

I contemplate this magnificence of Nature in Augustinian metaphysical terms.  On the great seas of this Earth, “the fields and spacious palaces of my memory,”[3] I am able to “see the invisible things of God,”[4] and begin “ascending by steps to him who made me.”[5]   Going to sea is thus a mystical experience, an opportunity to commune with the Deity through the medium of his Creation in its most pristine and unspoiled state.  The seemingly aimless and random musings of my idle mind on the sea—“without logical sequence”—also lead me to the Divine.  The mystique of the sea, then, like the constancy of the North Star, unfailingly provides the direction to the Summit of all human aspiration.

While my seafaring youth is now long past, my memory preserves it and reminds me of my great good fortune in having gone to sea all those years ago.  The experience of traveling by sea to distant countries and continents, to go where and how the typical tourist does not, to experience peoples, cultures, and languages vastly different from my own, and most significantly of all, to actually live on the sea and commune with it and practically be a part of it for extended periods, is to be educated and edified in the most sublime way possible.  It is an ineffable experience.  Fellow merchant seamen would naturally understand, but to the layman it remains incomprehensibly and immutably foreign.

The sea gives so much more to us than we can ever give back to it.  In considering the sea, there is much to think about but comparatively little to say.  Most often, it seems appropriate to simply maintain a reverent silence and let the sea speak to us.

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[1] Margaret Drabble, ed., The Oxford Companion to English Literature, fifth edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985, p. 944.

[2] Ibid.

[3] St. Augustine, The Confessions of St. Augustine, tr. Msgr. John K. Ryan, Garden City, NY: Image Books, 1960, p. 236 (X:viii:xii).

[4] Op. cit., p. 235 (X:vi:x).

[5] Op. cit., p. 236 (X:viii:xii).

To the Lighthouses

After my seafaring career had concluded, and when the children were still quite young, we often went to the seashore to admire the ocean.  We had a number of favorite locations that were reasonably close to our house, to my parents’ house, or to my in-laws’ house.  Several of these spots contained lighthouses, and in the seasons of the warmer weather, we visited them regularly.

As a mate aboard ship, I had always viewed lighthouses as strictly utilitarian objects, although admittedly, many of them looked quite attractive architecturally.  But I was using them for navigational, not artistic, purposes, and so I gave their aesthetic appeal little attention.  

Miss Patty held another view, however.  While recognizing the lighthouses as important navigational beacons, she also saw them as emblematic in a metaphysical and spiritual way.  For as they shone their lights through the nocturnal darkness to guide seamen on their voyages, they represented the supernal “light that shineth in [spiritual] darkness” (John 1:5) to guide all people everywhere on their voyages through life.  By displaying artificial illumination of impressive intensity visible for many miles at sea, they represented “the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world” (John 1:9).  In this sense, one might say that they were “sent to bear witness of that Light” (John 1:8).

In the daylight hours, the lighthouses’ distinctive appearance—tall and slender and often white, the traditional color of purity—caused them to stand out clearly from their surroundings as beacons for passing ships.  They served the same purpose both day and night; only the method changed.  We visited these lighthouses in both daylight and darkness, although admittedly more often in daylight with small children.  But day or night, their metaphorical value and spiritual significance remained undiminished.  They always bore mute testimony of “the true Light.”

These lighthouses were usually situated in secluded places, far from the madding crowds of summer tourists.  This serene atmosphere enhanced their spiritual value, and we spent many happy hours quietly imbibing the combined ambiance of the sea, the shoreline, and the lighthouses.  They were precious times.

I’ve selected several photographs from our lighthouse-hopping travels with the children, and I’m happy to share them here: 

One of our many visits to the Portsmouth area took place on Saturday, July 23, 1994.  Posing placidly on the seawall in New Castle, New Hampshire, are James and Steven, with the Portsmouth Harbor Light watching over them.  To the right lies the open Atlantic.  To the left the Piscataqua River leads to downtown Portsmouth. 

Miss Patty’s favorite lighthouse is Nubble Light in York, Maine.  Situated on a small island just across a narrow channel from Cape Neddick, the Nubble has long been one of New England’s most popular and most photographed lighthouses.  Access to the island and the lighthouse itself is prohibited, so even on a busy day the view of the structure remains clear.  In this late afternoon portrait from Saturday, June 28, 1997, the western sun illuminates the Nubble perfectly.

Several miles offshore from the Nubble lies a cluster of rocks called Boon Island.  A treacherous outcropping that spelled doom for several merchant vessels in the colonial era, it was eventually fitted with a light to prevent further disasters.  Like the Nubble , it is not open to visitors, but we came close on Monday, July 24, 2000, aboard the tour boat Oceanic.  A very interesting spot with a long and colorful history,

Guarding the entrance to Portland Harbor is Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth, Maine.  Merchant vessels arriving in and departing from Portland pass directly in front of Portland Head.  While a popular destination for summer vacationers, it does not become overly crowded but remains peaceful and quiet.  This is a noon time view on Wednesday, April 30, 1997.

A short walk from our house in Nashua lies the Merrimack River, and at the mouth of the Merrimack lies the city of Newburyport, Massachusetts.  The estuary where the Merrimack and the Atlantic meet is marked by the diminutive Plum Island Light, shown here on Friday, June 22, 2000.  As evidenced by the adjacent bird house, the light reposes in a bird sanctuary, a restful and quiet place to enjoy Nature, both maritime and avian.

Closer to my original home on Long Island, New York, the Fire Island Light stands on the barrier beach that separates the Great South Bay from the Atlantic Ocean.  For four generations this lighthouse has been an important landmark for my family, and we went to visit it every summer with the children and their grandparents.  After church on Sunday, May 29, 1994, the light tower stood up brightly in the strong southern sun.  A beautiful place to gaze seaward and contemplate the majesty of Creation.

Finally, at the easternmost end of Long Island stands the Montauk Light in Montauk Point State Park.  The family waded in the surf of the great Atlantic in front of the lighthouse on Monday, August 11, 1997.  Another outstanding location to enjoy the unparalleled beauty of the sea and sky.

The Concrete Ship

A few hundred feet offshore from Sunset Beach in Cape May Point, New Jersey, rest the visible remains of the cargo ship Atlantus.  She and several similar vessels were constructed as experiments in concrete shipbuilding during the First World War.  Their careers were short lived, however, as the extreme weight of the concrete made it impractical for shipbuilding for several reasons.  Under new ownership after the war, the Atlantus arrived at her final resting place by accident in 1926.  In the ninety years since then, she has enjoyed a second career as a tourist attraction.

Summer vacationers have long traveled to Cape May and its environs to enjoy the sea.  Situated at the southern tip of New Jersey, Cape May is surrounded by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, the Delaware Bay, and the Cape May Canal.  For someone who enjoys the ambiance of the sea, Cape May is an ideal location.  Sunset Beach forms part of this ambiance. Facing west on the Delaware Bay, it is famous for its views of the sunsets, the ferries sailing between New Jersey and Delaware, and the concrete ship Atlantus.  A novelty, a curiosity, and a relic of history, the Atlantus is almost never referred to by her actual name.  She is simply called “the concrete ship.”  And while she does attract tourists, it is all very low key.  Sunset Beach lies several miles west of the more populated Atlantic beaches and therefore is never very crowded.  People go there to sightsee, to fish, and to browse in the small gift shop.  There is no swimming and only limited wading because of the strong tidal current.  Photographers  sometimes gather and take pictures of the concrete ship as if it were a famous lighthouse.

In the years that my family vacationed in Cape May, it was not always easy to obtain any serious information on the concrete ship, its history, or its reason for running aground there.  With the arrival of the internet, this has changed.  The concrete ship now boasts its own Wikipedia article[1] and is included on a website devoted to the history of concrete vessels.[2]  My research into the subject started with collecting all the picture postcards that featured the ship.  Eventually there were four of these, and I’m pleased to present them here:

This is my favorite portrait of the Atlantus.  The view dates to the 1930s and is an artistic rendering made with some artistic license.  The little rowboat provides a good sense of scale, but the Atlantus is not really as close to the beach as she seems to be.  The painting also gives the ship a remarkably clean and neat appearance. 

I believe this photograph was taken about 1960 or so.  The painted-on advertisement for boat insurance was a local joke and not in very good taste. 

This picture shows the condition of the Atlantus when I saw her in the early to middle 1970s.  The sign was new then.  Clearly the ship had deteriorated a great deal by the time I came along.

A new sign and a further deteriorated hulk.  This view postdates my family's visits to Cap May.  The before and after scenes offer a good basis for comparison. 

In addition to the postcards, the local gift shop eventually offered a capsule summary of the concrete ship’s history printed on a small sheet of note paper.  I daresay this came out in response to endless inquiries from vacationers seeing the concrete ship for the first time.  For a few pennies, then, I added this item to my collection.  Until recently, it was my only source of information about the concrete ship, but it remains a good one, and I’m happy to share it here:

 

Finally, we have several pictures of the concrete ship that we took on our family vacations.  Most of them are amateur photographs of very mediocre quality, but a few of them turned out well.  These are the two best:

My father took this photograph of the Atlantus on the family's first visit to Sunset Beach in the summer of 1967.  I was a young child then, and this shipwreck was an intriguing sight.  Faintly visible on the horizon through the haze is the northbound ferry New Jersey, soon to dock at the terminal in North Cape May.

My father took this picture of the Atlantus from a nearby jetty in August of 1971.  This view looks northward, with Sunset Beach on the right.  We returned to this spot every summer through 1975.

More recent photographs posted on the internet show an even more deteriorated and broken up hull.  Much of the concrete is crumbled, and the steel reinforcing rods are exposed and rusting.  Most of the ship lies beneath the surface of the water now, and no doubt much of it has sunk into the sand of the bay bottom.  All this decay in 90 years.  In another 90 years, it’s likely that none of the concrete ship will be visible above the water.  Perhaps a buoy will be placed over it to mark the site as a fish haven.  Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, as it returns to Nature the concrete ship is going the way of all material things. 

As we also must eventually do.  But in our case, though our mortal bodies must die and decay, our immortal souls will live on.  Our lives will thus continue despite physical death.  We are assured many times “that God hath given to us eternal life” (1 John 5:11), and further “that the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body . . . are taken home to that God who gave them life” (Alma 40:11).  When the concrete ship is completely withered away, it will be gone forever.  Unlike this inanimate object, we will be gone only temporarily, until the resurrection, when “the spirit and the body shall be reunited again in its perfect form” (Alma 11:43).  Life will indeed go on, a happy prospect to consider.

Meanwhile, as the deterioration of the concrete ship remains a work in progress, we may rest assured that the Master and Chief Engineer of the universe is in charge of it all, and that his work is also in progress.  His Creation knows this, too, as one of our hymns states:

                                    Be still, my soul; The waves and winds still know

His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.[3]

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[1] See https://en.wikipedia.org/Wiki/SS_Atlantus.

[2] See www.concreteships.org.

[3] Katharina von Schlegel, “Be Still, My Soul,” tr. Jane Borthwick, in Hymns of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1985. p. 124.  A more literal rendering of the German (Dein Heiland wird zeigen,/ Wie vor ihm Meer und Gewitter muss schweigen) would be: Your Savior points out how before him sea and thunderstorm must be silent.