The
famous passenger liner Queen Elizabeth 2
rested peacefully alongside Pier 92 on the West Side of Manhattan. To most outward appearances, the ship seemed
quiet. As groups of passengers began to
arrive at the pier and make their way on board, however, the initial quiet
dissipated and was replaced by a hum of activity. Conveyor belts delivered food, supplies, and
suitcases aboard from the base of the pier.
Several decks higher, passengers strolled across a separate gangway to the
ship and were welcomed aboard by Cunard Line representatives. From the top level of the pier, Miss Patty
and the children and I enjoyed a balcony view of the embarkation as well as a
spectacular close-up view of the mammoth vessel and the surrounding riverfront. It was a cloudy and warm Saturday, August 12, 2000, and we had come to visit the Queen.
Many
years earlier, in the 1960s, my parents had brought my brother and me to the
West Side passenger piers to see our grandparents off when they sailed on the Constitution or the Independence of the old American Export Lines. My grandfather had engineering conferences to attend in Europe, and both he and my grandmother preferred ocean travel over air travel. For my part, I envied them. Sailing away on a long ocean voyage seemed so much more interesting than going to school. Eventually, I did sail away on many long ocean voyages, not on glamorous passenger ships but on beat-up old freight wagons. But that didn’t matter. What did matter was that these freight wagons
went to sea and they took me with them and they opened up the world for me.
While
my Merchant Marine career had reached its conclusion as the children started to
arrive, I continued to hear the call of the sea, and I wanted to share this experience
with the children as much as possible.
Hence our numerous voyages aboard the Staten Island and Long Island
ferries, among others. But there were
more occasions when we did not actually sail on the sea but simply went to
visit it. Such was the case this
Saturday in August as we admired the great Queen
Elizabeth 2 from the pier.
The
children were fascinated by this beautiful ship. From the vantage point of the uppermost level
of the pier—a rooftop parking facility surrounded by a waist-high concrete
wall—they could see everything. They
admired the Queen from stem to stern,
taking in the anchor windlass, the lifeboats, the promenade decks, the
navigating bridge with its oversized windows, the lavishly decorated passenger
lounges, the swimming pools, and atop it all the famous red and black striped
funnel that has for so long been emblematic of the Cunard Line. They watched as middle-aged passengers
casually sipped wine in deck chairs and as tuxedoed waiters danced attendance
on pretty girls relaxing around the pool.
They asked many questions and listened carefully as I explained various
aspects of the ship to them. In addition
to the Queen, there were tugboats and
barges and other passenger ships moving about the neighborhood. While these were all very interesting, the Queen nonetheless reigned supreme as the
star of the show, and she commanded the children’s interest for the afternoon.
At
5:00pm, it was time to go. Many things
started to happen simultaneously. The
chief mate and several linehandlers appeared on the bow. A younger officer with a similar group
appeared on the stern. Dock workers
started to toss the mooring lines off the bollards on the pier and the crewmen
aboard ship winched them in. More dock
workers removed the gangways and the crew then closed the sideports and secured
them for sea. A tugboat came along and
towed away an oil barge that had been delivering fuel on the Queen’s starboard side. Important looking personages stepped
purposefully out onto the port side bridge wing—the master, the pilot, the mate
of the watch. These men and a host of
others serving in less visible capacities would soon take the great ship to
sea.
The
Queen’s mighty whistle sounded a
single prolonged blast which echoed off the skyscrapers of midtown
Manhattan—the signal for getting underway.
A moment later three shorts blasts sounded forth, signaling that the
ship’s engines were now going astern. As
the whole family watched from the end of the pier where a small crowd had
gathered, the Queen began to move,
very slowly at first but then gaining momentum.
A space of open water formed between the ship and the pier as she backed
out at a slight angle into the Hudson. Propeller
wash surrounded her stern and eddies of water swirled around her bow as the
large hull gracefully pulled away from the city.
Soon
the bridge wing would come abreast of the crowd at the end of the pier. I picked up the two youngest children, Steven
and Michael, so they could see over the heads and waving hands and balloons of
the assembly. James and Karen squeezed
into an open space along the low wall at the end of the pier. Miss Patty and I then squeezed in behind them.
As the Queen continued astern and the bridge wing came alongside the
crowd, the children waved enthusiastically to the great men there who were
directing her. They all called out loudly, “Hi, Captain!
Hi, Pilot!” To all the children’s
delight, these two great men took a moment from their duties to gaze down at
them and smile and wave and return the friendly greetings. Then, back to business, they looked sternward
again as the Queen slowed and started
turning upstream in a wide arc as she cleared the pier.
With
her bow now pointing seaward, the Queen
came to a momentary stop in mid-Hudson and then gradually started moving
forward. She would now proceed to
sea. We watched carefully as her
propellers bit into the water and eased her ahead. Her speed increased as she headed south and
away from her audience on the pier. She
continued past many other piers where no doubt many other people were
watching. Eventually, she passed from
sight. The children waved a last
good-bye to her as she became lost to view behind the buildings of Lower
Manhattan. Their previous excitement now
gave way to melancholy as they expressed the wish that they could sail away on
the Queen instead of walking back to
the subway.
The
Queen Elizabeth 2 was one of many
merchant vessels that we took the children to see. In the New England seaports closer to home
they gazed upon oil tankers, bulk carriers, container ships, pilot boats,
fishermen, and an occasional cruise ship.
But the purpose of these outings was as much to gaze upon the water as
upon the shipping. The words of England’s
most famous merchant seaman, John Masefield, come to mind:
I
must go down to the sea again, for the call of the running tide
Is
a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And
all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And
the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.1
We
answered this “wild and clear call” many times.
In Portland and Portsmouth and Boston, at Nubble Light and the
Footbridge Beach and Point Judith, we answered the call and were rewarded with
many windy days, flying clouds, and spray flung from whitecaps. We gazed upon “the lonely sea and sky”2
but without experiencing loneliness.
Instead we enjoyed the soothing feelings of peace and quiet and a
renewed appreciation for the beauty of the Earth which only the sea and sky can
generate. In short, the seaside was our
special place in which to feel the presence of the Spirit. Even as young as the children were, they
sensed this, too. They would gaze upon
the ocean with expressions of wonder showing on their faces. In this way the innocence of childhood came
face-to-face with the pristine natural elements of the sea and sky. What a beautiful way to spend a day!
Of
course, children being children, they did not simply sit and stare at the sea
all the time. They enjoyed many happy
hours of splashing in the waves, climbing on the rocks, running across the
beach, building sand castles, and eating picnic lunches. Their fun was as limitless as the sea and sky
around them. And they always asked
questions. The waterfront was a place of
learning as well as a place to feel the Spirit, and the children wanted to know
everything. How do lighthouses
work? What do the buoys mean? How did you use the sun to navigate? Did you miss Mommy when you were at sea? And so on.
There was even the occasional language lesson. One summer morning in Portsmouth we happened
upon a freighter bearing Hellenic block letters that identified her as the
AΛEΞANΔPEIA from ΠEIPAIEΨΣ.
Suddenly called upon to remember the odd bits of Greek that I had
learned in my vagabond youth, I explained to the children that this ship was
the Alexandria from Piraeus.
Occasionally
there was sadness. Regrettably, the sea
has not always been used for strictly peaceful purposes. The lighthouse at Point Judith, Rhode Island,
stands on a narrow spit of land that is surrounded on three sides by water, a
truly beautiful location. A historical
marker on this site informs the visitor of a maritime battle that took place a
few miles offshore in the final days of the Second World War. On May 5, 1945, the American coal carrier Black Point was torpedoed and sunk by
the German submarine U-853. On the following day, the U-853 was depth charged and sunk by a
half-dozen American naval vessels.
Twelve men out of the crew of 46 aboard the Black Point perished, as did all 55 crewmen aboard the U-853.3 How tragic that 101 men lost their lives so
unnecessarily, when the outcome of the war had already been determined, and in
a place of such sublime and pristine beauty.
It grieved all of us to read the historical marker and contemplate these
terrible events. No doubt it grieved the
Lord as well, for these seamen were all his children regardless of which side
they had fought on during the war.
More
happily, however, the innocence of childhood prevailed on these visits to the
waterfront. One thing that growing
children like to do is eat, and our four had especially good appetites when
next to salt water. We always brought a
picnic lunch with us, and if we left the house early enough we brought a picnic
breakfast, too. They dined with views of
the sea in several locations. The best
one of all, though, was at the end of the breakwater in Portland Harbor in
Maine.
This
stone jetty extends 900 feet into the water from Spring Point in South
Portland. At its end stands the historic
Spring Point Light, which warns arriving and departing ships of a section of
shallow water at the harbor entrance and dates to 1879. The breakwater that connects the light to the
shore dates to 1951. It has a reasonably
flat walking surface, and visitors are free to hike out to the lighthouse. People fish, eat, read, sunbathe, and relax
on this jetty, but it does not get crowded.
From this vantage point one has unobstructed views of the city skyline and
tanker docks to the left, and Casco Bay and its lush islands to the right with
the Portland Head Light to the far right.
It is a truly beautiful place, and we have visited it with the children numerous
times. One of these occasions in
particular stands out in memory.
It
was in the late morning of Wednesday, August 7, 2002. The sun shone brilliantly in a bright blue
sky decorated with tufts of white altocumulus clouds. We carried our lunch cooler to the end of the
breakwater and sat down on the rocks with the lighthouse at our backs and the
open water spread out before us. Except
for the line of stones and the lighthouse immediately behind us, we were
surrounded by blue water—always a pleasant sensation. We ate a leisurely and informal lunch as we
enjoyed the unsurpassable beauty of the area. Ferries periodically passed before us on their
voyages between the city and Peaks Island and Long Island. Then a tugboat materialized, passed in front
of us, and proceeded seaward. We watched
as it went in the direction of Portland Head.
Before long, the bow of an incoming vessel appeared off Portland Head,
and the tug went to meet it. A merchant
ship was coming into port, and we were there to see it!
The
family watched in rapt attention as the tanker Nassau Spirit arrived. A
second tug went forth to meet her as she passed through Casco Bay. Soon she stood abeam of Spring Point. With the two tugboats’ assistance, she made a
wide and graceful turn to come around the end of the breakwater. Then, straightening her course, she made her
approach to the Portland Pipeline pier a short distance to the left of the
stone jetty in South Portland. She eased
her great bulk slowly alongside the pier and came to rest. The tugboats held her securely in place until
the mooring lines were made fast.
When
they were finished with the Nassau Spirit,
one of the tugboats headed seaward again to meet a second incoming vessel. We watched again as the passenger ship Regal Empress came up the bay towards
Portland. An older vessel with
traditional lines and fresh blue and white paint, she made an impressive sight
as she passed abeam of the Spring Point Light.
But she did not dock at the Portland Pipeline pier. With the tugboat’s assistance, the Regal Empress gracefully turned herself
about and then backed alongside the passenger pier in Portland proper.
Two
large merchant ships had arrived in Portland in succession, and we had watched
them from the best seats in the house.
It had all happened literally right before our eyes—a thrill for the
whole family, and one which brought back many memories for me. It was a privilege to be present, all the
more so because the Spirit was present, too. Later in the day, it was very difficult to
leave.
Another
seaside spot that was difficult to leave, and for that matter, took
considerable effort to get to, was Peggy’s Cove on the south coast of Nova
Scotia. The cove itself is a small
fishing port surrounded by modest wood frame buildings and protected from the
open ocean by a rolling landscape of solid rock. In the center of this rock stands the famous
Peggy’s Cove Lighthouse, a diminutive white tower with a red cap. Tourists come in great numbers to see
this. We did, too, but we lingered
longer, unable to pull ourselves away from the wide open Atlantic that
stretched out seemingly endlessly before us.
It was an overcast Wednesday, June 25, 2003. Both the sea and sky were largely gray, but
even in this unremarkable weather, Peggy’s Cove stood out as an indescribably
beautiful location. Gray waves topped
with white foamy crests rolled in towards the shore and washed up on the
rocks. The water made a soothing natural
sound as it came ashore, like subtle background music. There were plenty of visitors on the rocks,
but it did not seem crowded. Nor did it
get noisy. We could have sat on the
rocks looking at the ocean all afternoon and felt quite undisturbed. But the children had far too much energy for
something so sedentary.
We
walked into the little village. Like
most tourist attractions, it had a gift shop.
Like most gift shops, it sold a lot of junk. But it also had a well stocked book
section. This was not junk. There were history books, particularly the
history of seafaring. Much of this
history had taken place in and just offshore of Nova Scotia. Much of it had been peaceful, but some of it was
not. In recent years the coast of Nova
Scotia had commanded the world’s attention in a terribly tragic way, and a
monument just up the road commemorated the event. It was not a shipping casualty, but ships and
boats of various descriptions tended to the cleanup.
On
September 2, 1998, a Swissair flight enroute from New York to Geneva diverted
toward Halifax in order to make an emergency landing because of an onboard
fire. Unfortunately, this attempt proved
unsuccessful, and the aircraft came down in the water just outside of Peggy’s
Cove. Everyone aboard perished in the
accident. The monument stands atop a
hill overlooking the site where the airplane came down. Inscribed in both English and French, its
prose is clear and concise:
In memory of A la memoire
the 229 men, women, and children des 229 hommes, femmes, et enfants
aboard Swissair flight 111 qui ont perdu la
vie au large de
who perished off these shores ces cotes
voi Swissair 111
September 2, 1998. le 2
Septembre 1998.
They have been joined to the Ils appartiennent
maintenant
sea and sky. au
ciel et a la mer.
May they rest in peace. Qu’ils
reposent en paix.
Despite
the horrific and violent nature of the accident, this monument overlooked a
placid and quiet scene. Shrubberies
interspersed with rocks covered the slope that led down to the water. From the walkway in front of the monument we
looked upon a still landscape, a calm sea, and an overcast sky. It was a very peaceful and spiritual location. We did not speak. The inscription on the stone had said it all,
and there was nothing that we could add to it. A few other visitors came along. They also read the inscription and then gazed
at the sea and sky. No one spoke. We exchanged only nods of
acknowledgement. The atmosphere was one
of walking on hallowed ground. Everyone
was reverent and respectful. The
presence of the Spirit was obvious.
It
was a time for quiet contemplation. In
considering the deaths of over 200 people, the words of Isaiah came to mind:
Incline
your ear, and come unto me: hear, and your soul shall live;
and
I will make an everlasting covenant with you (Isa. 55:3).
One
of the best aspects of visiting the waterfront, whether at Peggy’s Cove or
anywhere else, is the opportunity to do just as Isaiah said, to incline the ear
and hear; in simple terms, to simply be quiet and listen to the still small
voice. In a world that is saturated with
noise—blaring televisions, squawking loudspeakers, canned music, traffic jams,
and people who talk incessantly but say nothing—the quiet, gentle, and soothing
sounds of nature in the wind and surf come as medicine to the soul. In these magnificent settings where earth,
sea, and sky meet, the Spirit of the Lord resides and the still small voice
speaks to us. All we need do is go there
and listen. Not even a tragic accident
or an act of war can prevent the Spirit from reaching us.
Several
hundred miles to the southwest the Spirit reached us in an entirely different
way. On a rainy Saturday, August 24,
2002, my three sons and I drove from their Nana’s house on Long Island to
Philadelphia on a family history expedition to visit the great passenger liner United States. Built in Newport News, Virginia, the United States entered transatlantic
service in 1952 and set speed records between New York and Europe that have
gone unmatched since. In her day she was
the largest and fastest American merchant ship ever built, the flagship of the
United States Lines, and the pride of the American Merchant Marine. As a small child, I had the honor of seeing
this great vessel at her Manhattan pier in the early 1960s. My grandparents, Robert Burns and Julia
Murphy, had the honor of sailing aboard her once, though somewhat before my
time. They left New York aboard the United States at noon on a rainy Friday,
June 24, 1955 and sailed to Le Havre, France, arriving there in the evening of
June 28. From Le Havre they travelled by
train to the sites of my grandfather’s engineering conferences.4
Because
of the historical significance of the United
States and the family history connection to her, I brought my sons to see her
at Pier 82 in South Philadelphia. My
grandmother had noted that it “poured rain on [the] way to the ship”5
in 1955; appropriately, then, it poured rain with thunder and lightning on our
way to the ship in 2002. Unlike my
grandparents, who had sailed on her when she was young and in her prime, when
she was “the last word in everything”6
and had “every convenience on board”7
including “a regular moving picture theatre,”8
we visited her in her old age, and it
showed. Covered with dirt, peeling paint,
and rust spots, the United States was
held alongside the pier by miles of mooring lines, many more than were really
necessary to keep her in place. She was
a forlorn sight, locked away in an industrial backwater. Little wonder, though, as she had been taken
out of service in 1969 and had received scant attention since. Nonetheless, she was in her own way an
impressive sight. The rake of the
funnels and the mast, the sweep of the promenade deck, the graceful curvature
of the hull, the flare of the bow, the oversized bridge windows facing forward
with confidence—it was all still proudly there.
No amount of dirt, peeling paint, or rust could erase the ship’s grand persona.
As my oldest son James remarked, “She still looks ready to race.”
And
she really did. I could easily visualize
my grandparents standing at one of the large deck-to-overhead windows on the
port side promenade and waving good-bye as the great ship eased away from her
Manhattan pier, and I asked my boys to imagine such a scene, too. This may have been a stretch for them, but
the family history connection was undeniable.
I had a sense that my grandparents were watching us, not from the
promenade deck of the United States,
but another, higher, vantage point. It
was a special moment. Naturally, I took
several photographs, especially after the rain had stopped. One shows James, Steven, and Michael standing
on the dock with the United States
looming large behind them. I later gave
a framed enlargement of this picture to my parents. They immediately put it on display in their
living room. Because it bridged four
generations of the family, it meant a great deal to them.
It
didn’t show that much in the photograph, but South Philly was everything that Spring
Point and Peggy’s Cove were not—part of the “opposition in all things” (2 Nephi
2:11), no doubt. An industrial
neighborhood of battered pavement, railroad sidings, truck terminals,
warehouses, freighter piers, overflowing dumpsters, and barbed wire fences, it
hardly seemed the place to go to feel the Spirit and hear the still small
voice. And yet they were both
present. Despite the difficulty of
driving in the pitch dark through heavy rain and heavy traffic to get there,
and afterwards fighting a traffic jam the size of New Jersey to return to Long
Island, the presence of the Spirit and
the feeling of closeness to deceased yet still beloved family were
unmistakable. It was truly well worth
the effort. Perhaps because it required
such an effort, I appreciated it all the more.
Living
inland as we do, it always involves some effort to answer “the call of the
running tide”9
and go to the sea again. But it is
always worth the effort. We have never
been disappointed. No matter what the
weather conditions are, no matter what the location is, no matter what time of
day or night it is, the sea always calls and the Spirit of the Lord always
stands watch over it. Just as the call
of the tide is clear and undeniable, so the presence of the Spirit is also
clear and undeniable. Just as the tide
flows endlessly between the coastal estuaries and the open ocean, so the Spirit
also flows endlessly between the celestial and earthly realms. For centuries and even millennia, humans have
spoken of “the eternal sea.” Just as
eternal as the sea are its Creator, his Spirit, and his people and their
families. When we visit the waterfront,
the still small voice testifies of this.
1 John Masefield, “Sea-Fever,”
in Salt-Water Poems and Ballads, New
York: The Macmillan Company, 1916, p. 55.
2 Ibid.
4 Information from my
grandmother’s travel journal, entries dated June 24, 1955, and June 28, 1955.
5 Ibid.
6 Letter from my
grandmother, dated June 28, 1955.
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid.
9 John Masefield, op. cit.
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