An Academician on the Water

Several years ago, I visited the archives of Manhattan College in the Riverdale section of the Bronx in order to research the life and career of my great-granduncle, Joseph Lawrence Scanlon.  He was born in Nyack, on the Hudson River in upstate New York, in 1878.  As a teenager in 1893, he entered the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, a religious order less formally known as the Christian Brothers, and he took the name Brother Apelles Jasper.  This pursuit of the consecrated life enabled him to receive an extensive education at Manhattan College, Columbia University, and the Catholic University of America.  This prepared him for a distinguished academic career as professor, dean, president, and trustee at Manhattan College.  In addition, he edited and wrote for several academic and religious journals.  Subsequently, he became a librarian at the LaSalle Military Academy, a Christian Brothers high school in Oakdale, on the South Shore of Long Island.  Finally, he died in New York City in 1944.

In the course of my research, I had the privilege of meeting Brother Luke Salm, a professor emeritus of history and an archivist at Manhattan College.  When he was a young man in the 1930s, Brother Luke knew Brother Jasper, and he remembered him well.  Brother Luke recalled that when he was a college student, he spent his summer vacations at the LaSalle Academy in Oakdale.   During these times, he  observed Brother Jasper setting out on the Great South Bay early every morning in a small motorboat.  Apparently, Brother Jasper enjoyed sailing on salt water!

Of course, this is a very tenuous connection to the sea.  Brother Jasper was not a  merchant seaman, but it would be accurate to call him an amateur bay man.  Besides, in this era before many of the bridges and tunnels in New York were built, he most certainly sailed on ferries across the Hudson River and other waterways.  Thus, Brother Jasper was acquainted at least with the tributaries of the sea.

My interest in Brother Jasper stemmed from our being related.  Getting to know him was facilitated by the lengthy paper trail he left behind,  The archives yielded a storehouse of material written both about him and by him.  In perusing this collection, it became clear to me that Brother Jasper was a very intelligent and very learned man as well as a highly accomplished academician.  This assessment was confirmed by a confrere’s notation that he was “remembered as a teacher for his intimacy with many areas of learning.”[1]  His connection to the Great South Bay came as a bonus.

Among Brother Jasper’s writings was some poetry which illustrated his range of subject matter.  Writing on a religious theme, he incorporated, for example, philosophy and biology, subjects that he taught, into some of his poems.  And while never having been a merchant seaman, he did include the sea in one of them.  Naturally, this one is my favorite:

Though stormy seas about me roll,

And angry waves conceal the goal,

I need not fear.

Though my frail bark is tempest tossed,

And strangers crowd, yea, all seems lost;

I should not fear.

Though friends rebuke and foes malign,

Unholy ones their strength combine;

I will not fear.

For Thou whom winds and sea obey

Will all my pains and grief allay,

When Thou art near.[2]

  

As these verses demonstrate, Brother Jasper was a man of great faith, and he used his literary skills to share this faith with others.  For this, we who read his poetry owe him a debt of gratitude.  I also feel honored that he included the seafaring profession in his work, and I appreciate his use of the metaphor of the storm at sea.

Brother Jasper’s abiding religious faith was evident in all of his poetry and prose.  Also clear was his admiration for the works of charity and acts of selfless service to others that such faith engendered.  He admired holy and Christ-like men who quietly did the Lord’s work without calling attention to themselves.  Furthermore, as a man of quiet contemplation, he recognized that the Lord operated through the still small voice and not the splash of sensationalism, and he asserted, “The divine call to a higher life is a gentle influence.”[3]

Perhaps Brother Jasper experienced some of this “gentle Influence” on the Great South Bay.  The sea and its tributaries have bespoken the existence and genius of God to many of us, and certainly Brother Jasper would recognize such a manifestation of the Deity.  Yet he would also realize that while we live here on the created Earth, we are not entirely a part of it.  As a spiritual man, he understood the human capacity for something higher and greater, and in another poem he exhorted:

O mortal, rise above the clod

That holds thee down so low:

Enjoy the presence of thy God

Wherein all blessings flow.[4]

A colleague wrote that Brother Jasper possessed “a quiet nobility of soul”[5] and had “a remarkable devotion to duty.”[6]  Another stated that he had “a kindness of disposition, an urbanity of manner, an evenness of temper, a goodness of heart, and a never-failing cheerfulness.”[7]  This was in addition to his “more than ordinary intelligence,”[8] which made him “a walking encyclopedia of language, science, mathematics, philosophy, and literature.”[9]  Finally, he was described as “one of the truly great men that every once in a while the Lord sends to the earth.”[10]

It seems to me that the faith and spirituality of such a great man could only have been increased by his experience on the Great South Bay, and it would have been much further magnified if he had actually gone to sea.  I am certain that a transoceanic voyage would have been a truly grand epiphany for him.

Now let us put a face to the name.  I have only four photographs of Brother Jasper, and this is the earliest.  It is believed to have been taken in a studio in New York in the early 1900s when he was in his mid-twenties.

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[1] Br. Casimir Gabriel, F.S.C., The Tree Bore Fruit: Manhattan College 1853-1953, Riverdale, NY: Manhattan College, 1953, p. 71.  This splendid volume recounts the history of Manhattan College in its first century and was a gift to me from Brother Luke. 

[2] Joseph L. Scanlon (Br. Apelles Jasper, F.S.C.), “Fear Not,” in The Manhattan Quarterly, April, 1914, p. 42.

[3] Joseph L. Scanlon (Br. Apelles Jasper, F.S.C.), Life of Venerable Brother Benilde of the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, p. 33, unpublished typescript held in the Manhattan College archives and dating from the 1940s.

[4] Joseph L. Scanlon (Br. Apelles Jasper, F.S.C.), “The Flower,” in The Manhattan Quarterly, April, 1914, p. 9.

[5] Manhattan College memorandum on the death of Brother Apelles Jasper on February 20, 1944, and held in the Manhattan College archives.

[6] Ibid.

[7] From a speech given by an unnamed confrere on the occasion of Brother Apelles Jasper’s Golden Jubilee at Manhattan College on December 19, 1943, and held in the Manhattan College archives. 

[8] Ibid.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Manhattan College memorandum previously cited.

Sunflowers

One day this past summer a pot full of sunflowers mysteriously appeared on our porch.  I never learned who put them there or why, but their big, bright, and cheerful yellow blooms caught my attention, and I took to watering them regularly because they were so pretty.  They also reminded me of a family visit on Long Island that took place about five years ago.

Normally, I prefer not to travel on Sunday.  Sometimes, however, exceptions to this policy become necessary, and because they are exceptions, they are also memorable occasions.  On this particular occasion, Miss Patty and I were traveling to Long Island on Sunday because on Monday she would depart from Kennedy Airport and fly to Brazil for our daughter’s wedding.  And so in the afternoon of July 20, 2014, we drove to New London, Connecticut, and then sailed to Orient Point, Long Island, aboard the ferry Cape Henlopen.  The weather on the water was so beautiful and the crossing was so tranquil and sublime that it seemed, if not actually sinful, at least morally deficient to not be at sea that Sunday.  As always, though, the voyage ended too quickly, and we drove off the ship and continued westward.

Diverting this time from our usual route through the built-up North Fork villages from Greenport to Riverhead, we followed Route 25A, a secondary road through the farmlands of Eastern Long Island instead.  It was a pleasant diversion through less traffic and more open country, a restful alternative fitting for a day of rest.  Along the way we passed several roadside farm stands open for business, and as we neared Wading River, we came upon a roadside floral vender selling sunflowers.

For many years, I’ve been in the habit of bringing flowers to my Mom when returning home for a visit.  Usually, I picked these up at the Petal Pusher in Penn Station or at Howard’s in Mineola.  Today, however, while taking a more bucolic route, an opportunity arose to get her a bouquet made up entirely of locally grown sunflowers.  Mom would love these, we figured, with their bright yellow petals, dark brown centers, and green leaves and stems.  Uniform but not identical, all these sunflowers would be strikingly different from a customary commercial bouquet produced by a florist.

When we arrived at the family headquarters about 6:00pm, Mom liked the sunflowers very much.  Following her usual custom, she placed them in a vase with fresh water and put them on display in the living room.  Several times she remarked on the brightness and cheerfulness of their colors and added that these ranked among her favorite flowers.  In the days that followed, she enjoyed the sunflowers very, very much.

Also in the following days, Miss Patty left for Brazil, and I had a pleasant visit with my parents.  On Thursday, July 24, I took an afternoon train to Boston and then the bus back to Nashua.  Our car remained on Long Island pending Miss Patty’s return from the wedding.

In the following years, I’ve come to associate sunflowers with my Mom.  Aptly named, they have a sunny disposition that resembles hers.  Scientifically known as Helianthus, their simple beauty and bright colors create a cheerful atmosphere wherever they are displayed.  How fitting, then, that they should remind me a of someone who appreciated the beauty of the world and who saw this beauty as the gift of a Creator-God to his human children.

One part of the world whose beauty Mom especially enjoyed and appreciated was the seashore, where the land and the sea intermingle.  During her childhood, she spent summer vacations with her parents and extended family at the seaside on both the North Shore and the South Shore of Long Island.  Later, she continued to visit the seashore with college friends, and after that, with her own family.  Over a lifetime, she became acquainted with Long Beach, Lido Beach, Point Lookout, Tobay Beach, Jones Beach, Cedar Island, Oak Beach, Oak Island, Captree, Fire Island, Massapequa, Lindenhurst, Babylon, Montauk Point, Orient Point, Mount Sinai, Port Washington, and the Long Island Sound ferries.  In addition, she sailed the family sailboat on the Great South Bay for many years, and she made one ocean voyage to Bermuda and the Bahamas aboard the Evangeline as a young adult.  During her last years, with restrictions on her mobility, Mom could well have echoed the words of the great seaman and poet John Masefield:

A wind’s in the heart of me, a fire’s in my heels,

I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels;

I hunger for the sea’s edge, the limits of the land,

Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.[1]

And so Mom and my father both took great pleasure in visiting the South Shore barrier beaches and voyaging aboard the Moon Chaser on the Great South Bay when I returned home to see them.

My parents still owned an automobile, so I drove them down to the oceanfront.  On these outings we followed the Ocean Parkway to our first stop at Oak Beach.  There, on a recently built fishing pier, we looked out at the Fire Island Inlet, watched the fishermen go about their business, and decided if we should cross the bridge to Fire Island itself or go to Captree for lunch.  Often we did both.  On Fire Island we admired the lighthouse, sometimes hiking out to it on the boardwalk through the sand dunes and beach grass.  At the beach, we spent a long time walking through the sand along the water’s edge and taking in the majestic view of the great Atlantic Ocean.  This was always a sight like no other, a temporary escape from the densely populated and heavily built-up urban area.  At Captree, we dined in the second floor Captree Cove Restaurant, and we enjoyed the views of the fishing boat docks, the adjacent waterways, and the distant lighthouse as much as we enjoyed the food.

On days when the Moon Chaser was sailing, we drove from the house directly to the Captree Boat Basin.  This vessel sailed on sedate sightseeing excursions in the afternoons, and my parents always sat on the upper deck in front of the pilothouse on these voyages.  From this vantage point, they had an unlimited view of everything on the water.  Leaving Captree at 1:00pm, the ship always proceeded eastward through the State Boat Channel to the open water of the Great South Bay.  Then, she sailed along the northern shoreline of Fire Island as far as the Fire Island Lighthouse.  Along this route she wended her way among fishing boats, sailboats, and the small trans-bay ferries that connected the communities of Fire Island with the Mainland.  There was always plenty of activity, and thus plenty of sights to see, on the bay.  Once abeam of the famed Fire Island Light, the Moon Chaser came about and slowly returned to Captree.  After disembarking around 3:00pm, we usually had an early dinner at the Captree Cove before heading back home.

Since my parents could no longer drive, they appreciated the opportunity to ride down to the barrier beaches and sail on the bay when I visited them.  As much as they both enjoyed these excursions, though, it was my Mom who always spoke admiringly and even reverently about the beauty of the seashore and the open ocean.  She saw the hand of God in everything there.  The innumerable grains of sand on the beach, the abundance and variety of life in and alongside the sea, the sun, moon, and clouds in the sky, and the seemingly limitless sea and sky stretching out to the horizon and far behind—all of these and more demonstrated the existence, genius, and perfection of God for her.  Mom never read this verse, but having studied Thomistic theology in college with the Ursuline nuns, she no doubt would have agreed with the scriptural assertion that:

all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth and all things

that are upon the face of it. . .and also all the planets which move

in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator

(Alma 30:44).

Like many merchant seamen, Mom understood that there was much more to the sea than salt water.  She appreciated the spiritual aspect of the sea, and gazing upon it always involved an epiphany wherein the Supreme Creator manifested himself to her.

This did not happen only at the seashore, though.  Mom saw the hand of God in such diverse locations as the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, the pine tree forests in Maine, the Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn, and the birds and squirrels in the trees of her own backyard.  She loved the world of Nature in all its forms, and she recognized it as a divine masterpiece.  Several times, when viewing the stars in the night sky, she asked rhetorically, “How can anyone look at all this and not believe in God?”  A poem she wrote captures this thought more artistically:

A precious orb that floats in space

Our Earth’s unique, a special place

Where living things together ride

An enormous carousel, and bide

In a friendly atmosphere

Of rich black loam and water clear,

Of sun and shade and rain and snow,

Miraculous ingredients to make us grow.

Dear Earth, some scientists proclaim

You were thrown from the sun, without aim

Or design, to become by destiny

This wondrous planet, this prodigy.

Are you just a freak in space

Or do you exist through divine grace,

A perfect setting for a priceless gem,

God’s image and likeness—men?[2]

Such was my Mom’s view of the sea, the world, and the cosmos.  They were all the work of the Supreme Creator, and she often expressed her gratitude for the majesty and beauty of his creation.

And so whenever I arrived back home with a bouquet of flowers, Mom saw them, too, as the work of God.  She always remarked on the beauty of their colors and then arranged them in a vase for display.  She always enjoyed these fresh flowers, and she especially enjoyed the fresh sunflowers that summer day five years ago.  No doubt she would have enjoyed the pot of sunflowers that mysteriously appeared on our porch this summer, too.

Now let’s look at some pictures!  First, in this vintage photograph from 1947, we seen my Mom on the right with the radio officer and a fellow passenger aboard the Evangeline of the Eastern Steamship Lines on a voyage from New York to Bermuda and the Bahamas and back.  The ship sailed from New York on Wednesday, July 30, and returned about a week or so later.

Next, we see my parents on the fishing dock at Captree on Thursday, June 25, 2009.  The buoys in the water behind them delineate the State Boat Channel, which leads eastward to the more open waters of the Great South Bay and the Fire Island Inlet.

Here, on her day off, the Moon Chaser reposes at her berth in the Captree Boat Basin on Thursday, 

September 19, 2013.

 

In this lovely view we see the Fire Island Light from the Moon Chaser on Thursday, August 26, 2010.

Finally, the million dollar view.  From the uncrowded, postseason, bathing beach on Fire Island on Thursday, September 19, 2013, we look at the great Atlantic Ocean.  A perfect place to contemplate the divine design of the world and the meaning and purpose of human life.

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[1] John Masefield, “A Wanderer’s Song,” in Salt-Water Ballads, New York: The MacMillan Company, 1913, p. 61; reprinted by Bibliobazaar, n.p., n.d.

[2] Justine Elizabeth Burns, “The Earth,” unpublished poem, one of many in her personal papers.

Escape Fiction

In order to withdraw temporarily from the responsibilities, tensions, and sometimes boredom of everyday life, many people turn to such therapeutic pursuits as light reading, soothing music, or simple daydreaming.  A typical bus or train on its afternoon commuter run is filled with people reading books, listening to music, and staring out the window.  My own withdrawal takes a somewhat different form, but it still works very effectively.

My son Michael often wears a tee shirt bearing the slogan, “Keep calm, and imagine a place.”  Taking this counsel to heart, I not only imagine but remember many places to which I’ve traveled, and in my mind’s eye, I see them again and enjoy the pleasant memories of them.  One spot in particular returns frequently to mind, and I imagine spending a day off from work there.

Located on the North Shore of Long Island, Port Jefferson is a busy and picturesque municipality at one end of a beautiful natural harbor.  Shops, restaurants, a hotel, a park, and the ferry terminal fill the downtown area.  When the ferries are in port, they dominate the skyline and command the town’s attention.  Far larger than everything ashore combined, these vessels, like great works of art, naturally turn the eyes of pedestrians to themselves and compel those passing by to stop and stare at them.  On a busy day these ships arrive and depart hourly.  I’ve watched them for brief periods on a few occasions, but I’ve often thought that I could easily spend an entire day watching them come and go.  Until this opportunity presents itself, however, the thought of such a pleasant day serves as my escape fiction, as temporary relief from “the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread.”[1]

On this imaginary day off, I take the first train to Port Jefferson and arrive at 8:00am.  The station sits a mile and a quarter inland from the waterfront, about 25 minutes’ walk, mostly through a quiet residential neighborhood.  Traveling light, I carry only a small shoulder bag containing my camera, notebook, and picnic lunch.  At the docks, I get comfortable on the wooden pier in front of Danford’s Hotel and Marina and fire up the digital camera.  The Grand Republic is entering Port Jefferson Harbor through the inlet from the sound, and this grand event must be recorded.

On the summer schedule, each one-way voyage across the sound lasts an hour and a quarter.  An arriving vessel docks in Port Jefferson at fifteen minutes before each hour, takes fifteen minutes to offload and backload passengers and vehicles, and then departs on the hour.  In the case of the now arriving Grand Republic, she docks at 8:45am, sails at 9:00am, arrives in Bridgeport at 10:15am, and sails again at 10:30am.  This predictable schedule is followed precisely by the three ferries on the route.  In three hours, then, three different ships arrive at and depart from Port Jefferson, and after that the cycle repeats itself.

The Grand Republic slows as she gracefully approaches the dock.  To further check her progress and ensure a smooth landing, her engines are momentarily reversed, and a churning propeller wash gathers around her stern.  Gently, she touches the dock and is made fast.   With her bow doors now open, the ramp is set in place, and disembarkation begins.  The pier now becomes a beehive of activity.  A steady stream of vehicular traffic spills out of the ship and onto the streets which bear it away.  Pedestrians trailing suitcases on wheels go ashore from the stern gangway and fan out toward waiting taxis and bus stops.  A few cross East Broadway and set out for the railroad station.

When the exodus is complete, the process reverses itself.  The lineup of cars waiting on the pier now snakes its way aboard the ship and disappears into the cavernous cargo bay.  Pedestrians hike up the gangway.  A few moments later passengers gather on the upper decks to soak up the sun and take in the view.  The loading is done quickly and efficiently.  At precisely 9:00am the Grand Republic blows her whistle and backs away from the dock.  Propeller wash again churns up around the stern and along the sides of the ship.  When well clear of the pier, she turns and backs down to starboard.  The engines are now put ahead to propel her forward and to port.  When this maneuver is complete, the Grand Republic settles onto a north-northwesterly heading and proceeds along the channel, through the inlet, and out to the open sound.  Another voyage to Connecticut begins.

Watching the Grand Republic from Danford’s pier, I record her arrival and departure movements with my camera, jot down some observations in my notebook, and review a few points in the company brochure.  Built in 2003 in Florida, the Grand Republic measures 300 feet long by 52 feet wide, carries 120 automobiles and 1,000 passengers, and is the second ship to bear this name.  Her fleet mates, the Park City, named for the City of Bridgeport, and the P.T. Barnum, named for the circus entrepreneur who was also the first president of the ferry line, date to 1986 and 1998, respectively.  The P.T. Barnum matches the Grand Republic in dimensions and capacity.  The Park City, however, is slightly smaller at 280 feet in length and 47 feet in beam with a capacity of 95 vehicles and 1,000 passengers.[2]

Looking up again, I see the Park City herself now coming through the inlet.  As she slows and enters the sheltered harbor, I begin a new series of photographs and record this second arrival, discharge, reload, and departure sequence of the day.  In the fifteen minutes allotted for the task, the exchange of passengers and vehicles is completed.  Then, starting at precisely 10:00am, the Park City blows her whistle, backs away from the pier, and maneuvers her way across the harbor and through the inlet, bound once more for Connecticut.

The Park City is followed soon afterwards by the P.T. Barnum.  This third arrival, cargo handling, and departure cycle runs as smoothly and efficiently as the first two, and at 11:00am the P.T. Barnum begins her return voyage to Connecticut.  With the three ships of the fleet now come and gone in under three hours in the bright summer sunshine and photographed on their port bows and starboard quarters, it’s been richly rewarding morning.  Now it’s time for lunch.

Retiring to the small waterfront park in front of Danford’s Hotel, I pause at the statue of the merchant seaman that gazes seaward.  Few such likenesses of merchant seamen exist, and that makes this one all the more special.  On the statue’s pedestal John Masefield’s famous lines are inscribed:

I must [go] down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied.[3]

It’s always refreshing to know that someone else feels the same way about the sea as I do!

From the park I cross over to the ferry terminal building.  Finding it surprisingly quiet inside, I take a seat by one of the large windows that face seaward and eat my lunch as the Grand Republic returns to port.  She repeats the same sequence of arrival, cargo handling, and departure of three hours ago.  While splurging on chocolate ice cream for dessert, I make some notes in my book and photograph this grand ship from her starboard side, a different perspective from earlier today.  Then, with a noon blast on her whistle, she heads out once more for Connecticut.

I head out, too, for the nearby wooden dock of the Port Jefferson Marina, just to the west of the ferry pier.  From this new vantage point, I observe and photograph the arrivals and departures of the Park City and the P.T. Barnum with the new starboard bow perspective.  Next, the cycle begins anew with the return of the Grand Republic, now at close to 3:00pm.   The Park City and the P.T. Barnum come and go again, too, an hour and two hours later.  I move among a few viewing points in this time to get pictures of the ships from several angles.  Finally, with the P.T. Barnum passing through the inlet and sailing for Connecticut again shortly after 5:00pm, I reluctantly decide that it’s time to walk back to the railroad station.      

On the leisurely half-hour hike to the station, I contemplate the course of the day: three ships, nine arrivals and departures, excellent photographic opportunities, beautiful sunny and warm weather, and uninterrupted peace and quiet in a lovely little seaport where the land, sea, and sky converge harmoniously to inspire the mind and soothe the soul.  Port Jefferson proves to be the perfect place to spend an idle but productive day.  I learned this principle from the Italians in my Rigel and Waccamaw days.  The sweetness of doing nothing—dolce far niente—but spending the time well, even constructively and for a higher purpose.

I leave Port Jefferson on the train at 6:00pm.  The ride westward toward the city is pleasant but anticlimactic.  At some point along the way, I leave the realm of escape fiction and return to the workaday world and its daily grind.  My boss calls over to me.  It’s almost time to punch out and go home, he tells me, and then he asks if I’ve done everything on the list.  The day has gone by quickly!

Some well-meaning folks may chide me for my idle thoughts and seeming inattention to my work,  but I would counter with the classical Jewish teaching that holds:

the Lord searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts: if thou seek him, he will be found of thee (1 Chron. 28:9).

I have long sought the Lord in both the vast reaches and the coastal shallows of the sea, and he has always been there for me.  Furthermore, he invites all of us:

Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you; seek me diligently and ye shall find me (D&C 88:63).

Whether aboard a ship at sea, along the harbor front, or in the memory and imagination of these locales, our thoughts, intentions, and spiritual yearnings are known to God, and he abides with us wherever and however we seek him.

Now for some photographs taken on real days off!  We start at the railroad station, where Port Jefferson's heritage of the sea is commemorated by the weather vane on the cupola.  This picture was taken on Friday, August 27, 2010.

Next we go to the wooden dock at Danford's Hotel and Marina.  This structure serves as an observation platform when we watch the fleet's arrivals and departures.  This view at low tide is from the stern of the Park City on Monday, September 11, 2013.

So close to the action!  In this sequence of photographs we witness the arrival of the Grand Republic on Friday, August 27, 2010.

 

 

Between ferries on the same day, we visit the park in front of Danford's Hotel.  This statue of a merchant seaman overlooks the waterfront.  I'm very pleased that Port Jefferson honors its maritime heritage and my chosen profession with this likeness of a young man of the sea.

 

Returning now to the fleet, we see traffic waiting to board the P. T. Barnum on Tuesday, May 27, 2013.

 

Finally, my favorite sequence of photographs.  The Park City backs away from her dock, turns around, and begins her voyage overseas to Connecticut on Wednesday, August 2, 2017.

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[1] Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1899, p. 6.

[2] Information from The Bridgeport and Port Jefferson Steamboat Company, available online at www.88844ferry.com.

[3] John Masefield, “Sea Fever,” in Salt-Water Ballads, New York: The MacMillan Company, 1913, p. 59; reprinted by BiblioBazaar, LLC., n.p., n.d.  My mother, a career educator in East Meadow, Long Island, taught this poem in several of her junior high school English literature classes.