Watching the Waves

A very long time ago, in the 1950s and 1960s, my family vacationed in Falmouth on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.  Many New Yorkers flocked to Cape Cod every summer in search of peace and quiet, rest and relaxation, and uncrowded beaches.  My parents and grandparents rented a cottage within easy walking distance of the beach on Vineyard Sound, and the six of us, including my brother and myself, stayed there for a couple of weeks every summer for several years.  I was very young then, so I remember these vacations rather vaguely.  What I remember better is my parents’ and grandparents’ subsequent reminiscences of these happy times.

 

Since then, I’ve scarcely given Cape Cod a thought, until quite recently.  A few years ago, in September of 2015, Miss Patty and I had some family history business in southeastern Massachusetts, and when we had finished up in Buzzards Bay, we drove across the Bourne Bridge to the Cape on the spur of the moment.  On this impulsive sojourn, we visited the historical society in Woods Hole and the lighthouse at Nobska Point.  Favorably impressed, we agreed that we must return sometime for a longer duration.

 

This second and extended visit to Cape Cod took place last month, five years after the first.  In three days we combined additional family history research with quiet moments at the waterfront  Returning to Nobska Point on Tuesday morning, September 15, we took in the magnificent view of Vineyard Sound, the island of Martha’s Vineyard beyond, and the ferries Island Home and Martha’s Vineyard plying their routes between the mainland and the island.  A pristine and peaceful location, Nobska Point silently invited us to linger and leave behind the cares and concerns of the world.  This we could not do completely, however, as the site was tinged with tragedy.  A bronze and stone monument surrounded by flowers and American flags commemorated the untimely death of Nellie Anne Hellernan Casey, a local resident who was killed in the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001.  Very sad, of course, but also very fitting.  The view of the sea beyond the memorial bespoke the necessary existence of a supreme Creator-God, and his revelation of the eternal Gospel gave assurance that his omnibenevolence would ultimately and inevitably prevail.  An atmosphere of peace and serenity thus surrounded the site

 

I could have gladly spent most of the day at Nobska Point, basking in its quiet beauty and peacefulness .  The strong, late summer Sun was becoming too much for Miss Patty, however, and we had additional ground to cover, too, so we needed to move on.        

 

Mid-day found us briefly in Hyannis, visiting the John F. Kennedy Memorial that overlooked the port.  Another beautiful site tinged with sadness, it also spoke silently of the Divine and exuded a sublime serenity.  In the distance, the ferry Eagle sailed across the placid surface of Hyannis Harbor as she departed for Nantucket, asserting thereby that despite tragedy, the voyage of life would always continue. 

 

These two spiritual havens on the Cape Cod seashore testified quietly of the Lord’s plan for his people, even in the face of tragedy.  The scriptural admonition to “let your hearts be comforted” came to mind, “for all flesh is in mine hands; be still and know that I am God” (D&C 101:16).. 

 

I have long thought of God in seafaring terms, as the Master and Chief Engineer of the universe.  Recognizing him thus as the supreme authority has enabled me, when considering events too monstrous for the human mind’s limited understanding, to accept what he said through the prophet Isaiah: “as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts” (Isa. 55:9).  This counsel, coupled with the knowledge that we all came into this imperfect world to grow through experience and prepare for life in the perfect world hereafter, has given me a better understanding of the human condition and its ultimate purpose.

 

The next day, Wednesday the 16^th, we needed to leave Cape Cod and return home to Nashua.  Not too early, though, for I was in no hurry to pry myself away from the seashore.  That morning, I arose before dawn and made the twenty minutes’ walk from the motel to the beach on Vineyard Sound.  Few people were out and about at that time of day, so I had the waterfront almost entirely to myself.  Sitting on a park bench and facing seaward, I spent an hour and more in the gradually growing daylight feeling the onshore breeze and watching the waves wash up on the sand and then recede.  I would have been happy to remain there all morning.  Watching the waves has always helped me to feel at peace in an often unpeaceful world.

 

Additionally, as I gazed seaward I thought of the family vacations of so many years ago.  The cluster of nearby cottages where we had stayed was now mostly gone.  For a moment I wondered if my parents and grandparents, all of them now gone as well, could see me back at the beach where we used to go swimming.  After nearly six decades, I had returned to Cape Cod and rediscovered its peace and quiet, its rest and relaxation, and its uncrowded beaches.  A perfect setting for a memorable spiritual experience!

 

Now I would like to share a few photographs.  This first one shows yours truly at the age of two and a half on the beach in Falmouth in the summer of 1960.  Six decades ago now!

 

Fifty-five years later, on Saturday, September 19, 2015, we see the Nobska Light at Nobska Point in Falmouth:

 

On the same day, looking seaward from Nobska Point, we watch as the ferry Island Home approaches the terminal in nearby Woods Hole at the end of her voyage from Martha’s Vineyard:

 

Same ship; different day.  Here the Island Home sails in the opposite direction, toward Martha’s Vineyard, on Tuesday, September 15, 2020:

 

Same day; different ship.  I’m not entirely certain, but I believe this is the Martha’s Vineyard, returning from her namesake island and bound for Woods Hole:

 

Next, we view with sadness the monument to the local victim of the terrorist attack of nineteen years ago:

 

Now in Hyannis later on the same day, we visit the memorial to President John F. Kennedy.  Hyannis Harbor fills the background beyond the fountain and plaza:

 

Finally, watching from the JFK plaza, we view the ferry Eagle leaving Hyannis and beginning her voyage to Nantucket:

 

Set in Stone

This past summer Miss Patty gave me a book.  This gift did not mark any special occasion such as a birthday or anniversary, so it arrived unexpectedly.  She had found it at a local bargain shop, thought that I would like it, and then surprised me with it.  For two reasons, I liked it very much, and so I was pleased to receive it and add it to my library.  First, it concerned a sublime and uplifting subject, and second, it brought back memories of a special event that had taken place during my time aboard the Rigel in the Mediterranean.

 

The Rigel sailed from Norfolk, Virginia, on Tuesday, May 22, 1979, with me on board as a brand new third mate.   She transited the Strait of Gibraltar during the midnight hours of Saturday, June   2, and docked in Malaga, Spain, the following morning.  She then spent the summer hauling military cargo around the Mediterranean.  A busy ship with a crowded itinerary, the Rigel made many short voyages and visited many ports.  Opportunities to go ashore and see the sights abounded, but usually for only brief intervals.  Occasionally, an exception arose, and one of these yielded an especially remarkable experience.  Over the weekend of June 16 and 17, the ship rested idly at the Stazione Maritima in Napoli.  With no work to be done other than basic watch standing, most of the crew seized the opportunity to enjoy a weekend off in sunny Italy.  Early on Saturday morning, then, four of us boarded a train at the big Neapolitan station and set out for Rome.  On arrival at Roma Termini, we took a taxi to the Hotel Bramante on the Vicolo delle Palline, a quiet side street near the Vatican.

 

Long acknowledged as one of the premiere cities of the world, Rome was a truly fascinating place.  Saturated with centuries of history, magnificent art and architecture, and of course, Christianity, the eternal city offered more to see and do than we could possibly fit into one short weekend.  Undaunted, though, we took in as much as we could in the limited time that we had.  On Sunday evening, we returned to Roma Termini and took the last train back to Napoli.  Monday morning found us all back at work aboard the Rigel.

 

Of all the artistic treasures in Rome, one marble statue in particular stood out because of its tremendous beauty and simplicity and its unique historical and spiritual significance.  This was Michelangelo’s masterpiece, the Pietà.  Perhaps the best known and most admired statue in all Christendom, the Pietà caught my attention, drew me into itself, and held me there for a very long time.  It stood silent and sublime, radiating spiritualty and witnessing to the atoning sacrifice of the Savior and the eternal truth of the Gospel.  A reverent isolation surrounded the statue, which was remarkable in a building otherwise filled with visitors.  I thus gazed in quiet solitude at the Pietà and studied it undisturbed from every angle.  Even my shipmates had disappeared for a while and left me to experience the Pietà on my own.  

 

And what an experience it was!  The Pietà appeared so life-like that I had to remind myself that it was, in fact, marble.  Mere words in pedestrian English cannot describe the marble Pietà’s ability to convey human emotion, to speak silently to the human heart, and to testify infallibly of the divine work of salvation for all people.  For me, it was simply an ineffable experience that left little to say but so very much to quietly contemplate.  Forty-one years afterwards, I found these lines in the book that Miss Patty gave me sufficient to the occasion:

 

There is so much in the Pietà that if you lived a thousand years and

wrote a thousand books you can never express it.  In other words,

there is a divine quality in it.  It must have been inspired, because

how could a boy, twenty-four years old, create a work like that?

You can’t imagine how.  It was a special grace from God.  It is true,

he had to be an artist, but art alone could not have made the Pietà

 

The Pietà transforms you inwardly.  A prayerful spirit comes over

you.  It changes people.[1]

 

This book, a collection of photographs with only limited text, contained striking black-and-white images of the Pietà which were so detailed and life-like that studying them almost became a second visit to the statue.  Thus, the inward transformation and change wrought by the Pietà were renewed, resulting in a second epiphany.  Beyond acknowledging this, any attempt to express something so supernal in human language would prove meaningless.

 

And so I returned to my ship, changed and transformed.  The Rigel remained busy in Napoli for a week.  She loaded and discharged cargo, shifted berths twice, and finally sailed for Souda Bay, Greece, on Saturday, June 23.  She returned to Napoli several weeks later, but without the leisure time for a second Roman holiday.  A unique opportunity at the time, my weekend in Rome and experience of the Pietà is now a treasured memory, and my new book of Pietà photographs helps me to remember and relive this special occasion.

 

While I was in Rome, I bought two postcard depictions of the Pietà.  These are much better quality than any pictures that I could have taken, but still only a substitute for actually seeing the statue.  Nonetheless, I’m happy to share them here: 

 

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[1] Charles Rich, quoted in Robert Hupka, Michelangelo Pietà, New York: Crown Publishers, Inc., 1975, p. 80.

The Seas of Tranquility

This past summer our home city of Nashua undertook two noteworthy construction projects.  One involved the tearing up and repaving of Pennichuck Street, which provided an excitement and entertainment extravaganza for the grandchildren.  The other was the rebuilding of the boat ramp near Greeley Park.  This primitive facility, located in the woods at the end of a badly beaten up dirt road, has long enabled recreational boaters to launch trailered boats into the Merrimack River.  This  year the launching ramp was rebuilt with better materials, the access road and parking area, though still dirt, were enlarged and improved, and a small trash dumpster and porta-potty were added  Otherwise, it remained a bare bones set-up, with no electricity, no illumination, and no running water. 

 

Situated within the city limits yet far from the madding crowds of busy streets and noisy neighborhoods, the boat ramp had an atmosphere of peace and quiet in the early mornings and thus offered a respite from the commotion and confusion of life.  Located about a mile from our house, it lay within easy walking distance along the largely untrafficked Boston and Maine Railroad and dirt access road.  I went there once or twice each week, and I always arrived in the pre-dawn darkness, well in advance of the boaters.

Perched in quiet solitude on a large rock or fallen tree trunk, I gazed eastward and watched the dawn break over the farmland of neighboring Litchfield.  The only artificial lights came from a farm house directly across the river and from a residential neighborhood a mile downstream.  Otherwise, Nature lit the scene with several stars, the occasional Moon, and the soon-to-emerge Sun.  The scattered clouds reflected the Sun’s light in pink, orange, and purple, and these colors were in turn reflected on the unrippled surface of the river.  With its water as flat and undisturbed as a mill pond, the Merrimack, like a mirror, reflected all the colors of the sky above and the rows of trees along its banks.  As the light grew brighter and culminated in sunrise, the effect was sublime and spiritual.  The still small voice carried clearly through the cool dawn air over the tranquil Merrimack, and this pristine natural setting became supernatural.  A perfect way to start the day! 

I usually had at least half an hour before the first boaters arrived and broke the silence.  In this interval my mind wandered to other locales of peace and quiet and solitude.  I have known several such places over the years, but here at the boat ramp one in particular stood out in memory, and my wandering mind eventually settled on it. 

The South Atlantic between South America and Africa is a calm, quiet, and lonely ocean.  There has long been commerce on it, of course, mostly between the European nations and their former colonies, but this has never rivaled the volumes of traffic that have plied the North Atlantic.  Ships would go for many, many days without seeing another vessel on the South Atlantic. Vast stretches of this great sea have always been and still remain isolated from the outside world.  For the seaman  who likes solitude and wants to make a quiet voyage on a calm sea with mild weather, the South Atlantic is the ocean of choice. 

My first encounter with the South Atlantic occurred not aboard ship, but on an airplane.  In the mid-afternoon of Wednesday, September 12, 1979, and accompanied by five other crewmen, I left Patrick Air Force Base near Melbourne, Florida, aboard a military cargo aircraft bound for Ascension Island, The airplane made a stop for dinner and refueling at Antigua, and then travelled overnight across the equator to Ascension, arriving early in the morning on Thursday the 13^th.

A British colonial outpost located at 7° 56’ south latitude and 14° 25’ west longitude, Ascension Island was a dormant volcanic mountain used mostly for military purposes by both the United Kingdom and the United States.  It was also a port of call for the range instrumentation vessel General Hoyt S. Vandenberg, which my five new colleagues and I joined when she arrived from Recife, Brazil, on Saturday, the 15th.  The ship anchored off Georgetown, the main settlement, in the late morning.  We and several pallets of freight and provisions were delivered alongside in a cargo launch at 1:00pm.  Four hours later, the Vandenberg weighed anchor and got underway again. 

The two and a half days of enforced leisure while waiting for the ship on Ascension Island had not been popular with all of the new crewmen.  I rather liked it, though.  Ascension had a nice library, great food, unique scenery, and enticing beaches.  We were free to roam pretty much as we wished, and I naturally gravitated toward the beach.  I was all set to jump into the beautifully inviting, clear, warm water of the South Atlantic, when a hammerhead shark appeared right in front of me.  I quickly changed my mind about going swimming! 

After two and a half days, though, it felt good to see the Vandenberg arrive.  I needed to be going somewhere, getting on with my career, upgrading my license, and so on.  These things were very important to me then.  And so that Saturday evening, with the ship on a southeasterly heading and making about eleven knots, I stood my first 8 to 12 watch as the new third mate. 

The Vandenberg headed for a special operations area a few hundred miles off the coast of South Africa and arrived there on Sunday, September 23.  She remained on station there until Thursday the 27^th, and then proceeded to another special operations area in mid-ocean, about a thousand miles south of Ascension Island.  On station at this new site from Monday, October 1, through Friday the 5^th,  she then returned briefly to Ascension on Tuesday the 9th.  I reached the ripe old age of 22 at sea on Sunday the 7^th. 

To call this voyage peaceful and quiet would be a masterpiece of understatement.  In this entire time, the Vandenberg came upon one other ship and sighted one island, Saint Helena, on radar.  Otherwise, this large tract of the South Atlantic remained devoid of human intrusion.  In addition, the weather was consistently mild with warm air, excellent visibility, a  mostly clear sky, and a calm sea.  After spending the summer aboard the Rigel in the hustle and bustle of the Mediterranean, this voyage on the placid and remote South Atlantic seemed like a vacation!

Since the Vandenberg provided such an easy life, and since I was young and ambitious, I used this leisure time for professional development.  On the 8 to 12 morning watches, I took hourly sun lines, worked up running fixes, calculated local apparent noon, and worked out a latitude by meridian altitude.  On the 8 to 12 evening watches, I studied the constellations of the Southern Hemisphere and selected the Southern Cross as my favorite.  Frequently around dinner time, I returned to the bridge to observe the green flash at sunset.  In my off-duty hours, I studied oceanography and meteorology, particularly ocean current circulation, surface wind patterns, and tropical cyclone formation.  Even though my third mate’s license was only five months old, it was never too early to prepare for the next round of exams for the second mate’s license.  For more recreational reading, I had brought along a history of Christianity. 

During this voyage in the South Atlantic, the Vandenberg carried a contingent of technicians who worked with sophisticated electronic equipment in carrying out the ship’s national defense mission for the federal government.  We Merchant Marine crewmen sailed the ship for them and took them where they needed to go.  When the ship arrived back at Ascension Island at 6:00am on Tuesday, October 9, the technicians’ work in the South Atlantic was finished.  On sailing again that afternoon, the Vandenberg went north to Monrovia, Liberia, and arrived for a weekend visit early on Friday the 12^th.   Along the way, she crossed the equator and left the South Atlantic behind. 

I, too, left the South Atlantic behind and returned only twice, in February and May of 2016.  I did not join a ship on these occasions, but traveled to Brazil to visit my daughter and newborn granddaughter.  I encountered the South Atlantic fleetingly from airplanes, from the coast road on the east side of Salvador, and from the lighthouse and promenade at the southern tip of Salvador. About 400 miles up the coast stood Recife, the city where my daughter was married in July of 2014 and the port from which the Vandenberg had sailed for Ascension Island 35 years previously.  After such a long time, it felt wonderful to gaze upon this magnificent sea of tranquility again.  I could have remained at the South Atlantic oceanfront indefinitely, but the baby needed attention. 

I thought I could have remained at the Nashua boat ramp indefinitely, too.  But after the Sun rose over the Merrimack River, this inland sea of tranquility always lost some of its idyllic peacefulness when the first boaters arrived and noisily launched their boats and revved their engines.  At this point, it was time to walk home again.  A busy day awaited me there, a day filled with household chores, tumultuous street repairs, and very excited grandchildren.

No matter how busy and tumultuous the day, however, my dawn retreats at the waterfront  enabled me to “Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence,”[1] and thereby to “be at peace with God.”[2]

 

Next, I am happy to present two photographs of the South Atlantic from our family archives.  In the first, we see Ascension Island, including the principal settlement of Georgetown.  I took this picture on Saturday, September 15, 1979, from the starboard bridge wing of the General Hoyt S, Vandenberg.  I thought that I might never return to this uniquely beautiful island, so I seized the opportunity and took several photographs of it.

In the second picture, taken four decades later on Monday, March 30, 2020,, the majestic South Atlantic Ocean stretches out to the horizon from the beach and lighthouse of Itapuã on the east side of Salvador, Bahia, Brazil.  My daughter took this photograph, which features my granddaughter Miss Lydia Elizabeth gazing seaward from the beach.  Such attraction to the ocean seems to run in the family!

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[1] Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata,” 1927, found at www.desiderata.com. 

[2] Ibid.

Sailing Away

The cable ship Furman rested at her dock at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Kittery, Maine, on Saturday morning, March 15, 1986.  Two tugboats nuzzled alongside her forward and aft and waited patiently as the old ship prepared to get underway and go to sea.  Wisps of black smoke curled upward form her single stack into the gray overcast and light rain.  The deck crew hauled in the gangway and the mooring lines, and then the tugs tooted their whistles in response to the pilot’s commands.  Underway now on the Piscataqua River, the Furman eased away from the Navy Yard and headed downstream and seaward, bound for Guam.

 

Miss Patty and I watched the Furman’s departure from Prescott Park, on the opposite shore of the Piscataqua in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  I had served aboard this ship from June 10, 1985, to February 11, 1986.  Most of this time had been spent slowly loading cable at the Simplex Wire and Cable Company pier in Newington, New Hampshire, a few miles upstream from Portsmouth.  This process was interrupted several times by visits to the Navy Yard and by sea trials following some engine room repairs.  When all of this was finished, a largely new crew came aboard to take the ship out to sea.

 

During her long visit to the Portsmouth area, the Furman served as a convalescent ship.  Several of us in the crew were recovering from serious illnesses, and this was a pleasant and non-strenuous job.  Many, like myself, lived nearby and commuted.  The Furman was a good ship in a nice port close to home, and so she grew on me.  I was sorry to see her sail away without me on that rainy Ides of March.

 

Memories of the Furman and my association with her have occupied my mind recently.  As I often do when such thoughts linger, I started composing an essay discussing the ship, my time on board, and her subsequent departure.  I had recorded some interesting information with detailed descriptions, and then disaster struck.  By accidentally clicking the wrong thing on the computer, my essay was in one split second deleted forever.   All attempts to recover the prose failed, and I had to accept the unpleasant fact that my composition, like  the Furman herself, was irretrievably gone.  How could such a thing happen?  Quite easily.  I’ve never been very comfortable with computers.  Instead, I’ve always felt more at home communing with the Cosmos by gazing into the heavens and taking navigational sights from the bridge wing of a ship at sea.

 

But not all was lost.  Several photographs of the Furman remained.  Kept in a separate file, these were unaffected by the fate that befell the essay.  So while I am unable to reconstruct my original writing, I am happy to present the pictures with some explanatory notes.

These first two photographs feature the Furman at the Simplex Wire and Cable Company pier in Newington, in July of 1985.  In the first, we are looking forward from the starboard bridge wing, and we see the foredeck and bow of the ship.  The metal channel that runs along the starboard deck edge is a guideway through which the cable traveled when it was being loaded into the cargo holds.

Next, from the after end of the midships house, we see the stern section and the somewhat makeshift gangway. 

Several months later, in February of 1986, and with the Furman realigned at the pier, we enjoy from shoreside a view of the ship from the midships house aft.

Now, from the stern of the Furman on a cold morning that same February, we watch the Sun rise over Kittery, Maine.  The steel arch bridge carries Interstate 95 over the Piscatqua between Maine and New Hampshire.

Departure day, Saturday, March 15, 1986.  With tugboats in position forward and aft, the Furman prepares to leave her berth at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Kittery.  This view and the one following were taken from Prescot Park, across the river in Portsmouth.

 

Underway and outward bound in this broadside view, the Furman departs from the Navy Yard.

Finally, the Furman heads out to sea in this view taken from Fort Constitution, downstream in New Castle, New Hampshire.    Off the ship’s port side stands Whaleback Light in Kittery, one of the two lighthouses that mark the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor.