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 Dawn's Early Light

The Rigel was steaming northward along the west coast of Italy early in the morning on Saturday, August 11, 1979.  She was bound for Napoli and would soon pass between the Italian mainland and the resort island of Capri.  After that, she would head for the pilot station, enter the harbor, and be docked by breakfast time.  A day of noise and commotion on the industrial waterfront was sure to follow.  For now, though, the peace and quiet and beauty of the Mediterranean prevailed.  The Sun showered soft light down upon the Rigel from over the Italian hills; altocumulus clouds billowed over Capri; and wisps of haze gave way to an azure sky that crowned the dark blue water.   

The 4:00 to 8:00 watch in the morning was my favorite watch.  It started in darkness and then became twilight gradually increasing in luminosity until the Sun rose and the day officially began.  The growing light always cast the sea and sky in the most beautiful colors, as if it were all a great work of art in progress.  When far enough out at sea, I would take several star sights during the twilight and plot the ship’s position.  Then, when the Sun emerged on the horizon, I would take an amplitude and use this to check the gyrocompass error.  Along the Italian coast this morning, I used compass bearings and radar ranges of prominent landmarks and lighthouses.  It was a wonderful job.  I always enjoyed my navigational work, and I loved the majestic beauty that surrounded me.

Whether at sea or ashore, the early morning has long been my favorite time of day.  The growing daylight breathes new life into the mostly still sleeping world. The quiet is undisturbed by human activity and pleasantly punctuated by the cheerful music of birds.  The air feels cool and clean and fresh.  The sea, the sky, the trees, and the buildings radiate soft and supernal colors.  Then the Sun rises.  Thus inaugurated, the new day brings a new beginning and new opportunities.  As the Psalmist notes, “joy cometh in the morning” (Ps. 30:5). 

I have witnessed the sublime change from night to day countless times aboard several ships in various parts of the world, though mostly in the Mediterranean and Caribbean, and the experience was always exhilarating and inspiring.  In the years since my sailing career, Miss Patty and I have taken the children to the seaside at dawn or shortly thereafter numerous times.  They’ve watched the new day begin  in Brooklyn, New York, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but their favorite location for daybreak was Eastport, Maine, where the Sun rose over neighboring Campobello Island at about 3:15am in late June.  They were awestruck by the combined effects of the summer solstice and the time zone boundary.

I also rise early when working on projects in the house and yard.  The cool, fresh air and the soft light of dawn are particularly conducive to such quiet jobs as painting and landscaping.  With the neighborhood at its tranquil best and the only sound that of the chirping birds, and with no interruptions from other people, I feel close to Nature and accomplish more than at any other time of day, even with my thoughts wandering back to the morning watch aboard the Rigel or the Waccamaw or the Bartlett.

My most memorable dawn experiences of recent years took place after the birth of our granddaughter, Miss Lydia Elizabeth.  In February and again in May of 2016, I traveled to Miss Lydia’s home in distant Alagoinhas, twelve degrees south of the equator in Brazil, and stayed for a week on both occasions.  When the baby slept past sunrise, so did her busy parents.  From long custom, however, I rose early.  Seizing the opportunity afforded by the still sleeping baby, I retired to the front porch with a book.  By the dawn’s early light and in the warm tropical air I read Saint Augustine’s Confessions in February and John Gunther’s Death Be Not Proud in May.  As I read, the Sun rose over the Brazilian hills in the east, the neighbor’s rooster crowed occasionally, and two men with a horse-drawn cart came down the cobblestone street and collected the recycling.  Local color combined with astronomy and “the best books” (D&C 88:118) to create beautiful and memorable mornings.  Then Miss Lydia woke up and summoned everyone to her crib.

More typically, during the spring and summer months, I watch the dawn and the sunrise from the parking lot where I now work.  It’s not the same as being at sea, but it is very pleasant to see the dawn develop into full daylight as the Sun rises from behind the trees that rim the sea of pavement that is not yet filled with parked cars.  A sublime start to a pedestrian workday.  As I watch this daily miracle, I am physically present but mentally absent.  In my mind’s eye I see myself aboard ship again, noting the time of sunrise and calculating the gyrocompass error, undisturbed by others and surrounded as always by the majestic beauty of the sea and sky.  I think of the Master and Chief Engineer of the universe and remember his assertion, “He that seeketh me early shall find me” (D&C 88:83).

Now for some dawn photography.  I only wish that I had taken more pictures than I did!

Two views of Capri on the port side of the Rigel as she sails toward Napoli early in the morning of Saturday, August 11, 1979.  Note the early morning mist and the towering altocumulus clouds.

The Rigel as seen from the Wilkes early in the morning of Monday, October 27, 1980.  The Wilkes was docked at the Moon Engineering Company berth in Norfolk, Virginia.  The Rigel was heading up the Elizabeth river to a shipyard closer to downtown Norfolk.  Despite the blurriness, we can see from the waterline just how light the Rigel is in preparation for her overhaul.

Looking east from Eastport, Maine, shortly after 3:00am on Monday, June 23, 2003.  The Sun is about to rise over Campobello Island in New Brunswick, and the dawn's early light is reflected on the calm surface of Passamaquoddy Bay.  A magnificently beautiful location, the picture scarcely does it justice.

 

 

Two views of the front porch of Miss Lydia's house on Rua H in Alagoinhas, Bahia, Brazil.  Here in the warm tropical dawn I sought to improve my mind by reading two of the world's classics while waiting for the new baby to wake up for the day.

The Meeting of the Mates

Such a rendezvous seemed more typically the stuff of spy stories and mystery novels than the activity of retired merchant seamen.  Two middle age men, who had met briefly three decades earlier and who would not recognize each other today, were both traveling to a prearranged meeting point in midtown Manhattan for a discussion over dinner.  The thought of it made me smile, and also remember the first James Bond book that I had read many years ago.  It was You Only Live Twice, by Ian Fleming.  I bought this book in a small shop on a side street in Napoli not far from the Stazione Maritima when the Rigel was docked there one day in the summer of 1979.  Subsequently, I read all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories aboard ship.  At the time, I considered this to be an important part of my education in the humanities.

Silly thoughts like these filled my mind on Monday, March 28, 2016, as I rode the train westward from Mineola into Manhattan.  More seriously, I wondered how we would recognize each other after so many years.  For this purpose, I wore my Waccamaw hat, something I don’t often do.  I had previously lost my Furman hat, and I did not want to risk losing another irreplaceable item of memorabilia.  But today was a special occasion.  Arriving in Penn Station, I disembarked and walked the short distance to our meeting point, the Rare Bar & Grill at 152 West 26^th Street, just off Seventh Avenue.  I paused at the big sign in front.  After a quick exchange of text messages, my friend emerged from the restaurant and invited me inside.  Rendezvous accomplished.

Walter Burke and I had last met 32 years earlier aboard the oceanographic survey ship Bartlett in Port Everglades when I relieved him as second mate.

On Friday, October 12, 1984, I departed from La Guardia Airport in New York aboard an Eastern Airlines A-300 and flew over the Atlantic Ocean to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  It was an uneventful nonstop flight, and it landed at the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport on time at 3:00pm.  Boots James, a former shipmate from the Waccamaw who was now posted aboard the Bartlett, met me at the airport and drove me to the ship in a rental car.  The Bartlett rested alongside the wharf on the east side of the Port Everglades basin and adjacent to Burt and Jack’s, the famous high-style restaurant that overlooked the harbor.  I had a 45-days-old chief mate’s license, and I felt very fortunate to be getting a job as second mate so soon after passing the license exams.

Once aboard the Bartlett I was duly logged in and introduced to the shipboard luminaries.  Captain Kim L. Giaccardo was the Master.  Richard Carlson was chief mate.  Walter Burke was second mate.  Joe Bogusis was third mate.  Boots James was the purser.  Walter had been on board for a year and had travelled to South America and back.  Soon he would head home while I took his place.  I spent Friday afternoon and a large part of Saturday with Walter.  He showed me around the ship, told me what my new job would be like, and introduced me to everyone else on board.  It was a very pleasant occasion, filled with good food, amiable conversation, and high hopes for the future.   

Five days earlier, I had reached the age of 27.  I had just under three years left to achieve my goal of receiving the Master’s license before turning 30.  Despite the gradually deteriorating employment situation in the Merchant Marine, the future looked bright enough for me to have every expectation of realizing my goal.  To this end, I planned to remain aboard the Bartlett for a good long time and possibly relieve Mr. Carlson as chief mate when he went home on vacation.  If someone with prophetic capabilities had told me then how the future would really turn out, I daresay I would have dismissed his predictions as sheer nonsense.

My time with Walter was limited to these two days.  Then he left for his vacation.  He and I had crossed paths once previously.  When I had joined the Waccamaw in Augusta Bay, Sicily, in June of 1982, Walter was third mate on the Rigel with my classmate Owen Clarke as chief mate and Captain Rigobello as Master.  The two ships were tied up directly across the pier from each other, which made for easy visiting.  This served as a common memory for us during our brief acquaintance on the Bartlett.  Then, with the business of relieving him concluded, Walter went his way and I went mine.  I spent the next five and a half months as second mate aboard the Bartlett.  The ship made oceanographic survey voyages in the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico.  Besides Fort Lauderdale, the ship made port calls in Key West, Florida, and Gulfport, Mississippi.  After experiencing some initial nervousness about beginning a new assignment, I became quite comfortable in my position.  The Bartlett was a good ship with a good crew, and I enjoyed sailing on her.  Now, many years later, I have happy memories of this time.

Such memories were what brought Walter and me together again.  Discussing the good old days at first via email, we found much common ground.  In many cases we had sailed on the same ships with the same Masters and the same mates, but at different times.  We had never sailed together, and our paths crossed only twice.  Like me, Walter had served aboard the Mercury, the Rigel, the Kane, and the Saturn.  Additionally, he had sailed aboard the Vega and the Truckee, two that I had missed.  He had also sailed with several of the great men of the fleet, including Captain Rigobello, Captain Iaccabacci, and the tragically late Captain Linardich.  And finally, we had both sailed aboard the Bartlett, one after another, with the now also sadly deceased Captain Giaccardo.

Unlike me, Walter had left the shipping business voluntarily in 1986 to pursue his second career on Wall Street.  I hung on to the end, when my illness and the failing job market combined to put me ashore in search of my own second career.  Now our ships are gone, many of our shipmates are gone, and our company headquarters in Bayonne is also gone.  But the memories remain.  And so, over a sumptuous dinner in a quiet corner of the Rare Bar and Grill in midtown Manhattan, we shared our memories and reminisced about the good old days.

They really were good days, too, although I recognize that more now than I did at the time.  Ironically, with the deteriorating vision that accompanies middle age, hindsight becomes twenty-twenty.  With this clear retrospective, Walter and I ate and talked.  The recollections transported us back through time and across the seas.  We talked of voyages we had made, places we had visited, colleagues we had known, and ambitions we had shared.  The people, the places, and the ships sailed back and forth across the table.  Two men in their fifties, who had known each other only slightly when in their twenties and who had not spoken to each other in three decades, discussed enough to fill a book.

We talked about coming ashore, our second careers, our families, and our homes.  Like so many of our shipmates, we had made the transition from the sea to the shore and had done well in our new professions.  We discussed the sad times, too.  Walter had been at work on Wall Street during the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in 2001. We also mourned the loss of the freighter El Faro and her crew in 2015.  Graduates of both our schools lost their lives in this tragedy.

One thing which in hindsight particularly impressed us was the level of responsibility that we had borne aboard ship.  Our employer placed great faith in us and in many other young mates just like us.  We were so young then, not long out of our teens, and on watch aboard a ship at sea we carried a burden of responsibility largely unmatched by young men in jobs ashore.  A single mistake on our parts could have produced devastating results.  But our superiors had confidence in our capabilities and entrusted millions of dollars’ worth of ships and cargo as well as many men’s lives to us.    

Like a scene in a Conradian novel, our private party took place on a island surrounded by seawater and in a city that had once ranked as one of the world’s busiest seaports:  

This could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and the sea

interpenetrate, so to speak—the sea entering into the life of most men,

and the men knowing something or everything about the sea. . . .We were

sitting round a mahogany table that reflected the bottle, the claret glasses,

and our faces as we leaned on our elbows. . . .Between the five of us there

was the strong bond of the sea, and also the fellowship of the craft.[1]

Despite the non-English location, I felt that we and the sea interpenetrated quite intimately; after all, we had come together because of the sea  And while we were two and not five, we certainly knew something of the sea and shared the “bond of the sea” and the “fellowship of the craft.”  These intangible qualities, incomprehensible to the layman and unheard of by the mainstream of a large and mostly inland country, unite in spirit men spread literally around the world aboard the ships that carry the world’s commerce.  United physically for the first time in decades, two of these seamen, like characters in Conrad’s novels, swapped stories, shared memories, and philosophized on the ways of men, ships, and the sea.  It was a very pleasant reunion.

After dinner Walter and I returned to Penn Station and boarded a train for the ride home.  He went to Huntington; I left him halfway there in Mineola.  Our conversation continued to the last possible minute.  Then we bade each other farewell, shook hands, and I disembarked.  Once again, he went his way and I went mine. 

On the walk home from the station, my mind raced with everything that had just taken place.  Thinking again in Conradian terms, I reflected on Walter’s kindness in inviting me to dine and toast the good old days with him.  I was very happy to have met him all those years ago, but sorry that I had never actually sailed with him.  Nonetheless, we belong to the same fraternity, having known the “exactions of the sea”[2] and having endured its “elemental furies.”[3] We had both “made many voyages,”[4] gained “a thorough knowledge of [our] duties,”[5] and had each “become chief mate of a fine ship.”[6]   Decades later, these experiences and memories are precious, even sacred, to both of us.

As I thought back upon this happy reunion I recalled the scriptural injunction, “I exhort you to remember these things. . .” (Moro. 10:27), for these voyages were “ordered for the illustration of life, that might stand for a symbol of existence.”[7]  This is most definitely true.  I simply cannot imagine going through life without going to sea.

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[1] Joseph Conrad, “Youth,” in Tales of Land and Sea, Garden City, NY: Hanover House, 1953, p. 7-8.

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

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Joseph Conrad, “Youth,” op. cit., p. 8.

Eight Bells

In centuries past, time aboard ship was reckoned by hourglasses and chronometers.  For the crew’s information, the men on watch would ring a bell every thirty minutes to announce the time.  It was a simple system.  The day was divided into six watches of four hours each, the duty times for the crewmen who kept watch over the ship.  The watches were scheduled from 12 to 4, 4 to 8, and 8 to 12, am and pm.  The first striking of the bell on a particular watch would take place at, say, 8:30am.  This would be a single strike, or “one bell.”  At 9:00am there would be two strikes on the bell, or “two bells.”  At 9:30am, three bells.  And so on up to eight bells, at which time the watch ended and a new watch began.  In the parlance of seamen the phrase “eight bells,” which originally meant the end of a watch, came to mean the end of other things as well, for example, the end of a voyage, the end of  a career, and most significantly, the end of a life.  Obituaries of merchant seamen in trade journals thus appear under the heading “Eight Bells.”

I recently learned of the deaths of several former shipmates.  Some were expected; others not.  One in particular stands out, that of a man I sailed with at the beginning and in the middle of my career.  He was a fine seaman, a good shipmate, a great boss, and a mentor.

The Rigel

Captain Virgilio Rigobello was serving as the chief mate of the freighter Rigel when I joined the ship in Norfolk, Virginia, on Tuesday, May 15, 1979.  Thirty years older than myself, he had been born in Genova, Italy.  Known affectionately behind his back as the “Italian Stallion,” he stood 5 feet 4 inches tall, had a slender build, brown eyes, and jet black hair.  He had attended the training school for the Italian Merchant Marine, and besides his technical expertise was a very learned and cultured man.  For example, in addition to his native Italian, he spoke English, French, and Spanish, and he read Latin and some Greek.  In his youth he had sailed aboard Italian merchant ships.  Aboard one of these he met an American passenger who later became his wife.  By the time I met him, Captain Rigobello had become a naturalized American citizen with an American Master’s license, a home in Brooklyn, and a son about my own age.  Aboard the Rigel as chief mate, he was addressed as “Mr. Rigobello” by all except his long time friend and colleague, Captain Manuel Viera, the Master of the Rigel.  He called him “Alex.”  The two men were about the same age, had sailed together many times in many years, and shared an obviously strong bond of friendship.  Both had high moral values and high professional standards and were officers and gentlemen in the truest sense.

Mr. Rigobello’s duties aboard the Rigel involved the supervision of the deck crew, the maintenance of the ship, conducting emergency drills, anchoring and mooring, preparation of the payroll and other administrative work, and assisting as needed on the bridge.  This was a day job, meaning that he did not stand a bridge watch, but the hours varied with the ship’s operating schedule.  Cargo work, in particular the underway replenishment of military vessels, was handled by a younger officer who was basically an assistant chief mate.

When the Rigel sailed from Norfolk on May 22, she carried a damage control instructor from company headquarters with her.  All the way across the Atlantic this fellow trained the crew, many of whom were new to the ship, in emergency procedures.  As chief mate, Mr. Rigobello was heavily involved in these training exercises, which could get hectic at times.  As a neophyte third mate, this regimen was all new to me.  I learned quickly that even though I now had a license, the older and more experienced men like Captain Viera and Mr. Rigobello were light years ahead of me.  No doubt they saw me as the novice that I was, but they were both very patient and encouraging.  During the summer months in the Mediterranean, the Rigel made numerous short voyages and delivered many tons of cargo to the Navy and other customers.  Routine work to the old hands; all new and adventurous to me, as well as a tremendous learning experience.  I received many kind words of encouragement, instruction, and occasionally, correction.  It was a happy time.

On a few occasions I accompanied Mr. Rigobello at his docking station on the bow.  He always expressed his pleasure at having me there, and interrupted his own duties to explain things and answer questions.  More typically, I was stationed on the bridge during arrivals and departures.  One such arrival on Friday morning, August 17, was particularly noteworthy.  It was the one time that summer that the Rigel went to Genova.  When the ship was securely moored alongside the pier, he returned to the bridge from the bow obviously elated, whereupon James James, the second mate, announced to everyone that we had now come to Mr. Rigobello’s home town.  The ship did not remain in Genova long, however.  She sailed again in the late afternoon, but her conscientious chief mate was able to go ashore and visit home for a little while at least.

On an earlier occasion, a group of us had gone ashore together for a longer excursion.  This was unusual. Conflicting work hours and differences in age and interests combined to make group outings the exception and not the norm.  But on June 3, a Sunday afternoon when the Rigel was docked in Malaga, Spain, several of us rode the trains inland to Grenada.  The purpose of this journey was to visit the famous Al Hombre Castle built during the Moorish period of Spanish history.  Mr. Rigobello and the damage control instructor were the oldest men in the group, and while they naturally gravitated together, there was no sense of segregation.  Everyone had a pleasant time sightseeing, conversing, and dining together.

At one point in early August I started having severe pains in my lower back.  When the Rigel next docked in Napoli, it was arranged for me to meet with an American military physician.  To my dismay, this young man was unable to help me, and frankly, he spent more time joking with his colleagues than tending to his patients.  Back on the ship, though, Mr. Rigobello offered a simple solution.  He directed the carpenter to cut a piece of lumber and place it under my mattress.  After a sound night’s sleep on this board, my back pain went away as quickly as it had come on.  I certainly appreciated this remedy.  For their part, both Mr. Rigobello and Captain Viera expressed great satisfaction that the cure had worked.  No doubt these men in their fifties thought that I was much too young for back problems!

After sailing transatlantic again, the Rigel returned to Norfolk on Wednesday, August 29.  She was scheduled next to undergo a shipyard overhaul, and many of the crew were to be discharged before this started.  Captain Viera gave me this news somewhat apologetically, and both he and Mr. Rigobello wished me well in my future career.  I left the ship that evening and returned home by air.  After thirteen days of vacation, I left home again for my new assignment aboard the General Hoyt S. Vandenberg.  For a time, then, the memory of my experiences aboard the Rigel faded into the background.

The Waccamaw

My next meeting with Captain Rigobello took place in Augusta, Sicily, on Thursday, June 24, 1982, the day I joined the tanker Waccamaw as third mate.  He was then the Master of the Rigel, which was docked across the pier from the Waccamaw.  In the three-years-long interval since we had last seen each other, I had sailed on four other ships, upgraded my license to second mate, gotten married, and bought a house.  I did not think of this at the time, but in retrospect I suppose Captain Rigobello must have seen a difference in me.  He came over to the Waccamaw to visit his counterpart, Captain Aspiotis, and he greeted me warmly and enthusiastically.  And I was very happy to see him again, too.  We had a happy reunion and a pleasant conversation, and then it was time to go.  Late that afternoon, the two ships parted company and sailed away in opposite directions.  I did not know when or if we would meet again.

Two months later in Rota, Spain, we met again.  The Waccamaw docked there on Friday, August 27, and that afternoon Captain Rigobello returned to work from a short vacation and relieved Captain Aspiotis, who then left for his vacation.  Also in Rota then was the new freighter Sirius with Captain Viera in command.  He, too, greeted me warmly and enthusiastically, expressed great satisfaction with my new second mate’s license, and wished me well in the further advancement of my career.  Following this brief reunion, the Sirius departed over the weekend. Then on Monday the 30^th the Waccamaw set sail initially for Mayport, Florida.  Halfway across the Atlantic, this destination was changed to Norfolk, Virginia, where she arrived on Friday, September 10.

I thoroughly enjoyed sailing transatlantic with Captain Rigobello in command of the Waccamaw, but with a new second mate’s license, I naturally wanted to sail as second mate.  Soon after the Waccamaw arrived in Norfolk, I mentioned this to the Captain and asked him if he would mind if I called our company headquarters in Bayonne, New Jersey, to inquire about getting a second’s job aboard another ship.   His reply surprised me: “Well, you may certainly call the base if you like, but I think if you stay here you will find that everything will work out well for you.”  Somewhat startled but catching his drift, I did not call the base.  I stayed on the Waccamaw as third mate, made a few short voyages in and out of Norfolk, and then became second mate on Wednesday, September 29, when the previous second went home.

For the rest of the year, the Waccamaw made voyages from Norfolk to the Caribbean and to operating areas in the Western Atlantic.  Most of these were routine, supplying petroleum to Navy ships at sea and making port calls in Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico, and Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.  I grew into my new position as second mate on these journeys, and Captain Rigobello reposed increasing amounts of trust in me.  Before very long, he was letting me bring the Waccamaw alongside aircraft carriers unsupervised at 5:00 and 6:00am while he was still in his cabin.  He would then typically arrive on the bridge shortly before the underway replenishment started.

In less dramatic moments, Captain Rigobello often took the opportunity to teach.  With the ship and the sea as his classroom, he would explain things that were in front of us in a professorial way.  The topics covered included recording weather and sea state observations, using the ship’s twin propellers in maneuvering, techniques for celestial navigation, and so on.  He taught me a lot, and I felt privileged to learn from such an experienced and knowledgeable shipmaster.

On occasion serious events took place.  Once the Waccamaw was called upon to carry out the medical evacuation of a man on a sailboat.  This took place in mid-November in a moderately rough sea.  We picked up the patient on Saturday the 13^th, and delivered him to Bermuda the next day.  The nervous strain of this operation showed on Captain Rigobello, as did great relief when we received word from Bermuda that the man’s life was saved.[1]

Another time we lost the plant, that is, the fires in the boilers went out because of water leaking into a fuel line.  While this was mostly a problem for the engineers, some critical navigational equipment, like the gyrocompasses, had to be restarted and brought up to speed again.  These vintage gyros came under my jurisdiction.  As I struggled with and sweated from both stress and heat in the gyro room, I felt the burden suddenly become lighter when the Captain arrived and offered pointers on getting these tired old machines going again.  He knew his stuff, and it showed.  I was very happy to have him share his expertise with me.

One morning a situation of the utmost seriousness arose.  At about 6:00am on my watch, the Waccamaw was proceeding at very slow speed on a northeasterly heading in the Western Atlantic not far from the Caribbean, when a squadron of a half-dozen Navy ships came along at high speed from the northwest.  I plotted them on the radar and had them in sight, and I determined that they were approaching me on my port bow at an angle of about 75 degrees and that they would pass ahead of me at extremely close range if they held their course.  In this situation, the Waccamaw had the right of way.  I was required by international law to hold my course, and the Navy ships were required by the same authority to alter their course and go around the Waccamaw.

Well, they did not do this.  As I was considering what action to take, someone from one of the Navy ships called me up on the bridge-to-bridge radio.  When I answered, he identified himself and told me, “We are taking your ship under tactical control.  We order you to increase speed and make an immediate right turn and join our formation.”  And then he stated the formation’s course and speed.

I was astonished!  Who did this guy think he was?  Immediately, I recognized that this guy was not my boss.  I took my orders from Captain Rigobello, not some anonymous voice on a Navy ship that did not comply with the Rules of the Road.  More importantly, though, I could see that if I made the course and speed changes that he ordered, I would be cutting in front of these Navy ships and exposing the port side of a tanker containing 30,000 tons of oil to their bows.  A collision would be inevitable.  Did this guy really expect me to do that?  It would be criminal!   Seeing that the Navy in this situation had no evident intention of sailing by the rules, I responded, “Negative!  In order to avoid a collision with your ship, I am turning left at this time.”  And I gave the order of “hard left” to the helmsman.  From the other ship I received a terse “Roger, out.”  The Waccamaw responded slowly but surely to her helm.  She and the Navy passed starboard to starboard.  When these other ships were safely out of the way, the Waccamaw resumed her original course.  I continued with my duties until the third mate relieved me at 8:00am.

When I arrived at the breakfast table a few minutes later, Captain Rigobello and Lieutenant Johnson, the naval liaison officer assigned to the Waccamaw, were having a serious discussion.  The Captain was quite calm; the Lieutenant appeared very agitated.  As I sat down, Captain Rigobello said, “Well, let’s hear his side of the story.”  I gathered that the Navy had complained to Lieutenant Johnson, and he in turn went to the Captain, and he in turn was now asking me what happened.  So I told him.  He listened patiently, asked a few questions, and then said, “Very well.  You did the right thing.”  Then Captain Rigobello  instructed the Lieutenant, “You get on the radio and tell your Admiral to simmer down.  My second mate did his job and avoided a collision.  I’ll stand by him.”  With a horrified look on his face the Lieutenant rushed from the table, and the matter was concluded.[2]

This incident was unique, fortunately.  Nothing like it happened again, for which I was grateful.  I was also very grateful to have a boss who would back me up in a tense situation.  For that matter, he backed me on other occasions in domestic disturbances, once when an engineer threatened to kill me because I wouldn’t help him sneak liquor on board, and once when another engineer reached for a fire axe and threatened to dismember me.[3]

Most of the time, though, life on the Waccamaw was reasonably peaceful.  And sooner or later everyone, myself included, received a glance or a word of disapproval from the Captain.  I recall one such occasion after our first transit from Roosevelt Roads to Guantanamo Bay.  We had not changed the clocks during the night, and on arrival the shipboard time was an hour different from the Cuban time.  None of us had even realized that we were crossing a time zone boundary.  As the second mate, though, this matter came under my jurisdiction, and I should have thought of it.  Anyway, when we realized the error once we’d arrived in Cuba, someone suggested looking in the Nautical Almanac for the local time zone differences.  I suppose I had once known that I could look up this information there, but I didn’t then.  With a surprised and disappointed look, Captain Rigobello turned to me and asked, “You did not know that?”  I was too embarrassed to answer.  He seemed to sense that, and he turned away.  I felt so dismayed that I had merited his disapproval.  It passed, though, and life went on.

More serious was the night the Waccamaw went aground in Guantanamo Bay.  The ship had docked there in the morning of Wednesday, December 1.  She was scheduled to depart the next day at 2:30am, but this proved to be problematic because the bow had become stuck in a mud bank, and the ship would not budge.  Captain Rigobello was not happy about this.  It took the herculean efforts of two Navy tugboats, both engines going full astern, and the pumping out of all the water in the forepeak tank to dislodge the ship.  It was a long and trying night, but it ended well, and there was no damage to the hull. 

The Waccamaw sailed south that Thursday, refueled the aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower, and returned to Guantanamo Bay without incident.  Arriving at 6:00pm, the Waccamaw did not return to the pier, but anchored instead.  Forgoing the customary practice of taking on a Navy harbor pilot, Captain Rigobello brought the ship in himself.  Earlier in the day, he and I had studied the harbor charts together.  Memorizing the key features, we worked out the approach and selected the best place to anchor.  Working together as peers—that was how it felt at the time.  Afterwards I realized that he was doing more than planning his arrival; he was teaching me as well.  Leaving again just after midnight on Saturday, December 4, the ship continued her work  with the fleet uneventfully and then headed north.

With the Waccamaw back in Norfolk from the Caribbean in the first week of January of 1983, Captain Rigobello went on vacation.  He stayed home until the middle of March.  In his absence, Captain Derric Linardich took over the ship, and she continued her voyages to the Caribbean and nearby areas.  When it became time for the Waccamaw to begin her shipyard overhaul, Captain Rigobello returned to the ship, resuming command on Tuesday, March 15.

The Shipyard

Several shipyards had bid on overhauling the Waccamaw, and the contract was awarded to the Old Dominion Metro Machine Company in Norfolk.  Situated just across the Elizabeth River from downtown, it was a convenient location.  For a large part of the overhaul time, the ship would be completely shut down and a small caretaker crew housed ashore.  I took a room at the Holiday Inn in downtown Norfolk, which was an easy walk to the shipyard.  Several others stayed there, too.  Captain Rigobello and the engineering specialists from company headquarters opted to stay at the Marjack Motel in Virginia Beach.  This was several miles away, but they had a company car.

The overhaul included tank cleaning, drydocking, sandblasting, repainting, cutting, welding, pipefitting, electrical repairs, and so on.  The Captain’s work during this time was largely administrative—paperwork, meetings, telephone calls, inspections, etc.  He worked on the ship during the daytime; I was there usually at night.  Often on the weekends he went home to Brooklyn.  He remarked once that he enjoyed flying between Norfolk and New York and looking down on the tops of the clouds.

One thing which Captain Rigobello did not like was dirt.  Ships undergoing yard work invariably became dirty, and the Waccamaw was no exception.  Hoses, wires, boxes, crates, tools, and sand lay strewn all over the decks and got in everyone’s way.  The gangway watch tried to keep a lid on things in this heavy traffic area, but the mess, especially the sandblasting debris, always won the battle.  One morning when everything had become particularly filthy, the Captain came up the gangway, looked around briefly, heaved a big sigh, and exclaimed, “This ship is a mess!”  Turning toward me, he asserted, “We have got to do something about this.”  I felt bad for him.

But things got better.  On Memorial Day the Waccamaw was refloated.  In the following weeks the shipyard work started winding down.  New crewmen arrived, and on Wednesday, June 22, the ship went out for sea trials.  All the machinery was put through its paces, and everything passed the test.  Next the Waccamaw would load oil and stores, undergo crew training, and prepare to return to the Mediterranean.  This was a very busy and hectic time that put a strain on everyone.

  

What Manner of Man?

Because of my prior experience with Captain Rigobello when he was chief mate on the Rigel, I looked forward to sailing with him again aboard the Waccamaw.  We had received word a week or so in advance that he would relieve Captain Aspiotis in Rota.  Among the crew, the troublemakers who knew him dreaded his arrival.  The chief mate at the time, a crusty New Englander named Jonathan Doane, predicted that some of the guys would come to a rude awakening, because, as he expressed it, “You know Captain Rigobello.  He’s got that hard headed European attitude.”  This was true, up to a point.

Captain Rigobello was formal and businesslike, but also pleasant and friendly.  The day I met him on the Rigel,  he smiled, walked over to me, shook my hand, and welcomed me aboard the ship.  I later saw that such cordiality with others was characteristic of him.  He was formal in that he addressed all the officers as Mr. with their surnames and never used first names.  He also insisted on maintaining some social distance between the licensed officers and the unlicensed crew.  This was not snobbishness.  He simply recognized, more than most Americans did, the differences in responsibility, education, and expectations that exist between the two levels of shipboard society.  Aboard the Rigel he repeatedly told a cadet not to fraternize ashore with the deckhands.  This counsel went unheeded until one night in Napoli when an unexpected visit to a brothel ended badly. Then the boy learned.  But as both chief mate and Master Captain Rigobello treated the crew very well, and overall he was liked and respected by them.  I can recall only one person—an officer, too—who openly disliked him, but for reasons which I thought were ridiculous.

One thing that as Master he was very particular about was food.  He insisted that everyone on the ship to be served good food.  This became clear on a few occasions on the Waccamaw.  One day at breakfast he looked at my French toast and asked what was wrong with it.  I was going to eat it without saying anything, but since he asked me, I replied that it was made with rye bread.  Hearing this, the Captain got up, went into the galley, and had a word with the steward.  When he returned to his seat he remarked, “That takes care of that.”  A minute or two later, a plate of proper French toast arrived.

That was a small point, though.  One evening at dinner there was cauliflower.  The chief mate and the first assistant engineer both ate this with great gusto.  Suddenly the engineer spit out a mouthful of it onto his plate and watched as a worm crawled out of it.  The mate watched in horror.  The two men looked at each other.  Then the mate jumped up, ran out on deck, and threw up his entire dinner over the side.  Those of us who did not like cauliflower found this quite amusing.  But once again, Captain Rigobello got up and went to speak with the steward.  On returning to the table he said, “Well, that is not going to happen again.”  And it didn’t.

Finally it was the Captain’s turn.  One evening when he selected his dinner from the menu, it arrived not cooked properly.  Sending it back, he chose another entre instead.  When this came to the table, it, too, was unsatisfactory.  Clearly irritated at this point, he sent the second meal back and chose the third option threatening, “If I send this one back, I send for a new cook, too!”  It took a few minutes, but when the third dinner was brought out, it was done perfectly.

For all the fastidiousness concerning the food, meal times were always very pleasant and sometimes quite convivial.  For a while we had a third mate who enjoyed making a celebration out of everyone’s birthday.  This was David Muir, from Massachusetts.  On Captain Rigobello’s birthday, he arranged for the steward to bring out a specially made cake after dinner.  The steward and the messmen and utilitymen paraded with the cake into the chow hall, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday” and applauded the Captain on his big day.  He received these felicitations graciously and laughingly, and I think with a little embarrassment as well.  Without asking, he know exactly who lay behind this unexpected little party, and he good naturedly turned the joke on “my young friend Mr. Muir!”

David Muir stood the 8 to 12 watch, and he took it upon himself to get a cup of coffee for Captain Rigobello and leave it just outside his door early every morning.  This way the Captain could simply open his door a crack, pick up the coffee, and drink it as he washed and dressed.  He laughingly told his “young friend Mr. Muir” once, “I appreciate the cup of coffee first thing in the morning, but you know, you really don’t have to do this.  If you want to, that’s fine, but don’t feel that you have to.”  The coffee service continued, and both parties were happy.  There was no element of currying favor in this.  It was simply a gesture of thoughtfulness toward a good boss.   

Besides birthdays and morning coffee, the main source of conviviality was the movies.  These were shown after dinner, in the combined chow hall and lounge on the Rigel, and in a separate lounge on the Waccamaw.  Most of the mates and engineers not on watch went to the movies.  Captain Rigobello always did.  Most of these films were light-hearted entertainment; a few were serious historical or cultural works.  One particularly ludicrous movie contained a scene in which a well dressed businessman became so overwhelmed by job stress at a board meeting that his head exploded.  Blood, brains, bone, and hair scattered everywhere.  It was disgusting, and comically ridiculous.

A few days later, this became an object lesson.  Captain Rigobello came up to the bridge at the change of the watch, and he reminded us of something that needed to be done and must not be forgotten.  Referring good naturedly to this movie he chided gently, “Come on now, you young men.  If I have to think of everything, my head is going to explode!”  We all laughed, but he made his point.

Another time when the Waccamaw was docked in Norfolk a serious matter arose which could not be corrected in a joking manner.   One evening a deck seaman was returning to the ship, and he was stopped and searched by the Marines at the entrance to the Norfolk Naval Base.  The Marines found marijuana on him.  They did not arrest him, though.  Instead, they escorted him to the ship and reported their find to the mate on watch.  Word of this violation was reported to Captain Rigobello, who had to decide what to do about this man.  Word spread among the crew as well, and the general expectation was that he would be fired.  It was too bad.  He was a very intelligent, very industrious, university educated young man with a bright future.  He was on my watch at sea.  I liked him and was friendly with him and would miss him.

The next evening when the ship was quiet and most of the crew had gone ashore, Captain Rigobello called the culprit into his office for a private consultation.  I was on duty at the time, and I naturally wondered what would happen.  I did not need to wait long to find out.  A few hours after the meeting this young man sought me out, and he told me what transpired.

Captain Rigobello brought him into the office, shut the door, and then bawled him out:  “What’s wrong with you?  Why did you do this?  What were you thinking?”  A long tirade followed.  The gist of it was that this man was one of the smartest and best educated people on the ship, that he knew better than to do drugs, that many in the crew looked up to him, that he was an example for them, that everyone had high expectations of him, that he had let us all down, and so on.  The Captain continued to the effect that he could not afford to lose a good worker and that this young man was officer material and should start studying for a license.  Finally, he asked him, “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

The young seaman replied, “Well, Captain, you’re right.”

Startled, Captain Rigobello sighed, sat down, and asked, “What do you mean, I’m right?”

The young man explained, “I mean that you’re right.  I was wrong.  I did know better.  I don’t know why I did it.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I shouldn’t have done it, and I will never do it again.  I was wrong, and you’re right.  That’s what I mean."

Some quiet discussion followed.  Then Captain Rigobello finished up with, “All right, then.  We will say no more about this.  Go out now and do your work and stay out of trouble.  This must never happen again, or next time I will need to do something.”

And that was it.  This fellow did his work very well and never got in trouble again.  Captain Rigobello had recognized his intelligence, his work habits, and his potential, and administered justice with mercy.  In return, this young man felt deeply appreciative toward the Captain and came to consider him a great man.

Captain Rigobello always seemed happy to recognize intelligence and capability in others.  Aboard both the Rigel and the Waccamaw, he liked sailing with young mates who strove to excel in their work, upgrade their licenses, and advance in their careers.  He consistently encouraged them, and he placed large degrees of trust in them.  With his exacting standards he called upon everyone to do the best job possible, and he required complete accuracy and professionalism in navigation, shiphandling, helmsmanship, and emergency drills.  He often said, “Let us be professional.”  In this he did not come across as a demanding boss, but more as an inspirational leader who brought out the best in his subordinates.  I believe that all the young mates who sailed with him genuinely wanted to please him.

This does not mean that Captain Rigobello was never unhappy, though.  I do recall him being cross with people on a few occasions on both the Rigel and the Waccamaw.  Typically this was brought on by outside factors that generated stress and aggravation.  Too much shipyard mess, too much military madness, too much crew misbehavior, too much legitimate worry, as with the medical evacuation—these were the things that caused irritation and annoyance to show, although in all fairness, it was always mild.  Besides, when he was the Master he bore the ultimate responsibility for everything on the ship.  If anyone had the right to be cross in tense times, it was he.  I’ve sailed with Masters who threw violent temper tantrums over petty matters, but Captain Rigobello never behaved like that.

Sometimes the Captain just wanted someone to talk to.  I remember a couple of times when he sought me out.  In March, when he returned to the Waccamaw after his vacation, he came to me one evening and asked in considerable detail how things had gone on the ship in his absence.  Another time, when he was returning from a visit home on a Sunday evening, he came up to the chartroom where I was working and struck up a conversation.  This one was purely social.  He never discussed his home life much, but this time he volunteered several personal items.  He told me about his son—“He is young, and he likes to go out”—and how he did not drive the family car in New York—“Oh, I know how to drive, but my wife is more used to it than I am”—and while he liked to see his family he also liked his work—“I love to sail.”  I was happy that this great man would want to talk with me; perhaps he remembered the times on the Rigel when I had approached him and sought his counsel.

Captain Rigobello always spoke Italian-accented but completely fluent English with us.  For a while, though, we had another Italian on the Waccamaw, a deck seaman named Mariano Zucchi.  He came from Trieste, had an Italian second mate’s license, and had also married an American.  Before granting him an American license, the Coast Guard required him to sail in an unlicensed capacity for one year aboard American ships.  During one quiet time on the bridge Captain Rigobello initiated a conversation with Mariano in Italian.  I listened quietly.  They both spoke the cultivated northern Italian of the educated classes. With my background in French and Latin and with the Italian I had picked up in Europe, I found that I could understand about 90% of what they said.  Later, I translated the bulk of their conversation for Mariano as a joke.  He was astonished!  I never mentioned this to the Captain, though, nor did I ever tell him that my wife was from Germany.  In retrospect, I daresay he would have been more interested than I thought at the time.

Farewell

After a year and more on the Waccamaw, I was starting to wear out.  I needed a vacation.  A largely new crew was joining the vessel after the shipyard overhaul, and soon they would take her across the Atlantic and back into the Mediterranean.  As much as I wanted to make this great voyage and return to Europe, I realized that I had been running on full ahead for too long, and I needed a break from it.  Most of the others with whom I had worked and been friendly had already left.  With mixed feelings, then, I requested relief to go home on vacation.

Captain Rigobello seemed disappointed:  “So, you are going on leave?”  I explained how I felt, but also expressed my willingness to rejoin the ship later on, and he replied that that would be fine with him.  He agreed that I needed some rest.

It took time for the paperwork to meander its way through the system in the company offices, but eventually we received notice that my relief was on his way.  When he didn’t show up, I thought that maybe I would sail back to Europe after all, which was not really such a bad prospect.  But then he arrived on Thursday, July 21.  I had the evening watch and spent most of the time showing him around the ship.  Late the following afternoon I left the vessel and travelled by air to New York.

I remember well and with some emotion my departure from the Waccamaw.  There were several fellows clustered around the gangway when I came along with my suitcase and sextant box.  Everyone wished me well, but Captain Rigobello did most of the talking, and he did something that he had never done previously.  Shedding his standard formality, he shook my hand, patted me affectionately on the shoulder, and addressed me as “David.”  He wished me well, told me to get some rest, and said that he hoped to see me again and with a chief mate’s license.  He paused briefly.  Then he looked me in the eye and said, “You are one of the best, if not the best.”  I was stunned, and also a bit embarrassed by this public accolade, but I managed to stammer out a thank you.  In that same instant I wished I weren’t leaving.  I suddenly wanted to stay on board and sail back to Europe with him!  But it was time, and I had to go.

I don’t remember the ride to the Norfolk Airport, and I scarcely remember the flight to New York, except for changing aircraft in Baltimore.  Captain Rigobello’s words reverberated in my head.  Even now, over thirty years later, I can still see him standing there, can still hear him saying that, and can still feel him patting me on the shoulder.

To my great regret, I never saw Captain Rigobello again.  I never rejoined the Waccamaw.  I returned to Europe later in the year, but aboard the Comet.  He went his way, and I went mine.  That’s how it was in the Merchant Marine.  I did communicate with him through an intermediary at one point, though.

A few years later, in 1986, I was in the company headquarters in Bayonne.  By chance I ran into Mr. Zahartas, one of the electronics experts who had been involved with the Waccamaw’s shipyard overhaul.  He had had his work cut out for him then, with new radar installations, a new autopilot, new gyrocompasses, and so on.  When I met him again in Bayonne, he was about to return to Norfolk to work on another ship, and he would see Captain Rigobello again.  I asked him if he would bring a message for me, and he agreed.  I asked him to convey my greetings to the Captain, and also news of my new assignment.  Then I requested that he please tell the Captain that I would like very much to sail with him again.  When he had an opening, I would be happy to fill it.

A few weeks later I saw Mr. Zahartas again, after he had returned from Norfolk.  He told me that he had delivered my message.  Then he told me that Captain Rigobello was quite touched and even moved by it.  This surprised me.  Seeing my reaction, Mr. Zahartas exclaimed, “You know, that’s a big compliment you paid him.  Not everybody wants to sail with him.  You know what he’s like.  A lot of these guys don’t want to work that hard.”  I had to concede his point.

Mixed feelings.  After the Waccamaw, I enjoyed sailing aboard the Comet and the Bartlett.  They were good experiences, and I took the exams and upgraded my license to chief mate and limited Master in between these assignments in 1984. This would no doubt have pleased Captain Rigobello very much.  But I regretted not sailing with the “Italian Stallion” again.

In my working years I’ve had good bosses and bad bosses, excellent bosses and terrible bosses.  I am now older than Captain Rigobello was when I knew him.  With the twenty-twenty hindsight that comes with age, I see now that he was “one of the best, if not the best.”  Actually, he was “the best.”  I have thought of him often over the years and wondered what became of him.  I learned of his death only recently.

My thoughts echo, with one slight change, the famous prayer offered by Cardinal Cushing many years ago:

May the angels, dear Captain, lead you into Paradise![4]

Eight Bells

In Memoriam

Virgilio A. Rigobello

November 8, 1927—December 21, 2008

His wife

Marie V. Rigobello

January 9, 1923—September 15, 1994

In pace requiescant.

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[1] This event is described more fully in my essay “Rescue at Sea.”

[2] I have since learned that the Waccamaw was involved in four collisions at sea before I joined her, and I remain very happy that a fifth collision was in this instance avoided.  See https://en.wikipedia.org/USS_Waccamaw_(AO-109).

[3] These events are described more fully in my essays “The Wicky Wacky” and “The Screamer.”

[4] Based on Richard Cardinal Cushing’s spontaneous prayer in English during the Requiem Mass in Latin for President John F. Kennedy, Saint Matthew’s Cathedral, Washington, DC, November 25, 1963.  The Cardinal said “dear Jack.”