The Four College Degrees

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picking Up the Pilot

A hymn seldom sung in our corner of the Church is “Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me.”  Written by Edward Hopper in the nineteenth century, it reflects in part the fears of those using the dominant mode of transportation of the era:

Jesus, Savior, pilot me

Over life’s tempestuous sea;

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rock and treach’rous shoal.

Chart and compass came from thee:

Jesus, Savior, pilot me.

When at last I near the shore,

And the fearful breakers roar

‘Twixt me and the peaceful rest,

Then, while leaning on thy breast,

May I hear thee say to me,

“Fear not; I will pilot thee.”¹

In this age of travel by automobile and airplane, does the average passenger understand what a pilot is and does?  Probably not, because while the vast majority of the world’s international commerce is still carried by sea, this operation is far removed from both the sellers and the buyers of the goods that are shipped.  But as long as there are merchant ships plying the oceans, there will be pilots to bring them in and out of port.

Let us observe a pilot bringing the Queen Elizabeth into port:

The pilot, Captain Robert Ahrens of the Sandy Hook Pilots Association, boarded the Elizabeth at about 7 a.m. while the ship was still at sea.  He had arrived by motor launch from the Association’s pilot boat and had come aboard by climbing up a rope ladder to one of the shell doors.  Now he stood at a center window in the wheelhouse where he had a broad view of the waters ahead and of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge in the distance.  He was providing the compass headings which allowed Chief Quartermaster Bell to steer the safest course up the Ambrose Channel, through the Narrows into New York’s Upper Bay, and finally into the Hudson River on the west side of Manhattan Island.

“Steer three-four-six,” said the harbor pilot, and the number was repeated by the Chief Quartermaster, who simultaneously turned the large ship slightly to starboard.  The pilot’s directions laid down the true compass heading the liner was to follow until another figure was called out.  In a few minutes he ordered, “Steer zero-zero-two,” and the Quartermaster again brought her to starboard.  Thus the Sandy Hook pilot held the Queen Elizabeth to the Ambrose Channel and guided her directly through the Narrows.

Captain Ahrens also directed the ship’s speed.  At one point he called out, “Half Ahead!” His command was followed by a ringing of bells as the quartermasters operated the telegraphs and signaled the Elizabeth’s engine rooms, more than ten decks below, to reduce revolutions on her four propellers from 100 to 80 per minute.  This slowed her from 17 to 13 knots.²

While this does not seem terribly complicated, terrible complications would result if the Queen Elizabeth or any other vessel entering port were not held to the straight and narrow line of deep water.  A very large part of piloting involves knowing where the dangers are as well as where the safe water is.  Acquiring the necessary knowledge and expertise requires work and takes time:

Captain Ahrens and other Sandy Hook pilots work at one of the most ancient occupations connected with the sea.  Since men have sailed to foreign lands they have needed pilots in the unknown and dangerous waters at the mouth of a safe harbor.  “A shift in the wind before a reef without a pilot,” says a history of the profession, “and the spices of India could lie deep at the mouth of the harbor.  A storm off the coast of Dover without a pilot could bereave the most prominent houses of England.”

The fact that Captain Ahrens could pilot the Queen Elizabeth indicated he had risen to the top of his profession.  To learn his trade he first had to serve seven years as an apprentice.  Meanwhile he had to pass stringent examinations.  He knew by heart every detail of the New York and New Jersey harbor waters, including the bottom surface, rocks, reefs, shoals, buoys, and currents.  With such facts in his head, he was then allowed to progress slowly from the smallest vessels entering the harbor to the largest.³

            In every seaport in the world, pilots direct merchant ships into and out of their harbors at all hours of the day and night.  Naturally, this system requires the ship’s officers to place a great deal of trust in the pilot, who is often a man they’ve never met before.  Very rarely does anything go wrong, however.  Over the long history of commerce by sea, piloting has evolved into a tried and true method of ensuring that the freight, the mails, and the passengers depart and arrive safely.  So much is this the norm that the great seaman and author Joseph Conrad described a pilot as “trustworthiness personified.”⁴

Edward Hopper uses pilotage as a metaphor for the Gospel and the various hazards to navigation as metaphors for the many pitfalls of life.  He has points that hold true even in this age of diversified transportation.  Many of the dangers that confront people on their journey through life are concealed by a harmless appearance, or worse, are made enticing by an attractive appearance.  These are the rocks and reefs that can rip open a ship’s hull.  Just as the pilot must know exactly where these dangers are situated in a harbor entrance, so must we know where similar dangers lie in wait ashore.  Just as every merchant ship must pick up a pilot when entering and leaving port, so must we take on a pilot to safely guide us through life.  The pilot we need is the Lord Jesus Christ, and his sailing directions are contained in the scriptures and the teachings of the Church.

The Lord made this point very clear in both ancient and modern times.  “Man doth not live by bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord” (Deut. 8:3).  Of all the written and spoken material contained in the world’s numerous libraries, this Word of the Lord constitutes the single most important directions for the safe passage of mankind along the voyage of life.  Whether the Word is ancient or modern, inscribed on stone tablets, printed in book form, or spoken in General Conference makes no difference: “whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1: 38).  And we must continuously learn it: “study my word which hath gone forth among the children of men, and also study my word which shall come forth among the children of men” (D&C 11:22).

These sailing directions include but are not limited to such precepts as the word of wisdom, the law of tithing, the law of chastity, baptismal covenants, the new and everlasting covenant of marriage, and the Temple ordinances.  These and other principles chart the course all people need to follow to lead good, clean, and morally upright Christian lives.  These teachings are updated from time to time by additional pronouncements from the Prophet and other leaders of the Church, all of whom are “trustworthiness personified.”  This is typically done at General Conference, but on can be done on other occasions as well.  This is accomplished in much the same way a pilot updates his directions for compass headings and engine speeds.  To ignore a pilot’s direction would lead to extensive property damage, bodily injury, and possibly loss of life.  To ignore ecclesiastical direction would lead to moral degeneracy and a fall from grace with the risk of eternal consequences.  In extreme cases this could possibly involve estrangement from one’s eternal family, and eternity is a long time to spend alone.

Happily, however, “it is easy to give heed to the word of Christ, which will point to you a straight course to eternal bliss” (Alma 37:44), and the Lord is the best and most trustworthy harbor pilot in the world.

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¹ Edward Hopper, “Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me,” in Hymns of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake

² Leonard A. Stevens, The Elizabeth: Passage of a Queen, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1968, p. 11-12.

³ Op. cit., p. 13-14.

⁴ Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1971, p.1.

Walking on Air

Sitting in the hot seat was never a pleasant experience, but always a memorable one.  Anyone who had taken the exams, be they for third mate or second mate or chief mate, could never forget what it was like.  Everything depended on the successful completion of these examinations—one’s employment, one’s livelihood, one’s finances, one’s family, one’s advancement, one’s career—even one’s very life, it seemed.  Little wonder, then, that merchant seamen sweated uncomfortably even in air conditioned exam rooms.  For no matter how much they had studied, and no matter how proficient they were in their duties aboard ship, the exams would always confront them with something obsolete or otherwise irrelevant that even the most competent officer at the height of his career could not reasonably be expected to know.  A few oddball questions like this could—and sometimes did—mean the difference between success and failure.  Failing one section of the test once would be an inconvenience, but not a disaster.  Failing it on the retake, however, was tantamount to failing the entire exam, and one would then need to restart from scratch.  With limited shore leave, no one had the time to waste on failure.

An old joke in the Merchant Marine held that “the Navy knows nothing about ships, and the Coast Guard knows even less than that.”  Like it or not, however, the Merchant Marine has long been subject to Coast Guard regulation, and to this day the Coast Guard conducts the licensing procedures for Merchant Marine officers.  The examinations one must take to become a licensed officer, and subsequently, to upgrade one’s license, are brutal.  And they should be.  A mate on a tanker filled with 50,000 tons of crude oil, for example, bears too heavy a burden and has too much responsibility for incompetence to be tolerated.  One seemingly small mistake could cause a wreck that would cost dearly in both human life and property damage.  But while these exams are necessarily difficult, they are written and administered by a federal bureaucracy that does not go to sea for its livelihood.  Hence, the questions for which one simply cannot prepare.  Hence, also, the widespread fear and even loathing of the examiners.  As some shipboard wags used to put it, “the Coast Guard giveth, and the Coast Guard taketh away.  Cursed be the name of the Coast Guard.”  My apologies to Job.

I was all of 21 years old when I sat for “the thirds,” the series of examinations for an original license as third mate.  This took place in Castine, Maine, at the school I had attended to prepare for this objective.  I was too young and too inexperienced to be more than only somewhat nervous.  Nonetheless, I prepared judiciously.  Everything I needed to know was fresh in my mind, but even with that I realized that I could not take anything for granted.  The test was three days long.  Two sections of the test were given each day, Tuesday through Thursday.  Three of these sections required a passing grade of 70%; the other three sections required a passing grade of 90%.  Then I waited.  In those days the completed exams were sent to Oklahoma City for grading. 

When I learned that I had passed the thirds, I felt mildly relieved.  When I actually held the license in my hand and saw my name inscribed along with the magical words “third mate,” I felt euphoric.  I had done it!  I had become something!  But it was really only the start of things.  I had proved myself on paper; I had yet to prove myself aboard ship.

Three years and five ships later, I sat for the seconds in Portland, Maine.  I was 24, three years older, wiser, and more experienced than I had been, and so I had a much clearer idea of what exactly was riding on these exams.  For this reason, I was also more nervous than I had been the first time around.  In preparation, I established a strict regimen of study in an empty room of the house, a room replete with peace, quiet, and solitude.  I spent many hours there.

By a happy coincidence, several of my former school chums were in Portland taking the seconds at the same time.  Some were engineers; some were mates; all were sweating it out together.  We would meet over lunch at a diner on Congress Street to compare notes on each morning’s section of the test.  Evenings we spent in isolation from one another, reviewing material for the next day’s work.  I had hidden myself away in a downtown hotel room for this purpose.  Seconds, after all, was more difficult than thirds.  Rightly so, too, for the second mate aboard a merchant ship has a lot of responsibility, and it’s taken for granted that he knows what to do and how to do it.

One thing I did not know, however, was that a revised version of the rules of the road had gone into effect while I was on vacation.  My friends and I had noticed some very strange questions on that section of the test.  It therefore came as no great surprise that I did not attain the required 90% on the new rules of the road.  To correct this deficiency, I retook rules the following month in Boston.  It all worked out all right in the end, but it was a nerve-wracking interval.

By this time I had proved myself aboard ship as a third mate, and I felt confident that I could move upward.  When at last, after taking the rules section twice, I held the new license in my hand and saw the magical phrase “second mate” instead of “third,” it was like a tonic.  I was no longer at the bottom of the deck officers’ hierarchy.  I had taken a major career step forward and was walking on air as I left the Coast Guard building.  Then, with the employment situation being what it was, I went back to sea as third mate.

Two years and two ships later, I sat for the chief mate’s exam in Boston.  I was 26 years old and about to embark upon the most difficult undertaking of my life.  This exam was more comprehensive than the first two.  It had eight separate sections and was administered Tuesday through Friday.  Three of these sections required a passing grade of 90%; two required 80%; and three required 70%.  Not surprisingly, the sections with the highest minimum passing grade involved navigation and rules of the road.  Once again, I sequestered myself in an empty room in the house to study.  I spent 40 hours and more per week at this for over a month.  I needed to master much new material, for example, shipboard stability, which is heavy in applied physics and advanced mathematics, as well as review in depth a host of other subjects.  It was a busy time.

On the first morning of the exam, I drove to Lowell to get the train into Boston.  No sooner did I arrive at the Lowell station than I went in the rest room and got sick.  That’s how intense the nervous strain of the chief mate’s exam was.  So much depended on the successful outcome of this test, and so much time and effort had already been invested in it.  Failure was not an option, but in the back of my mind it always threatened as an ominous possibility.  A few bad questions on a critical section of the exam were all it would need.

One of the navigation sections contained ten questions for me to work out.  These involved lengthy calculations and were time-consuming.  I had no problems with nine of them, but one gave me a lot of trouble.  This question required me to calculate the great circle distance between San Francisco and Sydney and, with a given date and time of departure and speed of advance, calculate an expected arrival time.  This was not a difficult task.  I worked it out using the standard spherical trigonometric formulas, arrived at a conclusion, and looked for my answer among the four choices given.  It was not there.  The nearest distance listed among the multiple choice answers was incorrect by ten miles. The Coast Guard required navigational accuracy within one tenth of one mile, so an error of ten miles was unacceptable.  I had brought two calculators with me.  I solved the problem again using my backup calculator.  It gave me a distance less than a mile different from my first one.  This was still unacceptable.  Dispensing with the calculators, I worked out the problem manually using the logarithmic tables.  This method also yielded a distance less than a mile different from my first one.  At this point I concluded that all the possible answers provided by the Coast Guard were wrong.  I had mathematical proof of it.  But I had to make a choice and pass in the exam.

By this time the Coast Guard was no longer mailing the completed examinations to Oklahoma City for processing, but was grading them locally, almost immediately after they were turned in.  This was a much better system; it eliminated the long wait for the results.  I chose the answer that was incorrect by ten miles because that was the closest to correct of the four choices given.  Then I passed in my papers.  I watched with bated breath as the Coast Guardsman placed a template over my answer sheet and graded the test.  I was fully prepared to wage a serious battle if I failed this section because there was no correct answer listed among the choices for this one question.  To my infinite relief, I scored 100%.  Disarmed, I thanked the examiner and left.  On the train going home afterwards, I felt rather pleased with myself.

But it was not over yet.  My next nightmare was the deck-general section.  This contained 100 multiple choice questions each worth one point on a wide range of subjects.  These included oceanography, meteorology, astronomy, shiphandling, seamanship, cargo stowage, electronics, etc.  All of this was very important material that every mate needed to know.  The downside of such a miscellaneous assortment, however, was that a lot of irrelevant and even obsolete questions could be included.  There had been some of these on the thirds and more on the seconds.  Now, on the chief mate’s exam, fully one third of the questions in this section were garbage.  They asked about stuff that no responsible and competent mate had any use for in the performance of his duties.  Some of them had nothing at all to do with shipping, and some were out of date by decades.  My favorite example of this was a question concerning the location of floating minefields in the North Sea!  The bottom line, then, was that I failed this section by one point.  Only one point!  I would have to try it again a month later.

Fortunately, I passed all of the other seven sections with very comfortable margins.  I could therefore concentrate my study efforts on deck-general for the next few weeks.  After the required interval, I retook this section and passed it.  Otherwise, the second time around was not much different from the first. 

I received my new license that same day.  I felt a great sense of achievement, but a much greater sense of relief to finally be done with such a long and mind-boggling series of tests.  I had overcome the worst the Coast Guard had yet thrown at me and had made it to chief mate.  Three down; one to go.  The next exam would be the Master’s.  With my new license in hand, I walked on air all the way back to North Station.  Soon thereafter, the employment situation being what it was, I went back to sea as second mate.

These events took place in the 1980s.  One hundred years earlier, the great seaman and author Joseph Conrad underwent similarly stressful license examinations in London.  In that era the process was a face-to-face encounter with the examining authority.  This procedural difference, however, only proves that the more things change, the more they remain the same.  As Conrad recalled it:

It lasted for hours, for hours.  Had I been a strange microbe with potentialities of deadly mischief to the Merchant Service I could not have been submitted to a more microscopic examination.  Greatly reassured by his apparent benevolence, I had been at first very alert in my answers.  But at length the feeling of my brain getting addled crept upon me.  And still the passionless process went on, with a sense of untold ages having been spent already on mere preliminaries.  Then I got frightened.

When I got out of the room, I felt limply flat, like a squeezed lemon.  It was only when I got out of the building that I began to walk on air.¹

Regardless of the era in which one goes to sea, the burdens and responsibilities carried by licensed officers are heavy ones.  It is for this reason that the license exams must be difficult.  If they were easy, they would fail as standards of expertise and would be useless.  In order to advance in any endeavor in life, one must study and learn a great deal in certain subjects, acquire practical experience, demonstrate proficiency, and overcome obstacles.  Furthermore, for anyone who aspires to a position of responsibility, the scriptural injunction holds true: “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more” (Luke 12:48).  In the Merchant Marine, much is expected of the licensed mates and engineers who are entrusted with the care of ships. 

This burden makes its weight felt early, and as one advances professionally the weight of the burden increases.  Even at the height of one’s career, the burden and the responsibility to bear it well remain, despite human tendencies to bask in the glory that accompanies a lofty position.  Should one falter even momentarily in the bearing of his professional burden, all could be lost.  A second’s inattention, an unforeseeable turn of events, even a circumstance entirely beyond one’s control—anything could happen to bring about one’s downfall.  The Master and Chief Engineer of every merchant ship dread this.  In a court of inquiry their licenses could be revoked and their careers ruined.  Hence the adage, “the Coast Guard giveth, and the Coast Guard taketh away.”  The only time one can truly rest on one’s laurels is in retirement.

In the Gospel, however, it works a bit differently.  We must still study and learn in order to grow spiritually, but as the Lord invites us he also promises us:

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matt. 11:28-30).

Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me (D&C 19:23).

Peace, rest, and a light burden—what a difference from the secular world!  In a competitive business environment where the burdens are heavy, mistakes are often disastrous, and forgiveness for imperfections is nonexistent, the Lord’s invitation comes as a welcome relief.  Where the secular world shows no compassion, our Savior does. 

Besides professional burdens, a brief look around reveals a population struggling with many other heavy and unnecessary burdens.  These include smoking, alcoholism, drug addiction, promiscuity, credit card debt, and domestic violence, among others.  Such vices yield terrible results and make life burdensome.  These behavior patterns that are detrimental to one’s physical, emotional, and financial health benefit only the purveyors of the vices who profit from their victims’ misery.  The Gospel, however, seeks to free people from these burdens.  Where the secular world would weigh people down, the Gospel would raise them up, give them the yoke of Christ, and lighten their burdens.

By comparison, to accept the Lord’s invitation and commit ourselves to the Gospel is not to assume a burden but to seek freedom from heavy and unproductive burdens.  In order to do this intelligently, though, we must learn what the Gospel teaches.  Just as prospective mates and engineers must study and learn diligently in preparation for the license exams, so must we study and learn diligently of the Gospel.  As the Lord instructed, we need to “learn of [him]” and “listen to [his] words” (D&C 19:23), and we also need to act on this knowledge: “learn in thy youth to keep the commandments of God” (Alma 37:35).

A life in the Church is a life of learning and then doing.  While there is no hot seat waiting for us in a Church exam room, we are guaranteed that we will use this learning to exercise our priesthood, participate in service projects, perform temple ordinances, and administer to others in times of need.  This is not a make-us-or-break-us license exam; it is an opportunity to achieve the greater good of helping other children of God.

Essentially, what we learn to do in the Church is to better follow the Law of the Lord. The more we follow the Law of the Lord and adhere to the precepts of the Gospel, the happier will we be.  Also, because the knowledge of the Gospel has been entrusted to us, more will be expected of us, both by the Lord and by others.  But really, we should expect more of ourselves.    This is the key to personal happiness.  By living the Gospel and obeying the Law of the Lord, we can walk on air all the days of our lives.

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¹ Joseph Conrad, A Personal Record, Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Doran & Co., 1929, p. 113-114.