Sailing Through Coronavirus

In the brave new world created by the coronavirus, I unwillingly joined the afflicted multitude with a very minor head cold that surprisingly caused me to test positive.  The cold itself lasted two and a half days; the vacation required by my employer lasted two weeks.  In the frigid second half of January, then, I sought relief from my medically imposed home confinement by going outside and hiking around the neighborhood twice every day.  Bundled from head to toe in multiple layers, I marched through the snow-plowed residential streets and pretended that I was actually going somewhere.  As my feet dutifully tramped along the pavement, my mind wandered off to its customary destinations of the sea, the ships that sailed it, and the ports they visited.  One series of memories in particular lodged itself in my consciousness.  As I looked upon houses, snowbanks, and bare trees, I saw salt water, big ships, and motley crewmen from a winter four decades past.

The General Hoyt S. Vandenberg arrived at the Military Ocean Terminal in Bayonne, New Jersey, in the late afternoon of a raw and overcast Wednesday, November 21, 1979.  Chilled to the core by the weather, I suddenly realized how easily I had become accustomed to the comparative comforts of the South Atlantic and Caribbean.  Back in the real world of the American Northeast now for an extended period of shipyard repairs, it seemed like a long winter lay ahead of me.  But mitigating this circumstance was the fact that I had returned to my childhood home, a welcome respite from my normal vagabond life.

At 5:00pm on the Friday after Thanksgiving, during which I saw my parents and grandfather briefly, the General Vandenberg left the Bayonne headquarters and went to the shipyard.  Since many of the crew, including the Master, had departed for a long weekend ashore, this shift of berths was carried out with a reduced workforce.  Captain Glenn Sowash, one of the office folks, came aboard with the pilot for the uneventful passage across the Upper Bay to the Erie Basin. He was thus my boss for about two hours.  After the ship was secured to one of the Todd Shipyard piers in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, a chauffeured automobile collected Captain Sowash and the pilot.  They kindly gave me, the junior third mate, a ride to the nearest subway station, and then I found my way to the Flatbush Avenue Terminal and caught a train home.

Beginning the next day, I commuted to the General Vandenberg via trains to downtown Brooklyn and then by bus to Red Hook.  The Todd Shipyard, fronting on Beard and Halleck Streets, was conveniently situated at the end of the bus line.  This arrangement was necessitated by the shutdown of the ship’s engineering plant.  There would be no heat, no hot water, and no food service during the shipyard overhaul.  The skeleton crew that remained with the ship was placed on “S & Q,” that is, subsistence and quarters, for the duration.  This meant that the company gave us cash and told us to use it for room and board ashore.  I was fortunate.  Staying at the nearby family headquarters was much more palatable than putting up in a waterfront flophouse!

This arrangement lasted through December and most of January.  We worked on rotating shifts: 12:00 midnight to 8:00am, 8:00am to 4:00pm, and 4:00pm to 12:00 midnight.  With these schedules, I commuted to and from the General Vandenberg at both normal and off-peak hours.  The trains and buses ran all day and all night, though, so this was not problematic except for one brief transit strike.  Otherwise, it went well, and I became quite familiar with several of the old landmarks of downtown Brooklyn as I made the connections between buses and trains.

This part I found quite interesting.  I had always enjoyed sightseeing by walking around town in the seaports I visited, and Brooklyn was no exception.  Borough Hall, the Municipal Building, Cadman Plaza, the Flatbush Avenue Terminal, and the Brooklyn Law School all became well known to me by both day and night.  In two months’ time, I hiked many miles through downtown Brooklyn and got plenty of fresh air and exercise.  I always felt comfortable and safe, and never had any trouble with or felt threatened by anyone.  This was true at the end of the bus line in Red Hook as well, despite that neighborhood’s less than stellar reputation.  The bus stop was only a short walk from the shipyard entrance, and I came and went there in the early morning, late afternoon, and midnight without any difficulty at all.

Some of the General Vandenberg’s deckhands felt differently about this, though, as I learned later.  These fellows gathered late at night at Sam’s Bar and Grill on Beard Street, diagonally across from the shipyard and close to the bus stop, and they frequently saw me walking between the shipyard and the bus stop.  I noticed the lights and heard the music from Sam’s, and sometimes saw men loitering by the front door, but otherwise, I scarcely gave the place a thought.  Of much greater interest to me was the Brooklyn Law School, at the corner of Fulton Street and Boerum Place downtown.  When I walked by this iconic structure and saw the students studying at the big library tables inside, I thought that maybe I should look into it for myself.  Even then, I realized that the shipping business would likely not last forever.

Misgivings like this notwithstanding, the General Vandenberg’s overhaul at the Todd Shipyard was a busy time.  Major repairs were done in the engine room, the crew’s accommodations, and on the weather decks.  The ship was drydocked, and the entire hull sandblasted and repainted.  Finally, all lifesaving and firefighting equipment was inspected, tested, and repaired as necessary.  Day shifts were thus filled with commotion; night times were comparatively quiet with reduced activity.  One interesting fringe benefit was the view.  The Erie Basin itself was not much to look at, but the skyscrapers of Lower Manhattan, two and one quarter miles away to the northwest, were clearly visible both day and night over the rooftops of Red Hook.

All this came to an end on Monday, January 28, 1980.  Following some last-minute work on the sewage pumps, the General Vandenberg left Brooklyn three hours late at 3:15pm and sailed south toward Florida.  I went with mixed feelings.  The shipyard period had proved a bonanza for me with a return to my childhood home and time spent with my family. Most significantly, in early December I met Miss Patty, the girl who would one day become my wife.  That day stood off in the distance, as did the day I would sail with a General Vandenberg crewman on another ship.

One of the deckhands who patronized Sam’s Bar and Grill was Steve Zander, an ordinary seaman and often the overnight security patrolman on the General Vandenberg.   Steve was a quiet, introverted, and bright young man.  He did not talk very much, but when he did he spoke thoughtfully and philosophically.  It was through him that I learned that I had unwittingly been the star of the show at Sam’s.

In the latter part of 1980, I sailed with Steve aboard the Wilkes.  One warm and quiet night in mid-Atlantic, he told me the story of Sam’s.  Some of the guys from the General Vandenberg who watched me coming and going at midnight became convinced that I would sooner or later be “rolled,” that is, attacked, robbed, beaten up, and left for dead in the dark alleyway next to Sam’s.  They passed a calendar around the bar, and everyone picked a date for my expected demise and put money on it.  One fellow was chosen to safeguard the cash, and later he would award it to the winner when the inevitable happened.

By the time the General Vandenberg sailed in late January, I had safely made my commute many times.  I never did get rolled.  The boys at Sam’s were reportedly happy for my safety, but disappointed that no one had won the jackpot.  The custodian of the cash gave all the money back, and the lottery concluded uneventfully.  In discussing how it could have ended this way, the guys reasoned that I was either a whole lot tougher than I looked and therefore safer than they thought, or that since I was a native New Yorker I instinctively knew how to get along in the city without getting into trouble.  Whatever, I thought with a laugh!

Four decades later, I was walking around Nashua, patiently waiting to go back to work after my coronavirus quarantine.  I have returned to downtown Brooklyn a few times over the years, but I never rode the bus back to Red Hook.  The Todd Shipyard there closed down in 1986.  Then the property passed through several owners.  Finally, all the shipyard buildings and facilities were demolished in 2006.  An Ikea store now occupies much of the site.  Adjacent to this structure sits a parking lot, built on top of the now filled-in drydocks. Only a few vestiges of the Todd years remain.^[1]

I don’t know if Sam’s Bar and Grill is still there.  I’m inclined to doubt it, though, because without the shipyard, Sam would stand to lose a lot of business.

The General Vandenberg is long gone.  She went out with a bang, quite literally, when explosives were detonated in her lower holds in order to sink her as an artificial reef near Key West, Florida, on Wednesday, May 27, 2009.^[2]

For my part, I never did look into attending the Brooklyn Law School or any other law school.  Instead, I sailed as long as I could, got married, bought a house in New Hampshire, and had a family.  Perhaps if I had gone to law school I would now be a big shot attorney or a distinguished federal appeals court judge.  But I’m content where I am.  I’d rather play with my grandchildren than do paperwork in a law office or settle disputes in a courtroom.

As my feet marched and as my mind sailed through my coronavirus exile, I thought in Conradian terms and turned “for sustenance to memories,”^[3] and these memories carried me a long way.  At such a distance of time, they were most of what was left.  The far reaches of the past were “Only a moment; a moment of strength, of romance, of glamour—of youth!”^[4]  Yes, I was young once, and in a world which was very different from the one that we inhabit now.

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^[1] Information from www.shipbuildinghistory.com, www.ltvsquad.com, and Google Maps. 

^[2] This event is depicted in several YouTube videos.  The full episode is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fI8JsunVQ0 but partial versions can be found elsewhere.  

^[3] Joseph Conrad, in Jerry Allen, The Sea Years of Joseph Conrad, Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1965, p. xii/ 

^[4] Joseph Conrad, in M. Harriet M. Capes, Wisdom and Beauty from Conrad, New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., n.d., p. 131.

Reunions at the Rare

On the day after my father’s service at Holy Rood, I returned to New Hampshire.  Traveling first by train into Manhattan and then by bus to Nashua, I had a few hours’ layover in the city.  With the weather unusually mild for the first day of February, I took this opportunity to walk around and revisit some of my favorite spots.  Even though I hadn’t actually lived in the area for a long time, I remained a native New Yorker, and I still felt very much at home there.

From Penn Station, I went first to the Franciscan church on West 32nd Street and spent some quiet moments there.  Next, I walked six blocks south with the intention of briefly stopping by the Rare Bar and Grill for old time’s sake.  Located on the first floor of the Hilton Hotel at 152 West 26^th Street near Seventh Avenue, the Rare was an easy walk from Penn and has been the site of several happy meetings with my friend and former colleague Walter Burke.  I had happy memories of the Rare, just as I had of many places in the city, and I thought it might be nice to stop by for a moment and reminisce.

When I arrived, something didn’t seem right.  The signs were gone.  The outside menu was gone. The inside was dark.  No one was there.  A notice on the door revealed that the hotel was seeking a new tenant for the restaurant in order to improve the dining service for its guests.  Then I realized, to my utter astonishment, that the Rare was closed!  Not closed in the sense that it just hadn’t opened yet for the day, but completely shut down and out of business!  I was shocked and disappointed.  How could this be?  I had been there with Walter only the previous May, although admittedly, that was now eight months ago.  I walked away feeling very dejected.

This dejection soon turned into sentiment and nostalgia.  I remembered the first time I had met Walter at the Rare.  That had been by his invitation on Monday afternoon, March 28, 2016, and it was an exceptionally happy and truly memorable occasion.  That first reunion after so many years proved to be so enjoyable that we met at the Rare again several months later on Wednesday, November 2, and then again a year afterwards on Wednesday, November 1, 2017.  Most of these meetings took place when I was in New York visiting my parents; thus, their timing was very convenient.

The Rare was a great place for two alumni of the sea to meet and dine and remember the voyages of their youth.  It was a quiet and uncrowded restaurant with great food and attentive service, and it was very convenient to Penn Station.  Also, in a neighborhood that was practically saturated with sports bars and fast food joints, it was neither of these.  It was a cut above the ordinary, but not so fancy that two merchant seamen wouldn’t know how to behave there.  Furthermore, since the Rare formed a link to our past seafaring careers, it was easy to start feeling some attachment to the place.  I’ve never felt sentimental about any other restaurant, but then, the Rare was different.

Dinner alone at the Rare would not have been any fun.  The enjoyment lay in the companionship and camaraderie even more than in the food.  With the palpable common ground of the fraternity of the sea, and with a shared outlook on life formed by the rigors of going to sea, our conversation flowed as freely and as strongly as a flood tide.  There was always so much to talk about!  The time seemed to stand still as we recalled ships and shipmates, voyages and destinations, adventures at sea and in port, and so very much more.  But of course, the time did not stand still at the Rare any more than it had all those years ago aboard ship.  Always too soon, we needed to return to the present day and walk back to Penn Station.

Our last reunion at the Rare took place on Tuesday, May 28, 2019.  Almost a year ago now.  It never occurred to me then that the Rare would be shut down and that our reunions would never take place there again.  But “time marches on,” as Walter remarked, “whether we’re ready for it or not.”

Indeed, time has been marching on relentlessly since the very beginning.  Everyone and everything have lasted only so long.  We recognize the brevity of our own lives, of course, but even grand creations that were built to last for centuries, such as the World Trade Center and the original Pennsylvania Railroad Station, have lived only for brief moments of time.  So, too, did most of the ships that Walter and I sailed on.  To my knowledge, all but two have gone to the scrap yard.  Only the Mercury and the Comet remain, moored in the reserve fleet on the West Coast.

As family members, former shipmates, old friends, and even great ships and iconic buildings leave this life and return to dust, it becomes easy for one remaining to think as the Psalmist: “I am a stranger in the earth” (Ps. 119:19).  As everything that was familiar becomes lost, one can feel out of place in the world as it changes incessantly and becomes increasingly different and even strange.  The demise of the Rare Bar and Grill has come to symbolize for me the loss of so much more.  With it closed, one of the last links to my irretrievably gone seafaring past is now itself irretrievably gone.  I will miss the Rare just as I miss going to sea.

But as the deacon asserted in the service at Holy Rood, “we have our citizenship in heaven” (Phil. 3:20 NAB).  No longer will we be “strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19).  On an earthly voyage that by its very nature is fraught with uncertainty, change, loss, and sorrow, there can be no better future than to ultimately return to our celestial home port.

Now, we have photographic documentation of a reunion at the Rare.  A member of the wait staff took this portrait of Walter and me after dinner on Wednesday, November 1, 2017.  Walter stands on the left, and I’m on the right.  It was a wonderfully happy and festive occasion.   

A Perfect Night

The Northeast Regional rolled smoothly along the historic Shore Line, the railroad that has connected Boston and New York since the 1850s, in the late afternoon and early evening of Wednesday, April 20, 2016.  I had made this journey many times over the years.  Now I was going once more to visit my aged and infirm parents on Long Island.  I had not expected today’s transit of the Shore Line to be much different from any other’s, but the time of day and the workings of Nature played upon my mind and carried me far out to sea.

The train left Boston in broad daylight at 5:35pm.  Just over an hour later, it came alongside the shore of Greenwich Bay in Chepiwanoxet, Rhode Island.  Turning inland for a spell, it next came along the shore of Fishers Island Sound in Mystic and Noank, Connecticut.  After crossing the Thames River, the train stopped adjacent to the commercial shipping piers and the ferry docks in New London.  Then, rolling westward through Connecticut, the train hugged the shore of Long Island Sound at three of my favorite locations: Niantic Beach, Rocky Neck, and the mouth of the Connecticut River between Old Lyme and Old Saybrook.  In all these spots I gazed seaward, and out of a long standing shipboard habit, I took note of the meteorological conditions. 

The elements of Nature did their work as the Northeast Regional made its westward trek toward New York.  A cloudless blue sky and a clear atmosphere afforded excellent visibility.  The North Shore of Long Island lay clearly discernible across the Sound’s great expanse of dark blue water.  The bright daylight gradually mellowed into a gentle twilight as the Sun moved ever farther to the west.  Finally, the moment of metamorphosis arrived.  The train sailed alongside the sea as the Sun set among the hills of western Connecticut and the full Moon rose from the hills of eastern Connecticut.  Sunset on the port bow and moonrise on the port quarter, I thought, as if I were at sea.

The twilight gradually became night as the Sun dropped farther below the horizon, but the darkness did not become complete.  The Moon in its fullness reflected the Sun’s light and cast it down to the Earth.  It was a supernal sight.  Reacting once again as if I were at sea, I thought of taking stars.  There would of course be the routine of star sights at evening, and later, morning twilight.  But with these outstanding conditions—the cloudless sky, the clear air, the unlimited visibility, and the full Moon to illuminate the horizon—there would be a further opportunity for midnight stars as well.  The conditions were just right.  It would be, for navigational purposes, a perfect night!  The third mate on the 12:00 to 4:00 watch could use this quiet time to practice his craft and perfect his skill by taking sights of Rigel, Betelgeuse, Vega, Capella, Regulus, and the ever stationary Polaris.

These and other celestial luminaries were my best friends in the long hours of many night watches.  I thought back to one transatlantic voyage in particular, aboard the Victoria in the summer of 1981, when the conditions were just right, night after night, for midnight stars.  Dutifully taking up my sextant shortly after the change of the watch, I made the rounds of the heavens and took sights of six or seven stars each night.  I always felt that I was working in communion with Creation itself when I did this.  Alone on the bridge wing of a cargo ship in mid-Atlantic just after midnight, I was always aware of a spiritual persona that emanated from the primal elements of the sea and sky that surrounded me.  In this other-worldly realm, I relied on the absolute infallibility of Nature as I calculated the ship’s position on the trackless sea with mathematical precision.  Afterwards the helmsman always asked me, “Well, mate, are the stars all in their right places tonight?”  I assured him that they were, and that the Victoria was, too.

My thoughts were suddenly brought back to the present when the Northeast Regional rumbled across the long bridge over the Connecticut River.  The Saybrook Lighthouse at Lynde Point, at the mouth of the river, was clearly visible, as were the distant shore lights on Long Island.  The Moon had risen farther and now hung high in the southeast and cast its reflected sunlight earthward.  A beautiful evening on Long Island Sound. 

Across the bridge and now leaving the waterfront behind, the Northeast Regional continued west to its stop in New Haven.  Underway again, it glided through a brightly lit suburban landscape.  Then, unexpectedly and between stations, it eased to a halt in a dark and somewhat wooded area.  The conductor announced that due to track repairs, the train would wait momentarily for the eastbound Acela Express to pass, and then it would cross over to the adjacent track and continue westward.

During this brief interlude the interior lights in the passenger cars shut off.  This left only the dim glow of a few emergency lights, and so it became easier to see outside into the darkness.  The Moon shone in its fullness; otherwise, the sky was black.  But then, as my eyes adjusted to the changed conditions, a single star came into view.  It shone in the south, at perhaps 35 or 40 degrees of elevation.  Once more, I thought of taking midnight stars aboard the Victoria and other ships.  For the few minutes that my train waited in the darkness for the other train to pass, I sat transfixed by the night sky and felt myself again transported seaward under a canopy of celestial bodies.  And it was indeed a perfect night at sea.

All too soon the Acela Express rushed past in the opposite direction, and the Northeast Regional resumed its journey, rolling through the switches and settling onto the adjacent track.  Two more glimpses of salt water remained for me, first in Bridgeport, and finally while crossing the East River between the Bronx and Queens.  Soon after that my voyage reached its conclusion, and I reluctantly disembarked in Penn Station.

But the thought of a perfect night at sea remained with me.  I had passed many such nights aboard many ships.  All these years later, I still think back on them.  Nighttime at sea has a unique beauty and a very different way of touching the human soul.  The night speaks in a subtle manner but asserts that the Master and Chief Engineer of the universe is fully in command of everything.  He is watching over the world and watching over us.  He invites us to commune with him, and we can invite him to commune with us.

One hymn, with two minor modifications, expresses this thought particularly well:

                        Abide with me; ’tis eventide.

                        The day is past and gone;

                        The shadows of the evening fall;

                        The night is coming on.

                        Within my heart a welcome guest,

                        [Aboard my ship] abide.

                        Abide with me; ’tis eventide,

                        And lone will be the night

                        If I cannot commune with thee

                        Nor find in thee my light.

                        The darkness of the world, I fear,

                        Would [on my ship] abide.

                        O Savior, stay this night with me;

                        Behold, ’tis eventide.[1]

At our invitation, “the true Light, which lighteth every man” (John 1:9) will abide with us all night.  The myriad stars of the night sky symbolize this Light and thereby provide spiritual solace as well as navigational accuracy.  They command the navigator’s respect when he takes his sightings and calculates his ship’s location on the vast ocean.  They command the world’s respect always as they represent the ultimate Light.  If we welcome this Light that “shineth in darkness” (John 1:5) as a permanent guest at every eventide, then every night will be a perfect night.

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[1] M. Lowrie Hofford, “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide,” in Hymns of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1985, no. 165.  The original lyrics replaced by the bracketed ones are “Within my home” and “in my home.”

Still more pictures of ships and children.....

The U.S. Coast Guard sailing ship Eagle at sea between Bermuda and Newport, Rhode Island, on June 21 or 22, 1976.  This was the first of my many encounters with the Eagle.  In honor of the American Bicentennial, tall ships from around the world gathered first in Bermuda, then Newport, and finally New York.  The State of Maine carried news reporters and photographers and maneuvered around the tall ships so these guys could get their stories and pictures.  I took my own pictures, though.

A U.S. Navy P-3 Orion flies high over the State of Maine in the Atlantic, one day out of Norfolk, Virginia, on May 22, 1978.  My older brother flew P-3 Orions during his time in the Navy, but he was not aboard this aircraft.

One of the beauties of the sea.  Sunset in mid-Atlantic seen from the State of Maine while enroute from Norfolk, Virginia, to Rotterdam, the Netherlands, in May of 1978.

The tugboat Charger reposes at the dock in Newark, New Jersey, in July of 1977.

The fully loaded gasoline barge Interstate 35 is pushed ahead by the Charger, eastbound on Long Island Sound in July of 1978.  This view is from the bridge of the Charger.

The passenger liners America and Queen Elizabeth 2 docked on the West Side of Manhattan on July 27, 1978.  My grandparents sailed from France aboard the America in 1955.  This view is from the southbound Charger, enroute from Rensselaer, New York, to Newark, New Jersey.

The lounge area of the Interstate 50, northbound with a full load of crude oil on the Delaware River in August of 1978.

The tanker Scapmount aground in the Atlantic Ocean near Cape Henlopen, Delaware, on August 23, 1978.  Note the two black balls displayed in the rigging.  The correct signal for a vessel aground is three black balls.

Miss Patty poses happily with the drydocked Waccamaw behind her in Norfolk, Virginia, on April 2, 1983.

Karen, Steven, and James wear the souvenir American Export Lines shirts that my grandparents had bought for my brother and me thirty years earlier.  This is in Nashua in June of 1993.

James on lookout duty aboard the northbound Delaware between Lewes, Delaware, and North Cape May, New Jersey, on August 18, 1998.  Beyond him in the haze to the east lies the open Atlantic.

The four children crowd into the wheelhouse with Captain Steve Pond of the Champlain on an eastward crossing of Lake Champlain from Port Kent, New York, to Burlington, Vermont, on July 2, 2001.

The lightship Nantucket rests alongside a small pier in the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Park in Oyster Bay, Long Island, on August 19, 2009, prior to being towed to East Boston, Massachusetts, where she is now undergoing restoration.  I took my children to this park frequently when they were little.  The Nantucket was one of several attractions there.

Another beauty of the sea.  The whole family sailed aboard the excursion boat Iceberg Quest from Twillingate, Newfoundland, to see this iceberg up close on June 24, 2004.  It was a cold, damp, and overcast day on the north coast of Newfoundland.

The Nantucket at her restoration pier in East Boston, Massachusetts, on July 27, 2013.  Michael and I enjoyed this view from the ferry Island Expedition, enroute from Spectacle Island to Long Wharf in Boston proper.