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.”

The Squall

One fine day in the summer of 1964, my parents and I went sailing on the Great South Bay along the South Shore of Long Island.  The weather was beautiful—blue sky, sunshine, a few altocumulus clouds, and a gentle breeze from the southwest.  The family sailboat was a small wooden knockabout of the Cape Cod class.  It measured eighteen feet in length, drew one foot of water with the centerboard up, and had a foredeck but no cabin.  Designed for fair weather recreational sailing, it offered minimal shelter from and little resistance to strong winds and high seas.  But it was fully seaworthy, handled gracefully, and served the family’s purposes well on an enclosed and shallow body of water.

As a sign of his devotion to my mother, my father named this boat Justine.  He rented dock space for the Justine in a bulkheaded canal called Karras Creek in Massapequa.  This was named after Peter Karras, the proprietor of the Riviera, an adjacent restaurant and banquet hall situated on a point of land which overlooked an alcove on the north side of the bay.  Peter Karras owned this property and operated the dining facilities.  As a sideline, he leased the dock space to my father and several other folks.  A small man with a big temper, he also complained loudly, viciously, and unceasingly about all the taxes he had to pay.  Every time we saw him he was throwing a tantrum about his taxes.  I think my father listened to these tirades for amusement.

The taxes notwithstanding, our family spent many enjoyable and peaceful afternoons sailing on the Great South Bay aboard the Justine.  Usually there were four of us, my parents and my brother and myself, but sometimes my grandparents came with us, too.  We only went sailing in good weather, and it was always a lot of fun.  But then one day the weather suddenly changed.

My mother and father and I were sailing just south of the Nassau Shores neighborhood of Massapequa, where the Great South Bay and the South Oyster Bay come together.  The weather had been perfect for such sailing all day.  Toward the late afternoon, though, dark clouds appeared in the distance to the southwest.  As the wind freshened and the air cooled and the dark clouds came closer, it became clear that a squall line was approaching.  My parents decided to return immediately to Karras Creek.  They brought the Justine about and started to sail northward up the channel.  With the increasing wind, they expected to reach port quickly.

The Justine moved right along with the wind on her port quarter, but the squall line approached faster than expected and caught up with the little boat.  The sky became overcast with ominous looking cumulonimbus clouds; the wind speed increased exponentially; the surface of the bay turned choppy; and heavy rain poured down on the bay, drenching the Justine and her crew.  Unable to hold her northbound course in the channel leading to Karras Creek, the little boat was blown eastward across the flats toward the opposite shore of the alcove.  With her shallow draft, the Justine made it safely through the flats without grounding.  In deeper water again, she approached a residential neighborhood with a bulkheaded shoreline between Carman Creek and Narrraskatuck Creek near Amityville.

As the Justine was blown closer to the shore, it became apparent that she would land alongside the large backyard of a white house.  Seeing our little boat arriving, a middle-aged couple came outside to assist with docking.  In the howling wind and pouring rain, they helped secure the Justine to their dock, and then they insisted that we come inside their house to warm up and dry off.  

These kind people were Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, a Jewish couple with grown children. They proved to be very gracious and compassionate hosts.  They explained that they had seen what trouble we were in, and they wanted to help us if they could.   When it became obvious where we would land, they were ready for us.  With no hesitation, they took the three of us, complete strangers, into their home.  They gave us towels so we could dry off, made hot tea for my parents, and fixed a light supper for me.  Some time afterwards, when the rain and the wind abated, Mr. Shapiro returned outside with my father and me.  He helped us check over the boat and bail out the accumulated rain water.

With the squall moving eastward out of the area, the rain ceased and the sky once again became clear.  My parents decided that it would now be safe to resume our voyage and return to Karras Creek.  The three of us thanked Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro for their kindness and hospitality and bade them farewell.  Embarking once more aboard the Justine, we made the short sail westward in the twilight and across the flats to Karras Creek.  We arrived there without incident.  We tied up the boat, furled the sails, stowed all the gear, and then drove home.

My parents spoke often of this little adventure in subsequent years.  They appreciated the kindness of the Shapiros, and they remembered this couple fondly.  Like the Good Samaritan of the New Testament, Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro tended to the needs of strangers caught in an emergency.  They were indeed a credit to the great Jewish faith.

As for me, I was six years old when this took place.  Despite the intensity of the weather, I was not frightened.  I felt safe through everything because I knew that my parents would take care of me.  My mother, in particular, had had extensive experience with sailboats on the Great South Bay when she was younger.  She and my father knew what they were doing.  So I had no reason to be frightened.

Many years later aboard larger vessels on more violent bodies of water, I encountered storms of vastly different proportions.  With stronger winds and larger waves, and covering a much greater surface area, these storms were not simply local squalls but formed substantial parts of the global weather system.  They raged not just for hours but for days and sometimes for a week and more. Even long afterwards, they remain memorable: aboard the Rigel and the Waccamaw in the Mediterranean, on the Mercury in the Caribbean, the State of Maine and the Victoria in the North Atlantic, the Comet in the North Pacific, and the most violent voyage of all, aboard the Wilkes in the far North Atlantic.

While each of these is a good case in point, the rough ride on the Wilkes north of Scotland is perhaps the most illustrative.  With wind speeds of 75 knots and more—hurricane force—and wave heights ranging from 25 to 40 feet, the ship pitched and rolled without letup.  Waves crashed over the foredeck continuously.  Walls of spray threw themselves over the entire superstructure.  As soon as the ship emerged from one wave with water hurriedly draining over the side, the next one would hit and drench the vessel again.  The repeated onrush of water coupled with the constant and extreme pitching, rolling, and yawing motions of the ship made for a memorable but exhausting voyage.  A scan of the horizon through binoculars from the bridge revealed an angry ocean with waves so mountainous that their crests collapsed under themselves and turned to masses of blowing and bubbling foam on the wave tops.  Endless rows of such waves marched inexorably toward the Wilkes, and as they arrived they lifted the little ship high up on their crests and then plunged her down into their troughs and covered her with a rush of violently churning water.  Occasionally waves would break over the Wilkes’ bow, and the descending pile of water crashing down onto the foredeck would cause the entire hull to shudder and lurch and twist  under the enormous weight.  But then the bow, being lighter than the water, would leap upwards again.  As the torrents of seawater then poured overboard, the next wave would strike and the cycle would be repeated.  This continued day after day and night after night until the passing time became a blur.

By comparison, the squall that blew the Justine off course on the Great South Bay was not so bad.  Put in perspective, the wave trains that assaulted the Wilkes would completely obliterate the low-lying and sandy South Shore of Long Island.  But just as the squall that caught the Justine did not give cause for fright, neither did the storms that caught the larger vessels in subsequent years.

When I was a little boy aboard the Justine, I relied on my parents to take care of me, and they did.  As an adult aboard the Wilkes and other ships, I was more self-reliant and better educated in the ways of ships and the sea.  A knowledge of meteorology, oceanography, shipboard stability, and heavy weather shiphandling forms an important part of the Merchant Marine license exams.  These are subjects which every Master and mate must know.  I had studied them in preparation for the exams, and I used them daily aboard ship.  Understanding how the weather works, how the ocean works, and how a ship reacts to the weather and water enables one to take the elements in stride and realize that rough voyages are normal.  Furthermore, the Wilkes and her fleet mates were well maintained vessels.  All the ships of our fleet were structurally sound with positive stability and full watertight integrity.  Despite the occasional grumbling of the practitioners at sea for the administrators ashore, our fleet was well run and properly maintained.  So again, I had no reason to be frightened.    

As an old proverb holds, knowledge is indeed the key to understanding, and understanding frees one from fear.  As a child aboard the Justine, I knew that my parents would take care of me no matter what happened.  I understood their love and concern for me, and so I knew I was safe.  Aboard the Wilkes and other vessels in rough weather, I knew how the forces of nature operated and why the sea and the ships upon it behaved as they did.  I understood the laws of physics, and so I knew I was safe.

But there remains one more factor.  Because I have studied the scriptures, I have learned the fullness of the Gospel.  I know that I am a child of a Heavenly Father who loves me, cares about me, and wants me to return to him after my earthly voyages are complete.  I understand that I entered this life at his bidding, and that I will enter the next life at his bidding, too.  I further understand that no matter how extreme the storms of this life become, God will take care of me, both here and in the hereafter.  I can trust his infinite wisdom and love, which supersede both natural parental love and the laws of physics, and so I have no reason to be frightened.

The awestruck and perhaps frightened psalmist prayed, “Thou rulest the raging of the sea” (Ps. 89:9), but I think the Lord’s angel said it best:  “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy…” (Luke 2:10).

Pictures from Alaska

An assortment of photographs taken on my visit to Alaska, October 8 to 10, 2015. As always, click on the photo for a larger view.

James' and Sarah's new house in Anchorage.

Statue of Captain James Cook, RN, in Resolution Park in downtown Anchorage.

James and the Aurora of the Alaska Railroad in the Anchorage station, preparing to depart for Fairbanks.  I rode this train to Wasilla, the first stop.

The Alaska state flag over the Wasilla station.  I particularly like the depiction of the constellation Ursa Major and Polaris, the North Star.  I used Polaris many times at sea for navigational purposes.

The ferry Aurora of the Alaska Marine Highway, just arrived in Whittier.

The railroad barge Anchorage Provider in Whittier, with railroad freight cars on the main deck and shipping containers stored in the upper works.

The bow of the Anchorage Provider.  Note the bulwarks situated to protect railroad cars and shipping containers from the rigors of the Pacific Ocean.

The ocean-going tugboat Gulf Titan, the towing vessel that hauls the Anchorage Provider between Whittier and Seattle.

Saint Nicholas Russian Orthodox Cemetery in Eklutna.  Very distinctive with the "houses" for the spirits of the deceased.

Saint Innocent Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Anchorage.  An impressive sight with its plethora of onion domes.

Saint Nicholas of Myra Byzantine Catholic Church in Anchorage.  The largest onion dome, over the main entrance.

The statue of the angel Moroni atop the Anchorage Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Twice By the Pacific

When I was in the shipping business, I went where my employer sent me.  Now that I’m in the family business, I go where my wife sends me.

Such were my thoughts in the evening of Wednesday, October 7, 2015, as the Alaska Airlines 737 maneuvered on its approach to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport at the conclusion of a transcontinental flight from Boston.  This aerial voyage had taken me over Ontario, Manitoba, the Dakotas, Montana, Idaho, and Washington.  Finally, the aircraft descended and made a wide left turn which gave me a panoramic view of the region.  For the first time in 31 years I looked upon downtown Seattle, Puget Sound, the Olympic Peninsula, and the vast Pacific Ocean.  I had last seen this part of the world from the bridge of the freighter Comet in the spring of 1984.  After all this time, it felt good to be back.

But I would not remain long.  A connecting flight aboard another Alaska Airlines 737, this one a combination passenger and cargo airplane, conveyed me northwest from Seattle and out over the inky black Pacific to Anchorage, Alaska.  I had never been to Anchorage before; my employer had never sent me there.  Instead, my wife sent me there—to visit our son and daughter-in-law.  They had recently bought a house, and my assignment was to help them move their belongings.  At 3:45am on Thursday the 8^th, the plane touched down.  A few minutes later, my oldest son James met me inside the terminal and drove me to his new home.

It felt disconcerting at first, after traveling thousands of miles, to arrive in a place where the people spoke American-accented English, used American money, and flew the American flag.  A journey of similar distance but in the opposite direction from Boston would have yielded a much different result.  Several years spent making transoceanic voyages had accustomed me to this.  Today it felt odd to still be in the United States.  Soon enough, however, I would see subtle differences and become aware of Alaska’s cosmopolitan background.

For a few hours every day, we moved James’ and Sarah’s belongings from their previous residence to their new home.  The rest of the time we spent traveling and sightseeing.

Starting in Anchorage on Thursday, James and I visited Earthquake Park.  Named for the infamous earthquake that struck the region on Good Friday in 1964, this site offered an open view to the west, north, and northeast.  Across the water of the Cook Inlet stood downtown Anchorage with the snow-capped Chugach Range behind it.  A spectacular view, even on a damp and cloudy day.  In the city proper, we visited Resolution Park, which faced the opposite direction.  A life-sized statue of Captain James Cook of the Royal Navy looked to the west over the Cook Inlet, the waterway that bears his name and connects Anchorage with the open Pacific.

Captain Cook is an iconic figure in the history of Alaska.  Justly famous for his voyages of exploration in the vast Pacific Ocean, he and his crews made extensive surveys and drew detailed maps of the Alaskan coastline.  They carried out much of their Alaskan explorations aboard the Resolution and the Discovery during the summer of 1778, at the same time that their military colleagues were attempting to put down an armed colonial uprising on the eastern seaboard of North America.  I found it ironic that Alaska would one day join the country that was formed out of this rebellion.  For his work, Captain Cook came to be honored not only with this statue, but with a downtown luxury hotel named for him and with numerous wall murals in its lobby portraying his ships, their crews, and the sites they explored.  In the long history of seafaring, very few seamen have been honored with statues, let alone with buildings and paintings.[1]

Friday’s sightseeing took place south of Anchorage.  On the road to Whittier James and Sarah and I skirted the waterway known as Turnagain Arm.  Named thus by Captain Cook because his two ships needed to turn around in it repeatedly to avoid danger, Turnagain Arm extends inland but does not lead to the seaport of Whittier.  Instead, to reach Whittier we drove through a 2½ mile long combination railroad and highway tunnel cut through solid rock beneath the 4,100 feet high Maynard Mountain.  Emerging in Whittier, we  came upon its small but important harbor, situated on the western end of Passage Canal.  This is not really a canal, but an arm of the much larger Prince William Sound.  Cruise ships, ferries, and railroad barges serve this port, which is surrounded on all sides by the snow-capped Chugach Mountains.

Arriving shortly after we did was the ferry Aurora of the Alaska Marine Highway, the state’s coastwise ferry line. The Aurora backed gracefully into her berth, discharged and loaded passengers and vehicles, and then quietly got underway again.  Moored nearby were the main attractions for us, the tug Gulf Titan and the barge Anchorage Provider, operated by Western Towboat and Alaska Marine Lines, respectively.

The Gulf Titan was an ocean-going tugboat that towed railroad barges such as the Anchorage Provider.  These vessels are two of the fleet that runs the supply route between Whittier, Alaska, and Seattle, Washington.  The Anchorage Provider’s main deck consists of railroad tracks, and her upperworks holds shipping containers.  A shoreside crane would load and remove the containers on the top level, and railroad locomotives would push and pull the freight cars onto and off the main deck.  As I studied this vessel’s configuration,  I became impressed by her size.  A non-motorized barge, she measures 450 feet in length and 85 feet in breadth, large enough to accommodate eight railroad tracks each 420 feet long.  Fully loaded, she can carry 50 railroad cars and a combined total of 20,000 tons of rail cars and shipping containers with a draft of only 18 feet.  James explained his role as a railroad employee in the process of loading and unloading rail cars.  A precision operation, it requires an exact alignment of the barge’s rails with the shoreside rails, tolerates a ramp elevation of no more than a few degrees, and requires that the barge be kept on a even keel at all times.  Wind and sea conditions, even in this sheltered harbor, can wreak havoc with this delicate process.

Despite these constraints, this tug and barge operation serves as Alaska’s lifeline.  Consumer products of almost every description including food arrive in Whittier by sea and are then trucked or railroaded to Anchorage and other destinations.  In the opposite direction, railroad tank cars bring petroleum products to the “Lower 48.”  A fleet of three tug and barge units carry the seaborne commerce between Alaska and Washington.  Additional vessels operated by Foss Marine and the Canadian National Railway carry cargo between Alaska and British Columbia.  By comparison, the cargo carried by Alaska Airlines is a tiny fraction of that carried by sea, and consists of mostly small items and mail that need to be delivered quickly.

We did not see this operation in process, though.  On this particular day, the cargo loading had already been completed, and the Gulf Titan and the Anchorage Provider reposed quietly at their dock.  What they were waiting for remained unknown.  It likely was not the weather, which was quite mild.  Besides, that would not stop them.  James explained that the one way voyage between Alaska and Washington normally requires six days; in poor to extreme sea conditions, though, it can take ten to fifteen days.  Sailing on the open Pacific is not always a pacific experience, as I had learned aboard the Comet many years previously.

On Saturday we followed a different course.  I took a ride on the Alaska Railroad’s weekend Anchorage to Fairbanks train Aurora.  I rode only from Anchorage to Wasilla, though, a 1¼  hour long journey.  James followed the train in his automobile, and Sarah returned to work.  After a pleasant ride out of the city and through the woods and wetlands and with the snow-capped mountains always looming in the distance, I disembarked at the Wasilla station.  James was waiting for me on the platform.  We then returned to Anchorage, but with stops.  The first of these was at a locomotive shop, where a volunteer crew was restoring and rebuilding an Alaska Railroad steam locomotive, Number 557.  An ambitious project of several years’ duration, it is gradually nearing completion.  James had spent many hours working on this locomotive, but was off duty today.  He kept himself occupied with me instead.

Continuing back toward Anchorage, we stopped first at Lake Eklutna, a fresh water lake high in the mountains that provides the drinking water for the Municipality of Anchorage.  Next we visited the Saint Nicholas Russian Orthodox Church and Cemetery in Eklutna.  A beautiful little building topped in the Russian fashion with onion domes and Eastern-style three-armed suppedaneum crosses, Saint Nicholas occupied a small site and served as a spiritual haven in a very quiet rural area.  Much of the property contained the cemetery, itself a sight to behold.  Miniature houses painted in bright colors covered the individual graves.  James explained that these served to house the spirits of the deceased in the Russian tradition.  James further explained that when the Russians came to Alaska, they brought Christianity with them, and they passed it on to many of the native inhabitants.  To this day Russian Orthodoxy remains one of the most prevalent denominations of Christianity among the native Alaskan population. 

After returning to Anchorage, we stopped at three more churches.  The first and largest of these was the Saint Innocent Russian Orthodox Cathedral.  A large and fairly new but nonetheless very ornate structure, it featured a multiplicity of onion domes and suppedaneum crosses.  Similarly, the smaller Saint Nicholas of Myra Byzantine Catholic Church and Parish Hall also displayed onion domes and suppedaneum crosses.  I especially enjoyed seeing these distinctive symbols of Christianity from far-off Eastern Europe.  Some may regard them simply as cultural icons, but to me they demonstrate the universality of the Christian faith and its acceptance by the diverse peoples of the Earth, the result of the early Apostles heeding the Lord’s instruction to “Go therefore, and teach all nations…” (Matt. 28:19).  Finally, we went to see the Anchorage Temple of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Built in an architectural style vastly different from the Russian and Byzantine churches, it also expressed the spiritual character of its denomination, especially in the statue of the angel Moroni summoning the entire population of the world to enter its hallowed halls. 

Additionally, several Roman Catholic and Protestant churches stood in Anchorage, but with time in short supply, we unfortunately needed to prepare for my departure on Saturday night.  Three days in Alaska were quickly proving to be insufficient.  There remained so much more to see and do, including miles of rugged coastline and numerous sheltered harbors to explore.  But for now, I had the long aerial voyage home.

Shortly after midnight, I left Anchorage aboard an Alaska Airlines 737 bound for Portland, Oregon.  After takeoff the aircraft turned southeastward and flew over the Pacific Ocean.  Sitting by a window on the starboard side, I gazed down through the dark night at the dark sea.  It was faintly but definitely discernible.  As the airplane neared the Oregon coast, the gradual approach of dawn turned the vast Pacific from a dark to a medium gray.  From the air it appeared to be truly pacific, yet I thought of Robert Frost’s famous opening lines:

                        The shattered water made a misty din.

                        Great waves looked over others coming in,

                        And thought of doing something to the shore

                        That water never did to land before.[2]

And I thought of the thrashing the Comet had taken on her two-weeks-long return voyage from Japan in 1984.  She had made several port calls here on the American West Coast before and after sailing transpacific to and from the Far East.  I would love to make such a long voyage again, I daydreamed, perhaps aboard a Holland-America Line cruise ship!  For now, it simply felt good to be back, I reflected, as the aircraft turned east and headed overland to the Portland International Airport.

After a short layover, I left Portland early Sunday morning aboard another Alaska Airlines 737 bound across the continent for Boston.  Cloud cover hid the ground until the aircraft reached Montana.  There I saw for the first time this state where James had gotten his start in railroading. The farmlands of North Dakota, Minnesota, and Wisconsin followed.  Then the airplane passed over the Great Lakes.  Looking south, I enjoyed a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan, then Michigan itself, Lake Huron, and the Niagara Peninsula of Ontario with Niagara Falls and the Welland Canal clearly visible.  Lake Erie reached to the horizon in the south.  Finally, the aircraft passed over Lake Ontario and then upstate New York.  On the approach to Logan Airport in the late afternoon, the pilots took the airplane east over the Atlantic Ocean and then made a wide left turn to land into the northwest.  A long and bumpy descent over the bright blue and calm sea followed, and then the plane touched down.  Despite the inability to attend church, it was a restful and spiritual Sabbath for me, flying over and imbibing the magnificence of the Pacific, the Great Lakes, and the Atlantic all on the same day!

On the bus to New Hampshire, my thoughts returned to the Pacific.  I felt a sense of gratitude for all my experiences on the great waterways of the world.  Somehow, though, the Pacific was different, and ironically, I had never intended to go there.  When the Comet arrived in New Orleans in December of 1983, I spoke with the powers-that-be at company headquarters about returning to the Waccamaw in the Mediterranean, as had been the original plan when I went on vacation.  This plan was nixed, however.  I remained aboard the Comet, transited the Panama Canal, and crossed the great Pacific.  My initial disappointment about this went away quickly, and now I’m very grateful that I stayed the course.  And I wish I could do it again!

From Panama to Korea, from the Comet to the Anchorage Provider, and from Alaska Airlines to the Alaska Railroad, the Pacific has repeatedly opened up a world of new adventures for me.  I’m thankful for these unexpected but happy experiences, and I think  of the scriptural injunction to  “live in thanksgiving daily, for the many mercies and blessings which he doth bestow upon you” (Alma 34:38).

Between my employer and my wife sending me away on long voyages, I owe a lot in thanksgiving.

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[1] I personally know of three other statues of seamen:  Captain Rafael Semmes of the Confederate States Navy in Mobile, Alabama, Admiral David Glasgow Farragut of the United States Navy in Madison Square Park in New York, and Capitano Cristoforo Colombo in Genova.  There may be others, though.

[2] Robert Frost, “Once by the Pacific,” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1969, p. 250.