Sailing Away

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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.   

The Passing of the Torch

Buoyed by the happy memory of his recent last voyage aboard the ferry Cape Henlopen, and sustained by frequent visits from his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, my father spent his final months in quiet repose at Nashua Crossings, an assisted living facility near the family home.  The staff there took good care of him and kept him comfortable, well-fed, and safe.  In the summer, he enjoyed the great outdoors of the courtyard.  In the winter, he appreciated the warmth of the great indoors, thankful that cleaning up the snow and ice was no longer his responsibility.  In all seasons, he enjoyed the company of his family and took special delight in his three great-grandchildren.  They eased the loneliness and mitigated the infirmities of his old age.

But just as his time aboard the Cape Henlopen went by too quickly, so did his time with the family.  The debilitations of advanced age overtook him. He passed pleasant holidays at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but in this new year he required hospitalization and then hospice care.  Finally, on Friday evening, January 24, 2020, my father quietly rang up “Finished with Engines.”  Concluding an earthly voyage of 98 years, 2 months, and 22 days, he returned to the celestial sphere from which he had arrived almost a century ago.  There he joined our Mom and many other family members and old friends who had gone before him.  As the last of his siblings and cousins to leave this life, he has passed the torch on to a new generation that must now preside over the family.

A week later, on Friday the 31^st, I attended an interment service for my father at the Cemetery of the Holy Rood in Westbury, Long Island.  He had made his return to New York for this occasion not aboard a ship, but in a hearse.  I followed him on a bus.  In our last moments together as father and son at Holy Rood, the deacon intoned the customary prayers for the dead and, quoting Saint Paul, reminded us that “we have our citizenship in heaven” and that “we await the coming of our Savior” (both Phil. 3:20, NAB).  These good points remind us that all of our earthly voyages are temporary and imperfect.  The best is yet to come.

We who now carry the family torch in this life have the obligation and the opportunity to serve both the living and the dead.  This year, we plan to continue the temple ordinances for my Mom and several of her cousins.  Next year, we will start the temple ordinances for my father.  For many years, we will help with the temporal and spiritual needs of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  These family projects are “a sacred duty”[1] because “the family is ordained of God”[2] and is “central to the Creator’s plan for the eternal destiny of His children.”[3]

Now, two photographs from the family archives.   My Mom took this father-and-teenage-son portrait on the bank of the Penobscot River at Fort Knox in Prospect, Maine, in October of 1976.  In the background, an unidentified tanker was discharging cargo at the oil dock in the paper mill town of Bucksport.  Many voyages lay ahead of us when this picture was taken.

Finally, a closer view of the rusty tanker that we were admiring.  Regarding my choice of a career in the Merchant Marine, I recall my father remarking that there was more opportunity for advancement aboard ship than there was in his field of school administration.  Every ship had a Captain.  Every ship had a Chief Engineer.  If I worked hard and studied diligently for the license exams, I could make it to the top.  It didn’t quite turn out that way, but he did have my best interests at heart! 

---

[1] “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, General Relief Society Meeting, September 23, 1995.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ibid.

Cleaning Out the Archives

Every place of human habitation needs a good housecleaning every so often, and our home is no exception.  With plans to retire, relinquish the property, and relocate to a milder climate in the not-too-distant future, the time has come not only for a good housecleaning, but a major downsizing as well.  With this thought in mind, I’ve packed up and given away many household items in recent months, but of course, more still needs to go.  Nothing in the house, not even the family archives, may be exempt from inspection and possible ejection.

Last month’s project, then, involved a thorough examination of the children’s picture albums.  They had about a dozen of these, all filled mostly with mediocre photographs taken with toy cameras and with some duplicates of pictures taken with more sophisticated equipment.  It was a motley collection, but it did contain a few gems that I wanted to save.  The bulk of the collection was jettisoned, as we had much better quality photographs of the same subjects.  Redundancy is a wise course in both archival work and shipboard engineering systems, but it can sometimes be taken to unreasonable extremes.

Not surprisingly, the photographs that I saved are of ships and ship-related subjects.  Some are quite good.  A few are not so good but unique.  All of them bring back memories, and I’m happy to present them here.  Let’s start with a visit to the Cunard Line’s Queen Elizabeth 2 as she reposes at the passenger ship piers on the West Side of Manhattan.

The bow of any large passenger liner is an impressive sight when viewed from the street.  Here, the great, curved, black steel port bow of the QE2 rises magnificently from the placid Hudson on Saturday, July 3, 1999.  It’s awe-inspiring to think that this great bow was designed to cut gracefully yet purposefully through the largest waves and swells of the Atlantic between New York and Europe.  Few, if any, of the ship’s pampered passengers would give this matter a thought.

 

This great bow, like every other part of the ship, requires regular maintenance.  Here, on the same day, we see two seamen on a camel rolling on a fresh layer of black paint.  Not a job for the faint of heart!

 

In these two photographs, taken on Sunday afternoon, September 1, 1996, from the top level of Pier 90, we have a close-up view of the Queen’s port side superstructure.  From this vantage point, we can look through the oversize windows into the ship’s public rooms and promenades and admire her luxurious accommodations.

 

Leaving the West Side piers now and taking the subway down to the Battery, we next embark on the Staten Island Ferry.  Always a family favorite, these half-hour voyages are great fun, and it’s easy to lose track of the time and spend half the day sailing back and forth.  The first picture here shows the pilothouse of the American Legion on an overcast Saturday, April 3, 1999.

 

A year later, we see the same view of the Gov. Herbert H. Lehman on a bright and sunny Saturday, March 4, 2000.  The blue sky and sunshine make all the difference in these two photos.

Switching vessels on the same day, here we view the southbound Gov. Herbert H. Lehman from the northbound American Legion as the two ships pass “at sea” on the Upper New York Bay. 

 

 From the ferries we watch the shipping world go by.  First, we see the anchored bulk carrier Amphitrite on Saturday, April 3, 1999. 

 

Next we see the anchored container ship Maersk Valentia on Saturday, March 4, 2000.

Later on the same day, we watch as another Maersk Lines container ship emerges from the Kills between Staten Island and New Jersey.  She is rounding Saint George and will soon pass through the Narrows and head out to sea.

Leaving New York now, we go next to Maine.  The Portland area is always a great place to see ships.  First, we admire the academy training vessel State of Maine as she rests alongside the Bath Iron Works pier in Portland on a cloudy and warm Saturday, July 11, 1998.

Next we enjoy a close-up view of the tanker Orkney Spirit at the Portland Pipeline pier in South Portland on a hazy Saturday, May 6, 2000.  The adjacent waterfront area and nearby breakwater are excellent vantage points from which we can watch everything that enters and leaves Portland Harbor.

Heading south now to Massachusetts, we watch the Dutch freighter Schippersgracht discharging cargo in Fall River on Monday, August 27, 2001.  Free to roam the pier and watch the ship unload, we did not know on this date that our unrestricted access to the docks would hereafter be curtailed as a result of the terrorist attacks that were only two weeks away.

Moving farther south to the Delaware Bay, we have an noontime view of the northbound New Jersey silhouetted in the sunlight from the southbound Delaware on Sunday, Christmas Eve of 1995.  When driving to Virginia to visit family, the voyage across the Delaware Bay comes as a welcome break from the holiday traffic!

Returning now to New England, let’s visit some lighthouses.  First we have the storied Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, on Saturday, August 30, 1997.  A popular tourist attraction, this site commands a magnificent view of Casco Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.  One can spend many hours there and never tire of the scenery.

At the farther end of Maine, we have this view of the famed West Quoddy Head Light in Lubec on a cloudy and foggy Monday, June 23, 2003.  This site is often cloudy, foggy, windy, damp, and cold, and it has a rugged beauty.  It’s also peaceful and quiet, with very few visiting tourists, even at the height of the summer season.

In Massachusetts again, we see next the diminutive Plum Island Light at the mouth of the Merrimack River in Newburyport on Friday, June 23, 2000.  Blue sky and sunshine abound at this lovely site which is often overlooked by Boston area residents who flock to Maine instead.

In New York again, this time on the spring vacation from school, the children go with their grandparents to the iconic Fire Island Light on a brilliant April day in 2001.  My sons Steven and Michael pose on the boardwalk that leads through the dunes to the light.

Finally, we return once more to New England, specifically to the Piscataqua River that forms the boundary between New Hampshire and Maine.  The Memorial Bridge spanned this waterway for about a century before it was replaced with a more modern structure.  When the children were little, they were thrilled to walk across this bridge from New Hampshire to Maine and back and watch the tidal current rushing beneath their feet.  This view is taken from nearby Prescott Park on a beautiful but chilly Monday, October 8, 2001.

All these photographs from so many years ago bring back a sea of happy memories for everyone in the family.  We are indeed fortunate to have these memories, just as we were fortunate to go on so many family outings to the oceanfront when the children were younger.  Perhaps even more to the point, we were extremely fortunate to have a house full of happy and healthy children in the first place.  So many blessings, and so many reasons to be thankful!  The psalmist said it well when he asserted, “It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord” (Ps. 92:1), and when he exhorted, “Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name” (Ps. 100:4).