The Gray Ghost of the Maine Coast

A ship that I have scarcely thought about until recently is the old State of Maine.  She was the training ship at the school I attended when I was young and aspiring to become an officer in the U.S. Merchant Marine.

Built by the New York Shipbuilding Corporation in Camden, New Jersey, in 1952, the State of Maine began life as the Upshur, a combination passenger and cargo ship owned and operated by the federal government in support of military operations.  For many years in the 1950s and 1960s, she carried soilders, their families, and cargo between the United States and Europe and between the United States and the Far East.  She became the State of Maine when she began her second career as a school ship in 1973.[1]  In this capacity, she remained at her dock in Castine for most of the academic year.  Thus, she came to be called “the gray ghost of the Maine coast.”  She ventured to sea in the summers, carrying cadets and their instructors on training voyages.  Occasionally, she went to a shipyard for drydocking and overhaul.

While she remained parked in Castine, the State of Maine served as a floating laboratory, dormitory, and tourist attraction.  In my first year at the school, I lived aboard the ship for several months.  I spent copious hours studying her design, structure, bridge, engine room, cargo holds, and mechanical systems.  There was a lot to learn.  I also spent many hours removing rust, painting, cleaning, and assisting with repairs.  This was often dirty work, but necessary to maintain the ship in her best possible condition.

The first of my two voyages aboard the State of Maine took place in the summer of 1976.  As part of the American Bicentennial celebration, the ship visited historically significant Boston and Philadelphia.  In addition, the ship called at Norfolk, Virginia, for fire fighting and damage control training.  Then, she visited St. George, Bermuda; Newport, Rhode Island; and Bayonne, New Jersey, in support of the tall ships extravaganza for the Bicentennial.  Following the Independence Day festivities in New York, she returned to Castine.

While we could go sightseeing ashore when in port, there was always ample work to do aboard ship.  Everyone was busy.  As an underclassman I was assigned work everywhere—on deck, on the bridge, in the engine room, in the galley—and usually under supervision.  The upperclassmen tried to cram as much navigation and engineering work as possible into their schedules.  In less than a year, they faced the daunting prospect of license exams, and after that, seagoing employment with serious responsibilities.

My second voyage aboard the State of Maine took place in the summer of 1978.  By this time, I had become an upperclassman.  Now I felt the compelling need to seize the opportunity and do as much as possible to prepare for the license exams.  This included navigation, radar training, weather reporting, radiotelephone licensing, anchoring, maneuvering, emergency drills, docking and undocking, lifeboat maintenance, and more.  I spent seemingly countless days and nights practicing celestial navigation, at that time a critically important skill.

On this voyage the State of Maine sailed transatlantic and visited Rotterdam, the Netherlands; Portsmouth, England; Nantes, France; and Funchal, Madeira.  With the exception of Bermuda, which hardly counted because it had been full of Americans, this was my first time sailing overseas to different countries.  It was an eye-opening, educational experience.  I liked it very much, and I wanted to do more of it.

A year later, to my great satisfaction, I did do more of it.  In May of 1979, as a brand new third mate, I joined the Rigel in Norfolk when she was preparing to sail to Southern Europe.  But first, and by a happy coincidence, the State of Maine was also in Norfolk then, and the two ships were docked within walking distance of each other.  As a graduate, I had open gangway to visit the State of Maine, and I took full advantage of this opportunity when I wasn’t busy aboard the Rigel.  I visited the ship daily for several days, each time chatting with instructors, crewmen, and younger cadets that I had known.  I remember one such meeting as particularly significant.

Professor Captain Louis S. Hathaway had been one of my instructors both at school and aboard ship.  He taught meteorology, seamanship, mathematics, and license preparation.  Additionally, as a guest of the Sun Oil Company one summer, he had sailed aboard the New Jersey Sun, the ship I had sailed on as an apprentice in 1977.  A professionally demanding and rigorously conscientious Merchant Marine officer of the old fleet, he maintained an exceptionally high standard of performance and had been revered almost as a god by my entire class.  Affectionately calling him “Hap” behind his back, we both loved and feared him.  We knew that everything he said and did was for our benefit, and we respected him enormously.  Aboard the State of Maine on Wednesday, May 15, 1979, someone suggested that I go topside and knock on Hap’s door to say hello.

Finding Hap’s door open, I timidly addressed him.  He turned around in his desk chair, saw me, and responded very enthusiastically.  “Well, well, look who’s here!  Come right in!  Come in and sit down!”  And he motioned me to a chair.  We had a great visit and chatted for an over an hour about the State of Maine, the New Jersey Sun, the Rigel, my school days, his upcoming retirement, and much more.  Hap shed his stern magisterial formality and spoke with me as if I were his equal.  It was very, very pleasant, and I saw a side of him that I had never seen previously as his student.

This occasion left a lasting impression on me.  Later, when I told a friend about it, he explained, “You’ve made it.  You stayed the course and graduated with your license.  Hap saw you accomplish what you set out to do.  That’s why he’s so friendly now.”

Well, yes, I had made it through school and aboard the State of Maine.  Next, I needed to make it aboard the Rigel and subsequent ships, and also through the second mate’s and chief mate’s license exams.  There was plenty of hard work behind me, and plenty more of it lay ahead of me!

As I remember my formative years aboard the State of Maine, looking back beyond the times of trial and tribulation that full adulthood provided later, I see that

A marvelous stillness pervaded the world, and the stars, together with the serenity of their rays, seemed to shed upon the earth the assurance of everlasting security.  The young moon recurved, and shining low in the west, was like a slender shaving thrown up from a bar of gold.[2]

The golden stillness and security of a sojourn aboard ship without full responsibility but with the hope of a bright future eventually became a happy and treasured memory.  Of course, it was not perfect; life never is.  But it had a certain ineffable quality, a particular uniqueness, which only the mates and engineers who graduated from the State of Maine can truly understand and appreciate.

Now, let’s look at some photographs of the Gray Ghost:

 

 

My father took this photograph of the State of Maine on Saturday, August 23, 1975, the day I reported to Castine as a first-year cadet.

 

 

Almost a year later, I took this picture as the State of Maine sailed down the Delaware River from Philadelphia on Friday, June 4, 1976. 

 

On the same day, the Goodyear blimp supervised as the State of Maine got underway from Penn's Landing in Philadelphia and started downstream.

 

 

A few weeks later, the State of Maine departed from St. George, Bermuda, on Sunday, June 20, 1976.  

 

 

Almost two years later, the State of Maine reposed at anchor in Penobscot Bay on Wednesday, May 3, 1978.  I took this view from a lifeboat during a drill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three perspectives of the State of Maine on the beautifully calm Atlantic in May of 1978.

 

 

When the State of Maine docked in Portsmouth, England, on Wednesday, June 7, 1978, we had the honor of visiting H. M. S. Victory, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson's flagship during the Battle of Trafalgar, seen in this postcard view.

 

 

On Friday morning, June 16, 1978, the State of Maine anchored off Funchal, Madeira, while waiting for dock space to become available.  An unidentified passenger ship passed the State of Maine as she departed Funchal.

 

 

Finally, the State of Maine arrived in Castine following a shipyard overhaul on Monday, April 9, 1979.  That week I took the series of examinations for the third mate's license, which I received on Saturday, April 28.

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[1] For a detailed and informative history of the Upshur-State of Maine, see https://vesselhistory.marad.dot.gov.

[2] Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim, Garden City, NY, Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1920, p. 12.

Missing Out On Paris

This past winter, my son James and his wife Lindsey went on vacation in Miss Patty’s native Germany.  While there, they made a brief side trip to France and visited Paris from January 4 to 8, Wednesday to Sunday.  Following in the footsteps of James’ four grandparents and two of his great-grandparents, they absorbed as much of this great city as they could in the limited time that they had.  Afterwards, they spoke enthusiastically about Paris and recommended it to me as a vacation destination.  Their visit reminded me of an opportunity I once had to visit Paris, an opportunity which I fortunately passed up.

The training ship State of Maine arrived in Nantes, on the west coast of France, at 9:30am on Friday, June 9, 1978.  She remained there for four days, departing at 8:00pm on Monday, June 12.  During this time, I was busy with several shipboard duties, but I also had some leisure to go ashore and see the sights.  So it was not all work and no play.

Nantes was a medium-size provincial city with a modest port facility on the Loire River about 25 miles upstream from the sea.  A group of us explored the city on Saturday afternoon and found it quite interesting.  On Sunday morning, we attended Mass at the fifteenth-century Cathedrale Saint-Pierre and afterwards lounged in the eighteenth-century Jardin des Plantes.  In the afternoon, we rode a train to nearby La Baule, a quiet beach resort on the Bay of Biscay.  Monday morning found us all back at work aboard ship, but with an unpleasant surprise from a few of our shipmates.

A weekend bus trip to Paris had been offered as an alternative to remaining in Nantes.  The thinking behind it was that prospective Merchant Marine officers should receive a cultural education in addition to technical shipboard training.  This sounded like a fine idea.  My parents endorsed it, and they offered to give me the money to pay for it.  They urged me to take this wonderful opportunity to visit Paris because of its stature as one of the great cultural and educational capitals of the world.  I wanted to go, but I didn’t feel right about them spending this extra money on me.  More significantly, I had a vague notion that something about this weekend in Paris just didn’t seem right.

On Monday morning we cadets were ordered to assemble on the sun deck to hear from the commandant, the man in charge of discipline.  He was rip-roaring, red-in-the-face angry, and he erupted in a vicious shouting rampage.

Shouting long and loud, the commandant informed us that our shipmates in Paris had not pursued cultural activities but had instead engaged in a drunken riot of vandalism.  The hotel, reportedly one of the finest in Paris, suffered shattered windows, broken furniture, damaged walls, and shredded draperies.  Vomit and urine saturated beds, couches, carpets, and bathrooms.  Liquor bottles were strewn everywhere.  Other guests complained bitterly.  The management was outraged.  The police came and quelled the riot.

While the commandant was absolutely right in condemning this orgy of destruction, we thought he was absolutely wrong in spewing his venom at everyone.  The vast majority of us had not gone to Paris and had not carried on like a wild horde of ugly Americans.  We knew better than that.  In directing his unbridled wrath at all of us, the commandant seemed to be blaming the innocent majority as well as the guilty minority.  In doing this so theatrically, he succeeded mostly in making a fool of himself.  It was bad enough that a crowd of intoxicated adolescents had gone berserk while guests in the French capital; to have a supposedly responsible adult also go berserk added insult to injury.

Furthermore, this grand display of bluster and bombast carried no real bite.  The culprits did not get in serious trouble.  On the contrary, the bill for repairs sent by the hotel was distributed evenly to all the cadets’ accounts.  The innocent were thus required to pay as much as the guilty for crimes which they had not committed.  Howls of protest arose afterwards from angry parents, but in an egregious display of administrative arrogance, the school refused to take corrective action.  We had a choice of either paying up, or not paying and forfeiting graduation and licensing as Merchant Marine officers.  All would be lost then.

When my parents learned of these events, they were disgusted.  As educated and cultured people, they naturally wanted me to become such, too.  When my mother had attended college in the late 1930s, she was selected to spend a semester at the Sorbonne in Paris, but the political instability of the time prevented this.  The threat of war had cancelled her program; the premonition of drunken depredation cancelled mine.  Happily, however, additional opportunities for higher education and cultural development came to both of us.

Frequently, such higher education and cultural development come in the sacred scriptures,

not in rioting and drunkenness,

not in chambering and wantonness,

not in strife and envying (Rom. 13:130,

as the Apostle Paul wrote to the Romans.  Instead,

A wise man will hear, and increase learning;

and a man of understanding shall attain

unto wise counsels….but fools despise

wisdom and instruction (Prov. 1:5, 7).

The State of Maine sailed as scheduled on Monday evening.  The pilot brought her down the peaceful and placid Loire, and then she proceeded into the calm and quiet Atlantic.  For most of us on board, the ship’s time in Nantes had been a pleasant occasion.  Nantes had shown itself to be a charming city of considerable historic and commercial significance surrounded by beautiful rolling farmland.

As for wintertime Paris, James and Lindsey had a wonderful but too-short visit.  Remembering their childhood stories about Madeline, Ludwig Bemelmans’ fictional heroine of the Parisian boarding school, they visited the sights of her adventures and found them just as edifying as the churches, museums, and monuments!

Now, let’s look at some photographs from off the beaten tourist path:   

 

La Cathedrale Saint-Pierre in Nantes in a postcard view.  A historical summary on the reverse side informs us that the cathedral was begun in 1434.  Subsequently, it survived the ravages of the French Revolution, an explosion in 1800, bombing in 1944, and a fire in 1972.  When I saw it in 1978, it had been almost fully restored.

 

 

Le Jardin des Plantes, a short walk from the cathedral.  Families gathered here after Mass for their day of rest.

 

Le Chateau des Ducs de Bretagne, also near the cathedral.  Moated and barricaded for safety in a different era, it now welcomes visitors, but remains closed on Sunday.

 

The railroad station in La Baule, within walking distance of the beach.  I took this picture because I found its architectural style intriguing.  

 

 

Finally, we see the bridge and forward superstructure of the State of Maine as she leaves Europe behind and sails westward across the Atlantic toward Portland, Maine, in late June of 1978.

The Man on the Moon

Celestial navigation was always one of my favorite parts of going to sea.  On a long transoceanic voyage, this included taking sights of the Sun and stars to determine the location of the ship on the great expanse.  A typical day’s work with the Sun included several sights, two or three running fixes, a latitude by meridian altitude, and amplitudes to determine compass error.  Morning and evening twilight meant star time.  In this interval when the stars and the horizon were both visible, a round of five or six star sights yielded positions before the Captain retired for the night and before he arose in the morning.

 

The Moon played a unique navigational role and was always most useful at night.  On a clear night, a full or nearly full Moon illuminated the horizon sufficiently to make star sights possible.  I always liked taking “midnight stars” during a peaceful and quiet night watch.  I also liked to sometimes take sights of the Moon as I would of the Sun in the daytime.  This could be a bit tricky, as the Moon moved across the sky so quickly compared to the Sun and stars, but proficiency came with practice. 

 

There was always something special about the Moon.  It seemed different from everything else in the sky.  It traveled on its own schedule and radiated its own unique and stark beauty.  It produced no light of its own, but reflected the Sun’s light instead.  With the Sun it created the tides, but its closer proximity to the Earth outweighed the Sun’s greater mass in determining the range of the tides.  When I was not using the Moon for navigational work, I often enjoyed studying its craters and ridges through a set of high-power binoculars.  Sometimes I paused to think that several humans had actually travelled to the Moon and walked on its surface.

 

I had watched Apollo 11 make the first Moon landing on television in July of 1969.  I was eleven years old then, old enough to know what was happening, but not old enough to fully understand its significance.  Two years later, a chance encounter brought me face to face with one of the Apollo 11 astronauts.

 

My older brother—the smart one in the family—attended the University of Notre Dame and graduated on Sunday afternoon, May 23, 1971.  My parents and I made the long trek from New York to Indiana for this auspicious occasion.  Most of the academic ceremony was over my head, but I remember one salient feature of the day very clearly.

 

Notre Dame awarded nine honorary degrees that day.  The recipients of these honors were all high achievers, of course, but one was, and still is, a man of unique achievement who now holds a correspondingly unique place in human history.  This was Neil Armstrong, the first person to walk on the Moon.  He was quickly followed by his colleague Edwin Aldrin, but only Neil Armstrong was present at Notre Dame that day.  He received the degree of Doctor of Laws, honoris causa, in recognition of his accomplishment in travelling to the Moon.  He accepted this award graciously, and afterwards he remained seated quietly and inconspicuously while the graduates received their credentials.

 

Following the conclusion of the ceremony, everyone left the arena.  As my parents and I were walking toward the family car, we noticed Doctor Armstrong, escorted by a detail of the Indiana State Police, exiting through a back door and heading toward a waiting automobile.  Numerous well-wishers, autograph-seekers, and photographers lined his route.  My father pulled out his camera and said to me, “David, quick, go over there and say hello!”  I joined the crowd, which included several boys about my own age, and took a piece of paper from my pocket for Doctor Armstrong to sign.  I waited my turn, then extended the paper toward him.

 

Doctor Armstrong spoke to me pleasantly but regretfully.  “I don’t have a pen.  Do you have a pen?” I said that I did not.  “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I don’t have a pen, either.  I’m sorry.”  He wished me well and off I went, realizing that the other boys had come prepared with their own pens.  On returning to my parents, I learned that my father had quickly taken snapshots of this encounter.  Fifty-two years later, we still have these photographs in our family archives.  One of them is labelled, “David asking Neil Armstrong for autograph.”  I seriously doubt that a signature on a small scrap of paper would have lasted as long as the pictures have..

 

So I had met and been photographed with the first man to walk on the Moon!  This was a big deal for a thirteen-year-old boy.  It was a great moment for my parents, too, and it soon became a treasured family memory.  At sea several years later, I sometimes thought of this chance encounter with Neil Armstrong when I was using the Moon for navigation.  As an adult, I came to realize that meeting him had indeed been a very special privilege.

 

Ashore now, I still enjoy gazing at the Moon.  I keep track of its phases and point them out to my grandchildren.  I think of the Moon as an old friend.  In addition to illuminating the horizon and governing the tides, the Moon brings back memories of pleasant nights at sea and a happy meeting with its first visitor from Earth.

Neil Armstrong leaves the Athletic and Convocation Center at the University of Notre Dame on Sunday afternoon, May 23, 1971.  He is escorted by a contingent of the Indiana State Police.  The boy approaching him is an autograph-seeker ahead of me in line for Doctor Armstrong's attention.

Yours truly with my back to the camera.  Doctor Armstrong stands in front of me, also not facing the camera, and I am patiently waiting my turn with him.  A truly major moment for a thirteen-year old boy.