More Days on the Water

One day spent with Michael on the water in Boston was just not enough. It would not get me through the summer. Happily, more days on the water were soon forthcoming.

On a visit with my parents on Long Island at the end of July, my father decided that we should ride down to the barrier beaches and go for a sail aboard the Moon Chaser. Our family had done this several times over the years, and everyone always enjoyed it. Primarily a night time party boat, the Moon Chaser sedately ventured forth two afternoons per week on sightseeing voyages from the Captree fishing boat basin. She followed the channels of the Great South Bay past Sexton Island and the Farm Shoals and then ran along the north side of Fire Island toward Ocean Beach and Point o’ Woods. The highlight of this scenic voyage was the famous Fire Island Light, one of the most historically and navigationally important landmarks along the American East Coast. And so we spent a bright and sunny Wednesday afternoon, the last day of July of 2013, embarked on the sober Moon Chaser, enjoying the sublime beauty, peace, and quiet of the waterways along the South Shore of Long Island.

Back in New Hampshire, Miss Patty had been so impressed with what Michael and I had told her about the Eagle that she now wanted to see this grand ship herself. On Sunday afternoon, August 4, 2013, then, Miss Patty and I travelled to Portsmouth where the Eagle was docked for the weekend and was once again open for public tours.

What we came upon at the State Pier at first dismayed us: no place to park, a two-hour-long wait in line, no place to sit down, and a security guard who all but told us to get lost. This was vastly different from the Eagle’s dockside arrangements in Boston! Well, Miss Patty found a place to sit down while I parked the car elsewhere and walked back. Then the Coast Guard intervened. After a brief word about Miss Patty’s walking difficulty, and also after seeing her using a cane, a Coast Guard Auxiliary officer called for a golf cart. This vehicle sidestepped the two-hour-long line and delivered us to the Eagle’s gangway. There, two Coast Guard Academy students welcomed us and assisted Miss Patty onto the ship. Once aboard, we walked the decks slowly and carefully. Additional Coast Guard personnel stood by and answered questions, offered explanations, assisted at the stairways and on the forecastle deck, and distributed souvenir portraits of the vessel. As there was only a loose schedule, we took our time so Miss Patty could see everything—the masts, the rigging, the woodwork, the navigation bridge, the helm, the fantail, the signal flags, and so forth. This was a very special occasion for her, visiting a famous, beautiful, and historically significant ship from her native country. I enjoyed it as well, visiting the Eagle for the second time and in a different seaport.

Despite my initial misgivings, the visit turned out exceptionally well. I must give credit to the Coast Guard personnel whom we encountered that day. Whether commissioned, enlisted, auxiliary, or students, these ladies and gentlemen extended the most professional hospitality and courtesy to us. They represented their ship, their service, and their government very well indeed.

Returning to the commercial side of shipping, I again went to visit my parents on Monday, September 16, 2013. Disembarking from Amtrak’s Shore Line in Bridgeport, Connecticut, I walked to the nearby ferry dock and awaited the arrival of the next boat to Long Island.

The Park City is one of three diesel powered vessels operated by the archaically named Bridgeport and Port Jefferson Steamboat Company, which has been crossing Long Island Sound since 1883. She entered the harbor quietly and maneuvered alongside the dock adroitly. In fifteen minutes she discharged all her Connecticut-bound vehicles and passengers and took on the Long Island-bound traffic. At 12:00 noon she eased away from the dock and then transited the channel, passed between the twin breakwaters, and set out again upon the Sound. Her voyage to Port Jefferson would take an hour and fifteen minutes and cover fifteen nautical miles.

I stood alone facing forward on a promenade deck one level down from the bridge as the Park City crossed the Sound. I had last travelled this route some twenty years earlier, in August of 1993, with Miss Patty and the children. That had been an experiment, a possible alternative to our usual New London to Orient Point crossing. It proved impractical, though, largely because of the difficult drive through Hartford, New Haven, and Bridgeport. Taking the train to Bridgeport this morning instead made the journey to the ferry much more pleasant. Prior to this experiment in 1993, I had last sailed through this area in 1978 aboard the tug Charger. I thought of those voyages as I gazed upon the Sound. In the distance in mid-Sound stood the Stratford Shoal Light, an important navigational aid that dated to the 1870s, and still an important waypoint a century and more later on the Charger’s and Park City’s voyages.

As the Park City drew nearer to the Stratford Shoal Light, her running mate Grand Republic did likewise from the opposite shore. The two vessels passed port to port at an ample distance, both from each other and from the Stratford Shoal. The sky, which had been overcast in Bridgeport, was now changing shades. A bank of gray stratocumulus clouds remained over Long Island; intermittent off-white cumulus highlighted the increasing blue sky over the water; and blue punctuated by streaks of pure white cirrus reigned over Connecticut. As I witnessed this gradual metamorphosis I contemplated a verse in the Psalms: “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork” (Ps. 19:1). To one trained in Latin, though, the nuances of Saint Jerome’s

Vulgata convey the thought even more artfully: “Caeli enarrant gloriam Dei, et opus manus eius adnuntiat firmamentum” (Ps. 18:2).¹ Whether applied to the stars and moon by night, to the sun’s daily transit, or less typically to meteorological conditions, this thought captures the essence of the various faces of the sky. While theologians debate fine points of doctrine, the sky over the sea—the firmamentum to the ancients—speaks silently to the navigator and asserts both unequivocally and incontrovertibly that a Supreme Being, a Creator-God, is truly in charge of the universe.

As the Stratford Shoal Light and the Grand Republic receded into the distance, the Park City approached the twin sand spits and breakwaters that form the entrance to Port Jefferson Harbor. The stratocumulus blanket over Long Island was by this time opening up and allowing bright sunshine to illuminate the seascape. Brilliant blue water delineated by white sandy beaches and dotted with the white hulls of anchored sailboats filled the estuary. It was a melancholy sight, though. The ferry’s arrival in this beautiful natural harbor, a million dollar view from the mansions on the surrounding green hills, signaled the end of my voyage. The Park City eased up to the dock in the center of town. Across the wharf from her rested the third ship of the fleet, the P. T. Barnum, securely moored and undergoing maintenance work on her main vehicle deck.

I disembarked with mixed feelings. I was very happy to have made the voyage, but very sorry that it had to end. I could have stayed on the ferry and crossed and re-crossed the Sound all day! But I needed to be practical. It was now time to walk to the Port Jefferson station and get the next train for Mineola.

Two days later, I visited the waterfront again, this time on the West Side of Manhattan. On Wednesday, September 18, a bright sunny day with a completely cloudless blue sky, I went to Pier 66 at the foot of West 26^th Street to see the lightship Frying Pan. Now part of a dockside restaurant, this historic vessel had for many years guarded the Frying Pan Shoals off Cape Fear, North Carolina. Located about 175 miles southwest of the better-known Cape Hatteras, Cape Fear and the Frying Pan Shoals lie near the mouth of the Cape Fear River, on which are situated the seaports of Wilmington and Southport. I had called at Wilmington once when posted aboard the Mercury in 1980. So long ago! I was young then, but the lightship was already old and retired. Since sold by the government to private interests, she reposed quietly in the early morning sunlight at her new home.

The Frying Pan shared the pier with the historic fireboat John J. Harvey and an Erie-Lackawanna Railroad caboose. This is not really so incongruous. In this neighborhood’s heyday of commercial shipping, the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad used Piers 63 and 66, the Erie-Lackawanna used Pier 68,² and railroad tracks interlaced the cobblestone streets that lined the waterfront. After the railroads and the shipping lines went bankrupt and the transportation industry shifted to containerization, these piers and many others fell into disuse and neglect. For about 25 years they stood as urban blight, dangerous and dilapidated structures lining the Hudson River. In the mid 1990s this situation began to change. Today, these newly renovated and refurbished piers form part of the Hudson River Park, a landscaped promenade paved in flagstone and brick with magnificent views of the river and recreational facilities for families with children.

Pier 66 with the historic Frying Pan and John J. Harvey preserves the seafaring character of the area. Just to the south, Pier 64 offers shaded benches, picnic tables, and fishing. Pier 63, actually more of a wharf that parallels the river, continues the park setting of Pier 64, as does Pier 62, which has a merry-go-round for children. Next come the famous Chelsea Piers, 61, 60, and 59, all of uniform size and shape, which form the new Chelsea Piers Sports and Entertainment Complex. Featuring indoor sports facilities, a golf driving range, theatres, restaurants, ballrooms, small boat berths, and more, these piers were a century ago the heart of New York’s commercial waterfront. Of particular interest to me was a large historical display of vintage black-and-white photographs that lined a waterside promenade. Explanatory captions accompanied the pictures. Additionally, a plaque honoring the accomplishments of Mayor George McClellan summarized the neighborhood’s history.

One of these accomplishments was the Chelsea Piers Project. Opening for business in 1910 after several years of construction, the Chelsea Piers became the main western terminus of the transatlantic passenger and cargo trade. Designed to be architectural showpieces, they served as magnificent gateways to New York. Used by the Cunard and White Star Lines among others, they hosted such luminaries as the Mauretania, the Lusitania, the Carpathia, and the Olympic, and were the intended destination of the Titanic. In later years, when the passenger fleets moved uptown to larger facilities, the Chelsea Piers continued to serve medium-sized break bulk cargo ships. As late as 1970 they were still used by United States Lines.¹ Their careers thus lasted about 65 years. Then followed the 25 years of disuse, deterioration, and eventual rebirth.

I appreciated this display of the Chelsea Piers’ history, as well as the entire neighborhood’s rehabilitation and reuse. The views across the sun-bathed Hudson to New Jersey and south to Staten Island were breathtaking. The beauty of the new park and renovated piers felt inspirational. While adjacent to the teeming streets of midtown Manhattan, they nonetheless formed a world set apart from the city, an oasis of peaceful and quiet repose.

Before returning home, I had one more spot to visit. Walking north alongside the river to West 35^th Street, I came to Pier 76, one of the largest of the old West Side piers. Unlike the others, Pier 76 had not been transformed into a park, restaurant, or sports complex. Instead, signboards indicated that it was used by the police. Towed cars were brought there and stored inside the big warehouse. Also, the mounted police units kept their horses there. To most outward appearances, though, it looked pretty much as it had in the old days with its imposing blue façade and oversized garage doors facing both the waterfront and the street. Clearly, this structure was intended to handle big shiploads of cargo! The most impressive feature of all, though, was a name that had never been removed. Set into the big blue walls and stretching over the tops of several garage doors high above the street were enormous white letters that after all these years still proudly spelled out “United States Lines.”

This great name was truly a sight to behold, a proud reminder of the glory days of the United States Merchant Marine, an era when American products were exported in American ships from New York to countries around the world. United States Lines was and remains an iconic name in maritime history. A vast fleet of ships that carried passengers, freight, and mail across the oceans and between continents made up United States Lines. My grandparents had sailed with this company in 1955, taking the fabled United States to Europe and returning aboard the less famous but still significant America. Finding the company’s name still emblazoned across the front of a pier that its ships had frequented was an event to savor!

Another event to savor took place the following day. In the afternoon of Thursday, September 19, my parents and I again drove down to the barrier beaches. We stopped briefly at Oak Beach and Captree to admire the Fire Island Inlet, but the highlight of the outing was visiting Fire Island itself.

The great Atlantic Ocean stretched out endlessly before us. Its dark blue water contrasted sharply with the light blue sky in the bright sunlight. The horizon where the sea and sky met was clear and distinct, a perfect meteorological condition for celestial navigation. Lines of position taken from the sun on this horizon would yield a fix accurate within a tenth of a mile. There were probably mates aboard ships at sea taking sun sights as I thought of this. One such vessel was just visible on the horizon. Years ago I, too, had sailed past Fire Island on the way to and from New York. From the State of Maine and the Comet I had looked shoreward, just as I now stood on the beach and gazed seaward. The Atlantic was lovely, dark, and deep.⁴ Its beauty beckoned me as it had beckoned others before me. My grandparents had sailed past Fire Island numerous times aboard several ships on their voyages to and from Europe. As had so many folks. The commercial fleets of Cunard, White Star, American Export, United States Lines, and many others that had called at the West Side piers had sailed past Fire Island on their transatlantic journeys as well, and their navigators had used the both the sun and the nearby Fire Island Lighthouse to fix their positions. Once again, the past and the present showed an interesting way of intersecting on the eternal sea.

Fittingly, I spent my last day of vacation on the water with Michael, my youngest son. As we had done in late July, we again boarded a ferry at Long Wharf in Boston for a voyage to the Boston Harbor Islands. It was another bright and sunny but windy day, Saturday the 21^st of September. We stood at the bow rail and felt the rush of salt air and water as we sailed aboard the Island Expedition to Georges Island. We spent the afternoon exploring historic Fort Warren, built in the middle 1800s to defend Boston Harbor, and enjoying the magnificent panorama of blue water, green islands, and the storied Boston Light. The irony was unmistakable—a sublime and peaceful scene viewed from the ramparts of a structure built for battle. I thought of the old Roman proverb: si vis pacem, para bellum—if you want peace, prepare for war. Ironic and sad, but repeatedly proven true. We returned to the city in the late afternoon aboard the Island Adventure. This voyage took us under the Long Island Bridge and past the outbound tanker Maritime Anita, a vessel of particularly impressive dimensions when viewed alongside from a diminutive ferry boat. Across the harbor in East Boston, the lightship Nantucket still rested at her refitting berth, emblematic of another beautiful day on the water.

One of the great blessings of my life has been to spend many beautiful days on the water. Whether at the shoreline or actually aboard a ship at sea, the effect is the same. There is something about the sea that soothes the soul, brings peace, and invites one back again and again. People sometimes carp about getting too much of a good thing, but I think it’s impossible to have too many beautiful days on the water!

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¹ I say this with all due respect to the magnificent English of King James’ translators. The main difference is that the two languages have different nuances and therefore express the same thought in their own unique ways. Neither one makes the other wrong; on the contrary, both versions contain supernal truth and beauty of expression. The difference in the numbering of the Psalms stems from differences in Catholic and Protestant approaches to the scriptures. It’s a small point, but one nonetheless indicative of the unfortunate divisions in Christianity.

² The historical data on individual piers comes from two sources: City of New York Five-Borough Atlas, Fourteenth Edition, Atlas No. 2088A, n.p.: Hagstrom Company, Inc., 1972, p. 9; and “Tourist Manhattan,” Atlas Plate 15, insert in The National Geographic Magazine, July, 1964. Despite the name “Tourist,” this really is a very high quality and richly detailed map.

³ City of New York, loc. cit.

⁴ I love these verses from Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” in The Poetry of Robert Frost, New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1967, p. 224-225:
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I have thought of these lines on many occasions when the day’s outing to the seashore was ending and it was time to return home and tend to the responsibilities of negotiating heavy traffic, feeding children, keeping house, going to work, etc. I often wanted to prolong the visit to the oceanfront, but the promises that I felt obliged to keep, i.e., my domestic responsibilities, always called me away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Day on the Water

The past and the present have an interesting way of intersecting. Shortly after 7:00am on Saturday, July 27, 2013, I met my son Michael in front of South Station in Boston. Our itinerary for the day included voyages across Boston Harbor, visits to historic ships, visits to historic shoreside locations, and many happy hours visiting with each other. Under the Creator’s clear blue and sunny sky, then, we set out for the Eagle Hill neighborhood of East Boston.

The historic marker on the low stone wall in front of the house at 78-80 White Street informed us that this was once the residence of the famous shipbuilder Donald McKay. A legend in his own time, Mr. McKay designed and supervised the construction of clipper ships at a shipyard in East Boston in the mid-1800s. The notation on his wall summarizes his career very briefly. Volumes on library shelves elaborate on it more fully. Between these two extremes, Mr. McKay’s name and work are immortalized in brick and stone elsewhere in East Boston. Clipper Ship Wharf still stands on the waterfront; Clipper Ship Lane abuts the old shipyard property; the Donald McKay School educates the rising generation; and Piers Park overlooks the Inner Harbor with pavilions honoring his work and memory.

Michael and I walked from the house to the park. A beautiful facility with immaculately manicured lawns and brick walkways, it commanded magnificent views of the harbor, the surrounding waterfronts, and the downtown skyscrapers. In the distance to the south, airplanes took off from Logan Airport and headed west over the city. Directly in front of us, tugs with barges made their way between the docks and the open sea. One tug and barge unit reposed at anchor slightly to our left. My son and I sat in the McKay Pavilion to have a snack, enjoy the view, and discuss shipping and history. He asked me many questions.

Had I ever come into Boston on a ship? Yes, I explained, on two ships, actually. The first was the old State of Maine in May of 1976. She tied up at the Commonwealth Pier in South Boston. Then I joined the Wilkes at the Braswell Shipyard, also in South Boston, in July of 1980. Braswell went out of business and shut down while the Wilkes was there. Like the McKay shipyard off to our right, it receded into the past and took many people’s livelihoods with it.

Did I know how tugs and barges work? Yes, I answered. I had spent the summer of 1978 working aboard the Charger and the Interstate 50 of the Interstate and Ocean Transport Company. As we watched a tug with a loaded barge pass in front of us, Michael asked about the operation. How were the two vessels lashed together? How does the crew steer the tug with the barge attached? What cargo do barges carry? Do they go out on the open ocean? And as another tug with an empty barge lashed to its starboard side came along, Michael asked about towing positions and freeboard. He wanted to know everything!

Another pavilion in Piers Park honored the various ethnic groups that had immigrated to the United States and settled in East Boston. Many of these folks had found work in the McKay shipyard. Appropriately, then, a painting of one of the yard’s masterpieces, the clipper ship Flying Cloud, stood prominently on display. At the time of her construction in 1851, the Flying Cloud was the largest and fastest merchant ship ever built, more ambitious even than the previous McKay masterpiece Stag Hound. On her first voyage the Flying Cloud set a new speed record on the New York to San Francisco route, then continued transpacific and eastward via the Cape of Good Hope and returned to New York with a load of Chinese tea. She paid for herself in this one round-the-world voyage, an unparalleled commercial and technical success. About three dozen clipper ships followed the Flying Cloud from the East Boston shipyard. Many of them, including such luminaries as the Lightning, the Great Republic, and the Sovereign of the Seas, became world-famous in their time and have been remembered for their achievements ever since.¹

From Piers Park Michael and I walked to the nearby Boston Harbor Shipyard and Marina. At the end of a medium-sized wooden dock the lightship Nantucket lay in repose. With her white-lettered bright red starboard side facing away from the dock, she was plainly visible clear across the water from downtown Boston. She was designed to stand out in the distance, and she did. The product of an era vastly different from the clipper ship years, the Nantucket had long stood guard over the treacherous Nantucket Shoals, warning merchant vessels away from danger as they traversed the traffic lanes leading to and from New York. Retired and withdrawn from service for many years now, the Nantucket had been acquired from the government by the privately owned United States Lightship Museum and was undergoing restoration for preservation as an historic vessel. My children and I had seen her previously in Oyster Bay, Long Island. She had been parked there for a time while her fate was being decided. Then she was towed to East Boston on May 10 & 11, 2010, and has remained there since.² It was good to see her again! I had the feeling of revisiting an old friend as Michael and I stood on the dock admiring this great ship and reminiscing about happy times in Oyster Bay.

Leaving the Nantucket behind, we doubled back past Piers Park and walked along Marginal Street toward Maverick Square. This route took us past some of the dilapidated old docks of the East Boston waterfront. Long a busy shipping site, these docks have now lain in ruins for decades, a sad waste of valuable urban real estate. With its views of the harbor and downtown skyscrapers, this land seemed to have tremendous potential for residential use. Happily, though, at the foot of Lewis Street, a new building was under construction.

Long before railroad and motor vehicle tunnels connected East Boston with downtown, ferries carried the passengers and freight across the harbor. Much discussion about reviving such a service and even expanding it to connect East Boston with South Boston and Charlestown has taken place, and the federal government has committed money toward building new vessels.³ Michael and I wondered, then, if this new building would be a ferry terminal. It was certainly in the right place for one. Until ferries started crossing the harbor again from East Boston, however, we would rely on the subway. And so returning to Maverick Square, we rode through the Blue Line’s subaquatic chambers to Aquarium station, walked the short distance to Long Wharf, and boarded the ferry Rita for Charlestown.

The voyage aboard the Rita through the Inner Harbor to the former Navy Yard in Charlestown took maybe fifteen minutes. But it was a very pleasant fifteen minutes, with the sun bright in the mid-morning blue sky. The Nantucket’s white-lettered red hull stood out prominently on the East Boston shore line, and as the Rita approached the docks in Charlestown two other historically significant vessels came into view. The Constitution, of course, has long been a special feature of Boston Harbor. This weekend, though, she had a neighbor. The Coast Guard’s famous sailing ship Eagle shared the dock with the Constitution. She was open over the weekend for public tours, and Michael and I were going to visit.

My first glimpse of the Eagle took place at sea in June of 1976. I was embarked on the old State of Maine which was following the tall ships’ race from Bermuda to Newport, Rhode Island, and carrying the press corps for this event. To enable these newsmen to take photographs of the various sailing ships and write stories about the race, Captain Hill deftly maneuvered the State of Maine from one tall ship to the next, always maintaining a safe distance between the vessels and remaining downwind of them so as not to spill the wind from their sails. Since that occasion, I had seen the Eagle many times in Boston, New York, and her home port of New London, but I had never gone aboard.

I knew her history pretty well, though. Built in 1936 in Hamburg, Germany, she began her long career as the Horst Wessel, a training ship for the German Navy. Taken over by the United States in 1945, she became the Eagle for the next phase of her career, training personnel for the United States Coast Guard. In June of 2011 she observed her 75^th birthday by returning to Hamburg where she was received as an honored guest by both the city and the German government.⁴

Under less auspicious circumstances, Michael and I enjoyed a wonderful time aboard the Eagle in Charlestown. We puzzled over her extensive rigging, studied her elaborate woodwork, and admired her military orderliness. A Coast Guard officer engaged us in conversation and tried to interest Michael in attending the Coast Guard Academy in New London. On the pier again, I pointed out aspects of the Eagle’s hull structure to Michael, most notably the elaborate curvature of the fantail stern, an artistic feature of ship designs of a bygone era.

From Charlestown we sailed once again aboard the Rita and returned to Long Wharf. Another short but very pleasant voyage. As we had done earlier, Michael and I sat in deck chairs on the stern, away from the more crowded cabin and with open views of the harbor. As the Rita passed the North End of Boston, I showed Michael the Coast Guard building on Commercial Street, the place where I had taken the exams for the chief mate’s license in the summer of 1984. Almost thirty years ago! Tempus fugit, indeed.

At the now crowded and noisy Long Wharf, Michael and I signed up for our next voyage of the day and then had a light lunch while we waited. At his suggestion we took the ferry Island Expedition to Spectacle Island in the Boston Harbor Islands chain. About 200 other people had the same idea, so it was a full boat. Nonetheless, it was a lovely 25-minute voyage from the downtown area past the working piers of South Boston and into the cluster of small green islands at the entrance to Boston Harbor. Within sight of the downtown skyscrapers yet seeming a world apart from them, Spectacle Island offered hiking trails and scenic lookouts laid out amid lush verdant hills. It was an oasis of peace and quiet surrounded by calm and restful blue water. It soothed the soul. Michael and I followed a trail partway around the island and up one of the hills and enjoyed spectacular views of the expanse of water and additional islands in all directions. Recreational boats dotted the adjacent seas, and ferries hurried to and fro within the archipelago. In this beautiful location time seemed to stand still. The unfailing westward movement of the afternoon sun clearly indicated otherwise, though, and all too soon we needed to hike back to the dock. We agreed that with a picnic lunch and a set of binoculars we could have done a full day’s outing on Spectacle Island. Perhaps next summer!

Returning again to Long Wharf aboard the Island Expedition, I positioned myself in the best possible photographic vantage point and with the newfangled digital camera recorded the principal shipping activity around us. There was the Nantucket, of course. Also the Roseway, a two-masted, red-sailed school ship for high school and junior high school students gliding gracefully into port. And then there was the Cosco Genoa, a 900 or so feet long container ship of the China Ocean Shipping Company, moored and working cargo at one of the South Boston piers. After another very pleasant and thoroughly enjoyable 25 minutes on the water, the Island Expedition arrived back at Long Wharf, and it was time for us to disembark.

During our absence on the water and ashore on Spectacle Island, the city had become very hot, crowded, and noisy. People milled around everywhere. No doubt many of them had come into town to see historical sites. Michael likes to call Boston “America’s cornerstone” because of the city’s richness in history, particularly colonial and revolutionary history. This is borne out in the North End neighborhood where he had attended school.⁵ Tourists parade through the North End to see the Old North Church, the statue of Paul Revere, and the Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. From these sites, it’s a reasonable walk over the Charlestown Bridge to the Navy Yard where the visitors would then tour the Constitution.

While this is very commendable, I daresay few if any of these same tourists would venture across the harbor to East Boston and visit the Donald McKay house, the site of the clipper ship building yard, the Nantucket, or Piers Park. Yet all this is historical, too. I like to think of it as history off the beaten path. In a city that is practically saturated with history, the out-of-the-way shipping history stands out as the most fascinating of all. Great historic ships like the Flying Cloud, the Eagle, and the Nantucket not only connected Boston with the rest of the world but also connect the past and the present. Likewise, humble ships like the State of Maine and the Wilkes connect the family’s past with its present. Similarly, ferryboats like the Rita and the Rookie, aboard which Michael commutes daily to work, connect the family’s present with its future.

As I rode the bus back home to Nashua later that afternoon, I stared out the window but saw in my mind’s eye the events of my day on the water. A special day spent in a unique setting with—best of all—a beloved son. I liked it so much that I wanted to do it all again!

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¹ A.B.C. Whipple, The Clipper Ships, Alexandria, Virginia: Time-Life Books, 1980, p. 55 & 61. Chapter 2 of this book, comprising pages 46 to 71, contains a wonderful capsule summary of Donald McKay’s career, the Flying Cloud’s initial voyage, and a vintage photograph of the East Boston shipyard. See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_McKay for a roster of clipper ships that he designed and built.

² For complete information see http://www.nantucketlightshiplv-112.org.

³ Jeremy C. Fox, “BRA approves ferry plan to connect East Boston, Charlestown, South Boston,” Sept. 18, 2012, available at http://www.boston.com/yourtown/news/east_boston/2012/09/bra_approves_ferry_plan.html; and Edward L. Glaeser, “A bridge to East Boston—via ferry,” Boston Globe, available at http://www.bostonglobe.com/opinion/2013/05/16/bridge-east-boston-ferry-form/EN76EOgYm5L6J0RyHSsUZJ/story.html.

⁴ Dirk Langeveld, “Coast Guard Eagle Visits Birthplace in Hamburg,” in New London Patch, June 6, 2011, available at http://newlondon.patch.com/groups/editors-picks/p/coast-guard-eagle-visits-birthplace-in-hamburg. For historical and technical information about the Eagle without the ethnic and political vituperation that permeates most American accounts of the ship, see www.uscga.edu/eagle.

⁵ Michael attended the North Bennet Street School, where he studied woodworking and furniture building, starting on February 7, 2011, and graduating on May 31, 2013.

Merrily Reminiscing

My father always told me to take notes as I made my way through life. As a kid, I thought this idea was just adult nonsense. As an adult with children, however, I consider it to be wise counsel. Accordingly, then, I have taken notes my entire adult life, actually starting in my late teens. Since my children were born, though, the note-taking has accelerated. Just about everything they’ve done in their short lives is recorded. My basement library contains shelves upon shelves of children’s biographical materials—written notes, photograph albums, video tapes, mementoes, computer files, paper files, and so on.

I was recently looking through some of these materials in order to collect information for a spreadsheet that would tabulate all the voyages the children have made. I found everything that I needed, and I enjoyed reading the notes I had written and looking at the pictures I had taken. They brought back many happy memories. The children were so young then, and with the natural curiosity of youth they were learning about their world. The sea formed an important part of their travels and adventures, and I would like to think that they learned something from sailing across even small sections of it.

Most of their voyages took place aboard the vessels of the Cross Sound Ferry fleet between New London, Connecticut, and Orient Point, Long Island; many others took place aboard the Staten Island ferries in New York; and there were some occasional voyages on assorted waterways elsewhere in the eastern United States and Canada. It all started because at the age of six months Miss Karen could not tolerate the four-hour drive between her home in Nashua and her Nana’s house in New York. After two hours, she would loudly voice her frustration with the family car, and nothing could console her. Enduring her crying, sobbing, and screaming for half the journey quickly became intolerable for the rest of the family. So on Saturday, May 27, 1989, we made the two-hour drive to New London and embarked on the ferry New London for the hour-and-a-half voyage to Orient Point. After disembarking from the ship in Orient, we drove two more hours to Nana’s house. It worked out splendidly. When our little girl had reached the limit of her endurance for the automobile, it was time to get out, either aboard ship or at Nana’s house. No more crying, sobbing, or screaming. The sea restored peace to the family!

The sea also provided grist for my literary mill. In a series of spiral-bound notebooks that I call my Baby Books, I recorded details of the children’s lives, including their voyages on Long Island Sound and elsewhere. In June of 1990 I recorded James’ soliloquy as we arrived at the dock in New London:

Cars coming off ferry. Man open gate and cars come off ferry. Big truck come off ferry. Big truck make big bang. Where all the cars going? Man put hose together. Other man bring garbage. Man put garbage in dumpster. Man have to get more garbage.

The observations of a three-year-old! With the ship unloaded and ready to receive traffic for the next voyage, James continued:

Cars going on ferry. Daddy drive on ferry. All the cars have to go on ferry.

This narration continued as long as there was something for the children to watch. All the way to Long Island, James remarked on everything he and his comparatively quiet baby sister saw—lighthouses, buoys, fishing boats, cargo ships, and the vast expanse of the sea itself which seemed to intrigue them both. In later years this nautical realm would intrigue Steven and Michael, too, and all four of the children would make many happy voyages. A case in point is a crossing of the Delaware Bay aboard the Delaware enroute to their uncle’s house on Sunday, December 24, 1995:

The ferry left Cape May at 11:40am. This was the high point of the morning for the children, and it was their first time on the Delaware Bay. In commemoration of this occasion, they received free ferry coloring books.

All the children loved the ferry voyage. I took them on walking tours of the outside decks. The bay was quite choppy and full of whitecaps, with the wind and seas coming from the west. The ferry rolled quite a bit for the entire crossing. We really knew we were at sea! The kids loved it! They had fun trying to walk straight with the vessel swaying beneath them, and they laughed and giggled at their seeming clumsiness.

They wanted to see everything that was on the water. These sights included the Cape May Point lighthouse, several tankers anchored at Big Stone to the southwest, the open ocean to the east, the breakwaters off Lewes and Cape Henlopen, and the rough sea itself. The voyage lasted an hour and a half, and we all agreed it was much too short.

Closer to home, we made a night voyage from New London to Orient Point aboard the John H on Friday, March 1, 1996, with Steven and Michael:

This was the first time we had gone on the ferry at night. Our vessel left New London at 7:30pm. When Steven had finished his sandwich, I took him out on the weather deck for a look around the ship. He was fascinated by the night on the waterfront. He looked around carefully at everything and asked several questions. While we were outside, the ferry departed. As the ferry turned south toward the Sound, Steven noticed the flashing lights on the buoys marking the channel and the lights marking the turnpike and railroad bridges. As the vessel came to the open water of the Sound, he saw the two lighthouses that mark the entrance to New London Harbor. These fascinated him. He watched their strong bright lights for several minutes. Then he turned his attention to the great black mass of sea and sky that was beginning to surround the vessel.

Steven was intrigued by all he saw aboard the John H, and I thought Michael might share his interest. But this backfired. Poor Michael was nervous. Perhaps all the surrounding darkness disturbed him. I took him around the ship hoping he’d get over his fright and enjoy the voyage, though it became clear that he was very nervous about everything. He decided early that he’d seen enough. He repeatedly said, “Let’s go back inside and see Mommy,” who was amused by her baby’s reaction to the nocturnal voyage.

Steven came back outside for more sightseeing. He wasn’t nervous at all. It was a lovely night on the water. There was a slight southwesterly breeze and a low southerly swell that gave the ferry a gentle motion. The sky was partly cloudy with a waxing gibbous moon. Several stars were visible even in the nearly full glow of the moonlight. The sky overall appeared a medium gray. The water was a very dark gray, nearly black. Steven gazed quietly but intently into this darkly magnificent atmosphere.

A year later, on Friday, July 18, 1997, amid electrical storms on another night crossing from New London to Orient Point aboard the North Star, Michael overcame his nervousness:

A full moon shone through the clouds in the southeast. A low swell came from the same direction, and the North Star rolled gently. As the sky darkened, lighting became visible over both Connecticut and Long Island. Electrical storms seemed scattered throughout the region, and they intensified as the ship approached Orient Point. The flashes of lightning increased in frequency. With each flash the surrounding land and water became eerily illuminated nearly as bright as day, but only for a split second. The mystical black-and-white beauty of these illuminations was striking, but not frightening. There was no audible thunder. Steven and Michael found this display fascinating. They oohed and ahhed at the most spectacular lightning strikes, and they asked many questions.

A year after that, on Friday, May 15, 1998, another night crossing from New London to Orient Point aboard the New London yielded a lesson on running lights:

At 9:00pm the New London departed and sailed south into the increasing blackness of the night. James and Steven were excited to be at sea at night, and the weather was so good that we remained outside. At James’ insistence I explained how the running lights worked, what their colors meant, and how to determine another vessel’s course by the appearance of its lights. Both boys eagerly studied the lights on the ferries bound from Orient to New London as they passed us port-to-port.

James and Steven found these lights truly intriguing, hence the impromptu lesson. They learned about the red and green sidelights, the white masthead lights, and the white stern light, their arcs of visibility, and their positions relative to each other. They caught on quickly, too, as they observed passing vessels’ lights in addition to my explanations. Several other passengers also became interested in this subject and stood close by to watch and listen, too.

A couple of months later, on Friday, July 17, 1998, on a foggy crossing from New London to Orient Point aboard the North Star, Steven met the great man:

Just before sailing, Steven had the honor of meeting the Captain. Seeing him walk across the deck towards the bridge in his Merchant Marine officer’s uniform complete with an anchor insignia and four stripes, Steven ran over to him, caught up to him, and said hello and paid his respects. The Captain cheerfully returned Steven’s greetings, saying, “Hi there, Buddy! How are you doing?”

We sailed at 8:00pm. The fog remained over the water, and the ferry sounded its foghorn for most of the voyage. We remained outside on the upper deck. Steven and Michael were quite interested in everything going on aboard the ship. Both boys were impressed with the density of the fog and the severe limitation it placed on visibility. They liked hearing the foghorns of our ship and others and the fog signals of the buoys and lighthouses. They also got to peek into the bridge and see the picture on the radar screen.

As if meeting one great man wasn’t enough, Steven arranged to have all his siblings and me meet the Captain of the ferry Champlain on a voyage across Lake Champlain from Port Kent, New York, to Burlington, Vermont, on Monday, July 2, 2001:

During this eastbound crossing the Captain invited us up to the bridge. The children and I went up the narrow steps and gathered in the pilothouse and had a pleasant conversation with the Captain. His name was Steve Pond. He told the children how everything worked, about the lake and the ferry, and they asked many questions. He was very nice to them. When our visit to the bridge was concluded, the children all said “Thank you” and shook hands with Captain Pond. They were very polite. I was proud of them. I was also very pleased to be back on the bridge of a ship that was underway and going somewhere.

Captain Steve Pond also posed for a photograph with James, Miss Karen, Steven, and Michael on the bridge of the Champlain. A wonderful keepsake!

Farther south and closer to their Nana’s house, the children made many voyages aboard the ferries linking Manhattan with Staten Island. When they were little we would make one round trip of an hour’s duration, and then move on to something else. As the boys grew into their pre-teen and teen years, their interest levels also grew, and we often made three or four round trips in succession. These expeditions filled entire mornings. As one such outing on Saturday, March 4, 2000, demonstrates, they were time well spent:

We spent three hours riding the ferries back and forth between New York and St. George. We made three voyages aboard the Governor Herbert H. Lehman and three aboard the American Legion. The weather on the bay was exceptionally good for this time of year: blue sky, a few cirrus clouds, a northwesterly breeze, very clear visibility, and a mild temperature.

James was fascinated. He thoroughly enjoyed all aspects of the vessels’ operations. He asked many questions, observed everything very carefully, and used up an entire roll of film taking pictures. Steven and Michael also enjoyed these voyages. The three boys studied the loading and unloading of the ferries, watched the wake and propeller wash, watched all the harbor traffic, and saw all the famous sights. The maneuvering of the ferries and the variety of harbor traffic interested them the most. They enjoyed close-up views of several tugs and oil barges, dozens of smaller barges, and two large container ships of the Maersk Line. One of these was the Maersk Valentia. She was coming into port, bound for New Jersey, and she and the Governor Lehman passed at fairly close quarters. Later, another large vessel of the Maersk Line came out of the Kills and proceeded seaward. The boys found all of this very interesting. James took pictures, and they all asked questions about these grand vessels.

Two years later, on Saturday, April 27, 2002, we did the same thing in the same city, but there were differences:

We arrived just in time to board the American Legion. At the boys’ request, we went all the way forward on the vehicle deck so that we had front row seats, so to speak, for the crossing. This was great. We made four voyages aboard the American Legion, i.e., two round trips. We alternately stood on the bow, on the stern, and on the upper deck. But the boys and I all liked the vehicle deck best, whether forward or aft, because of its proximity to the water. Michael became transfixed by the sight of the water rushing past the hull. I, too, have always liked this, and I shared Michael’s enjoyment.

But changes had come to the city and the ferries in a terrible way. The vehicle parking decks had been fenced off, and the boats no longer carried cars and trucks for fear of a car bomb attack. Then there were police and police dogs everywhere. They patrolled the boats and the terminals and kept a wary eye on all the passengers, especially those carrying packages. The worst thing lay ashore, though:

The biggest change of all was the alteration in the skyline of Lower Manhattan. The World Trade Center was conspicuously absent. This was clearly visible from the ferry. It was impossible to not notice this. The boys asked me to point out to them exactly where the twin towers had stood, and I did. It seemed unreal, even though we were looking right at the buildings of Lower Manhattan and could plainly see that the World Trade Center was no longer there. A very sad note in an otherwise pleasant day.

Whatever may happen ashore, though, there is one thing that happily does not change. I have remarked in my Baby Books numerous times that:

It was great to be at sea again. It felt wonderful to stand on the deck of a ship again and feel the vibration of the engines under my feet and smell the salt air blowing across the water and feel it running through my hair. The exhilaration of going to sea again, even if just across the Upper New York Bay and back, is difficult to express. Suffice it to say that I found it a very pleasant sensation. Few things in life can beat a sea voyage.

While this will of course always be true, there remains the one voyage that was truly unique. On Thursday, June 24, 2004, during the ambitious family vacation we took in Newfoundland, we set sail to see something none of us had ever seen before:

We sailed at 1:00pm aboard the excursion boat Iceberg Quest. The Captain steered the boat north out of Twillingate Harbor and then turned eastward, past some headlands, and then across open water. An iceberg lay ahead of us, and the Iceberg Quest headed for it. A larger iceberg sat in the water to the northeast several miles from Twillingate, but that was too far to go in a two-hour voyage.

The children were all very excited to be at sea again, this time in search of icebergs. We stayed on the outer decks of the vessel, on the stern and on the house top. There was lots of motion—pitching and rocking.

The boat approached the iceberg, and it grew larger in our view. The crew estimated it to a hundred feet high. Eventually the boat reached the berg and slowed down and circled it at a close but safe distance so everyone could see it. The children were thrilled. We took lots of pictures because this was a unique experience for us. We spent some time admiring this iceberg, and then it was time to head back to Twillingate.

We had an anticlimactic but peaceful and enjoyable voyage back to port. The rocking and pitching got a bit rough in some swells coming in from the open ocean to the north. Much of the fog had gone away and the overcast had broken up. For a little while the sun came out.

Whether or not the sun was shining, going on a voyage with the children was always a wonderful experience. No matter what the weather conditions, sea state, or duration of the crossing, everyone in the family loved to sail. With the children all grown up and on their own now, I turn to my Baby Books and picture albums to merrily reminisce about the good old days. I am very thankful for the blessings of the written word, the photographic art, and the happy memories they preserve. Most of all, I am thankful for the blessing of four magnificent children. When I think of them, I think of Mother Teresa’s famous statement: “Every child is a gift from God.” How true!

Perhaps the last thought should go to Baby Michael, who now commutes to work in Boston by ferry. On Wednesday, August 17, 2005, after several hours aboard the new Staten Island ferries Samuel I. Newhouse and Andrew J. Barberi, I wrote:

Michael enjoyed this voyaging so much he wanted to do it all day. I agreed with him.

A Summer in the Minor League - Part Two

On Wednesday, August 9, 1978, it was time to go back to work. And none too soon, I thought. Once again I rode the train from Mineola into Manhattan, and in Penn Station I caught the 7:30am Metroliner to Philadelphia. This delivered me to the 30th Street Station around 9:00, and from that point I took a taxi to City Dock, the Interstate and Ocean Transport world headquarters.

City Dock was situated on the west side of the Schuylkill River, near its confluence with the larger and better known Delaware River. A small and unpretentious facility, it lay just north of the Philadelphia International Airport and across the river from the big Gulf refinery in South Philly. Despite having such megalithic neighbors, City Dock was very much off the beaten path. Nonetheless, this small waterfront building and the adjacent dock space served as the operational headquarters for the Interstate fleet.

Once inside I met the man in charge, Mr. Richard Marvel. He decided who went where and when they went there. He made all the personnel assignments for the tugboats and barges of the Interstate fleet. I forget if I was early or if the Charger was late, but either way I had to wait. After a few idle hours spent reading Robert Massie’s Nicholas and Alexandra in a windowless room, I was called away and escorted to the just-arrived Charger. I went aboard and was warmly welcomed back by the Southern crew with whom I had sailed only last month. Unfortunately, however, I was not staying with the Charger this time. Just as she had been reassigned to work in the Philadelphia area, so I was being reassigned to work aboard the barge Interstate 50 in the same neighborhood. I would remain only long enough to collect my belongings and chat with my old crew.

I had mixed feelings about this change. I had hoped to return to the Charger, for I liked the boat and everything about it—the crew, the food, the itinerary, the work, and so on. The crew liked me, too, and appreciated my being with them. Captain Wilkins had several times remarked that “This young feller’s the best thing that’s happened to this boat. He’s gotten more painting done on here than’s ever been done before.” These accolades pleased me, of course, but it was a bit embarrassing when the Captain would hold forth on this subject in front of everyone else at the dinner table.

In this interval, too, I learned to my great disappointment that in my absence the Charger had made a voyage from Newark to Boston and back via the Cape Cod Canal. On the return, she stopped in New London, Connecticut, for a crew change. Then from Newark, she sailed on the broad Atlantic down the Jersey coast to the Delaware Capes, and then up the Delaware Bay and River to Philadelphia. This was so disappointing! How I wished I had made those voyages! But I realized how fortunate I was that my accident had been a fairly minor one. A broken leg would have kept me ashore for the rest of the summer.

I bade the Charger and her crew farewell, and then a company car brought me around the corner from City Dock to Hog Island. This facility, even smaller and more unpretentious than City Dock, lay on the west shore of the Delaware River and at the very edge of the airport property. Part of the land along the Delaware that became the airport had been an enormous shipbuilding complex in the time of World War I. The ships built there were known as “Hog Islanders” all around the globe. In my time at Hog Island some of the old wooden docks and railroad sidings still remained as vestiges of the long-gone shipyard. They were in poor condition and no longer used. Interstate maintained a modern concrete pier and steel plumbing for its oil operations, and it was there that I reported aboard the barge Interstate 50.

This vessel was crewed by two tankermen. One was in charge, and the other served as an assistant. Sonny commanded the Interstate 50, and he was rolling paint on the deck when I arrived. He had not been expecting me, and was in fact quite startled by my appearance. He wondered aloud why the office folks were sending me there to paint when most of the painting had already been done. I was dismayed to hear this, for I dreaded having nothing to do. As it turned out, there was work waiting for me, but not as much as on the Charger, so some down time became inevitable. Sonny’s assistant was Dave Steckel, a twenty-something fellow from Milmont Park, Pennsylvania. He and I became quite friendly. Sonny himself came from North Carolina.

At two in the afternoon, a tug came along and towed the Interstate 50 away from Hog Island. She went downstream a dozen miles and was moored alongside a large tanker anchored off Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania. Sonny and Dave quickly connected the hoses, and then the tanker started pumping crude oil into the little barge. This went on for several hours. Then another tug came along and pushed the now fully loaded Interstate 50 upstream to the Hess docks in Delair, New Jersey, about five miles upstream of central Philadelphia. Arriving in Delair at 4:00am on Thursday the 10^th, the Interstate 50 was left by herself to pump half of the oil ashore. At 9:30am another tug arrived and pushed the barge about a dozen miles farther upstream to Burlington, New Jersey, arriving at 11:00am. There the rest of the oil was offloaded. At 11:00 that night, still another tug came along and towed the Interstate 50 back downstream to the Big Stone anchorage in the Delaware Bay. There the process began again, lightering another deep-draft tanker and proceeding to an upriver port for unloading.

This nomadic life was markedly different from the wayfaring I had previously done. Unlike ships and tugboats and ferries, the Interstate 50 had no bridge, and there was no navigational work to do. This vessel was almost entirely a cargo operation. There was some linehandling and an occasional anchoring, but the vast majority of the work involved pumping oil either into or out of the barge. While this interested me because it was so different, it did become somewhat monotonous. I missed the bridge work, the voyage planning, and the navigating and maneuvering. The barge men displayed no interest in these aspects of sailing, and they did not need to. Someone else on a tugboat did all that for them. Because the work was so specialized, life aboard the Interstate 50 seemed in a sense quite removed from the rest of the shipping world. But this did not occur to me all at once. Only gradually did I come to miss the greater involvement that I had formerly known.

Anyway, at 10:00am on Friday, August 11, the tug delivered the Interstate 50 alongside another tanker anchored in Big Stone. This anchorage was located in the southwestern part of the Delaware Bay, near the shipping lanes and out of sight of land. Maybe from the bridge of a large tanker one could see land, but we couldn’t from the low-lying barge. The Interstate 50 spent the day taking on crude oil from this enormous tanker, and then at 8:00pm another tug started pushing the loaded barge upstream toward Hog Island.

I did not record and I cannot recall the names of all the tugboats that hauled the Interstate 50 on her many journeys. There were several tugs, and their assignments varied. Besides the Charger there were the Driver, the Endeavor, the Voyager, the Voyager II, and so on. The names and the vessels and their crews grew familiar over time. The tankers we lightered were a different story. All of them were foreign ships delivering foreign crude oil to the United States. The Interstate 50 was always moored to the midship sections of these vessels, and from this vantage point the names painted on the bows and sterns were not visible. We therefore seldom knew what ship we were working with. We never had occasion to go aboard these ships, and most of the time there was very little conversation between their crews and ourselves. The language barrier was one reason for this. Another was the difference in size between these ships and our barge.

Fully loaded, the Interstate 50 had only two or three feet of freeboard. Light, she had much more, of course. Even so, to a barge low in the water the hull of a tanker seems like a giant steel cliff. A crewman on the main deck of such a ship appears very small and distant, standing at the top of this steel cliff. In that circumstance most communication took place by hand signals. At times when the tankers were still fully loaded and the barge was light, the disparity in height was less and the steel cliff seemed less formidable. But as the lightering proceeded, the ship floated higher and the barge floated lower, and the steel cliff grew. When fully loaded these foreign tankers drew much more water than the controlling depth of the Delaware River allowed. Often, two or three barges would be moored alongside a tanker simultaneously, all removing oil from the tanker to reduce its draft and enable it to go upriver to one of the oil terminals without running aground in the channel. That’s what the Interstate 50 did for a living.

With a full load of crude oil, then, the Interstate 50 was pushed overnight to Hog Island, arriving at 9:00am on Saturday, August 12. I spent the morning painting, but on a lark decided to take the afternoon off and go to Villanova University in Villanova, Pennsylvania. A friend from high school was a student there. While he was away during the summer, I nonetheless enjoyed visiting the campus for old time’s sake. I envied him the opportunity to attend a major university and get a first class education; he envied me the opportunity to roam the world and get another sort of education.

At 5:00pm the Interstate 50 was removed from Hog Island and brought to the Gulf tank farm at Point Breeze. This bucolically named location consisted of an industrialized tract of land adjacent to the western end of the Passayunk Avenue Bridge, a draw span that crossed the Schuylkill River. Bells, whistles, and sirens sounded regularly as this bridge opened and closed for the passing of tugs and barges through it. Once the Interstate 50 was safely moored at Point Breeze, Sonny ordered Dave Steckel and me ashore. We walked across the bridge to Sweeney’s, a neighborhood grill in South Philly. After a Saturday night out on the town, we returned to the barge to spend the rest of the night pumping oil ashore. The next afternoon, on Sunday the 13^th, the Interstate 50 was towed from Point Breeze fifteen or so miles downstream to Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, arriving at 5:15pm.

It had been over a year since I had been to Marcus Hook, the home of the Sun Oil Company and the place where I had reported aboard the New Jersey Sun the previous summer. It felt good to be back! The Interstate 50 tied up at the BP refinery, just north of the Sunoco refinery. A dead end street, a few vacant lots, and an abandoned building separated the two large facilities. Once again Sonny ordered Dave Steckel and me ashore. His parents arrived in an automobile and drove us to their family home in nearby Milmont Park. A pleasant evening with dinner, family, and neighborhood friends followed. While this socialization was very enjoyable, it did seem like an odd way to be working aboard an oil barge. These folks all had the weekend off, though, and such a get-together seemed quite reasonable to them. Afterwards Dave’s parents returned us to the BP refinery in Marcus Hook. Returning to the Interstate 50, we found Sonny still out on deck but with little to do. Refinery workers were aboard and cleaning the oil tanks in preparation for repair work scheduled for the next day.

At 7:00am on Monday the 14^th, a tug brought the Interstate 50 upriver from Marcus Hook to City Dock. Arriving at 9:00am, the barge spent the day at company headquarters undergoing maintenance and repair work to its cargo tanks and piping systems. This job took most of the day. I did my painting and cleaning, but had a chance to visit the company office as well. One section of this office was filled with attractive young ladies, mostly secretaries and typists, who I quickly learned were a source of distraction to many of the male employees. Several other tugs and barges came and went during the day, and all the crewmen found some excuse to come into the office building and chat with the girls.

With the repair work completed, the Interstate 50 was hauled away from City Dock at 5:30pm. During the night at 2:30am she was nudged alongside a tanker in the Big Stone anchorage. After spending the rest of the night and the early morning loading oil, she was taken away at 8:45am and pushed north to Hog Island, arriving at 8:30 Tuesday evening. This was a typical round trip voyage.

For the next week and a half, the Interstate 50 made several such runs: Big Stone to Hog Island, Big Stone to Marcus Hook, Big Stone to Point Breeze, and Big Stone to Delaware City, Delaware. With a normal crew size of only two tankermen, and loading and unloading on anything but a fixed schedule, the on-board living arrangements revolved not around watch keeping but cargo pumping. When the barge was making a long transit, both tankermen slept regardless of the time of day or night. When there was cargo work to do, both were up and on duty. Once all the hookups were made and the oil was flowing, they usually painted, cleaned, and adjusted mooring lines as the cargo schedule and the hours of daylight permitted. Meal service was self-service and haphazard; crewmen ate when they were hungry and not busy. Cooking was done on a propane stove. What little electricity the barge had came from a diesel-recharged battery and needed to be conserved. Also, there was no hot water unless someone boiled it. This meant we took cold showers, not a hardship in August. The living quarters consisted of a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom at the stern of the barge. Admittedly, it doesn’t sound like much, but it was clean, comfortable, and more spacious than the accommodations on the Charger.

On Thursday, August 17, the Interstate 50 arrived back in Marcus Hook and spent the day there unloading at the Sunoco refinery. I basked in the glory of the Sun Oil Company as I went about my painting. No Sun ships were present at the refinery that day, but in passing the plant on the barge’s transits of the river I kept watch lest I miss seeing any of my former employer’s fleet. Just as I had done aboard the Charger, I noted all the American oil tankers that I observed, and it pleased me to see at various times the Delaware Sun, the Texas Sun, and the Western Sun moored at the Marcus Hook refinery. I wondered if any of my former shipmates were sailing aboard these great vessels. Chances were good that someone I had known was there. In the afternoon I walked around Marcus Hook with Dave and he asked about my career of the previous summer with Sun Oil. Then at 6:00pm a tug arrived and removed the Interstate 50 from the Sunoco refinery and towed it back down to Big Stone.

The next day, Friday the 18^th, saw the Interstate 50 anchor off Delaware City while waiting for a berth. I seized the opportunity to jump in the water and go swimming, something no one else dared to do. Using a length of heaving line, I tied a life ring to the barge and did my swimming inside the life ring, lest the river current carry me out to sea! The next morning, Saturday the 19^th, the barge weighed anchor and was pushed alongside the dock in Delaware City and spent the day there unloading. From this location we had a good view of the cargo ships transiting the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal on their way between the two great bays. I went swimming in the river again that afternoon, and that night another tug brought the Interstate 50 back to Big Stone.

It was with a new crew that I sailed south this time. Sonny and Dave left the vessel in Delaware City, and two other fellows came aboard in their places. One was a Virginian. The other came from New Jersey. They were decent enough shipmates, but after the jovial atmosphere of Sonny and Dave, the new crew seemed extremely serious, even somber. But I would not be with them long. My time was running out.

On Tuesday, August 22, the Interstate 50 returned to the Sunoco refinery in Marcus Hook. With some down time, I rode the train into Philadelphia and visited Penn’s Landing. This was the spot where the State of Maine had docked in June of 1976 while on her annual training voyage. Although this had only been two years and two months earlier, it somehow seemed much more distant than that from my twenty-year-old perspective!

I got back to Marcus Hook in ample time to make the 12:30am Wednesday sailing of the Interstate 50. Instead of going back to Big Stone, however, she was towed out into the Atlantic and eased alongside the tanker Scapmount, which had run aground. From 9:30am until 1:00pm the barge took on oil from this ship. By then the Scapmount was able to get underway again without scraping the sandy bottom, and both vessels then made their way to Big Stone.

While we were alongside the Scapmonut I got chatting with the pilot. He explained that the bridge watch had steered the ship on the wrong side of a buoy; hence the grounding. Furthermore, once aground, the crew hoisted the incorrect signal to indicate the ship’s predicament. The pilot made a point of telling me that all this had happened before he came aboard. In fact, the Scapmount was still well seaward of the pilot station. No oil was spilled, though, and no damage was done. The lightering continued in Big Stone that night, and the next day the Interstate 50 was brought back north to Delaware City to unload.

The barge’s next assignment was an odd one. On Friday the 25th, the Interstate 50 arrived at Pier 124 in South Philly. This pier proudly bore the inscription, “Pennsylvania Railroad Coal Pier.” Used primarily to load coal from railroad cars onto ships bound overseas, this pier also had an oil hookup. The Interstate 50 was moored alongside the petroleum piping and astern of large coal ship. While the barge loaded oil, this vessel loaded coal.

A skeletal steel beam structure held inclined railroad tracks high in the air. Loaded individual coal cars rolled down a track, continued uphill to a stop, switched tracks, and rolled downhill toward the ship. Caught by a dumping device next to the ship, each car was then turned upside-down, and the coal spilled out into a chute which guided it into the vessel’s cargo hold. An ingenious gravity-powered system, it was intriguing, even mesmerizing, to watch.

The rest of the South Philly waterfront was less impressive. Consisting mainly of finger piers with warehouses that were built to service the old fashioned break-bulk freighter fleets, it resembled the Manhattan and Brooklyn waterfronts. Most of these piers saw little use by the 1970s when containerization had taken over the freight business. Oil was the big product in Philadelphia. The region was dotted with dozens of oil docks with tankers alongside them discharging their cargos. Still more tankers sat quietly at anchor in the river waiting for their time to unload. Philadelphia was clearly an oil port.

At this point there remained little painting and cleaning left to do aboard the Interstate 50. I had finished painting the main deck, the cargo pipes, the anchor gear, the pump rooms, the house top, etc. I had thoroughly cleaned out the paint locker and the store room. I had a couple of small jobs to finish. Otherwise, I was running out of work.

While I was thus winding down, the Interstate 50 was towed away from Pier 124 at 8:00am on Saturday the 26^th. An hour and a half later, she was moored at Point Breeze to unload. At 10:30 on Sunday morning, she was taken away from Point Breeze and brought alongside an anchored ship near Marcus Hook. She spent the day lightering this vessel and at 8:30 that evening departed for Delair, arriving at 12:30am on Monday the 28^th. She remained there pumping oil ashore and then waiting for a tug until 10:30pm. I spent the day finishing up my work and putting things away.

At 12:30am on Tuesday the 29^th, the Interstate 50 arrived at a refinery in Paulsboro, New Jersey, across the Delaware River from the Philadelphia Airport. This spot was mistakenly identified to us as Eagle Point, but the real Eagle Point actually lies about five or so miles upstream, opposite the old Philadelphia Navy Yard. Anyway, the Interstate 50 took on oil there until 1:00pm, when she was towed downstream to Marcus Hook. I decided to return home from there, since it was convenient to public transportation and I had finished my work aboard the barge.

At 3:00pm the Interstate 50 was moored once again at the Sunoco refinery. I packed my gear, bade my shipmates farewell, walked to the gate, and hitched a ride with some refinery workers to the Marcus Hook railroad station. I took a local train to 30^th Street Station in Philadelphia, then Amtrak’s Bankers to New York, and finally a Long Island train home. My parents, themselves having returned from vacation, met their wayfaring son once again at the Mineola station.

And so my summer employment with the Interstate and Ocean Transport Company drew to a close. It had been a good experience and I had certainly enjoyed it, but it was not what I wanted for my future. Operating tugs and barges required a Merchant Marine license, but not the “big license” for which I was studying. Vagabonding along the American East Coast appealed to the nomadic inclination of my youth, but traipsing across the oceans to different continents remained much more attractive. These far-off places held, in Gatsby terms, the “wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.”¹ That was the future I saw—transatlantic, transpacific, Europe, Africa, Asia, the Panama Canal, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean!

I had big ambitions, and I wanted to fulfill them.

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¹ F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1925, p. 63.