The Flying Dutchman

We have all heard of the Flying Dutchman, usually as a sea story or the Opera by Wagner. But through the years, up through the 1960's, there have been  many sightings of her, all of which ended in misfortune. Among the most credible is the one by Prince, later King George V,  in 1881. Here is his story, in his own words, as entered in the log of the HMS Bacchante in 1881.

"We Meet the Flying Dutchman"

"The Cruise of Her Majesty's Ship "Bacchante," 1881

"July 11th, [1881] -- At 4:00 a.m. the Flying Dutchman crossed our bows. A strange red light as of a phantom ship all aglow, in the midst of which light the masts, spars, and sails of a brig 200 yards distant stood out in strong relief as she came up on the port bow. The lookout man on the forecastle reported her as close on the port bow, where also the officer of the watch from the bridge clearly saw her, as did also the quarterdeck midshipman, who was sent forward at once to the forecastle; but on arriving there no vestige nor any sign whatever of any material ship was to be seen either near or right away to the horizon, the night being clear and the sea calm. Thirteen persons altogether saw her, but whether it was Van Diemen or the Flying Dutchman or who else must remain unknown."

"The Tourmaline and Cleopatra, who were sailing on our starboard bow, flashed to ask whether we had seen the strange red light. At 6:15 a.m. observed land (Mount Diana) to the northeast. At 10:45 a.m. the ordinary seaman who had this morning reported the Flying Dutchman fell from the foretopmast crosstrees on to the topgallant forecastle and was smashed to atoms. At 4:15 p.m. after quarters we hove to with the head-yards aback, and he was buried in the sea. He was a smart royal yardman, and one of the most promising young hands in the ship, and every one feels quite sad at his loss. (At the next port we came to the Admiral also was smitten down)."

A Story From the USNS Jupiter

Bosun Browning and I were anything but friends. As a matter of fact, we had come to blows once, well, nearly to blows, one might say. I couch the episode in that light due to the fact that I had the presence of mind, and the swift footedness of youth to quickly repair myself to the Captain’s cabin for refuge.

The whole thing started innocently enough, with the Bosun, who is the man tasked with everything on deck aboard ship, and I, engaging in some trash talking of one another’s backgrounds. I was that bane in the side of all true Southerners, a Yankee, while he occupied in my young mind that special space reserved for the mouth breathing, knuckle dragging denizen of the Deep South. This “trash talk” had gotten somewhat out of hand, considering the fact that he weighed about 250 pounds and stood 6’4” in opposition to my 145 pounds and slender 6’ frame.

At the time, and remember I was in my mid 20’s when this story takes place, I knew little fear, and each evening after going ashore and running through the jungles of Diego Garcia, which are not very dense, the island itself being but 34 miles long and only ¼ of a mile wide at it’s widesest point, I would return to the ship and weigh myself, calling out to the Bosun that when I attained the unimaginable mass of 150 pounds, I was determined, actually hell bent upon, kicking his Cajun ass. This resulted in Bosun Browning awaiting the return of my boat each evening. He would then follow me to the scale and watching over my shoulder he would check my weight with me. This was a fight that was going to happen and he was planning on losing no time in getting the thing started.

The disappointment on his face each night as I hovered about 147 and 148 pounds was almost heartbreaking, even to myself, though I knew that should the battle ever occur, I was sure to come out on the short end. The Bosun, impatient for his chance at hastening my demise, always shook his head in disgust as I failed to attain the 150 pound mark. To this end he had begun handing me a candy bar, or a piece of cake, after each failed weigh in. As I said earlier, he was in earnest for the battle to begin.

As the months wore on and I continued to hold at 148 pounds, which is the most I have ever weighed, we developed a mutual respect for one another, but he was still looking forward to the impending battle with relish. Sometimes things don’t go quite as planned and there is often a valuable lesson to be learned, if you keep your eyes open and your wits about you. This was one of those cases.

One night, sometime around midnight, I slammed my hand in a hatch and the nail was throbbing and aching something fierce. I was roaming the deck, unable to sleep, when I chanced upon the Bosun, who inquired as to the nature of my trouble. Showing him my finger he looked pained and told me to follow him to his cabin. I was in such a state that I did just that, not knowing what to expect from my nemesis.

Arriving at his cabin he rummaged through some tools, and pulling out a drill bit proposed that he would drill through my finger nail, thus relieving the pressure of the blood beneath it and my pain. Such was my pain that, with a trusting and uncharacteristic willingness on my part, I agreed to this experiment.

With a surgeons gentle touch this large Cajun shrimp boater proceeded to drill through my finger nail, and did exactly as he said he would, with a gentleness belying our continued state of war.

This is the night in which I learned a most valuable lesson; that the person most likely to help you in times of distress, is often not your friend, but rather your enemy. I retired to my cabin to ruminate upon this philosophical discovery and what it really meant in practical terms, particularly aboard ship. What I came up with, in conclusion, startled me then, and I have often thought back to this event when faced with confusion by the actions of others over the next several decades.

Take, as an example, three people standing on deck in a storm at sea. Two are friends and the third hates the other two. One of the two is swept overboard. The friend stands there transfixed, unable to assist due to two reasons, the first being that he is so upset at the loss of his friend, he is effectively immobilized; the second being that he is conscious of the risk he would undertake should he choose to take some action.

The enemy, on the other hand, is not weighed down with all this. He only knows that should he not take some decisive action, he will be judged by a very different standard. The friend of the victim will be consoled for his loss, while the enemy will be reviled for doing nothing. His inactions will be dismissed as his having availed himself of the unexpected pleasure in seeing his enemy hurt. Due to this he will leap overboard in a maelstrom in an effort to avoid this perception. I have seen this type of behavior several times in my years at sea, as well as my many years ashore. I stored this lesson away and gradually, over the course of the next few months, the Bosun and I were able to mute our "cold war" until the whole argument had become pointless.

In November, after the monsoons had ended, we were both scheduled to fly home on a 21 hour flight from Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to Newark Airport in New Jersey. We had a pleasant flight, during which I learned his entire life’s story, as I am sure he learned some of mine. I found, much to my surprise, that I was actually beginning to like this guy.

We landed at Butler Aviation Terminal, which is located at the far end of Newark Airport and proceeded through Customs and then outside to the line of cabs waiting at the curb. The Bosun asked me to watch his bags while he went to the rest room and I assented.

As soon as he was out of sight I took his baggage, and tossing them in the back of the next available cab, handed the driver a $50 bill and told him, “Here’s $50, I don’t care where you take the bags.” I grabbed the next cab and hightailed it out of there in a flash.

There are probably many lessons to be learned from this story, but I will not assign myself to the task of pointing them out. My actions, at the airport that morning, would seem to call any judgments I might make on the matter, into question.

"The Lonely Sea" by Alistair MacLean

"The Lonely Sea" is a collection of stories by Alistair MacLean. In this collection of stories you will find all his usual charm and sometimes even tension, as he spins yarn after yarn. For a lover of the sea like myself this book is a gift. For lovers of the English languauge it is a rare treat. His inimitable style is in rare form here- these are the sentences your English teacher told you were so wrong, but when reading them you can see that they are perfect. It's all in his punctuation.

Mr.MacLean saw heavy action in the Second World War, serving in the Royal Navy in both the European and Pacific theaters of action. This experience undoubtedly is what lends reality to his ability to chronicle life at sea.

Several of his novels were made into sucessful movies during the 1960's and his books have been read by millions worldwide. But I have always loved his short stories best.

Printing this following story, "The Gold Watch" is the only adequate way for me to even attempt a review of this book. Long one of my favorite authors, Mr. MacLean outdoes even himself here. It would be impossible for anyone but Mr. MacLean to have written it.

So here it is - I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

"The Gold Watch" by Alistair MacLean

His watch was the pride of our captain’s life. It was of massive construction, being no less than 3 inches in diameter; it was made of solid gold; it was beautifully engraved with cabalistic designs of extraordinary intricacy; and finally, it was attached to a chain, whose dimensions, with regard to both length and circumference, had to be seen to be believed. The chain also, needless to say, was made of gold. Anyone who had the temerity to doubt this last fact, was handed the chain and coldly asked to observe for himself that it was stamped on every link.

In addition to the aforementioned merits, the watch, our captain claimed, was completely moisture proof. We had, on several occasions, urged him to prove his words by submerging the subject of discussion in a basin of water, but on each occasion, the captain’s reply, uttered in a very injured tone, was to the same effect, namely, that if we did not believe his statement, he was not going to stoop to demonstrate it’s truth to us. From this, we could only conclude that the captain, like ourselves, had his doubts as to his watch’s ability to defy the ravages of water. It was indeed, we knew, a very, very sore point with our captain, one which he longed, with all his heart and soul, to prove, but lacked the courage to put it to the final test.

Usually, this watch was hidden from the plebian gaze- and fingers- in a locked case, which in its turn, lay in a locked drawer in the captain’s cabin. But today, it reposed in the captain’s waistcoat pocket, while the chain, such was its length, seemed almost to girdle the area of the captain’s maximum circumference. Waistcoats are very uncommon with “whites”, and it was maliciously rumored that the captain had had his specially made for the purpose of accommodating and displaying the watch and its accessories. Be that as it may, here was our captain, this blistering June afternoon, going ashore for his last interview with his Basrah agents, wearing a genial smile on his face, and, about two feet further south, his beloved time keeper.

When he came back a bare two hours later, his launch nosing its way through the date laden lighters surrounding our vessel which was anchored in mid-river, his genial expression was no longer there. Neither was his watch, and our deduction, that the latter accounted for the former, proved to be correct. Having solicitously helped the red faced, perspiring captain on board, we waited patiently.

He was, at first, incoherent with rage, with his clearly visible, ever mounting blood pressure, we feared an apoplectic stroke. Fortunately for him, he at last recovered the power of speech, and this undoubtedly relieved, to a great extent, his almost over powering feelings. He was very bitter. His language, in addition, was shocking, but we had to admit that he had full justification for it.

He had, apparently, been walking peacefully back to the ship from his agents, with malice in his heart towards none, but nevertheless, taking due and proper precautions for the safe guarding of wallet and watch, when among the riff raff of the street bazaars. Once clear of them, he had dropped these precautions, deeming them needless, and, at the entrance to the docks, he had had to push his way through a group of Arab sailors, whom he, in his great and regrettable ignorance, had thought to be as honest as himself. (His bitterness, at this juncture, was truly remarkable) Suddenly, he had been jostled in the rear with great violence, and on turning to remonstrate with the discourteous one, had not felt his watch and chain being slipped from their moorings, with that dexterity and efficiency which bespoke of long and arduous practice, so that, when about to resume his journey, he found his watch no longer there.

At this point he again lost the power of speech, and to our fearful and dreading eyes, his entire disintegration appeared not only probable, but imminent. Recovering himself with a masterly effort, however, he resumed his narrative. Although unable to espy the actual perpetrator of the theft, who had, with commendable discretion and alacrity, completely vanished, he had realized that the jostler must have been his confederate, and had pursued the said confederate for over half a mile, before being eluded by the Arab in a crowded thoroughfare. This, we realized, accounted for our captain’s complexion and superabundance of perspiration.

Here again, having once more relapsed into incoherency, he was left to his vengeful meditations, alternately muttering “My watch” and “the villain”, the former with a touching pathos, and the latter, preceded by some highly descriptive adjectives, with an extraordinary depth of feeling.

Thirty hours later found no appreciable dimunition in our captain’s just and righteous anger, although he could now speak like a rational being, albeit forcefully, concerning his grievous misfortunes of the previous afternoon. We had loaded our last case of dates just on sunset, and, early that morning, even as the first faint streak of grey in the eastern sky heralded the burning day, had gratefully cleared the malodorous port of Basrah. We were, by this time, fairly into the Gulf and proceeding serenely on our way, South by East, through the stifling tropical night, the darkness of which was but infinitesimally relived by the cold, unthinkably distant pinpoints of stars in the moonless night sky.
Our captain, whose outraged feelings evidently refused him the blessed solace of slumber, had recently come up to the bridge, which he was now ceaselessly pacing, very much after the manner of a caged leopard, all the time informing us as to the dire retribution which he intended meting out to the present illegal possessor of his watch, should he ever be fortunate enough to lay hands on him. The lascar Quartermaster, very zealous in our captain’s presence, was poring over the compass box, while in the bows, the lookout man was either thinking of his native village in far off Bombay, or had found sleep vastly easier to come by than our captain.

This last, was of course, pure conjecture, but it must have approximated very closely to the truth, for the first the lookout knew of the dhow lying dead in our path, was when a loud splintering crash, accompanied by even louder frenzied yells, informed him that our steel bows had smashed the unfortunate dhow to matchwood.

“Don’t say we’ve run down another of these bloody dhows,” groaned our captain wearily (it is a surprisingly common occurrence), ringing the engines down to Stop, and bellowing for a boat to be lowered with the utmost expedition. This was done, and then minutes later the lifeboat returned with the shivering, brine soaked crew of the erstwhile dhow; the captain, duty bound, went down on deck to inspect them, as they came on board.

The rope ladder twitched, and as the first luckless victim- how luckless, he did not then completely realize- appeared over the side, the captain’s jaw dropped fully two inches, and he stood as if transfixed.

“That’s the gentleman I chased yesterday,” he ejaculated joyfully (“gentleman”, as will be readily understood, is employed euphemistically) then stopped, staring, with rapidly glazing eyes, at the second apparition, who had just then topped the railing. Dependent from this, the second, “gentleman’s” undeniably filthy neck, and reaching to his waist, was a most unusual ornament for an impoverished Arab- no less an object than our captain’s purloined watch and chain, thus miraculously restored to him, by the joyful caprices of Fortune.

With drawn breath, and with sincere pity in our hearts, we waited for the heavens to fall, for the captain to execute the oft repeated, blood thirsty promises, for, in short, the instant and complete annihilation of the Arabs (four in all) who were regarding the captain with the utmost trepidation, which they were at no pains to conceal.

To our small astonishment- and it may be added, relief- the expected Arab massacre failed to materialize. Instead, stepping quietly forward and lovingly removing his watch and chain from the neck of the cringing, violently shivering Arab, the captain, in a strangely gentle tone, in which there seemed, to us, to be a barely repressed inflection of triumph, merely said, “Take these men below and give them something warm to eat; we’ll hand them over to the Bahrain police, in the morning.”

We were astounded. We were amazed. We were utterly and completely dumbfounded.
Our modest comprehension could not grasp it. What, we asked ourselves, wonderingly, was the reason for this incredible change of front? We were not left long in ignorance.

Swinging round on us, and brandishing his watch on high, the captain shouted: “See!- er, I mean, hear!” We heard. The clamorous tick tock, tick tock of his watch would have put any self respecting alarm clock to shame.

“Waterproof!” he cried exultingly. “Waterproof, you blasted unbelievers! Waterproof!”

It was, I believe, the supreme moment of our captain’s life.

Captain Bligh - Misunderstood

One of my favorite tales of the sea, whether told in a book, or on the screen, has always been "Mutiny On The Bounty." I have read everything available concerning both the voyage and the mutiny, and I have come to some startling conclusions, all supported by fact.

Captain Bligh has been portrayed over the years as a cruel and heartless man. This is not accurate. The depictions of daily floggings, and the famous keel hauling episode, which never happened, have all served to miscolor the reputation of the Captain. Moreover, it has often overshadowed one of the greatest nautical feats ever accomplished; the 3,000 mile voyage in an overladen launch with scant provisions and no charts.

A careful review of the facts, and the testimonies of the crew, some of whom were mutineers, sheds bright light upon the undeserved and darker image of Captain William Bligh. The fact is that he was one of the most humane Captains of his time. The rate of floggings aboard HMS Bounty was well below that of any other ship of the era. He was also one of the best Navigators of his time, as we shall see.

Consider this, in the outward voyage to Tahiti there were NO floggings, this despite the fact that the ship's Carpenter, Purcell, had refused, on two occassions, direct orders from the Captain. This was a hanging offense, yet Bligh took no action at all. At the time, aboard other vessels, 7 floggings per month was not unusual, but in the first sixteen months there were only 7 floggings aboard the Bounty.

Moreover, Captain Bligh knew that the voyage would take two years. The practice at the time was for there to be two watches per day, which allows only sporadic sleep. This would be hard on the crew. Captain Bligh broke the watches into 3 shifts, the advantage being that the men got 8 hours off to rest instead of only 4 hours, which is very tiring. Again, this is the real Captain Bligh and not the portrayal of the man we have come to know through books and film.

The Captain had sailed with no Marines aboard to control the men, and discipline aboard was fairly relaxed. When they arrived at Tahiti he decided to let his men go ashore on a rotating basis. Having no Marine Guard aboard to prevent it, he knew he could not keep the men from the island. This was a huge mistake, as the men began to fratinize with the natives. Relationships were formed and the crew began to dread the return trip home.

In all of the logs and testimony given at the Admirality Hearing, there is no testimony pertaining to excessive cruelty on the part of Captain Bligh. Even in the journals of both Boatswain's Mate Morrison and Peter Haywood there is not a word of excessive punishment or floggings. The troubles all began within the first 3 weeks of the return voyage to England.

Half of the crew had wed while in Tahiti and were not too pleased with returning to a damp and dreary England after having lived in a veritable paradise for the past year. Chief amongst these crewmembers was Flecther Christian, who had wed the native Chief's daughter.

In the third week of the voyage home, and on Christian's watch, some coconuts had been pilfered during the night. This prompted the famed confrontation between Bligh and Christian, during which Bligh called Christian a "damned hound." To Christian this was a slur not taken lightly and he spent the remainder of the evening drinking heavily.

At dawn the next morning, Christian awoke Bligh with a cutlass at his throat. He then cast the Captain, and his loyal crew members, adrift to die. This left Captain Bligh 2 choices, either make for the nearest island, a mere thirty miles distant, and perish there, or sail with the current, three thousand miles, with no provisions, to the Dutch Island of Timor. From there he would reach England, return to Tahiti, capture several of the mutineers, bringing them back to England in chains to face justice. Some were hanged, others pardoned.

The Admirality rebuked Captain Bligh for losing the Bounty, but never acknowledged their own mistake of sending the ship on a 2 years voyage, with conscripted sailors, and no Marines. The record is fairly clear here. Captain Bligh was a man way ahead of his time concerning the treatment of men at sea. And yet, through the vagaries of history, and Hollywood, we have come to know him as a tyrant.

"The Gold Watch" by Alistair MacLean (from "The Lonely Sea")

Long one of my favorite authors, Mr. Alistair MacLean outdoes even himself here. It would be impossible for anyone but Mr. MacLean to have written this story.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I always have.

"The Gold Watch" by Alistair MacLean

His watch was the pride of our captain’s life. It was of massive construction, being no less than 3 inches in diameter; it was made of solid gold; it was beautifully engraved with cabalistic designs of extraordinary intricacy; and finally, it was attached to a chain, whose dimensions, with regard to both length and circumference, had to be seen to be believed. The chain also, needless to say, was made of gold. Anyone who had the temerity to doubt this last fact, was handed the chain and coldly asked to observe for himself that it was stamped on every link.

In addition to the aforementioned merits, the watch, our captain claimed, was completely moisture proof. We had, on several occasions, urged him to prove his words by submerging the subject of discussion in a basin of water, but on each occasion, the captain’s reply, uttered in a very injured tone, was to the same effect, namely, that if we did not believe his statement, he was not going to stoop to demonstrate its truth to us. From this, we could only conclude that the captain, like ourselves, had his doubts as to his watch’s ability to defy the ravages of water. It was indeed, we knew, a very, very sore point with our captain, one which he longed, with all his heart and soul, to prove, but lacked the courage to put it to the final test.

Usually, this watch was hidden from the plebian gaze- and fingers- in a locked case, which in its turn, lay in a locked drawer in the captain’s cabin. But today, it reposed in the captain’s waistcoat pocket, while the chain, such was its length, seemed almost to girdle the area of the captain’s maximum circumference. Waistcoats are very uncommon with “whites”, and it was maliciously rumored that the captain had had his specially made for the purpose of accommodating and displaying the watch and its accessories. Be that as it may, here was our captain, this blistering June afternoon, going ashore for his last interview with his Basrah agents, wearing a genial smile on his face, and, about two feet further south, his beloved time keeper.

When he came back a bare two hours later, his launch nosing its way through the date laden lighters surrounding our vessel which was anchored in mid-river, his genial expression was no longer there. Neither was his watch, and our deduction, that the latter accounted for the former, proved to be correct. Having solicitously helped the red faced, perspiring captain on board, we waited patiently.

He was, at first, incoherent with rage, with his clearly visible, ever mounting blood pressure, we feared an apoplectic stroke. Fortunately for him, he at last recovered the power of speech, and this undoubtedly relieved, to a great extent, his almost over powering feelings. He was very bitter. His language, in addition, was shocking, but we had to admit that he had full justification for it.

He had, apparently, been walking peacefully back to the ship from his agents, with malice in his heart towards none, but nevertheless, taking due and proper precautions for the safe guarding of wallet and watch, when among the riff raff of the street bazaars. Once clear of them, he had dropped these precautions, deeming them needless, and, at the entrance to the docks, he had had to push his way through a group of Arab sailors, whom he, in his great and regrettable ignorance, had thought to be as honest as himself. (His bitterness, at this juncture, was truly remarkable) Suddenly, he had been jostled in the rear with great violence, and on turning to remonstrate with the discourteous one, had not felt his watch and chain being slipped from their moorings, with that dexterity and efficiency which bespoke of long and arduous practice, so that, when about to resume his journey, he found his watch no longer there.

At this point he again lost the power of speech, and to our fearful and dreading eyes, his entire disintegration appeared not only probable, but imminent. Recovering himself with a masterly effort, however, he resumed his narrative. Although unable to espy the actual perpetrator of the theft, who had, with commendable discretion and alacrity, completely vanished, he had realized that the jostler must have been his confederate, and had pursued the said confederate for over half a mile, before being eluded by the Arab in a crowded thoroughfare. This, we realized, accounted for our captain’s complexion and superabundance of perspiration.

Here again, having once more relapsed into incoherency, he was left to his vengeful meditations, alternately muttering “My watch” and “the villain”, the former with a touching pathos, and the latter, preceded by some highly descriptive adjectives, with an extraordinary depth of feeling.

Thirty hours later found no appreciable dimunition in our captain’s just and righteous anger, although he could now speak like a rational being, albeit forcefully, concerning his grievous misfortunes of the previous afternoon. We had loaded our last case of dates just on sunset, and, early that morning, even as the first faint streak of grey in the eastern sky heralded the burning day, had gratefully cleared the malodorous port of Basrah. We were, by this time, fairly into the Gulf and proceeding serenely on our way, South by East, through the stifling tropical night, the darkness of which was but infinitesimally relived by the cold, unthinkably distant pinpoints of stars in the moonless night sky.

Our captain, whose outraged feelings evidently refused him the blessed solace of slumber, had recently come up to the bridge, which he was now ceaselessly pacing, very much after the manner of a caged leopard, all the time informing us as to the dire retribution which he intended meting out to the present illegal possessor of his watch, should he ever be fortunate enough to lay hands on him. The lascar Quartermaster, very zealous in our captain’s presence, was poring over the compass box, while in the bows, the lookout man was either thinking of his native village in far off Bombay, or had found sleep vastly easier to come by than our captain.

This last, was of course, pure conjecture, but it must have approximated very closely to the truth, for the first the lookout knew of the dhow lying dead in our path, was when a loud splintering crash, accompanied by even louder frenzied yells, informed him that our steel bows had smashed the unfortunate dhow to matchwood.

“Don’t say we’ve run down another of these bloody dhows,” groaned our captain wearily (it is a surprisingly common occurrence), ringing the engines down to Stop, and bellowing for a boat to be lowered with the utmost expedition. This was done, and then minutes later the lifeboat returned with the shivering, brine soaked crew of the erstwhile dhow; the captain, duty bound, went down on deck to inspect them, as they came on board.

The rope ladder twitched, and as the first luckless victim- how luckless, he did not then completely realize- appeared over the side, the captain’s jaw dropped fully two inches, and he stood as if transfixed.

“That’s the gentleman I chased yesterday,” he ejaculated joyfully (“gentleman”, as will be readily understood, is employed euphemistically) then stopped, staring, with rapidly glazing eyes, at the second apparition, who had just then topped the railing. Dependent from this, the second, “gentleman’s” undeniably filthy neck, and reaching to his waist, was a most unusual ornament for an impoverished Arab- no less an object than our captain’s purloined watch and chain, thus miraculously restored to him, by the joyful caprices of Fortune.

With drawn breath, and with sincere pity in our hearts, we waited for the heavens to fall, for the captain to execute the oft repeated, blood thirsty promises, for, in short, the instant and complete annihilation of the Arabs (four in all) who were regarding the captain with the utmost trepidation, which they were at no pains to conceal.

To our small astonishment- and it may be added, relief- the expected Arab massacre failed to materialize. Instead, stepping quietly forward and lovingly removing his watch and chain from the neck of the cringing, violently shivering Arab, the captain, in a strangely gentle tone, in which there seemed, to us, to be a barely repressed inflection of triumph, merely said, “Take these men below and give them something warm to eat; we’ll hand them over to the Bahrain police, in the morning.”

We were astounded. We were amazed. We were utterly and completely dumbfounded.

Our modest comprehension could not grasp it. What, we asked ourselves, wonderingly, was the reason for this incredible change of front? We were not left long in ignorance.

Swinging round on us, and brandishing his watch on high, the captain shouted: “See!- er, I mean, hear!” We heard. The clamorous tick tock, tick tock of his watch would have put any self respecting alarm clock to shame.

“Waterproof!” he cried exultingly. “Waterproof, you blasted unbelievers! Waterproof!”

It was, I believe, the supreme moment of our captain’s life.

USCG Cutter Cartigan - "The Big Storm" by George Copna

Everybody who has sailed aboard ship for any length of time will have a story to tell about a storm. Some are better than others. But basically, they are all good. They provide an insight, for those who will never experience it, of the wonder, along with the sheer terror, that comes of facing waves larger than the vessel in which you are riding. They serve as reminders that we are all just visiting, and all at the mercy of something, at sometime in our lives. Here is George Copna's latest story of the USCG Cutter Cartigan, during which she encounters some very nasty weather. This story takes place around 1961.

THE BIG STORM by George Copna

Once, while on CAMPAT, we were on the tail end of the patrol looking forward to relief. The weather was warm, the seas calm and we were stopped, just drifting at a certain latitude awaiting relief from the CGC SEBAGO out of Pensacola, FL. I was the RM on duty and I heard them, via CW (Morse code) getting underway enroute to relieve us. I copied their radio traffic which included a weather report to 8th CG District New Orleans, LA. The SEBAGO was reporting winds in excess of 60 mph and seas running 25-30 feet. I thought how lucky we were to be in calm seas as opposed to what they were experiencing.

Let me pause here and say that the SEBAGO was literally twice our size at 255 feet as compared to our 125 feet in length. After being relieved of my watch, I went below and hit the rack. I awoke the next morning to some violent ship movements. All the hatches to the exterior decks were 'dogged down' and nobody was permitted outside on deck. The only way to get to the radio shack was through a hatch in the radio shack deck. I climbed up the ladder to relieve the RM on watch and found that we were in the midst of the weather that the SEBAGO had reported. The duty RM advised me that we had absolutely no communications with anybody. The wind and waves had torn away our whip and wire antennae. The only sounds coming from my earphones was loud static.

So, I spent the next four hours standing in the radio shack door watching the helmsman trying to maintain some semblance of a course while plowing into the seas head on. I watched in awe and some fright as we rode up one wave 25-30' and crash down into the trough with a crash. The next wave would cover us up, sometimes to the flying bridge. It was certainly a wild and somewhat frightening ride, and it was the first time I didn't get seasick in rough weather. I guess I was just too scared to think about it.

At one point, a large wave struck the face of the bridge directly and broke out several windows, showering the bridge watch with water and glass shards. This was truly getting to be a worrisome ride! After getting relieved from my watch, I went to the mess deck for some chow - I actually felt good enough to eat. When I got below to the mess deck, I found the cook fore-lonely seated with the evening meal of oyster stew and biscuits sloshing around his feet. So much for chow, so I just went back to my rack.

I was wakened for my next watch (0001-0400) and found we sere still in the maelstrom so all bridge watch standers were still being routed through the radio shack. I hadn't been signed on long before the sliding door that leads to the bridge flew open. A non-rated seaman watchstander stood there and entered the radio shack, endeavoring to close the door behind him. He looked like he had a mouthful of regurgitated stomach contents (a.k.a. vomitus). His abdomen was spasming and his cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk. I told him I'd shut the door, just get down below, out of the radio shack. He lifted up the electrical matt covering the hatch that led down below - right into officer's country. He finally got the hatch open and literally slid down the ladder, hitting the deck HARD! This sudden stop caused him to lose control of his ability to maintain control of the contents in his mouth and he sprayed the area with its contents. He then had to clean up the stinking mess.

We rode like this for close to another day before the storm subsided and the seas began to calm themselves. If my memory serves me correctly, we had ended up in the 7th CG District waters (we were assigned to the 8th CG District).

We limped home, beat up, torn up, canvas all gone from fore & aft, port & starboard, low on fresh water and food and very tired. We finally made it into our home port two days longer than we were supposed to be out. St. Andrew's Marina never looked so good!!

The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" by W.S. Gilbert (1980 something)

The following epic poem was written in the 1980's by a guy who sailed with Military Sealift Command; the same quasi-military organization I was with at the time. The poem was posted by 

Edward Nanartowich the other night. I immediately remembered seeing it before and have asked for permission to re-post it here. 

"Some of you old timers were around when Gilbert wrote this poem I am sure, but it is a tongue in cheek, gallows humor kind of story back in the days of wooden ships and iron stomachs (to coin a phrase). Enjoy it if you have the patience to read."

 The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell' by W.S. Gilbert

 'Twas on the shores that round our coast

 From Deal to Ramsgate span,

 That I found alone on a piece of stone

 An elderly naval man.

 His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

 And weedy and long was he,

 And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

 In a singular minor key:

 "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig."

 And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

 Till I really felt afraid,

 For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

 And so I simply said:

 "O, elderly man, it's little I know

 Of the duties of men of the sea,

 But I'll eat my hand if I understand

 How you can possibly be

 "At once a cook, and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig."

 Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

 Is a trick all seamen larn,

 And having got rid of a thumping quid,

 He spun this painful yarn:

 "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

 That we sailed to the Indian sea,

 And there on a reef we come to grief,

 Which has often occurred to me.

 "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

 (There was seventy-seven o' soul),

 And only ten of the Nancy's men

 Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

 "There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig

 And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

 And the crew of the captain's gig.

 "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

 Till a-hungry we did feel,

 So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

 The captain for our meal.

 "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

 And a delicate dish he made;

 Then our appetite with the midshipmite

 We seven survivors stayed.

 "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,

 And he much resembled pig,

 Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

 On the crew of the captain's gig.

 "Then only the cook and me was left,

 And the delicate question, 'Which

 Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose

 And we argued it out as sich.

 "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

 And the cook he worshipped me;

 But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

 In the other chap's hold, you see.

 "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,

 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,' --

 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,

 And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

 "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me

 Were a foolish thing to do,

 For don't you see that you can't cook me,

 While I can -- and will -- cook you!'

 "So he boils the water, and takes the salt

 And the pepper in portions true

 (Which he never forgot) and some chopped shalot,

 And some sage and parsley too.

 "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

 Which his smiling features tell,

 ' 'Twill soothing be if I let you see,

 How extremely nice you'll smell.'

 "And he stirred it round and round and round,

 And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

 When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

 In the scum of the boiling broth.

 "And I eat that cook in a week or less,

 And -- as I eating be

 The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

 For a wessel in sight I see!

 "And I never grin, and I never smile,

 And I never larf nor play,

 But I sit and croak, and a single joke

 I have -- which is to say:

 "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

 And the mate of the Nancy brig,

 And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

"Storm at Sea - Aboard USCG Cutter Carrigan" by George Copna

The US Coast Guard Cutter Cartigan used to sit moored to the wooden bridge which sits at the end of Ocean Avenue and crosses Sheepshead Bay. A few years ago I wrote about it here and have run subsequently run several stories by some of her crew members who saw that post. This one is from April 2011 and was written by George Copna for Rooftop Reviews. 

Everybody who has sailed aboard ship for any length of time will have a story to tell about a storm. Some are better than others. But basically, they are all good. They provide an insight, for those who will never experience it, of the wonder, along with the sheer terror, that comes of facing waves larger than the vessel in which you are riding. They serve as reminders that we are all just visiting, and all at the mercy of something, at some time in our lives. Here is George Copna's latest story of the USCG Cutter Cartigan, during which she encounters some very nasty weather. This story takes place around 1961.

THE BIG STORM by George Copna

Once, while on CAMPAT, we were on the tail end of the patrol looking forward to relief. The weather was warm, the seas calm and we were stopped, just drifting at a certain latitude awaiting relief from the CGC SEBAGO out of Pensacola, FL. I was the RM on duty and I heard them, via CW (Morse code) getting underway enroute to relieve us. I copied their radio traffic which included a weather report to 8th CG District New Orleans, LA. The SEBAGO was reporting winds in excess of 60 mph and seas running 25-30 feet. I thought how lucky we were to be in calm seas as opposed to what they were experiencing.

Let me pause here and say that the SEBAGO was literally twice our size at 255 feet as compared to our 125 feet in length. After being relieved of my watch, I went below and hit the rack. I awoke the next morning to some violent ship movements. All the hatches to the exterior decks were 'dogged down' and nobody was permitted outside on deck. The only way to get to the radio shack was through a hatch in the radio shack deck. I climbed up the ladder to relieve the RM on watch and found that we were in the midst of the weather that the SEBAGO had reported. The duty RM advised me that we had absolutely no communications with anybody. The wind and waves had torn away our whip and wire antennae. The only sounds coming from my earphones was loud static.

So, I spent the next four hours standing in the radio shack door watching the helmsman trying to maintain some semblance of a course while plowing into the seas head on. I watched in awe and some fright as we rode up one wave 25-30' and crash down into the trough with a crash. The next wave would cover us up, sometimes to the flying bridge. It was certainly a wild and somewhat frightening ride, and it was the first time I didn't get seasick in rough weather. I guess I was just too scared to think about it.

At one point, a large wave struck the face of the bridge directly and broke out several windows, showering the bridge watch with water and glass shards. This was truly getting to be a worrisome ride! After getting relieved from my watch, I went to the mess deck for some chow - I actually felt good enough to eat. When I got below to the mess deck, I found the cook fore-lonely seated with the evening meal of oyster stew and biscuits sloshing around his feet. So much for chow, so I just went back to my rack.

I was wakened for my next watch (0001-0400) and found we sere still in the maelstrom so all bridge watch standers were still being routed through the radio shack. I hadn't been signed on long before the sliding door that leads to the bridge flew open. A non-rated seaman watchstander stood there and entered the radio shack, endeavoring to close the door behind him. He looked like he had a mouthful of regurgitated stomach contents (a.k.a. vomitus). His abdomen was spasming and his cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk. I told him I'd shut the door, just get down below, out of the radio shack. He lifted up the electrical matt covering the hatch that led down below - right into officer's country. He finally got the hatch open and literally slid down the ladder, hitting the deck HARD! This sudden stop caused him to lose control of his ability to maintain control of the contents in his mouth and he sprayed the area with its contents. He then had to clean up the stinking mess.

We rode like this for close to another day before the storm subsided and the seas began to calm themselves. If my memory serves me correctly, we had ended up in the 7th CG District waters (we were assigned to the 8th CG District).

We limped home, beat up, torn up, canvas all gone from fore & aft, port & starboard, low on fresh water and food and very tired. We finally made it into our home port two days longer than we were supposed to be out. St. Andrew's Marina never looked so good!!

"The Whale Who Wanted to Sing at the Met" - Walt Disney (1946)

One of the greatest things about the old cartoons was that they opened up different avenues of entertainment for millions of kids. As a matter of fact, most kids of my generation were probably first exposed to the classics through cartoons such as this one by Disney from 1946.

The plot is fairly simple; a sailor has brought home stories of a singing whale named Willie, which nobody believes. Professors are called in to study the mammal, and all agree that he has swallowed a man. But when he begins to harmonize with himself in several voices, they are all stumped.

A seagull is dispatched to ascertain the validity of the story, and when it is revealed to be the truth, the Captain sets out to capture Willie. He has dreams of making the whale a star, as well of his own grandeur. In his mind Willie will travel the world, singing opera on stage, and making the Captain rich.

But, in his quest for fame and fortune he kills the whale, ending his own dreams. But Willie goes on to sing forever in the depths of the sea. There are something’s in nature that can never be captured, or caged.

Beautifully directed by Directed by Clyde Geronimi and Hamilton Luske, this cartoon has Nelson Eddy performing all of the singing. This is a wonderful introduction, for children of all ages, to the world of Opera.

Working A Winch

The photo above was taken aboard the USS Neosho in the summer of 1977. The ship was berthed in Norfolk at the time the photo was taken. Although it is a bit grainy and worn; it is, after all, an old Polaroid; you can see the buildings in the background to the right of my shoulder. We had just come back from somewhere; I don’t quite remember where; and were “slushing”, or greasing the wire cables which held the hoses for the re-fueling rigs. This was known as PMS, or the Planned Maintenance System. But there is a story behind the photo. There always is. 

Only 2 weeks before this photo was taken I was unable to engage a steam winch. For the uninitiated, engaging a winch refers to the action of  grasping the iron lever firmly, and with all resolve, moving that lever into a position where it will allow the winch drum to be attached, or “engaged to” the cog, or flywheel. This “marriage” allows the winch operator to let out; or take in; as much cable as necessary for whatever task being performed. It is a very basic concept, and as old as steam power itself. But, somehow, in spite of the gargantuan arms you see on me in the photograph; I was never able to perform this basic function successfully. Until one day at sea, not long before this photo was taken.

I was stationed on Rig 8 for re-fueling duties; which ran the gamut from laying out the lines necessary for the work, as well as a lot of line handling, or “heave-hoeing”. It was hard work, and we were all expected to know one another’s jobs on the station to which we were assigned. But, for the life of me, I could not engage that winch drum! This was a source of embarrassment to me, and I suffered some small amount of ridicule as a result, which is only to be expected aboard ship, where everyone is expected to “carry their weight”.  I needed to learn to engage that winch, or die trying. And one day I was about to do just that when my salvation came from a most unexpected source.

I don’t recall the name of my “Rig Captain” at the time, but he is the one pictured below with the crew of Rig 8, wearing the white helmet signifying his position. If you look closely you will notice that I am giving him the finger, without his knowledge. He was a hard drinking type of guy, and if he had been drinking the night before, he could be a real ball buster on station. But, on this one occasion, I was to see another side of the man; one that bespoke of a false façade covering a soft heart.

Seeing me attempt to engage the winch for the 4^th time was too much for him. We were now the only rig not “flying” during the re-fueling, and until that winch was engaged, we weren’t going to be pumping any fuel at all from Rig 8. This meant, of course, that one of the other rigs would have to take up our slack. That was an unforgivable offense aboard ship.

As my benefactor stepped towards me I expected the usual verbal lashing he was famous for; or a swift kick in the ass. I braced myself for a squall. But, to my surprise, he was smiling at me, and in a low, confident voice assured me that I could certainly engage that winch. Without offense, I shall try to recreate the vernacular he used, speaking as he did, with a New Orleans accent. “Lookit here Willie, this is a machine. You’s a man. That machine is ‘sposed to do what you say it do. I knows you can do it. You jus’ has to let the machine know that you know you a man. You do dat, and dat machine gonna do jus’ what you say it to do. Now go and handle that bitch again, and remember, you the man.”

All eyes were on me as I stepped up to that winch for the 5^th time; which is probably a fleet record; and I gritted my teeth as I sunk that winch into gear. The “ka-chunk” sound of the cog being engaged never sounded; or felt, so good; either before, or after that day. I had finally beaten the machine! But I had also learned a valuable lesson about both myself and other people.

You never really know who you are until you see yourself through the eyes of another person. My strength was the direct result of someone else’s view of my weakness. His patient instruction; while really angry with me; was the result of his own experience as a younger man, when he was undoubtedly unsure of himself. Either that; or the yelling just didn’t work. I will never know for sure. But, the look of content on my face in the photo above is the end result. I think about that day a lot, the day I “beat the machine”.

This story comes back to me at odd times; usually when I am struggling with myself over something. And, when I look at that picture, it gives me strength. 

   

"The Wreck of the William Brown" by Tom Koch

In the early spring of 1841, just 71 years before the RMS Titanic would be sunk by an iceberg while crossing the Atlantic, another, similar tragedy occurred. The William Brown, a passenger vessel bound for Philadelphia, with her sails rigged for full speed, hit an ice field and sank. The Brown, like the later Titanic, was woefully unprepared for the disaster, which resulted in an unnecessary loss of life. But, in spite of these similarities, there was one big difference in these two events.

For the most part, aboard the Titanic, chivalry was evident at every turn, as crew members, and passengers alike, held fast to the code of the sea. Women and children were first, and husbands parted with great honor from their spouses, giving up their own chance at survival so that others might live. As I said, this story is quite different.

It is the story of people, gripped in fear, and the lengths with which they will go, in order to save themselves, at the expense of others. When the ship, loaded with newly bound immigrants for America, was about to sink, the longboat, and another small craft, were both launched. The one with the captain aboard was adequately manned and loaded to it's near capacity. The other boat, a longboat with no rudder to steer with, was overcrowded and staffed with the first mate and some deck hands. The passengers consisted of able bodied men, as well as women and children.

The captain left them in the charge of the first mate, with orders to "do what must be done" in order to save his boat. The captain then set course for Newfoundland, leaving the smaller stricken vessel to it's fate. And what a fate it was!

This chart shows the close proximity in which the Titanic would sink 71 years later, almost to the day, and only 8 and a half miles apart. And in the ensuing years, nothing had changed much in the way of passenger safety,and traveling the North Atlantic in early spring was still a treacherous journey, at best. Though much had changed regarding the way men and women interacted, thanks largely to the Victorian Era, this journey took place before that, and so had a much different conclusion.

During the very first night adrift, in full view of the other passengers, crew members, acting upon the "orders" of the first mate, selected men to throw overboard into the frigid waters in an effort to "lighten the load." When two women cried out that they "didn't know if we can go on without our dear brother", they were summarily tossed in after the hapless man. All the while, the other passengers tried to "look small", and "attract no notice", lest they be next.

When the morning came and a ship appeared on the horizon, the killing continued, with at least two more men being thrown overboard. This was at a time when, not only was rescue imminent, but the boat was stable and in no danger.

A French Court found the actions justifiable, while the American Court found the actions of the crew, and notably the first mate, to be unworthy of seamen. He was tried in Philadelphia for Murder Upon the High Seas.

This book was a chilling look at, not only a failed social order, but a justice system more concerned with the profits of international trade than passenger safety. Their lack of oversight and initiative would come back to haunt us all, in the form of the Titanic tragedy, 71 years and 8 miles later.

Guest Columnist: George Copna "Aboard the Cartigan in Panama City- 1962"

The following is another story from the long career of the USCG Cutter Cartigan, formerly moored in Brooklyn's Sheepshead Bay. George Copna, who was a Radioman 2nd Class aboard the Cartigan, has been providing me with some stories and photos of the ship which I am only too happy to post here. This is the latest from Mr. Copna, the illustration is one he previously sent, and which I could not make fit into the last post. It is actually an artist's portrayal of the so-called "buck and a quarter's", a class of cutters so named for their tonnage, which was 125 tons displacement. It is also one of Mr. Copna's favorites illustrations. Here is his story;

Panama City, not to be confused with Panama City Beach, in the 1960's was a "hopping" tourist town. There were, and still are, two major marinas in the city. One was in the downtown area and the other was in the St. Andrew's area, which is where we moored, starboard side to!

During the summer months there was always a good deal of foot traffic on the marina, especially when a large ship was underway in the area. It so happened one summer day that we were coming in to moor after a day of drills. The Captain allowed the XO to conn the ship and bring her in to moor. I should mention at this point that the 'Cartigan' seemed to have a re-enforced bow and was once used to break ice up north in a river for a period of time. As usual, we were drawing a crowd of tourists and they were gathered about 25 yards from the end of the dock.

I was RM2 at the time and my special sea detail billet was as sound powered phone talker on the bridge so I had a ring side seat for what was to come. Apparently, the XO brought the ship in a little too fast and at too steep of an angle and she got away from him. We soundly impacted the end of the concrete marina, the bow riding four to five feet up high, severing a large water line and creating a large geyser of water and chunks of concrete. This in turn sent the observers scurrying for cover, for which there was none, and the captain into shock. The XO maintained his cool, backed her down and tried it again, this time successfully. The bridge gang all had to muffle our collective laughter because it was indeed a sight to see. The only damage done was to the marina facility and the XO's pride. The saga continues!

I hope you like this, because it is true to the best of my memory and it is published in a book about the Coast Guard here in Panama City.

I saw this ship almost daily in Brooklyn for several years. I actually used to go out of my way to see her, never thinking that I would one day be corresponding with one of the many men who sailed her. My conclussion? Sometimes things just work out that way...

Guest Columnist: "Aboard the USCG Cutter Cartigan" by George Copna

Of all the stories and stuff I write about, none has generated such affection and comment, as the posts concerning the old USCG Cutter Cartigan, which sat in Sheepshead Bay for many years when I was growing up in Brooklyn,N.Y.

The following is a story of life aboard the vessel on patrol in the Gulf of Mexico. The photo is of the author in 1966 or '67. I haven't changed a word, just cut and pasted the story straight from the e-mail by Mr. George Dobos,who served aboard her and has promised some more stories, which I will be only too happy to print here.

Hello Robert.

I have attached several fotos that I hope you enjoy. The painting of the two "buck n' a quarters" I got from a calendar somewhere. It is one of my favorite pictures. The bridge was all polished up for inspection. The young skinny guy sitting in the radio shack is yours truly circa 1966 or '67. The last one is the Cartigan taken off the St. Andrew's Marina in 1967 before she got her "racing stripe." The time that I was in, 1964 - 1968 was a bad time for the Coast Guard. All the cutters were aging or had aged already. The larger cutters, 311' & 327', were WWII or before commissions and some were actually old Navy vessels that the Guard got from them. These were very lean years. The modernization of the fleet began in late 1967/68 with the building of 210 ft cutters. As radiomen, we used morse code for commucations over 95% of the time. The main transmitter in the radio shack (the black box next to me in the foto) was an Army model 1944 that had vacuum tubes as big as a football. When it went out, we went to the shipyard here in Panama City and bought one just like it off of an old Liberty Ship that they were going to cut up for scrap. As a side line, Panama City's shipyard made Liberty ships during the war and they came back full circle to be cut up.

My duties as a Radioman differed depending on my rank at the time. As a RM3, during any maneuvering drills, i.e. general quarters, man overboard, etc., my station was working the engine order telegraph. When I made RM2, my billet was sound powered talker on the bridge relaying all communications to and from the bridge to all stations on the ship. There were only three RM's on the ship. Having given you a little background, here comes the first sea story.

We were on Campeche Patrol in the southern Gulf of Mexico. Our CW call sign went from NRLF to NUZY (or in English, CGC Cartigan to Campeche Patrol Vessel). The seas were flat calm, not a ripple or a wave to be seen and it was hot. Did I mention that the airconditioner only worked in the winter time? Anyway, we came across this very large tree branch shaped like a slingshot. It was clearly a menace to navigation. After much deliberation, the Captain decided that we would maneuver into the crotch of the tree, hook a line to it and manually chop it up! He sent the lowest rated seaman down onto the log with an axe. After a couple of whacks, and nothing was happening, he opted to send the XO down to see if he could do any better. The XO had irritated him because while he was trying to get this log cut up, the XO was fishing off the fantail for dolphin. Anyway, on the first swing, the XO cut his safety line and almost fell into the water. Time for a new plan. The Captain contacted District HQ in New Orleans and got permission to destroy the heinous object using our 40mm, 1944 Army single barrel deck gun.

We issued a notice to mariners as to what we were doing and then went to General Quarters. After backing off a safe distance, the order to fire was given. Slow fire. After coming nowhere near the target, the Captain ordered rapid fire. As the gun fired, the ship recoiled to the port and started rolling to the starboard, the gunners firing the entire time. Here's where it gets interesting. As they were firing, they were walking the shells back towards the ship and instead of hitting the target, they were coming closer to hitting ourselves. Needless to say, the Capt. ordered a cease fire because we weren't doing any good. We ended up taking a broom stick, putting a lifevest light on it and tacking it to the log. We chartered its path and issued another Notice to Mariners and let it go on its way.

More stories to follow later.
George

Coast Guard Cutter Cartigan Revisited

On January 20th, 2010 I posted a little piece about the old US Coast Guard Cutter Cartigan, which used to sit, when I was a kid back in the 1960's, in Sheepshead Bay, which is in Brooklyn where I grew up.

It was a beautiful ship to me, and, as I wrote in that post, no small influence in my going to sea several years later. I got 3 comments on the piece, on the blog, but have also continued to receive e-mails from people who have had a connection with the ship in one way or another. This comment was posted to the blog yesterday eveing and I thought I'd share the unusual story, as well as the link to the photos taken by Mr. Petersen, which show the ship being removed from the Bay. And Mr. Petersen is right, that old girl gave them one hell of a fight. Thanks for being there with your camera and sharing these photos with us.

Robert Petersen has left a new comment on your post "Coast Guard Cutter Cartigan WSC-132":

"Hi, A few years ago, I was employed by CUNY at Kingsborough Community College. I recall how one very foggy morning I heard the loud chugging and saw the large dark silhouette of some type of crane barge. Little did I know that this barge was charged with removing the Cartigan.

I was so grateful to have my camera that day because the most peculiar thing happened. The Cartigan put up one hell of a fight.

Hanging by the spread slings from this crane barge, the Cartigan was being taken against her will around the tip of the College to where the school's beach was located. I thought they were a little too close for comfort and wasn't too shocked when the next day a second crane barge showed up to help the get unstuck. Believe it or not, this barge got stuck as well.

Eventually, a third barge showed up and was finally able to free the other two barges. Yup, the Cartigan sure put up a fight."

If you would like to see the rest of these remarkable photos taken by Mr. Petersen, try this link;

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625214418&aid=95792

"The Book of the Seven Seas" by Peter Freuchen

Not since the publication of the "American Practical Navigator" in 1802, by Nathaniel Bowditch, has there been a book written about the sea that is so all encompasing, as is the case in this 1958 publication by Peter Freuchen. That's him on the cover, looking exactly as one would expect from his writing.

This is a work of non-fiction which explores the beginnings of earth, and the "Big Bang" theory, as a way of explaining how the ocean basins were physically formed when the sun cast off a ball of flaming gases, which became the earth. The basins were formed by the violence attendant in the cooling process of the molten sphere that would become our home. During this process, a chunk of the sphere broke off, becoming our "moon." This moon would come to control our tides. The pits, valleys and craters left on the earth by this process were then filled by an enormous rain, one which lasted for about 40 centuries and produced 300,000,000 cubic miles of rain.

This book is organized into 11 parts, among them The Shape of the Sea, Life in the Sea, Great Voyages, Treasures of the Seven Seas, Law and the Seven Seas, and even a section on Strange Tales from the Seven Seas. In short, this book has something of interest for anyone who has an interest in the oceans, and the legends and history that go with them.

This book is also a political and military history. It follows the Voyages of Discovery and delves into the settlements of the "new worlds" beyond the horizons of Europe. Along with the tales of pirates and ghost ships, this book packs in quite a bit of science and information about how the oceans current's are formed, as well as the effects of the weather upon the motion of the oceans.

This is an example of one of those rare books that can be found "in the stacks" at the Mooresville Public Library. My usual modus upon entering the library, after greeting the librarians, is to head towards the shelf of newly released books. This is my effort to maintain "relevancy." If there is nothing there to catch my eye, I wander into "the stacks", that great expanse of books from decades gone by. My tastes run, for the most part, between the 600's and the high 900's in the old Dewey Decimal System.

That's the joy of the library, you go in with a vague notion of what you might want, and leave with some things you never even thought of. This is a large and scientific book written by a man who spent 6 decades at sea. So, I will have to visit it more than once. The good thing is that I will know exactly where to find it when I need it again. On the shelf at my Piblic Library. Think about that as you watch the politicians turn off the lights in libraries all across America, even while awarding themselves bonuses, and planning new projects that we just can't afford right now.

And then, think of Peter Freuchen and the knowledge contained in this book. Locked away in an underfunded library it would be of no value to anyone, and much of what it is written, on all topics, will become forgotten footnotes to history.

Movie Review: "The Long Voyage Home" with Thomas Mitchell, Ward Bond and Barry Fitzgerald

This is simply one of the best screen adaptations of any of Eugene O'Neills' works.Director John Ford and screenwriter Dudley Nichols did the adaptation of the 4 separate one act plays that comprise this movie. The work is seamless.

Beginning with the varied nationalities of the crew O'Neill explores the relationships of men at sea. With a stellar cast of actors which includes Thomas Mitchell, Barry Fitzgerald, Ian Hunter, Ward Bond, Wilfrid Lawson, Arthur Shields and even John Wayne (who plays the entire role with a Swedish accent) Mr. O'Neill has given us a glimpse into the troubled lives of the men who sail on ships.

With his use of flawed characters he paints a wonderfully realistic portrait of life aboard a tramp steamer. Filmed in 1940 when U-boats were prowling the Atlantic to keep supplies from reaching Europe, this film captures all the darkness of the times in which it was filmed. It would be less than a year before the Rueben James was sunk off the East Coast of the United States by a German submarine.

From the over zealous camaraderie to the brawls and tradgedies, this film captures all the pathos of life at sea. Even now, with DVD's and cell phones and e-mails, life aboard a ship is a lonely affair. Tempers run high, words are said and instantly regretted, unfound suspicions abound. That is the life of a ships crew.

One of the best moments of the film involves the crew ashore in England during a blackout. Thomas Mitchell- always the drunk- cries out to the heavens- "Blackout, blackout! Is there to be no more light in the world?"

The most amazing thing about this film is that John Ford would go on making films for another 40 years. He would use the same group of actors time and again in Westerns and later on even "The Quiet Man" with John Wayne and Ward Bond, Barry Fitzgerald, Arthur Shields and Maureen O'Hara. That these actors were so verstaile, and John Ford so well versed in literature, is a tribute to the old school of film making.

The plot of this film would seem mundane were I to attempt to recount it here. Suffice to say that it is the story of a group of lost souls, looking for themselves. You'll just have to trust me on this one- Eugene O'Neill termed it the "best adaptation" of any of his works. That alone should be reason enough to see this film.