The Voyage of the Rose City

by John Moynihan

  The Bosun, as usual, manned the winch. He didn’t have to work on deck if he didn’t choose to. His job was officially an administrative one: organize the crew and assign them their jobs. But Dave Martin was an old fighter, trying to get over a bad stroke he had suffered a few years earlier. To work was to prove he still had it in him. And he wasn’t proving it just to himself.

  The forward deck of the Rose City, from midship toward the bow

  Three of us went down below and waited for the first line to come through the hatch. When the Bosun got the winch going, Jimmy passed it down and we laid the line in even folds along the floor of the deck. Bud curtly told me what to do, annoyed if I appeared to be putting too much effort into it.

  “Let the winch do the work!”

  I was slow in learning the basic tenets of modern seamanship.

  The stern lines took about thirty to forty-five minutes to stow. By the time the last line dropped through the hatch, the pile of rope was nearly twelve feet square and six feet high. Once the hatch was sealed, we walked up to the bow to stow the forward lines. Despite my naïveté I began to realize the advantage a supertanker had over smaller ships. The five-minute walk from one end to the other essentially meant a five-minute work break. If several of us had to go up, we would go in shifts so that the time it took for the first man to leave and the last to arrive was generally about ten minutes. It didn’t matter if the Captain was watching from the bridge; we all seemed to be following orders. Peanuts was the master at avoiding work. The first day on the ship he reprimanded me for running to fetch a wrench. “Never run on a ship! Always walk. You’re not in a hurry to go anywhere,” he told me.

  Halfway to the bow he would often remember he had forgotten some “very important” tool, or suddenly decide he had to go to the bathroom. The latter was his favorite excuse. “Gotta go surge one,” he would declare, and then he’d disappear for a good quarter of an hour, or however long he figured the job at hand would take. It was a fine art he had clearly cultivated over many years at sea.

  The morning’s work was relatively painless. By our ten a.m. coffee break, all of the aft and most of the forward lines had been stowed. The Bosun, as was his way, knocked us off ten minutes early so we’d have plenty of time to amble down the deck to the house.

  Jake and I had climbed down from the foredeck and were beginning our walk back when he stopped and picked up a wrench.

  “Always carry something,” he said, acting out a potential encounter with the Chief.

  Standing five-five, Jake was by far the smallest man aboard, and, clearly, after thirty-seven years at sea, he had cultivated the role of jokester. The Bosun, on the other hand, while not much taller, was infamous as a brawler. His years in the boxing rings of Philadelphia came in particularly handy, given the bars he frequented and the people he met inside them. But Jake didn’t have that brute physical training to handicap his smallness. Always one to avoid a fight, Jake made his name as a clown.

  CHAPTER 4

  COFFEE BREAK WAS ANIMATED that morning. The ship had broken free of the river at about nine a.m. and was now sailing off the coast of Maryland. The crew sat around the lounge, the Bosun orchestrating a general mood of good cheer by telling his peculiar brand of dirty jokes and initiating a discussion about some of the other old-timers from the Philadelphia hall. I grabbed a cup and sat in a corner of the room, listening. My hands were already beginning to blister; I had neglected to bring work gloves with me, and the ship’s store, the “Captain’s Locker,” wouldn’t be open for another week.

  Just as he knocked us off early for coffee, the Bosun didn’t make us get back to work for a full five minutes after we were supposed to return (10:15). As we went back on deck, Billy looked around and started singing “By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea.” I laughed nervously but, as usual, he ignored me.

  After the lines were stowed, we had to stow the gangway. Mounted on the starboard side, the gangway was less efficient than those of over three hundred years ago. A huge metal contraption, it was fastened over the side of the ship only twenty feet above the angry, churning wake. To move it to its raised berth amid the pipes was a simple task—in theory. In practice, it took hours.

  Of the two huge booms that hung off the key masts at the center of the ship, only one was of any practical use in the moving of the gangway. Climbing out onto the gangway, Bud and Billy had to attach chains to its rickety frame while hanging above the water. The Bosun sat at the winch controls, ready to raise the block and tackle that had to be rigged to the chains that hung from the railings. This process in itself took more than an hour, most of the crew pulling the lines that moved the seventy-foot boom. Every time we got it moving the right way the wind would catch it, swinging the boom wildly around. At one point Jimmy desperately lashed the runner rope to the gypsy head before momentum might cause the boom to crash into the key mast and snap, destroying the countless pipes below and generating sparks that would start a chain reaction of explosions, ending in the complete destruction of the ship. After an hour my arms ached to the point where making a fist caused searing pain. The rest of the crew had to work around me. As we tugged on the ropes—a nautical reincarnation of the Iwo Jima Memorial—I was a fifth wheel, like a tedious visitor who was wholly ineffectual, yet here to stay.

  Bud laughed about it. “And then there’s Moynihan, pulling on ropes that don’t go anywhere.” The rest of the crew didn’t bother to say anything.

  The last sliver of land slipped out of sight about two that afternoon. We all paused for one final look at home. Billy looked away. “That’s the last we’ll see for a long time.” The crew silently returned to work. The breeze picked up as we got farther out to sea, and the ocean became a rich dark blue. I asked the Bosun about the color, having seen only the algae-filled waters that hugged the shorelines. The Bosun stopped and looked up at me.

  “How many times have you been to sea, John?” he asked me with both a smile and suspicion.

  “This is my first time, Bos,” I answered. When he heard that, he nodded knowingly; things were coming together as far as the Mystery of Moynihan was concerned.

  The 4–8 watch was knocked off after the three-o’clock coffee break. Billy had the wheel first, so Jake and I, even though we were on watch, had to keep working until five. The special advantage of the 4–8 watch is that there is only one hour during the day (4:00 to 5:00) when you have to work without being paid overtime. Both the 8–12 and the 12–4 watches, because they are on duty between nine and five (i.e., the standard working day), lose four hours of overtime a day. We, on the other hand, could earn up to seven hours of overtime on weekdays, and fifteen on weekends (when the regular sea watch counts as OT).

  Five o’clock found the crew grumpy and tired. The gangway ended up taking all afternoon to secure, the obsolete winch-and-boom system with which we had to move it being more of a hassle than a help. Just inside the hatchway that let us into the house was the laundry room where we washed up. The jar of lanolin sat above the sink from that day on as the god of hygiene, for without it we would all probably have the grime of the SS Rose City caked on our hands to this day.

  After showering (seamen are notoriously clean; one story that circulated among the crew concerned an SIU man who, when the ship was sinking, ran to the bathroom to wash up before getting in the lifeboat) the crew lined up for dinner. Jake ate quickly so he could relieve Billy in time for dinner. As it was still light out, there was no need for me to go on lookout, so they sent for me on the bridge for my first lesson at the wheel.

  The stairwell that ran through the center of the house was a cold metallic spiral that knew only the fluorescent flickerings of the overhead lights and the clack-clack of heavy work boots on its linoleum steps. But sterile as it was through the first seven stories, the long flight from the last residential deck to the bridge was peculiarly foreboding. Longer than the rest, this flight was unlit, save for a dark red exit sign that burned at the top of the stairs. It
took a good effort to open the heavy metal door that sealed off the stairwell, but once open, it slammed against the bulkhead with a resounding crash. This of course shattered the tense quiet of the bridge, causing officers and men alike to jump and narrow their eyes to annoyed stares.

  It was always “lights-out” on the bridge, hence that final dark flight. The red and green glow cast from the electrical equipment was interrupted only by the sharp white triangle of light that beat down on the sea charts. It was not a large space; on watch it took only seven long strides to traverse before I had to pivot and pace back to the other wall. Dividing the bridge in half was a rigid metal containing wall that left only three or four feet on either side to get around. Before it stood the radar, the compass, and the other electrical navigational devices that never worked but impressed stockholders and Coast Guard inspectors. The wheel was mounted on a long gray metal console. My devotion to Errol Flynn had long given me a quixotic vision of the man at the wheel. There Jake stood, the able-bodied seaman from North Philadelphia, fearlessly guiding the SS Rose City through the dark, restless seas of the North Atlantic. The responsibility and power had in no way diminished since the day Captain Blood had leaped from the yardarm and, wrestling the great wooden wheel out of its spinning fury with all the might his two strong arms could muster, guided the ship through the battle. But these days the wheel itself had shrunk to a foot in diameter, a metal and plastic tool that was thrown on automatic pilot ninety percent of the time. It was the other ten percent that counted.

  Jake greeted me warmly. He had come to see in me the same youthful anticipation and excitement that he knew when he first shipped out, forty years earlier. He took me under his wing, was determined to teach me the skills and art of the sea, lest I be victimized by my simple lack of experience. Set in the center of the console, the wheel was surrounded on either side by the outside lighting controls, the PA system, and a number of salt-covered knobs and dials that had long since rusted fast. The wheel was situated at waist height, allowing for a relaxed stance, both hands resting on it without being too high or too low. Pointing to the circular gauge just above it, Jake began his first lesson on how to man the wheel.

  “This here’s the automatic pilot. Right now it’s set at one hundred twenty degrees, putting us on a course due southeast. Now, you turn it off by hitting this button here, and you’re on manual control. To steer the ship you’ve gotta compensate for the lee and the tides. It’s usually okay if you stay within a few degrees, but no more.” He stole a glance back at the Chief, who was behind the partition, hunched over the charts, plotting our course. “If she starts right, turn the wheel a few degrees to the left and it’ll bring her back on. Right now she’s pulling right, so you’ve gotta keep your eye on the gauge. Now, right there’s the overhead compass. Neither one of ’em is totally on the mark, so I keep somewhere in between the two.”

  He called out to the Chief. “Mate, is it okay if the kid takes the wheel now?”

  The Chief lumbered over to the console and rocked his thickset body on his heels, contemplating the question. The sun had set but the gray twilight skies gave us a fair visibility. The Chief stared out the window and quietly said it was all right, then returned to his duties behind the partition. Jake stepped aside and let me take over the wheel. From up on the bridge I could see the whole expanse of the ship plunging through the water. With the wheel in my hands I felt the ship come alive; it was no longer a shaky float in a large body of water.

  The first sensation was the immediate contact with the shudders and tremors of the ship. Between the grinding vibrations of the all-powerful engine room and the pounding of the sea at her unyielding steel sides, the ship was an animate mover. She pushed her way through the ocean, raising her bow with every swell and hurtling back down with a deafening crescendo. I could feel the movement, the huge screw in the back working to propel her forward. The horizon became less of a definition between sea and sky than a tangible object that could be sought, reached, left behind.

  Then again, being on the wheel was rarely a metaphysical experience: Within seconds of my taking over, the ship was swaying right. I hesitantly pulled the wheel left, but without result. Five degrees, six degrees, seven degrees. The ship finally responded at ten, coming slowly off her right course and swinging left. The problem was that although I had returned the wheel to 120, the ship continued to swing, rolling way to the left. Jake, while not saying very much, kindly pointed this out in a voice low enough to escape the Chief’s ears. Then again, he didn’t want to be held responsible for a mid-Atlantic course change, either. I made up for the leftward pull by steering five degrees right, and then, as the ship responded, brought the wheel around to three degrees left. The first crisis was over.

  I held the wheel that first evening for the better part of an hour. Jake stood by, telling stories of past ships’ crews and their follies, and I began to get a feel for the mechanics of quartermastering. He was a cantankerous sort. His stories were punctuated with wild expressions or laughs of disbelief, as his subjects were always some outrageous character or circumstance. In his sharp tenor, he entertained me, shortening the long watch with a few anecdotes. Though he had to keep his voice down to a low murmur so as not to disturb the Chief, he kept his monologue going, avoiding as much as possible the monotony of silence.

  There was little time after watch before I had to turn in. The spectre of the 12–4 watch waking me at 3:20 a.m., a mere seven and a half hours away, kept my nocturnal activity to a few beers, the better part of a movie in the lounge, and a chapter or two of a book. With uncharacteristic discipline, I bunked out at ten and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Rap, rap. Lights on. Time check. Lookout local weather report. There was no avoiding it: Even if I went to bed at eight, they always woke me too soon. And unlike life at home, I pulled myself out of bed immediately. The tension from always being on call was fast exceeding tolerable levels. My cabin was my sanctuary. Within it I could dream of home and N. C. Wyeth’s illustrations of pirates, while beyond my door was a very unsettling reality. This was my first full day at sea. Yesterday had begun with land still in view. Then, if worse came to worst, I could always swim to shore. Now I was trapped by the limitless miles of ocean between my world and theirs. Just outside my room lay a crew of suspicious seamen who, while not preoccupied with me, regarded me as an antiquarian might a Babylonian curiosity. Beyond my door was Billy Mahoney, and he was a fight looking for a place to happen. As it turned out, I was a very happening place.

  I was still unqualified to work the wheel, and with it still being too dark for anyone to teach me any more, I inadvertently forced Jake and Billy to split my wheel shift again. On lookout you could strike a comfortable pose and relax. On the wheel you had to be on your toes; even with the automatic pilot, the mate was right there issuing commands.

  I drank my coffee in the lounge and then, trying to appear confident, made my way up the stairwell and through the bridge to the port wing for lookout. Bud looked up from his trance and collected himself.

  “There’s a ship over on the starboard side. Other than that there’s nothing,” he told me.

  He said nothing more, gladly leaving me on the wing. The night was untouched even by the first hint of day, and a strong warm wind buffeted the bridge. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and wrapped myself in my jacket. Leaning against the rail, I looked out into the dark. The stars were amazing, great illuminations that covered the entire expanse of the sky with unexpected brilliance. We had definitely left civilization behind. One look at the scowl on Billy’s face as he paced back and forth in the wheelhouse like a caged wolf could tell you that.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I recalled a half-forgotten scene from the film version of The Glass Menagerie. In it the son stands on the bridge of some forlorn freighter during the midnight watch. “That was the time, the ghost watch,” I thought I heard him say, “when no one else on the ship is up, and you sink back into your memories, and why you ca
me out here.” I’d not read nor seen the play in years, and I didn’t even know the exact words. But I knew exactly what he meant. There on the port wing I recalled the sentiment.

  CHAPTER 5

  AT SEA: THIRD DAY OUT

  Well, I guess you could say the proverbial shit hit the fan today. Now it’s around that I’m DPM’s progeny. Jake, who has been showing me the ropes, and Billy are now alienated. More on this as it develops.

  —SEA LOG 6/14/80

  The most satisfying aspect of life on the ship was the constant supply of food. Unlike the university, the ship provided three square meals a day, and plenty in between. Miguel, the cook, soon became the leading figure on A deck, perpetually running back and forth between the lounge and the mess, talking to himself. “Jesus Christ motherfucker goddamn! What the fuck! Ho-ho, hee-hee …” And so he would rattle on.

  In the morning, when the tired crew would line up for breakfast, Miguel’s good humor was blunted only by the growlings of the steward. The old black man, no matter how loud you yelled out your order, could never hear you. Thus each meal became a constant series of shouting matches between him and crew.

  But though the Rose City was hailed by the crew as one of the best feeders on the seas, whatever pleasures there were to be had at mealtime were dampened by the tension in the mess.

  First there were the officers, who joined us in the meal line but ate in their private mess at tables laid out by Pete and Ned. They moved with authority, their very bearing emanating a powerful sense of command. Chests out, backs arched, chins down, they bore a military air lent them by their drill training at the various officers’ academies they had attended, and thereby also had the soldier’s gift for intimidation.