Dear John,
In the long distant past you and Mrs. D's father,
Captain Augustsson, conducted mutually enjoyable conversations, as fellow men
of sail. Thus we thought you might enjoy the enclosed. During the later years
of his life Captain Augustsson painstakingly typed out his life story. We had
heard the stories too many times, so I didn't take his writings seriously until
recently. I realized that the stories should not be lost to his
descendants and friends.
Captain
Augustsson was not the best of typists, and I know little about sailing ships.
Is there such a thing as a "mean sail"? I assumed it to be a
typographical error and changed it to "main
sail." Perhaps I did violence to his text.
So if
you see any gross nautical errors, blame me, not the Captain. I am certain he
knew what he was talking about.
Your
mother tells us you are still sailing, so add this to your nautical library,
and remember those conversations of the past.
Sincerely,
THE CAPTAIN
Selected Writings of
Knut Gunnar Augustsson
Compiled and Edited by
Richard B. Diffenderfer
Introduction
With
the ship inclining at a steep angle or rolling heavily, you were swinging in a
precarious arc a hundred feet above the ship's deck. There was nothing to
prevent you from falling back, and if you did, you
were a goner.
This was the life Captain Augustsson lived
and loved, longing to be at sea from the day he was a small boy. In his later
years, when bad eye sight confined him to his house on Calle Hernani in
Montevideo, Uruguay, Gunnar worked for hours over an ancient typewriter,
pecking out his life story.
Innumerable manuscripts resulted, from a
summary of his entire life to a very detailed narrative. The first chapter of this book is that detailed narrative,
with portions of tedious minutiae eliminated. The
original manuscript consists of 105 double-spaced
typewritten pages. And that was not the end.
It is obvious
from the last line on page 105 that the story goes on. However, the additional
pages are not to be found.
Complete stories are found in the narrative
of the Camilla May Page and of the
Following his experience with the
Contents
The Making of a Sailor 1
The
Loss of the 111 Fated Vessel Camilla May Page and Her Crew 33
Memories of the S.S. Tacoma 40
©2002
The Making of a Sailor
Knut Gunnar Augustsson
Late in
his life, with very poor eye sight, Captain Augustsson typed his memoirs. More
than one hundred pages of double-spaced typing is the source of what follows.
The story ends abruptly and unfinished with
page 105 of the original. The remainder has been lost.
Portions
of the early childhood story are tedious and have been eliminated. Thus the
seeming jumps in time between the first few paragraphs. As the time approaches for
Gunnar to go to sea, though, the story is
complete.
Birth
My earth
borne land fall took place in a little pine-clad
The time of my appearance on
the scene was in the year of our Lord 1901, on the 27th of June, a day which
fell on a Thursday. My launching took place in the early morning hours as the
moon and stars paled out and the sun took
over the sky.
The
tall swaying pines began to yawn and
all
the birds in the forest came to life. A gale spilled the air. It was the splendor and magnificence of the land of
the midnight sun's Midsummer. These particulars
I relate as told to me about my first day of dawn.
My
arrival had curiosity significance only. As the sunbeams danced in through my
window the neighbors flocked in to look and pass their
appraisal of the neophyte. Fortunately I drew no complaints. My
eyes were sky blue, my complexion fair, and there was a forelock of curly blond
hair on my mast head.
Fire
An
incident recounted to my credit took place during my first winter. To make sure
I was kept warm I slept in my parents' bed. In our sub-zero
weather a fire burned constantly in the big kitchen cast iron stove. At night the bedroom doors were left open.
Recently-washed
garments were hung up in the evening on a clothes line above the stove, so that
they might dry during the night. Presumably the
heat caused the damp clothesline to dry and contract. When it broke some of the clothing fell on the hot stove.
All the
others were sleeping peaceably, but I was flailing my arms and kicking my legs
until my parents awoke. The bedrooms were filled with dense black smoke. My
father groped his way along the floor to the
windows and flung them wide open. With the entry of outside oxygen the fabric
on the stove burst into flame. This was quickly smothered with a blanket and
the fire extinguished.
With his mission completed, the small hero who had saved
his family was found fast asleep.
The Location
If
anyone reading this early part of my life and stamping ground should care, or
maybe some grand- or great grandchild would enjoy looking up the birthplace of a
departed ancestor (I know I would have) I will,
for better identification, x a cross on the top of our chimney: Latitude 56° 05" 33" North,
Longitude 14° 41' 48" East. You can't go wrong.
Should the chimney and the house be erased from the
Map, the position is still good, for there is only one
such place on the face of the whole earth.
Why I landed on such a
remote spot on our globe I wouldn't know any more than when and where I am to take my final departure. (Which took place
June 30, 1995 in Montevideo, Uruguay.)
The Gypsy
By chance the circumstances
of my future were forecast by a wandering Gypsy fortune teller coming down our road. She stopped at our house begging
for something to eat. My mother served her something on hand. Not yet ambulant, I was crawling around
on the kitchen floor. I suppose the rainbow colors of her gypsy dress drew my attention. When I got
within reach she picked me up and put me on her lap. For a plate full of soup and a sandwich my future was
foretold.
She said
that sometime the children bore the traits of long-forgotten ancestors. I was a
Viking throwback. My blood had been tainted with
wanderlust and desire for battle.
My mother was sufficiently
impressed by the Gypsy's soothsaying that she related the prediction to me after I grew older. Of course I wouldn't leave
her, and we both laughed at the Gypsy's words. Well, time would tell.
Parents
From the
beginning my mother was everything that only a mother could be. She always had
rare beauty in her eyes. Her eyes were deep blue,
her hair blond and wavy, with a reddish tint. Her face was like a red apple, and her energy and endurance seemed
unlimited.
My more taciturn father was
a big, tall and powerful man. His hair was a shade darker, but his eyes were
just as blue. He was quite a legendary figure in our neighborhood and, to those
who knew him in his youth, a reputation as a
courageous fighter. To us his word was law.
Both were born and brought
up with honest integrity handed down by heritage. Promises and ordinary business deals were usually sealed with a hand
shake, and thereafter inviolable.
The Bully
The leader of our "gang" was not always the
oldest or the biggest of the boys. A natural instinct of
Leadership
often brought one boy to the fore. Above all, he had to be the type that stayed
calm in an emergency.
Under the leadership of a
self-styled matador we made a temporary transfer of our base of operations to a cattle-grazing enclosure. With the herd of
cattle was a big, ferocious bull. The would-be matador had borrowed his mama's brand new red sweater on
the promise of good care. This he attached to a long pole, one of mama's clothesline poles. The
equipment was impressive.
The
cattle enclosure was separated from our house by a big stone fence. After a few
preliminary instructions the spectacle commenced by waving the red flag in
front of the bull. The reaction was instantaneous.
To our great delight we
worked the bull into frenzy. He clawed the ground with his feet and snorted
like a steam engine. As if that was not enough, the operator of the pole kept
whacking the bull between his horns with the
pole. Everybody wanted a go at him. It was a great show of man's superiority
over beast.
Enraged
beyond endurance, the bull circled around. With a running spurt he hurdled the
fence and was upon us. The matador ordered a gallop retreat
to dive into the sea while he covered our retreat by throwing mama's brand new sweater into the bull's face.
The sweater was promptly torn to shreds and the
clothes pole splinted into kindling.
That was
a real thriller and a close call. We all clamored for a repeat go at the bull,
but the matador failed to show. Clothesline poles and red
sweaters were hard to come by, and that was the end of our great performance.
Foolish Venture
My area
of operation gradually increased. By our common love for the sea I was drawn to
my grandfather on my mother's side. Like many
poor starters he was a self-made man, now well to do by our village's standards. He had started life as an orphan,
thus had no memory of family life, and was picked
up by a greedy land owner who put grandfather to work as soon as he could walk.
At night he was made to sleep in the outhouse with the
animals. Over worked and poorly fed, when winter came he came
down with a severe cold and was given up for dead. But his young heart had been
programmed to fight for life. Just as they
were putting the lid on the tiny coffin he showed signs of life and was narrowly saved from a live bull.
Miraculously
he recovered and survived. When I grew to know him he had become a successful fisherman specializing in eel fishing, at that time a
thriving business. A vessel came from
My
grandfather possessed a lot of natural intelligence and seemed to know much
about diverse things. I watched him graft fruit trees in our garden.
He would cut off a branch, split the butt and insert a tiny tapered
twig into the split. Sometimes he would insert the twig between the bark and
the stem. In each case he would fill the cut with bee's wax, and then apply a
bandage. All his grafts took.
At hog-slaughtering time he would do the
killing and disassembling of the carcass, and then cut it into sections. The head was made into "head
cheese," the hind quarters into delicious sun-dried hams.
I grew very fond of him and dogged his footsteps whenever I had
the chance. He showed me a brook where, when a little boy, he had caught salmon
with his bare hands. He became my hero; by hard work he had taken a small fortune from the sea.
Swimming,
messing around in boats and fishing were synonymous with our love for the sea.
Seeing my enthusiasm for our things in common and aware of my meager
resources, he helped me get started. On my
seventh birthday he gave me a fish net and extended to me the use of one of his
small boats. However, this privilege
was duly pledged by an honor-bound
conditional known as the "fair weather clause." Under no
condition was I permitted to operate during foul weather, particularly when the
wind was blowing "off shore." When this was understood by me and
agreement was reached, in manly
Fashion we shook hands to seal the pledge, which I
sincerely vowed never to violate.
The anticipation of my
project gave me no end of pleasure and I lost no time getting down to business.
After school I finished my chores on the
farm. My mother helped me set my net in the evening. I slept lightly that
night, dreaming of big fishes in my net. About 0400 (four o'clock in the
morning) I got out of bed quietly. The sky was overcast with eerie storm
clouds and an off shoe gale was bending the trees in the forest.
My
grandfather's warning was tingling in my ears, but surely the gale would abate
with the break of day. Suppose I just go down to the boat landing and take a look
around. At the boat landing I found that the oars in my small boat had been
removed, no doubt because of the heavy gale blowing. This was foul weather of
the worst kind, yet the possibility of having some fish in my net got the best
of my judgment.
I knew
that there were oars in a bigger boat anchored a short distance out from the
boat landing. My mind raced, pro and con. The little will-o-the-wisp nagged,
"are you chicken?" I calculated that I could paddle my small boat with one of the floor boards out under the lee of
the promontory jutting out a bit on
the weather side. Reaching the big boat I could obtain two oars for my small
boat. Those oars wee much bigger and
heavier, but any port in a storm.
Emboldened
by my success thus far, I embarked on my first solitary voyage. Reaching the
big boat I selected two oars. I gave no further thought
to what lay ahead.
Once I was past the point of
the sheltering promontory the full force of the gale hit my boat. Swiftly it became evident that I had made a serious error of
judgment, and had now passed the point of no return. I fought conditions
with every ounce of my strength, but to no avail. I fully realized that I had
lost control and was at the mercy of the
elements. I drifted faster and farther towards my death as the wind and sea took full control, throwing my small boat around
like a cork, out towards the open sea. The roaring white crests would certainly turn my boat keel up
and my body would be mauled to sheds in the maelstrom of the beakers.
I
realized the futility of yelling for help, as there was no living human within
earshot. I wracked my brain for a solution; time was fast running
out. The power of prayer had been imbedded in me in the atmosphere
of my home, and I had memorized the 15th verse of the 50th psalm: Call upon me
in the day of trouble; 1 will deliver thee
and thou salt praise me.
I knew
that praying with my hands in my pockets would not work, but as though in
answer to my prayer a possible salvation came to my mind. The strong off-shore
wind had created a very low tide on the
outlying reef that extended a short distance out and lay directly in my path of
drift. It was my last and only chance.
The approach to the reef consisted of ragged rocks and boulders, well the water
normally rose to a depth of fourteen to eighteen feet. Due to the abnormally
low tide the depth was substantially
reduced. Making a snap decision, I put the oars in the bottom of my boat.
Without hesitation I dismissed the
thought of losing the boat - death before this kind of dishonor. I tied the painter (boat rope) around my waist. My
calculations proved correct. As the water grew shallower I could see big
underwater boulders passing under my boat, but at a terrific speed. Time and
decisiveness were of vital importance. There was nothing in reserve for an
error in judgment. Once I passed this part of
the reef all would be lost.
I saw a
big boulder ahead. This was zero hour. I drew a deep breath and dove to the
bottom of the boulder, working with frantic rapidity. I
managed to get the boat rope under the big boulder and belayed with several half hitches. The boat took the strain and
fetched up with a groan, but the rope held.
My ears
were ringing and the blood pounded at my temples as I climbed back on the boat
to get some fresh air into my lungs. The problem of getting back to shoe, to
home (unobserved) and to school still confronted me. Taking a visual bearing of
the distance to the nearest point of land, I estimated it to be a good half mile. I formulated a plan of swimming from
rock to rock towards shoe.
The rocks wee slippery and
encrusted with sharp sea shells, and I was knocked down by the breakers, it seemed endlessly. Badly battered and bruised,
I finally made landfall, utterly exhausted. I had gambled and made it. I lay
down on my back and gave thanks to God for my rescue.
Slowly a feeling of strength returned to my bruised body.
But now my mind became fogged by the
Thought of the unavoidable discovery that must
follow, to say nothing of the breach of faith to my grandpa.
Honor was at stake, but courage came with the thought that I had bridged the
gap between me and eternity, and saved
grand pap’s boat in the bargain.
With
reluctance I headed home. Fortunately everyone was still sleeping, completely
unconscious of my battle for survival. Silently I hid my wet
clothes and changed into school clothes, without anyone suspecting my ordeal. I
had to get off to school where I could spend time to think things out.
Fabrication of an alibi was out: grand pap’s boat was
circumstantial evidence. I had to face unavoidable facts.
The
teacher scolded me severely for lack of attention, but that was mild compared
with the coming confrontation with grandfather. Returning home from school with
increasing uneasiness, I couldn't live with
my guilt any longer. Dragging my feet I set course for grand pap’s house. There
he sat mending a net. The critical moment had arrived.
I
wanted to say something, but words would not come out. Looking up, he said,
"So you betrayed my
Confidence
in you?" I took it silently with downcast eyes. "Look at me when I
talk to you," he snapped that really hurt.
When I looked into his eyes, I could feel hot tears running down my cheeks.
That did it. In a more humorous tone he said, "We like to eat fish, but we
don't want the fish to eat us!" He got up and took my hand as if all was forgiven. I took a new lease on life. We
walked in silence to the boat landing
where the retrieved boat laid tied up. We got into the boat and I rowed to my
net, which contained several big fish. Back at the landing we put
everything into a burlap bag; I slung the bag over my shoulder, gave grand pap a big hug and galloped for home.
Life was rosy once again.
Eels
Fishing
drew me like the moon draws water. In addition to my net I had scrounged in
likely places and soon came into possession of a hundred feet of line with fifty
hooks attached. The hooks were baited and
set in the evening to stay overnight.
I
discovered some creeks with algae, where the shrimp lived. Shrimp are ideal
bait for eel. Eel fishing is not a lazy man's
pleasure. You set the baited hooks in the evening, and then retrieve them in
the early morning before sunrise. That's when the eel starts
his day's activity and, at the cost of your hook or breaking his mouth, he will regain his freedom.
Always
with my ear to the ground for information on better fishing grounds from local
fishermen, I learned that in our vicinity existed a small
lagoon that connected with the open sea. The connecting channel flooded the lagoon during high tide. The bottom of
the lagoon consisted of quicksand, which meant
the eels, which were abundant in the lagoon, could not be speared against the
sot bottom.
As I couldn't wade in the
quicksand I had to improvise some way of stretching my baited hooks across the lagoon. I had to be inventive. I anchored one
end of my line on one side, and then added sufficient line to walk around the lagoon to the opposite side and gently
pull the hooks across the center of the lagoon. Everything worked according to plan, and I set the baited hooks in the
evening.
The next
morning I was up at four o'clock. To make better time I ran barefooted over the
grassy meadows. My feet were numbed by the icy morning dew. I could see
that there was something sizeable attached
to one of the hooks. It looked the length of an oar with the girth of my leg.
It was waving its tail defiantly back
and forth.
If I
tied to tackle this monster in its own element I would surely lose him.
Hurriedly I ran to the opposite side and cast off the anchor.
Returning to the other side I grabbed the line over my shoulder and dragged
the whole length of the line up on the sloping bank and onto a grassy plot.
Another half dozen eels wee on the other hooks.
The
giant eel was doing a hula, badly tangling my line. My only weapon was a
badly-used pocket knife with a blade that flipped back under
pressure. Down on my knees, I started to work on the sea monster. I knew the operation well. You had to sever his
grizzly neck where his necked joined his body. It was impossible to get a firm
grip on his slippery body. His long tail found its way under my armpit
And around my neck with
several turns. His mouth, full of needle-sharp teeth, hissed in my face, while
the creature applied terrific pressure to my neck. I knew the only way I could
relax him was to sever his spinal cord.
The
eel's neck was like a solid rubber tire. Each time I tied to cut through, the
blade of my knife flipped back. He didn't fancy being beheaded.
It was nip and tuck. I was running out of breath and my eyes were popping.
Finally, in a desperate attempt I managed to sever his spinal cord. The eel
gave up the struggle, but had almost won.
The sun
rove over the tee tops, the morning light exposing the bloody battlefield. No
one had witnessed my plight; I could be as big a
hero as the occasion warranted.
As I
watched my fallen opponent last few convulsions, I was in awe of him. This huge
migratory wanderer had come thousands of miles over the
deep and rough sea bottom from who-knows-where to meet his
I slung
my catch over my shoulder and headed for home. The long tail of the monster was
dragging way behind me. The village was stirring, and everybody that saw me
exclaimed, "Look at the kid with that
enormous eel! How did you manage it?" With a grand air of nonchalance I
deferred to the "power of man over
beast."
My parents looked at the giant eel with awe.
My mother said it would feed us for a week. To our dismay, though, it proved too tough to boil, fry or
bake. It was not edible.
Semiweekly
we were sent to an old water wheel mill, carrying bags of grain to be ground
into flour for the baking of bread. I knew the old miller.
Never one to lose a chance for fishing I would take my harpoon
behind the big water wheel. Fish sucked through the water wheel paddles became
momentarily dazed and were an easy prey for my harpoon. I would split my catch
with the miller's wife, who in turn served me
coffee and cake. The miller extracted a small "toll" for his labor;
as usual, there was no monetary
exchange.
My Horse, Grosse
The
coastal path to the miller's was crossed with many intersecting roads. As I was
riding my horse, Grosse, home from the mill one time I noticed a large sailing ship
docked at the landing wharf far away in the opposite direction from home. I
wanted a closer look at the ship, so turned Grosse around onto a different
road. We arrived at the ship just as the sun was setting in the West.
For some
time I lingered, listening to the sailors conversing in a foreign language that
I could not understand. Grosse stamped impatiently. The night fell dark, with
a cloudy, overcast sky. As we started home, through a break in the clouds I got
a bearing on the North Star and realized we were headed in the wrong direction. I was confused and completely
lost. I relaxed the reins and left the navigation to Grosse. When we came to an intersection she stopped
briefly, and then turned onto another road with new vigor. Soon we were home safely. Slowly we
(Grosse and I) were coming to a position of trust.
Even in
our remote part of the world things were changing. The noisy motorcycle had
invaded our country roads. The horses were frightened by
their approach, and it was inevitable that one day we should have a confrontation with the pest.
One day we were "clip
clopping" on the country road when my ears picked up an unusual mechanical
vibration. Hastily I pulled Grosse over to the side of the road, jumped off the
carriage, removed my coat and covered Grosse's face with it. With my arm around
her neck I could feel her whole body tremble as the monster passed. Perhaps it was her primitive fear of extinction by
this mechanical imposter. Fear shook
her every time we met up with motor vehicles. A new day of innovation,
especially the tractor, began
eliminating the need for horses.
With Grosse and I living
together constantly, we failed to notice the change. By now I had a younger brother who looked up to me as his "big
brother." It was only natural that my younger brother attach himself to me and follow me around the confines
of our farm. Then something drastic happened one day when we were on our way home with a load of peat
moss.
The side
of the wagon trail was covered with scrubby plants. My brother's attention was
drawn to a fledgling bird which, strangely, didn't move
when he went to pick it up. He followed me, carrying the bird, but I noticed he was lagging behind. He complained
that something had stung him in the heel when he picked up the
bird. I could see two red pin pick marks on his heel, the unmistakable mark of
a snake bite. His lower leg was swelling
rapidly. Apparently the snake had the bird hypnotized and, seeing his prey escaping, it bit the taker. This was an
emergency that needed a fast reaction.
I unharnessed Grosse and we
both got on her back and galloped for home. By the time we reached the house his leg was swollen to twice its normal size,
and his swelling tongue made breathing difficult. Fortunately we got him to a doctor just in time.
Grosse had saved him, and the day!
That evening I went with my
father to identify the location where the incident took place. We gathered dry grass with which we made a circle around the
area and set it afire. Mister snake came out from his lair. The bite cost him his life. It was a highly
poisonous viper about three feet long, with gray and black stripes on
its back. The snake's bite would normally be fatal to a young person, but
because of the quick treatment my brother
recovered fully.
During
the summer I took a job at a local glass factory. Grosse was acting up during
my absence. Girls
Being
girls, it was suggested that I take her to a farm that had a stud stallion. I
was quite surprised at such brutal love making. However, we learned
in due time that Grosse could no longer become a mother.
By the end of the season she was the picture of dejection. She would hang her
head over my shoulder while I tied to cheer her, but I knew that the
debilitation of old age was overtaking her willing heart. Worst of all, her teeth were practically all gone.
With her
eyes at "half mast" she followed me willingly the fatal day that we
headed for the butcher shop. We had only gone halfway when I broke
down and turned her head for home again. I just didn't have the heart to take her for her last walk after all the
walks we had taken together. Someone less acquainted
with her loyal qualities would have to take care of this necessity.
Idle Hands Makes for Trouble
During most of the winter
months the ground was frozen rock hard and covered with snow. There was little energy-consuming activity. The old adage is
true: Idleness is the root of all evil. Darkness came early and our energy surplus took on pure
nonsense value. On our way home from school we would plot our weekend's
activity and establish a rendezvous. One of our special adventures was setting
up a road block for local Lotharios taking
to courting our village maidens.
The equipment was simple,
but highly effective. A piece of clothesline was attached to a solid object on one side of the path. The line was run across
the snow-covered road and the other end attended by an operator known as "the timer." An
abundant supply of snowballs was stored at advantageous points occupied by the ambushers.
The
"timer" operating the tip line had to adjust the snare to conform
with the height of the victim. Those walking along the path were best snared at
ankle height. Bike riders were best caught with the snare
line hitting the "Adam's apple." The "timer" capsized the
swain and the ambushers bombarded the victim until he cooled off and hollered
"uncle"! Those on bikes could, by the aid of the clothes line, be suspended in air for a full minute, thus
furnishing a better target for the ambushers.
The ones that took it
good-naturedly seldom suffered a repeat, but those who kicked up a fuss became our specialty. The maidens in the village began
spying on our operation so we had to shift our base of operations frequently.
More Eels
When the winter months came
and the fishing grounds froze over, men from near and far passed our house
carrying eel spears attached to long poles, and axes hung over their shoulders.
They were on their way to the fishing grounds near our farm. In the evening
they would return with big catches dangling
F»
From their spears and the long tail of the pole dragging behind in
the snow. The eels fattened during the summer,
then returned to their hibernation place in the winter.
Watching
them get the best of me and stirred my enthusiasm. I found an old eel spear
belonging to my father, a spear he claimed to be the best in the business. He
didn't think me big enough to participate in such
a rugged occupation. This challenge just spurred me on. In some roundabout way
I acquired a pole. We had several axes, so my expedition was equipped and ready
for action.
On the
weekend when the fishermen passed I followed and reached the fishing grounds. I
watched their procedure, which consisted of chopping a
hole in the ice, then inserting the spear mounted on the long pole. With a
pumping action they covered the bottom under the hole, first in the center,
then in an increasing circle. When an eel was impaled on a spear it would
object to being so rudely disturbed and shook the spear violently. The
fisherman would then quickly retrieved the spear and dislodge the eel.
The
operation was simple enough. Although I worked hard, my catch was not in
proportion to my effort, especially compared with the other fishermen. Those that
saw my spear said that it was antiquated and
no good. Cautiously I told my father what had been said, but he insisted that
there was no other spear like it
(which maybe was true).
With a
sigh I had checked the price of a new spear in a hardware store. There was no
way of beating the price down to my holdings, so I took
matters into my own hands. I had a slight acquaintance with the village
blacksmith, a heavy-muscled giant, the type often celebrated in Shakespeare's
poems. He was an expert at making eel spears, so I told him of
my predicament and solicited his price for making a spear for me. The price was twenty cents more than my available
money. Would he trust me for the twenty cents? I
asked. I even offered to pay interest on the shortage, and further pledged to
leave my pocket knife for collateral.
Strong and silent, he didn't say anything, but
proceeded to make the spear while I watched in veneration.
When finished, he tempered it (he was known as an expert at this art).
It was a beauty. I offered my pocket knife, but he said,
"Forget it, my boy, I wish you luck." He shook my hand. This had been my lucky day.
The next weekend I brought
home the "jackpot"! Soon I was holding my own with the old timers. My
catches kept growing with experience.
One
weekend my father was away I secretly borrowed his knee-high leather boots. I
supplemented these with straw on the inside to take up the
slack, as they were too big for my feet. Perhaps I was too big for my shoes, as I ventured out too far near the open
water and broke through the ice. Either drowning
or losing my father's boots would have been an equally tragic outcome, but with
the aid of my long pole I was rescued. In twenty below zero temperatures this
was quite an ordeal, but nothing special.
My Uncle's Love Life
My
favorite uncle was my mother's youngest brother. He was a big and handsome
youth, and lived high on the fat of the land with his paints. He always had ready
cash and other things that I could use, like
old bicycle inner tubes for my slingshots.
Thus I spent much of my
spare time at my grandfather's house. My great joy was when my uncle took me
sailing in grand pap’s big boat. Being unmarried my uncle acquired a girl
friend, a good looking farm girl who, after
proper introductions, came to visit at his house on Sundays. This proved quite advantageous to me as she also loved to go sailing.
Very appropriately, I assumed the responsibility of acting as chaperone. Just to keep the record
straight.
The
responsibility manifested itself by my walking between the would-be holding
hands until out of sight, at which time I stepped aside. Once on the water, we would
make landfall on a little island in the coastal archipelago where there was an
old hunter's cabin with a few chairs, a wood-burning stove, and a bunk with a straw mattress. Very properly I would
escort them to the cabin where I knew they would be safe. Then I would
ask permission to leave and go play in the boat. Permission was always granted,
with the stipulation that should I be asked about my whereabouts, I was to
report that I was in the cabin
All the time. (A nonsensical question, but just in case!)
As I
headed for the boat I took a fleeting glance through the cabin window and saw
the two of them kissing. Obediently I stuck to my promise (A man of my word)
and enjoyed many more excursions. It was a
small price to pay, and I was repaid handsomely, both by my uncle and his
fiancée. Eventually they got married and there was no further
need for a chaperone.
My
grandfather built himself a nice retirement home and turned his big, beautiful
house over to my uncle and his new wife. That was the end of
our excursions.
Learning to Dance
It
seemed that all the village young upstarts were anxious to learn how to dance.
Thus on the long weekend days the young boys and girls would clear the snow from a
central plateau in the village. The rock-hard
frozen ground made an ideal dance floor. Local country musicians would appear
with their accordions and, in spite of sub-zero weather, the dancing would go
on long after midnight. With more girls than boys, the surplus girls would
gladly break in the small fry on the polka, mambo and waltz. I would hang in there to the last, and then head for
home, walking alone.
To avoid the roundabout road
I took a shortcut through the pines. The moonlight shining between the scudding
clouds would cast eerie shadows over the snow. The snow-clad pines gleamed like
silver in the moonlight, but turned to
ghostly goblins when the clouds covered the moon. The sound of a broken twig under foot made my heat skip a beat.
During
long, severe winter months the timber wolf would inhabit the area, looking for
wild rabbits feeding on the moss under the trees. We were taught that should
one or more of these take to following your
track you must never show fear or break into a run. Otherwise they would attack
you. This was well-meant advice, but
if you felt their hot breath on your heels, the advice was more easily said
than done. Fortunately I never
suffered a confrontation with a wolf.
My
Bicycle
By working as a handyman
(boy) on local farms I earned enough cash to buy a second-hand bicycle, advertised as "slightly used, but good as
new." Second hand it had been sold, and second hand it was. The
inner tubes had more patches than I had fingers and toes, but I valued my bike
in direct proportion to the work I had put
into earning the money for it. Soon I learned to repair my bike and kept it
going despite all its faults.
I had no light for night
travel, but had traveled the village roads so often on foot that I knew them
like a book. One late and dark evening when I was returning from the post office
I was moving at a good rate of speed over the frozen country road when suddenly
I saw something dead ahead. Instinctively I turned to the left, according to the "rules of the road." (Cars kept
to the left on Swedish roads at that time.) . However, my female
encounter swung to her right, resulting in a head-on collision. Our foreheads
came together with a loud thud and a
sprinkle of stars.
I felt
something wet splashing on my hands and face. I assumed this was blood. First
she let out a sharp squeal, and then muttered groaning
sounds, followed by hysterical jabbering. With legs wide-spread she shook herself, but remained vertical. I took it calmly
and tied to cool her down. Our blunt contact dismissed
any attempt at a formal introduction. More to the point I asked if she needed
any assistance.
Waiting
for an answer, I identified the liquid on my hands and face as milk. She had
been carrying a pail of milk on the handlebars of her bike at the time of contact.
From her vigorous jabbering I deduced that her
hurt was no matter for great concern, so refrained from revealing my identity.
She may have thought that I was going
to sue her for damages. She reported that she did not require any assistance. I
told her to brush up on the
"rules of the road" and, without further ado, took my leave.
All the
time I wondered who the lone female night rider might be. During my journey to
school the next morning I had the opportunity to identify
my victim. According to village custom people always
Gunnar’s Mother, Matilda
Exchanged a curt "good morning," "good day,"
or "good evening," as the time indicated. There she was, quite jittery, limping along like she suffered from
"fallen arches," and spotting a honey of a black eye supplemented
by an appalling "goose egg" on her forehead. If I feigned interest in
her plight she might have recognized my
voice, so I made no inquiry.
Solvesborg and Modern Times
Solvesborg
was our nearest provincial town. The distance from our farm was ten kilometers,
a good hour and a half horse and buggy ride. Before
arriving in town we had to cross a railroad track. Hinged girders
painted white with red stripes wee lowered to block the road when a train
passed.
When we approached the
crossing the girders were down and we stopped. A big locomotive expelling smoke and cinders blew a shill whistle and passed
with a long caravan of passenger and freight cars. This was my first enthralling sight of a real
train.
Entering the paved city streets the "clip
clop" of the horse's hooves would make them raise their heads, and we would straighten up in our seats. It was
like entering into a strange environment.
The city derived its name from an old king
named "Solve." It was founded in 700 A.D. The pot was located on an inner deep water bay, with the city spread
around in the background. A fort had been constructed
at the entrance to the pot, on a knoll overlooking the harbor. The fort was intended
to protect the harbor and city from sea raiders. Later a castle had
been annexed to the fort to house the fort garrison.
By means
of the port the city had been linked with other shipping centers. The city
prospered and grew. Early in the Thirteenth Century a grand church was erected
in the Gothic architectural style. The church
was dedicated to Saint Christopher, the patron saint and defender of seafarers.
The interior was decorated with miniature ship models crated by
seafarers from the past and present.
During past periods the city had been under
Danish rule. Not until 1638 did it return permanently to the Swedish crown. There was something mysterious about
the old city and its legends.
We always enjoyed the first spring exhibit of
the new crops from surrounding farms, displayed at the central market. This was of minor interest to me. My main
attraction was the harbor with the ships of various
nationalities loading and unloading cargoes from foreign counties. Large
sailing ships that had
10
Rounded the horn all the way from
I
admired the lofty masts and spreading yards arms neatly trimmed with furled
sails. Young flaxen haired Viking throwbacks with brawny arms
mingled with olive-skinned Mediterranean’s, a conglomeration
of various races swept together by the wind of chance, and held together by the
strong bond of the sea. Stripped to the waist, they
worked aloft with shiny sheath knives in their belts. The panorama dew me like a magnet. To think that one day
this life should be mine!
The
day passed all too fast; it was time to head home. I found my father at the
horse market square. He knew where I had spent the day.
Newsboys
were crying out extra news pamphlets. I picked up a copy left on the ground and
read, April 12, 1912.
The White Star Line's biggest liner, the SS Titanic, sunk after hitting an
iceberg at 0200. Her stern vanished as the luxury liner began its two-mile
plunge to the bottom of the ocean. World famous figures were among the 1,600 lives lost. A tragic end to a perfect day.
It was one of the biggest catastrophes
of the decade.
During the summer I worked
at the local glass factory. I had struck up a friendship with one of the old glass masters. He offered to teach me some of the
intricacies of glass blowing, but my heart was not in this kind of work I could never become reconciled
to this kind of life. He said that the love of your work in glass was
essential to success; the master was the finished product of the art. He could
see my point, and said, "My boy, you
don't belong in the dusty confines of a crystal manufacturing crematory, you belong to the sea world with pure air and
unlimited vision.
In my heart
I knew how right he was. I said good bye to the glass factory and returned to
finish my last year in school. Somehow my long anticipated longing for this
last year didn't ring true. Next year I would no longer be here, someone else
would occupy my seat; I would be the missing link in the chain of long standing
part of me. The question uppermost in my mind was: Had all this theory prepared
me for the new aspect of life in the
practical outside world? A student of navigation would be able to find his
way over the immense oceans with what he leaned from books, but dealing with
the variable natural elements, in a sudden emergency where one mistake could be
that fatal one, the book would be of little help,
experience would be your best bet. The happy medium would be to combine theory
with experience.
War
Like a bolt from the blue
out of a clear sky came a memorable day. It happened in the late pat of July on the twenty eighth day in the year nineteen
hundred and fourteen (1914). By long established custom a neighborly group of friends would gather in the
long summer evenings under the shadows of the evergreen pines after
their day's work was done. Thee they would peacefully rehash the problems of
the day. One evening a most unexpected alarm
rent the stillness of the evening. Loud and rapid ringing came from the bell tower of our community church.
The big clappers of the bells were hitting in rapid succession, stirring the village with an uneasy
foreboding. Something terrible had happened.
This was
not the time of the day nor the peaceful chimes ringing out a call to worship
or a funeral procession. The bells caused great consternation. Even the old
lighthouse on the coast that had faithfully swept its beam of light over our
village for decades was extinguished. A most unusual event must have taken place somewhere in the world.
In the morning's extra news
bulletin we received the tragic news. The war drums were beating, armies were
marching and cannons were spitting out ire and destruction over
II
Physically it, rushed to
arms. My father, because of his age and large family responsibility, was placed
in the last reserve. The days of security were
gone. Costal navigation aids were removed and lighthouses extinguished. Navigable coastal waters were mined
and costal fishing restricted. Submarine telescopes wee sweeping the Baltic waters for enemy shipping.
Many merchant ships blew up on mines, with the loss of all hands.
Everybody hoped and prayed that our country would be spared the catastrophe of
war, the greatest evil of civilization.
Soon food became rationed.
We there indeed fortunate in having our farm that produced enough for us and to help others less fortunate. In the wake of
the war came the black market sale of food, cattle and horses to the
warring nations, by which big money could be made. Most of our local farmers
turned their noses up at this kind of blood
money. The tension and nerves of war stayed with us throughout the conflict.
My Formal Education is completed
March 15, 1915 was my final
day in school. Graduation took place in our class room. Apprehensively we waited to receive our diplomas. Somewhat to my
surprise my grades were above average. (I got my best mark in biology.)
In view of our large family, and our economic status being what it was, I felt
no particular desire to continue schooling.
Schooling beyond the legal requirements was considered a luxury reserved for the children of the rich and
well connected.
Next came the final
preparatory finishing touches to our conduct through life. These were given by
our community pastor and culminated in
confirmation and our first "holy communion." In the moral aspect of
life the school and church had constantly agreed that success was something to
be earned by study, hard work and
frugality to have its worth, never by the lucky throw of the dice or at the
expense of others. Our church favored
constructive work and frugality as virtues and condemned dinking, gambling and out of wedlock sensual gratification.
As a lasting personal guide through life we all received a Bible with a personal inscription by our pastor. Mine read:
"Always hold yourself close to this book so you will be close to
God and far away from sin." In appreciation it was a book that I would be duty bound to keep with me and study. I read it
through many times.
The first milestone of my
life had passed. It was now time to put my book knowledge to work and was
anxious to look for a berth on a ship. However, my parents refused to let me
go. I made several attempts to ship out, but my parents would not sign the
necessary papers required by a minor. I knew that running away from home was
not a brand new idea, but it seemed such a cowardly departure. Runaway people were not strictly normal people. I know that many
others had escaped bogged down conditions successfully. Some involved an impossible wife or mother-in-law and some
a "shot gun" wedding. Fortunately
my situation had manifested itself too early in life for any of these
conditions to affect me.
Every day ships were
torpedoed and blew up on mines. Many of my former school mates were lost at sea. (Just another name for "dead.") Not
that I wanted to be lost at sea or blown up on a mine, but it always seemed that you thought this was not going
to happen to you.
Going Nowhere
There
was nothing it for me to do but bide my time and bow to circumstances.
Meanwhile I was on my way to nowhere. The days of fall descended
rapidly and the weather took a turn for the worse, darkness
gained over light, It was the most perilous time for the old and sick, as
despondency set in. Winter was upon us. I
had heard it said that the cold climate was the white men's climate, but it
certainly wasn't the most comfortable.
I had lost interest in skiing, skating, tobogganing and sledding. Those days
were over for me. I was wasting time
and wanted to stake out on my own.
I didn't get much sympathy
from the local people. I know most of them thought that you should be content to live and die in the place where you were
born, wasn't that good enough for you? Old age pension had been granted by "the government."
12
My father tied hard to induce me to stay home,
or at least try something else apart from the sea. He would ask me what was wrong with being a farmer. Well, I
couldn't criticize him.
The war was raging on in
The operation was performed
by cutting holes in the ice about a foot in diameter and about fifteen feet apart. On the edge of each hole you would make a
hole with an ice pick into which you would insert a flexible birch twig
about three feet long. The pike is not a bottom fish, so you would tie a loop
in the line to adjust the depth of the bait to the middle depth of the water.
You would then hang the loop on the top end
of your twig, which would then bend over in a semi-circle. This rig was very
sensitive and any contact with the baited hook would alert you to a
strike. The line had to be entwined with horse hair to keep it from freezing to the ice in below zero weather. The end of the
line was then secured to a nail driven in the ice pick hole into the
ice. You must always set the hook while the line was moving and the mouth of the fish was shut. When the line stopped
running the fish’s mouth would be open and you would lose him.
These
wee ticks of the trade that you had to know in order to succeed. Like a cat
sniffing over a mouse hole, the operator would position himself in the center of
his plantation and wait for a strike. If two
or more struck at the same time you would go really trigger happy; that was the
thriller of the operation.
The difficult problem was to
obtain live bait. The pike would not take dead bait. The nearest live bait
market was located twelve kilometers from my base of operations. There was no
bus transportation and too much snow for my bike, so I would get up real early
and walk to the bait market. After purchasing the
minnows I would put them into a four gallon bucket of water and head for my
base of operations. The minnows used up the oxygen in the water, so it
would freeze on the top of the bucket. I had to hurry to change the water as soon as I arrived at the fishing grounds.
After
all was set I would expectantly observe the plantation from a central position.
I would always feel the surge of excitement when the twigs
stared dipping and in a jiffy I'd be there to set the hook. I would
average ten to twelve pounders. I would sell enough to finance a new supply of
bait; the rest went for home consumption.
The One That Got Away
The holes would freeze over
during the night and had to be re-cut every morning. There was always a tendency for the hole to narrow at the bottom. One
morning, after changing the dead bait, I noticed a fresh minnow frantically running around in circles.
The pike would never take the bait from the tail, always from the head. The minnow had seen the
predator and, although imprisoned on the hook, was trying frantically to
escape death by maneuvering her tail towards the veracious killer. Her shot
struggle against the inevitable came to an
end when the saber toothed jaws closed over her. The line started running out fast and I set the hook firmly
The pull was so strong that
the line slipped through my hands. When I finally bought her to the top of the hole I realized that she was too big to pass
through. The hook was gradually working loose and in desperation I put
my hand through the hole and got a firm hold under the pike's gills, but could
not pull the fish through the hole. The temperature was way below zero and ice
began forming around my arm, which was
growing numb. I could no longer open my fingers gripping the gills of the pike.
I was at
a dead end. When another fisherman came within earshot I called for him to help
me. Laughing, he took in my situation and ordered
me to let go of the pike. By now I couldn't, my fingers wouldn't
open, and I told him so. This he must have taken for obstinacy. Being a man of
few words and
14
/^
Sending
me in a compromising position, he nonchalantly gave me a brutal kick in my
posterior. The impact broke my grip; I released the pike
and rolled over. I was furious about losing the big pike, but he said that if
my arm had frozen gangrene would have set in and I stood to have my arm
amputated. Ah, well, I thought, the method he used was the only one that would
have worked in my case. From what I had
seen the pike was at least a meter long and must have weighed ten kilo. Better
to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all.
When I
related my experience all I got was, "Yea, it is always that big one that
got away." Be that as it may, I always
managed to bring fresh fish to our table.
Spring Plowing and Making Money
As spring came there were
bigger fish to fry. The fields on our farm had to be prepared for planting of potatoes and the wheat and rye fields had to be
sown. These chores were not very enchanting to me, but our livelihood
depended on them, thus work before pleasure. After the heavy work of planting
was done I felt a growing urge to make some money of my own. I couldn't ask my
parents for money, they gave me all my tangible needs. It came to my knowledge
that a company was starting a project of making peat moss into combustible
material and needed laborers. The pay was fair and the only qualifications
needed were a strong back and a weak mind. I had both of these, but my age was
against me. If there should be any
questions about documentation I could always stretch it a little.
Due to
the curtailment of coal room
And so I departed from home
on my first venture, with my family's blessings, to seek my fortune in the outside world. The work was heavy and dirty.
The peat moss was mixed with water to a consistency of jelly. This was placed
on boards fifteen inches wide and five foot long. The mix would adhere to the boards to a thickness of five inches and weighed
seventy pounds, the trays were transported on a conveyer belt.
Our manual operation consisted of removing the
trays from the conveyer and carrying them to the drying
grounds. Here the peat moss loaf would dry in about ten days, ready for the market.
I had to compete with grown men. We each averaged fifty trays per
hour, normal working days were eight hours a day. That's 20,000 pounds that had
to be handled each day. I knew I could swing it and soon I was holding my own better than some.
The
project kept expanding and every day more laborers were hired. The workers soon
separated into compatible groups. Some of the newcomers with
delicate hands and glossy educational records had come
looking for a fast buck. They just couldn't hack it and fell by the way side
the first day. I fell in with a group of "Bohemian brethren" living
in a tent near the lake. Here, unobserved, we could take a bath in the nude, swim and wash our clothes. I
fitted in because water drew me like a magnet. I, the fisherman, made a
great discovery — the lake housed fresh water trout. That was all I needed to
know. With hooks improvised from safety pins,
discarded package sting and a slender tree limb, I made a serviceable rig. Worms for bait were plentiful. I
was in business. Some of our landlubbers took to wandering inland, where they came upon potatoes, beets, and cabbage and
carrot fields. Straggling chickens could also be caught by a line and a hook
baited with a worm. (They had to be retrieved quickly so they couldn't
cackle!) All these self-preservation measures had to be carried out cunningly
under the dark of night...
Our
closely knit group was well organized. Lookouts wee strategically posted for
fish and game wardens and other snoopers. We also managed to
borrow (without permission) a few peat moss briquettes
that held a low glowing fie for hours with minimum smoke. A spring flowed into
the lake with potable crystal clear water. The rovers
scrounged up some discarded empty tin cans and our kitchen
15
Became functional. By general consensus we
pooled our initial food supply for breakfast. Boiled or baked
potatoes, broiled trout or chicken with a variety of beets, cabbage or carrot
salad constituted our lunch and supper.
Reconnoitering the terrain on the fringe of the woods we found wild blueberries
and blackberries that served for dessert. We lived like primitive kings
in an enchanted cave, all for free.
The
hastily constructed bunk houses wee furnished with cots, a blanket and a
pillow. This bonanza went with the job as a cot was assigned to each man. By special
dispensation the cot could be removed for outdoor sleeping (weather
permitting). Removed room civilization and bureaucracy our campsite was a happy little commune. Accordions and violins were
playing music in the evenings after work. Our little group lived close to nature and prospered physically and
economically.
Watch Out for the "Stupid Farmer"
We
didn’t fraternize with the main crowd for fear of having our little kingdom
invaded. Things were running smoothly in our little camp, but now the midnight
sun prolonged daylight long past midnight, providing poor coverage for
our night provisions that had become a bit bold from their easy pickings. Each time they brought back a bigger haul of fresh
vegetables. They were convinced that the farmers were benumbed and
stupid. I didn’t go along with this, but didn’t say anything self condemnatory.
Then one night the provision hunters failed to show up at the usual arrival
time.
We went out in search of
them and found them sloughing along nursing the "king pin," who had
tied a raid on a chicken coop. The coop was
bugged and the stupid farmer came running out brandishing a double barreled shotgun. Just as the chicken thief
turned around to run the stupid farmer fired both barrels at close range. Both barrels were loaded
with rock salt. Badly stung, the would-be chicken thief had managed to
escape out of range, but when he met up with us he was so exhausted that he had
to be prostrated on the ground while all the
salt crystals were picked out of his posterior. It was emoted as a very painful operation. For local medication he
received n series of cold applications, then a swabbing down with vinegar.
All this because of the
"stupid farmer." His defense plea was superficial, and he took a
severe ribbing. "Didn't we tell you to
take the dumb farmer with a grain of salt?" He was a good loser and took
the ribbing good-naturedly.
Fortunately we had laid in enough stock to tide us over until things simmered down.
Union Organizers
One
evening after work two sharply dressed gentlemen with academic mien and oratory
appeared at our tent. First they made light conversation, but with an air of
professionalism. They were not our type; politely we inquired about their
business. At once they jumped at the opening and described themselves as "holy crusaders" defending labor
against capitalistic exploitation.
When
asked who had requested their assistance, they announced that they were, so to
speak, self appointed "humanitarians." We said that we were
satisfied with our work and pay, and if we felt that our labor was worth more we would quit and find another
job. They insisted that the work was dirty and inhuman. Without being asked I put in my two cents worth. "The
work is not too hard, why don't you try it for a couple weeks and find out for yourself?" I said. With an
icy stare he replied, "Mind your manners, boy, you shouldn't be
here in the first place. We will soon legislate laws against child labor."
I had been top man in wrestling in school and
was ready to "hammer lock" the sting bean, when one of our
elders stepped in between and told the crusader to lay off that boy or you are
going to get hurt. Get while the going is good! Reluctantly they left for
greener pastures.
Every
lunch hour and in the evening after work the rabble rousers carried on
indoctrination into unionism. Unification would give us the
strength to bargain for better working conditions and higher wages.
Their sales pitch was always the same: fewer hours and more pay. The poorest
workers seemed the most susceptible. The pressure of the organizers intensified. Rumors of a strike permeated
the
16
Campsite. A labor union was organized. The
entrance fee was pretty steep, as were the monthly dues. Once the majority had joined the offer to join was no
longer open to discussion, it became a must. The minority
few that voted for the status quo thought it unlikely that the company that had
pioneered this new project could have recovered its initial investment this
quickly. Surely they were not in financial condition
to afford the proposed raise.
Disunity
between the laborers set in and production diminished. Rumors of a hostile
"goon squad" operating inside of our camp came to our tent,
perhaps purposely to create fear, but should they come, we were ready for them. We held a "counsel of
war." We were not going to be bulldozed into an organization
that held no future prospect. A stake would be unjustified and with no prospect
of winning. Fall was on our heels, when cold
and snow would curtail the operation.
Feeble
efforts of negotiating a raise in pay and a five-day work week wee scornfully
rejected by management. Emotional speeches about the exploitation of labor by
capital persisted. When one of our gang
asked the crusader where labor would be without capital, he was accused of
being a traitor.
Noon
and evenings the crusaders propagandized the camp with propaganda and the
audience, moved
More by
emotion than logic, applauded. We could see it coming. Finally, by a majority
vote, the stake was declared. It was to become effective at midnight. Immediately
the plant shut down, apparently in a permanent
status. All the bunk houses were closed; the whole plant went into a
"blackout." The holy crusaders
shrewdly collected the monthly dues while the labors still had some money.
We
neutrals went into a siege as night fell the previously brightly lit camp
looked like a "ghost town." Idle men
wandered aimlessly around, looking for a place to sleep they invaded our
territory, including the lake, but none stumbled on the
idea of fishing. Lamentably our little haven was falling apart; it had been too good to last.
Days turned into weeks,
provisions were getting low, and we were spending time and our hard earned
money wastefully. Arbitration was hopeless. The "holy crusaders"
(mission completed) had disappeared without
a trace. There was nothing for us to do but to break camp.
The Call of the Sea
At my
mother's urging I took a job at the glass factory. The factory overlooked the
harbor. Through the big windows I could see the ships entering and sailing. They
had a magic effect on me. Lofty square riggers would unload guano from Chile,
mahogany from Africa and teak from Burma.
One evening after work I was
watching the ship that brought the teak wood when a young boy about my age accosted me in Norwegian (our languages are
similar). He asked me to direct him to the post office. I told him that
I would gladly accompany him, but first I took him to a night kiosk to buy
stamps as the post office would be closed at that hour. Then I showed him a
slot where stamped letters could be mailed during the night.
His ship was going on
another long voyage and he had
He was
starting on the bottom rung of the ladder as a deck boy. While at sea the mean
royal (one of the small sails) had been assigned to him as
his sail. Once he mastered this, he would get a bigger sail. This was the ABC of leaning your trade and becoming a
sailor. I asked him if it wasn't a bit risky handling a sail aloft
in stormy weather. He laughed and said, "I always take my sail in before
the gale."
These wee things I hopped to
duplicate in my future. It was midnight before we parted. I wished him a happy
voyage, and we went back each unto his own. The next morning his ship sailed
and through the factory window I could see
him high on the royal yard casting his sail loose.
17
As my
hands were operating a glass molding machine, my mind was a thousand miles
away. He had been a boy after my own heat, shot of cash but
eager for adventure. I began to loath the work in the glass
factory. On sunny days I could see microscopic tinsels of glass dancing in the
sunbeams. The hard work in the open air, the good natural food and my precious
lake in the peat moss camp had been much better.
My
father was not enthusiastic about my job in the glass factory He didn’t think
it was a healthy occupation, and he was night. He thought that
I could make a fair living fishing or farming, marry a robust and healthy farm girl from a good Christian family,
and raise a family. Not a very adventurous future.
I know
he meant well; he just didn’t buy adventure. Since
A small
coastal vessel was a sitting duck for a drift mine. Barely floating, the mines were
difficult to detect in day time, and couldn't be seen at
all at night. On contact with the ship's bow the surface time fuses would be
trigged. By the foreword motion of the ship the mine would submerge to bob up
under the ship's bottom to explode. The result would
eventually be total demolition. But adventure thrived on danger.
I learned that a sea captain
had married a distant relative of our family, but his ship was now laid up in winter quarters. During most of the year his ship
was engaged in the Baltic and Northern European trade. It would go into
operation in early spring, as soon as the coast would be ice free and
navigable.
I
sought the family out and managed an interview with the captain. Yes, he could
place me as long as I had my parents’ permission, but that part
would be up to me. 1 asked him to keep things quiet until I could work it out.
I must
have talked in my sleep or someone gabbed, for my father got the scent and
promptly cancelled my plot. The timing had been wrong, I had to operate on
instant action.
The grim war in central
With the
coming of spring more ships abandoned their winter quarters. I was bidding my
time. Work at the glass factory commenced at 08:00. I
usually got up at 06:00. One particular morning I had an errand
to do for my mother. This done, I innocently followed my usual pattern of
swaggering down to the pot to feast my eyes on the ships in the harbor.
A
captain on one of the sailing ships was pacing up and down the quarter deck.
Presumably he observed my enthusiastic inquisitiveness and barked at me,
"Are you looking for a berth?" I answered in the affirmative. Then he asked my name, which I give him in full.
My heat
skipped a best when he told me that he knew my father. Then he asked me some embarrassing questions. Did I think my father would let
me go? Shrugging my shoulders I replied that I presumed
he would be glad to get rid of me. With a little more familiarity he said,
"You haven't by chance got a girl with child and are trying
to take a powder?"
"I have never touched the stuff," I replied.
This drew a laugh...
I must secure
a written permit from my father to leave, and then take that document to our
community pastor. He would execute the document
necessary for me to sign on the ship. After telling me that the captain resumed his walking and I went into hurried
action.
I threw
the glass factory a long farewell kiss and was on my way. Seemingly luck was
with me, for when I returned home my father was gone for
the day. I used all the strategy at my command and with a flexible conscience made some wild statements about my
interview with the captain. The coming voyage
would only be a short tip, and if I didn't like it I could leave at any time or
anywhere.
Under threat
of violence my oldest sister had signed father's name to the 'To whom it may
concern" letter that I had prepared. I suppose my enthusiasm was
contagious and my persistence irresistible, as my
mother signed the letter, since my father supposedly had signed.
18
. With fraudulent document
in hand I charged off to our pastor. He slowed my pace as he sized up my hurry through his professional eyes. His
deliberate calmness, at other times becoming to his profession, was
killing me. Educated to wait until spoken to first by elders, it seemed like
hours before he asked me the object of my visit. With trembling hand I handed
him the paper and answered all his questions in a manner most beneficiary to my cause.
Finally he signed, then gave
me some spiritual advice and asked God's blessing on my future. With a farewell handshake he sent me on my way. My
intuition told me we should never meet again in this world, but this was no time for sentimentality. I
went back home and started packing my belongings. My mother failed to
understand why I was taking all my belongings for just "one shot
tip." I could see unwanted distrust in
her eyes.
Leaving Home
With my bundle hidden under
my bed (just in case I had to make a run for it) I laid down pretending sleep.
Later I heard my father arrive home. I was all ears, but couldn't hear all that
was said. My father's voice grew louder and
louder as I heard my mother plead my case. Father finished by telling my
mother, "You are sending our son to his death." That really hurt. It
was a bitter pill for my mother to swallow.
Although
I was tired from the day's activity and tension, I dared not sleep. At the
break of dawn I got up and made ready for my escape, when I was surprised
to hear my father's voice. He also had stayed awake, no doubt
sensing the uselessness of prolonging the inevitable. With a sad voice he said
that if I was this determined to go, he
would have to let me go, but if I changed my mind later, he would be glad to have me back.
This
gives me a chance to say a decent goodbye to my parents. My brothers and
sisters were sleeping. I think the three of us felt a little strange
inside, but there didn't seem to be much to say. No tears, no kissing good bye. That hadn't been the custom among our
people.
It was still early, all was
silent. The little village slept peacefully under the rising sun. Thus at long
last I had embarked on my chosen profession arriving at the shipping
commissioner's office for signing on the ship's articles I introduced myself
and stated my anticipated business. The man in attendance picked up the phone and I heard him say, "I have here
a tall blue eyed blond that wants to sign on your ship." The next thing I knew the captain walked in and the
formalities of signing on the ships articles commenced.
Pay:
fifteen kronas (approximately $3.75) per month. Rank: cook and deck boy.
Destination: not determined (security reason). "Okay, sailor put your John
Henry on the dotted line." Signature affixed, mission completed.
Sternly the captain informed
me that my name was now on the payroll, and that meant get to work. I, with my bundle, was soon onboard.
I made a
curiosity visit to the forepeak forecastle, my home to be, and took a quick
look around. My visit was cut short by the thundering voice of
the mate. "What became of the new tenderfoot?" he bellowed.
The title registered upon me as my own and I hit the deck as fast as I could.
In no time at all I was up to my neck in work. I had become the chief cook, the
(one and only) deck boy, and stevedore, all rolled
up in one.
As the
day grew to a close we finished loading. No time was lost getting the ship
ready for sea. Hatches were battened down and cargo gear stowed away. Something
to eat was caught on the fly. The deck was given a hurried wash down. The lines
were cast off and the sails set. The canvas swelled to the wind and we were under way.
We caught the land-free
breeze, and the ship began to heel and labor under her canvas. The ship was
heavily loaded and soon green seas were breaking over the deck. So far I had
taken everything in stride, but as I was
holding a turn under a belaying pin for the mate in the main rigger the ship
took a heavy lurch. I felt her
quivering under my feet as a sea hit the side, split and flew over my head. The
cold water felt like icy fingers
going down my back.
In horror I let go of the rope I was holding and scrambled
for shelter. The mate found me and, before I
19
Know what it was all about; he ducked my head
under the lee scuppers, now gurgling with blue water. He held me until I almost lost my breath. Then I was
snapped back to my senses by loud and sanctimonious words ringing
in my ears. My defection could have cost the mate's life.
Now that
I had been initiated into the brotherhood of the sea, my chosen profession, I
could already see that courage and team work could only match the brute force
of the elements. There were no loop holes
in this business; mistakes could be fatal.
Soon
things wee ship shape and watches wee set. I was on the captain's watch and dew
the first watch below. The sun had long sunk into the
sea; darkness was upon the water. This long awaited romance with the sea had commenced with a first hectic
day. Loneliness had me in its grip in the gloomy
darkness of the night. At home there had always been a little snack, something
to eat, before going to a nice warm bed. I began to wonder if
my father hadn't been night after all. But it was too late to turn back now.
On my first
night watch, with a little competent coaching from the captain, I was soon able
to steer a compass course. After two hours at the wheel I was relieved and went
to the galley and started a fire in the
galley stove, put the coffee pot on and stated preparing breakfast.
Occasionally the captain called me out
on deck, sent me up on the mast or out on the jib boom on some seemingly
unimportant task. When I returned he would ask me if I felt
anything strange in my head or my stomach. "My head is okay, but my stomach feels hungry," I told him. He
had given me a test on sea sickness.
As I
came to know the captain better I respected his fairness and intelligence,
particularly as a navigator. His meteorological foresight was
above average. He treated me in a friendly manner. I felt that he was well satisfied with my work.
Shipboard Lessons
Steering
a course by compass came easily to me, but steering "by the wind" was
more intricate, something that could never be learned from a
book. This is the means by which a sailing ship could make
headway at an approximate angle of fifty to sixty degrees to the wind. By steering
a zigzag course one could advance the ship against the wind. The wind never
blew steadily in one direction; you had to constantly
adjust to its aviations.
One day
as I relieved the mate at the wheel he gave me the course: "by the
wind." I didn't want to display ignorance, so repeated, "By
the wind." I took a bearing on the compass and tried to hold the ship on
that bearing. The sails fluttered and the ship began losing headway.
Fortunately, the captain came to my rescue. His long years of experience made
him a good teacher.
First he
blanked out the compass, and then said, "Keep your eye on the main
topsail. When it starts to flutter keep the
ship off until it stops fluttering and hold her there." He took the wheel
and gave me a practical demonstration of what he had told
me. I caught on, and after a few trials and errors, I got the drift: not too close, not too far away from the wind. I
was working towards a "happy medium." If the wind would veer from
dead ahead to more than sixty degrees on the bow you would call it "full
and by." If it kept veering you went back
on a compass course...
A Troublesome Mate
As time
went on, always in the absence of the captain, I rebelled against the mate’s authority
on seamanship. He bode me into belligerence by
his attempt at being a "martinet." My rebellion injured his professional pride to the point of violence. At such
times he would strike at me with his fist. Not from
fear, but from the habit of being obedient to superiors, did I refrain from striking
back. Anyway, his reflexes were slow and I could easily
duck all his punches.
Once he become so infuriated
that he gave chase. By reason of the lesser evil I laid aloft and stayed up in the mast until he pleaded me down. I knew he was
concerned with the consequences should the captain learn of this nonsense.
20
One day when I was on watch
below and the captain was sleeping, the mate left the wheel and came down the forecastle. Thinking me trapped, he struck
at me with his fist. I ducked and moved for the deck where I drew him close behind me. Next he made the mistake of
trying to hit me with the end of a halyard (rope) where he thought it
would do the most good and show the least. He was left hander, thus my right fist
went under his parabolic swing and caught him flush on the jaw. He went down
too fast for another parting shot. I had
estimated his courage right, for he showed the "white feather" and
took off for the after deck. I think
the captain surmised our horse play, but said nothing.
After two weeks at sea we arrived
at the
The
captain spent most of his time ashore on official business. Several young
school girls on the dock wanted to come onboard to see the ship, but our
"martinet" mate wouldn't let them. I told them to come back tomorrow. When the captain returned onboard I
asked his permission to allow the girls onto the ship. Permission was granted, but I also requested he advise the mate so
that he wouldn't interfere, which
the captain did.
On the
day of our initial contact I had told the girls on the "Q.T." that we
were headed for
The
mate tied to horn in, but they all gave him the cold shoulder, which led to
another confrontation. As usual, the captain left for the day, so I
occupied myself cleaning out his quarters. The mate apparently decided to have another go at me. He came into
the cabin, one word led to another and, thinking
he had me cornered; he swung at me with his fist. I ducked and his fist rammed
a most destructive blow on the captain's one and
only porcelain lamp. The lamp shattered.
The
mate was now really in serious trouble with the captain — willful destruction
of property was a
Serious offence and the lamp was expensive.
"What would I ask to take the blame for the broken lamp?" the mate asked. The only personal possession
he had that interested me was his Finnish sheath knife
with a fancy handle.
I made him an offer: if the
captain would accept my apology and pay for the lamp, I would take his knife in
trade. The mate jumped at the bargain. When the captain returned I related an
account of the broken lamp as the result of
an accident at my hands, and shed a few phony crocodile tears. The captain told me to forget about the lamp, he would buy a
new one.
The deal hung in the balance
until I received the knife. Now the mate would suffer the indignity of seeing his cherished knife hanging from my belt. I
was definitely on the outs with the mate from that time on.
Heading for
The
captain had booked a cargo of potatoes for
Our ship was a fast craft and sailed smartly.
There were times when we could balance her up in smooth
water with the sails and the rudder, and she would hold a course all of her own
for an hour.
After leaving the archipelago we went into
open water, where we were interrupted by a severe blow and had to double reef our mainsail, a new experience for
me. Then we had a few days of fog when fog horn signals had to be sounded. That
brought to my mind that I had to memorize the international Rules
Of the Road. Never a dull moment.
We had
made a good passage and arrived off the costal port of Swinemunde early in the
morning. Germany was heavily engaged in the West, and many restrictions were
imposed on shipping. It was obligatory to wait
for a pilot and a fully-armed soldier at the pilot station. Anchoring was
forbidden. When we arrived at the pilot station, several other vessels were
approaching. First come, first served. The
pilot and the armed soldier boarded us.
The
pilot stayed with the captain on the after deck. The mate was told to take the
wheel so I could take the soldier to my quarters. The soldier
looked sad, tired and hungry, so I went to the galley and made
him two double-decked sandwiches and a mug of coffee. It was a pleasure to
watch his face light up. With gusto he devoured the sandwiches. I pointed at
the spare bunk; he nodded with understanding. I
went aft to serve something to the pilot, who was also hungry.
A strong wind was blowing
towards the dangerous rocky lee shore and we had to wait for the entrance
signal to go up on the shore signal station. With our reefed mainsail we could
hold off shore at will, but a big, lightly laden barkentine was having trouble
keeping off the rocks while awaiting the pilot and the soldier. Due to the strong windage against her high hull she was making
too much leeway. Each time she tacked
she was closing in on the breakers.
Sympathetically we watched
her heroic struggle against the inevitable. Our captain offered to sacrifice
his turn to save the barkentine, but the pilot said that this he could not take
upon himself to do without official orders.
While this drama was playing
out I went to check on my soldier. He had removed his helmet and put it on the
end of his bayoneted rifle in a corner. Curiosity got the best of me. I put the
helmet on my head and picked up the rifle. I was just inspecting myself in a
mirror when some telepathic link between him and
his rifle must have hit his brain. He leaped out from the bunk like a crazed
wild animal, his wild eyes blazed like ice. I dumped the rifle and
helmet on the floor and took off like a scared rabbit.
In an effort to save his
ship and crew the captain of the barkentine made the last throw of the dice. He
slacked sheets and braces and headed for the
harbor entrance. This was her death knell. The ship was immediately fired upon by cannons concealed on the
breakwater. She went down, to remain as a grim warning to others.
I kept a vigilant eye on the
soldier, who apparently refused to bury the hatchet. After several vessels had trouped up we made a tandem tow down the river,
which winds its unhurried, peaceful way to
Our cargo of potatoes was in
big demand. We commenced discharging under strict military vigilance. War had put a heavy drain on all resources. Young
Russian soldier-prisoners worked on the docks. Stripped of rank, but
still in their ragged uniforms, they looked like forlorn tatterdemalions in
exile, yet most of them seemed content with their lot. Their German guards did
not permit them to congregate or engage in
conversation. Other than this they didn’t seem to be abused. At noon they were
all huddled together in a square around a big kettle. Each one received
his ration of one slice of black bread and a liquid
resembling soup.
Although they were all
young, you never saw them smile. What a poor start in life. War had brought misery and impoverishment to all the people. Could
humans be predestined at birth to sacrifice their lives to this man made supercharged drama of war?
It was
forbidden to dump garbage in the harbor so I had a pail full of potato peelings
and other garbage in the galley. Sunday some schoolgirls
came down the docks and I was able to deliver the packages from their colleagues in Hernosens. I had never
seen so many happy faces before. One of them
spied the potato peelings in the galley and pleaded for them. I put in a few
potatoes for good measure.
The Captain's Friend
22
After our cargo was
discharged we moved to a nearby small island known as Blakholmen, where we went
to wait our turn for a cargo of coal for
The captain told me that she
was a friend from previous visits and he had some things for her that she badly needed. I got the message, but said
nothing. When I asked if I should prepare something for her to eat
(everybody was hungry), he said that he would do that himself. However, I was
to take her back to the same spot before daybreak the next morning, which I
said I would do.
The
captain suggested that the incident should not be mentioned. For reasons of security
during war times many things must be kept quiet. Of
course I understood.
The next
morning I took her ashore. The captain had provided her with soap and groceries,
but she seemed a bit sluggish, perhaps from too much nocturnal nutrition.
There
were several other vessels to be loaded before us and the time dragged on. The
captains got together for some "scuttlebutt stories" and afternoon
tea, Unknown to me I had acquired a reputation for making tea. Always alert for shortcuts, when I boiled eggs for the
captains breakfast I would wash the eggs,
then while the eggs wee boiling I would throw tea leaves in with the eggs. I
never give it a second thought, just killing two birds with one stone,
so to speak. Then I overheard the captain telling his colleagues, "I don't know how the kid does it, but the tea he
makes has a very special taste." After sampling my tea, they all agreed. It may have been that the tea absorbed
calcium from the egg shells. Whatever,
I kept the secret to myself.
A Boat Race
All us
deck boys got together in the late evenings, and the would-be sailors expounded
on their potentialities. This may have reached the
captain's ears as one day he asked me if I knew how to row a boat.
"Can a fish swim?" I replied. That was it.
A race with the ships long
boats was arranged for the coming Sunday, with the deck boys crewing the boats. A considerable number of bets were placed
between members of the ships' crews. The evening before the race I sandpapered
the bottom of my boat and then applied a coat of graphite stove polish from the galley stove.
The next
morning we all lined up at the end of our bowsprit. From there we went to round
a buoy about a mile down the river and return to the
starting point. I know that the strategy in boat racing is to conserve your
energy for the final home stretch, so I let everybody pass me on the first leg.
Most of my competitors were pretty well winded when we rounded the buoy on
the first leg. As we were half way on the
home stretch I gained my second wind. In a burst of speed I passed one after
another.
Over
zealous, I broke one of my oars and had no spare. I was furious and, of course,
came in last. From the view of our ship I was still behind
when this incident happened and clearly the underdog. I pleaded
with our captain to try to have the race disqualified, and promised that I
would win the race. He should get all the
odds he could on me. He seemed a bit dubious, but said he would try.
The race
was disqualified and a new race scheduled for the afternoon. This time I would
take spare oars with me.
People
on the island had seen the initial race. News of a second race got around and a
crowd stated assembling. I had another ace up my sleeve. My mother had given me
ajar of honey, which I knew was "fast
energy food." (The honey had passed through the digestive tract of the bee
and released almost instant energy).
I took two tablespoons of honey and was ready for my "do or die"
accomplishment.
As
before I let all of my competitors pass me until half way on the home run. The
psychological effect of seeing a fresh boat gaining on you when you are spent and tired
is most disheartening. The honey was working; I passed my competitors like they
were standing still. The crowd cheered, and our captain was
23
jumping up and down on the quarterdeck. He told me that I had had
him worried when I was behind on the home
stretch, but that was what made a thrilling end to the race.
Trapped
We
commenced loading coal from a lighter by crane. The trimming, to ensure a full
and complete cargo, fell to us. I had always been possessed by a strange fear
of being trapped in confined spaces. The cargo
spaces had to be trimmed full up under the deck beams.
The mate
had apparntly sensed my fear, as he stationed me in the smallest pat of the
hold. He then had the crane fill the hatch opening completely. I was trapped,
with the suffocating coal dust, in a space hardly big enough for me to move. I
trimmed for dear life and finally got myself clear. It seemed that the mate was determined to get the best of me; time
would tell.
Back to Sea
Soon we
were loaded and returned to sea by the route that had taken us into the harbor.
The ship headed for
By now I
had mastered the culinary at a bit better. My specialty was pancakes. The ones
that got a little overdone (black) I served the mate, while the captain got
the "golden brown." Thus the mate could not complain when the captain was well satisfied.
We fell in line with another
sailing ship on a parallel course with us. We put on every stitch of canvas that our ship could carry and passed the other
ship easily. The next morning our companion ship was out of sight over our stern.
I was
surprised how many things it took in the making of a sailor and most of them
had to be committed to memory. When another vessel was
sighted at night you had to identify her by the light she carried, and if she had the right of way over you or you
over her. If her bearing didn't change, you were on
a collision course and you had to know what your duty was. This required one to
know passing and danger signals, all by memory. There was no time to look them
up in the book. A deck boy's dream of becoming
a captain was a long and hard road beset by many obstacles, but it cost nothing
to dream.
These
thoughts were praying on my mind one night while I was at the wheel. I sighted
a light on our bow, then two white lights in line, then one green and one red
light. I was bewildered and called for the captain,
who was below in his cabin. When he came on deck he told me to check our
running lights. They were burning brightly. Very calmly he said, "A
little to the starboard; we will show her our red.." Just in time the big steamer veered to her port
and cleared us by a few meters, so close we could hear the noise from her engine.
I had a strange foreboding
that these mechanical monsters were going to dive our windblown wonders from the seven seas.
Early on a bight morning we made landfall on the southern coast of
Sweden, To minimize the risk of hitting a
drift mine we hugged the coast line to an island named Arhoma, with an old
legendary light house often related
in song and story. This was the entrance to the
we became becalmed.
The
captain, who knew the archipelago like the palm of his hand, knew of a lagoon
abundant with wild ducks. He brought his double barreled shot gun
and he and I set off in our long boat for duck hunting. Soon we bagged a half dozen birds, but then a fair breeze
was coming up and we had to return to the ship.
Instead
of running the ship into the wind waiting for us, the stupid mate carried on
making us row long and hard to catch up to the ship. I rowed with gusto, but the
captain was furious at the mate's stupidity. Back
onboard the captain caught his breath, then gave the mate a severe raking over
the coals. What was he trying to do?
Run away with his ship?
Becalmed
24
Towards evening the wind
petered out again. As darkness fell we just managed to make an anchorage in a suitable bay for the night. I had learned to
pluck chickens for my mother, so set to work on the ducks. Once I had discarded the entrails, the
head and the feet, the body was small, so I boiled the lot for supper. I saw to
it that the mate got all the buck shot.
Anxiously
we scanned the sky the next morning at the break of dawn, but not a cloud or a
breath of breeze stirred the calm mirror of the sea. The smoke from our
"Charley Noble" (the galley smoke stack) went straight to the sky as I prepared breakfast.
Meanwhile
I was ogling the little village in the bay through the galley door. While the
sun was burning off the early morning mist the village was
still sleeping peacefully. Cattle grazed contentedly on the green vegetation in the background. As I served the captain's
breakfast he asked me if I thought I could go ashore and buy fresh milk. I
found several milk cans and the captain give me money to pay for the milk. Quickly I was off in our long boat
The
workday was just starting as I landed on the island. After some reconnoitering
I picked a likely looking farm house and knocked at the door. "I am a stranger
here and my mission is to buy milk, if you would
be so kind as to sell me some," I said. "Yes," the smiling
matron said, she would be glad to let me have some milk fresh this morning. While she was plying me with questions
she filled my can to the brim. In
answering her questions I no doubt stretched a few facts and exaggerated our
importance somewhat. When I offered
to pay, she gracefully refused any payment. It had been a pleasure, she said. I
couteously thanked her, both on my own and my captain's behalf and took leave.
My mission completed I
decided to explore the island a bit. I noticed a growing crowd of schoolboys
and girls about my own age, gathering and staring at me like country hicks
would at a man of the world. They intercepted
my path and passed some sly remarks about a would-be sailor carrying a milk
can. I was hopelessly out numbered and
a confrontation seemed inevitable, but I carried my inseparable equalizer in my belt. Numerically emboldened, the
"king pin" made a crack of what he was going to do to this cocky-looking stranger, which no doubt was
me.
Shirt open at the neck and
my cap at a rakish angle, I strutted defiantly along. I would give these hicks
the scare of their lives. Without warning I suddenly whipped out my shiny
sheath knife, raised my hand and leaped
directly in the path of the leader. I was surprised at the psychological effect
of my action. In rough and scramble fashion they all took to their
heels, all but one little dimple-faced, blue-eyed blond who stayed put. Witnessing such bravado, her fear had been overcome by
admiration and perhaps she had lost
her heart to the brave stranger that had come and would soon be gone. Strutting
down to my boat I waved to her and
she waved in return
Back on
board I offered to return the money to the captain, which he refused, and we
all feasted on fresh milk. Later on in the day a breeze
sprang up. We set our sails, hove in our anchor and passed between a multitude of islets of dense foliage and fern
clad hillocks, an ancient world of legends The next evening we had a
narrow passage to transit. The wind was dead ahead so we were forced to anchor for the night.
Hot Pancakes
I still
had some fresh milk and decided to make pancakes for supper By now I had
developed enough skill to make this into a play. I would toss the pancake
through the open galley skylight in a parabolic curve, then catch it
on the frying pan through the open galley door. My galley stove was a big cast
iron affair with a double set of rings and a flat round ring in the center. I
knew the captain loved pancakes, so I mixed a
big bowl of dough. As the pancake came off the frying pan I kept it hot for
serving on the other burner.
After I
got started I wanted to sharpen my skill of orbiting them through the open
skylight hatch to catch them on the frying pan through the open galley door. It was
a dexterous operation, as the pancake had to make a half turn while in orbit.
It made a dull chore into a spectacular play. Then a pancake
25
disappeared in orbit. I threw another. Same result. It dawned on
me what was happening. The mate was hiding
behind the lowered fore sail, sniffing like a cat over a mouse hole,
intercepting my pancakes in orbit. Well, I would take the glutton by trickery.
I took the central stove plate, which was red hot, held it in a pair of pliers and coated it with pancake
dough, As I sent it into orbit I watched; both of his hands shot out and grabbed the camouflaged pancake. He
let out a long drawn-out howl as the hot pancake dough stuck to his
hands like glue. Then I heard him running for the water tank where I saw him on
his knees with his hands in the water.
At the supper table the
captain asked me why the mate didn't show up for his pancakes. I told him that the mate had already had his. The next morning he
was wearing a pair of gloves. A sailor wearing gloves? Had he gone high tone?
The Captain's Wife
Lovely spring weather was
now in full swing in the archipelago. Big and small boats were racing each other and every sandy beach bloomed with swimmers
and sun worshipers.
Finally we arrived at
Stockholm. After breakfast the captain usually went ashore and any orders left
by him with the mate, the mate would hand down to me and then disappear. The
most important order was to not let any unauthorized persons onboard the ship.
As I was trying to make a few improvements in the galley a well dressed lady approached the ship's gangway. Politely I
informed her that no one was allowed
onboard the ship.
"I want to speak to the captain," she said.
"Well, the captain is ashore on
official business and will not be back until later." She hesitated and
didn't make a move, so I told her to get off the ship's gangway. "But I am the captain's wife." She spoke more
sternly now.
"Pardon me and welcome onboard. I am the deck boy
and the ship's cook," I told her.
Nonchalantly she followed me into the galley and sat down besides
me on the bench. She asked me a lot of
questions pertaining to the ship and my job, then she seemed to get a bit more
intimate.
"Do women visitors come onboard the ship in foreign pots?" the
madam asked.
"I wish the captain would be more lenient on this, it would be nice to
have some nice girls to talk to," I replied, "But that is one thing
the captain is dead set against. Didn't you see how afraid I was to let you onboard?"
"Well he is a bit of a martinet, and I suppose he
doesn't want to see you get in trouble."
She
loved to talk and time went on. Then the mate came back onboard, and blew a
fuse when he saw a woman in the galley. He let out a sting of
obscene language before I could stop him. We didn't seem able
to come to an understanding. Without an apology he left, saying, "orders are
orders!"
I stated
prepareing supper. She wanted to help me. But then she made a blunder: she took
my horde of egg shells that I saved for the captain's tea and dumped them in
the slop bucket. Of course I couldn't let the
cat out of the bag on that one.
The mate
came back and stated a little backpedaling, but the damage had been done. I
asked her if I could prepare something a little special for her supper. "No
thanks," she said, "the captain will probably want me to have supper
with him ashore". Then she opened her hand bag and brought out a small
paper bag of candy, which she gave me. I
kissed her hand on delivery.
When the captain came back she give me a pat
on my cheek and left. I asked the captain what he wanted
me to prepare for their supper. "Forget it," he said, "we are
going ashore."
After awhile I saw them going ashore arm-in-arm like a pair of honeymooners.
Presumably they went to a hotel, for they
didn't come back onboard that night.
Shortly thereafter I got a raise in pay.
Potato Cargo
26
As we finished
discharging our cargo of coal the cargo holds had to be swept clean and the
deck washed down from bow to stern. New potatoes
were coming in season, They brought a high pice and paid
a lucrative freight, so our captain booked a full and complete cargo for a port
on the northern coast of Germany known as
Sassnitz. The war had eliminated all tariffs on import to Germany. Prices and freight being what they were, time was precious
and we pressed our ship for all she could do.
Once we
cleared the archipelago we kept a good lookout for drift mines in the day. At
night it was "blind man's bluff." One day the
mate reported seeing a drift mine, which he described in detail. The captain
immediately brought his rifle on deck in an effort to hole and sink it, only to
discover it to be an old wooden barrel. Many
of the drift mines were frozen in the ice during the winter and exploded, but
there were still more than enough left.
By this time I had been able to replenish my hoard of
egg shells for the captain's "special tea.".
We made
a good and fast passage, and arrived at the pilot station off Sassnitz without
incident Here the harbor pilot and the fully armed soldier boarded us and we
sailed into the harbor through an opening in
the breakwater. The harbor was long and narrow, and crowded with warships,
particularly submarines. A small
harbor tug approached offering his service, but at an exorbitant price. The
captain made a counter offer, but it was turned down. The tug turned
away, her captain laughing at our captain's stupidity
for not accepting the tug's services.
The
captain took the wheel and said, "this is it!" I sprang to my station
at the forward sails. The curtain rose over
a drama perhaps never seen in this port before.
When our
bowsprit was nearly over the deck of one of the submarines, the captain's
command came loud and clear: "Hard lee, slack your
jib sheets, hold your stay sail, let go your stay sail, sheet home your jibs!" The ship spun on her heel onto the new tack.
This maneuver was repeated
until we reached the end of the harbor. There the mate let go the anchor. The submariners threw their hats in the air and
blew their whistles. Everybody had been watching with admiration .It had
been a demonstration of practical experience and a masterpiece of seamanship.
As we warped alongside of our berth applause
broke loose from all the watching sailors.
After we
had docked we had the feeling that there was something special in the air, some
unusual event was about to take place. Then a group of
Russian prisoners of war appeared, led by a cadaverous figure
dressed in a uniform with eighteen medals on his chest, but with stumps of arms
and legs. He was carried in a fancily decorated double-handled basket. He
seemed more dead than alive.
The
group of prisoners was surrounded by armed German guards, followed by a
military vehicle mounted with machine guns. A small band, playing exotic music said
to be the conquered prisoners' last farewell, brought up the rear.
The prisoners were embarking
on the Sassnitz - Malmo ferry in transit through Sweden back to Russia in exchange for German prisoners. They didn't look
very happy about returning to their native land, where they knew thee
would be no heroic welcome waiting for them.
Our cargo of new potatoes
was discharged by Russian prisoners, who looked at the spuds with loving eyes. I was sure they would have eaten them raw,
but I was told that they would have been shot at the first attempt. The
men in uniform seemed better fed and clothed than the average civilian that no
longer counted calories. Obesity was reserved for government and high military
rank.
After
discharging our cargo we proceeded to Restock, another port on the northern
German coast. There we loaded coal for
Sweet Temptation
27
Our northbound passage was
almost identical to our last voyage, except that this time we anchored at the island summer resort of Palaro. I had hoped for
a chance to set my feet on this lovely isle, and sure enough, we become
delayed there by a dead calm and had to anchor. I asked our captain for
permission to go ashore to see if I could f
Off I
went, tied my boat to a tree and stated reconnoitering the terrain for berries,
when out of the blue I came upon a nude young blond
prostrated on a blanket. I was at a loss for what to say, but not her. Arrogantly she asked why I was trespassing on private property.
I do read signs, I said, but I didn’t see any
signs anywhere.
"Who are you, anyway?"
"I am from the ship at anchor in the bay."
"Ah, I didn't know you
were a stranger. In that case I am sorry I was so rude. Come and sit next to me
and tell me something about your ship and
travels."
I
laid it on thick and heavy, that I was preparing myself for a career on the
sea. "What ship's company do you have in mind when you matriculate?"
"I don't know. You see, I am going to
America, that is where my futue lies." "How interesting," she
said. "How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"My,
but you are big for your age. I am seventeen and look how much bigger you are.
Why don't you move closer, or are you scared of me?"
"No, I don't scare easily"
Boldly she took my hand and put it on her
breast. "Do you feel anything?"
"Yes. I feel your heart beating."
"'Don't you like me just a little bit?"
"Yes,
I think you are real pretty and nice." "Have you ever been in
love?"
"Yes. I am in love right now." "Oh, with me?"
"No. With that ship riding at anchor down the
bay."
"Look,"
she said, "I am alone in our villa. I want to take you home with me. I
have some very nice things to eat and drink. Then we could play
mama and papa all night."
"I am sorry, but I am kind of shy with girls."
"Well,
I could soon cure you of that!"
"But
you don't understand my situation. Right now we are just waiting for a fair
wind and my ship would sail away and leave me behind."
"Don't let that worry you. I have a fast motor
cruiser, and I could have you onboard in no time"
She was
getting more insistent, and every move I made seemed to turn her on even more.
I could see clouds coming up on the horizon. It was time
to leave and return to duty, so I told her that it had been nice to meet her. I waved good bye as I hurried to my
boat; she didn't wave back.
The
captain was mad when I returned and wanted to know what had kept me so long.
First I tied a "victim of circumstances" excuse,
then made a clean breast of it. The captain burst into laughter and said,
"Why don't these things happen to me?" (In retrospect, I passed this
place, better qualified, several years
later, but in keeping with the old adage, lightning never strikes twice in the
same place.)
Sailing Season Ends
Life
settled down to routine, a repetition of past performances. We made a number of
voyages to
28
crossing over the ice between
Our mate
was conscripted into military service. He and I buried the hatchet and wished
each other luck. That left the captain and myself to take the ship into
winter quarters. I scrubbed out the forecastle and galley and left everything spic and span.
I felt
sad parting from my first love. A good ship in spite of all the hardships, I
had derived much pleasure and enjoyment and, most importantly, valuable experience.
I was paid off in the same place where I
had signed on, and received a bonus and a discharge book. The entry read: Deck
boy on the schooner Nordsjeman (North Star). Ability: Above average. Conduct:
Good.
Home for Christmas
The ugly war was still raging in central
I arrived home just before Christmas, and was
now accepted as the "big brother" who had seen something
of the world. I offered my parents a portion of my pay off, which they
declined, so I added it to my saving account
that would remain for them when I left for good.
To sum up the past year, my
life had been divided between two worlds as different as night and day: the sheltered life of the tranquil world of my
youth had passed the point of no return. The magic attraction of the bewildering vast expanse of sky
and blue water combining consummate grace with destructive force had awakened in me some primitive nomadic instinct, an
urge to explore beyond the horizon.
Christmas
eve fell tranquil and serene. Crisp snow glittered in the moon beams like
silver tinsel. Christmas trees lit the windows throughout the
village. Young boys and girls passed singing Christmas carols.
At 03:00 we aroused to participate in the sleigh caravan to our church. Sleigh
bells mingled with the big bells in the
church belfry.
Inside the church all the
chandeliers were lit and soft music rose from the pipe organ, proclaiming the birth of our Savior and the promise to all that
believe in him: God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death; neither
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.
Something for our sick world to look forward to.
I felt happy to be home for
the holidays with my family, but knew in my heart that my stay would be temporary. And so ends this year. Now that the Christmas
celebration was over we embarked on the new year in earnest. It wasn't long before old wanderlust set to work on me
and I began feeling fidgety. Furthermore
it seemed that my father had gotten used to doing without me; there were others
growing up taking my place.
I used
the time in waiting to get better prepared. I made myself a new set of oilskins
and landed an old, but well preserved and handsomely decorated,
sailor's sea chest (later replaced by the sea bag). It had traveled the seven seas as property of a worthy, but
departed, mariner. The hardware (lock, hinges and handles) was all brass, and the wood of
A New Ship
With the aid of my past experience
I secured a berth on what I thought to be a better vessel, the Solve. It was a schooner rigged larger than my last ship
and was considered one of the fastest vessels in her class. The captain was said to be a man of
outstanding character and perhaps a little on the religious side, which went
big with my father and improved our relationship on the subject of my seagoing
career.
The
time for signing on had not yet been determined. I kept a weather eye on the
ice and lent an ear to the local weather prophets. According to my
presuming calculations I should be off within a fortnight, and so it was.
29
This
time my improved relations with my father extended to my use of a horse drawn
carriage to fetch my gear to the ship. I felt like a seagoing
dignitary when I feasted my eyes on my newly acquired possessions. I had come a long way from my last year's renegade
departure. I bid my family goodbye and
promised to return home at the end of the season.
We signed on the ship's
articles and commenced getting the ship into commission. The mate was the brother of the captain, whom we had seen little of
so far. My first impression of him was not what I would have liked it to
be. His arrogant and offensive attitude betrayed a man not feeling too secure
in his assumed superiority.
This
year I had advanced to "ordinary seamen," a notch up from the lowly
deck boy and cook rank. I
was now to compete with grown men
The war was still raging in
Europe, and Germany went on unrestricted submarine warfare, both in the oceans and the Baltic Sea.
The ship
fully commissioned, we commenced loading a cargo of granite pavement blocks for
the seaport of Wamenunde, Germany. The loading was
done by our crew by throwing the granite blocks from
man to man, brick layer fashion. At first this seemed like a lot of fun, but
before the cargo was fully loaded our backs felt like breaking,
our knees buckled and the skin was worn off our hands.
Notwithstanding
our ship's reputation, she didn't feel as well as my last ship. During the
loading and discharge operation the captain kept a strict
vigil over the operation room the quarterdeck, most conspicuously to speed the operation. Personally, I didn't
like him half as much as my last captain. He always
failed a kind word for anybody and always wanted more work done. I thought he
was a poor specimen of a captain, and one who
completely failed to understand the mentality of the men. I felt that I wanted to be less known with him, and avoided him on every
possible occasion. He seemed to suffer from a
sadistic inclination,
He gave me a final
confirmation of this evil one day while we were loading cement in the ancient
port of Visby on the island of Gottland. As
usual the stevedoring on the ship was done by our crew. The cement barrels
weighed 300 pounds each, and had to be stowed tight fore and aft. We all took a
barrel apiece and handled it alone. As I struggled to fill out a tier with the
last barrel, forcing it into a tight squeeze,
I got my hand caught between two barrel heads. To remove the barrel was well
nigh impossible, so there was nothing
for it but to pull my hand out and suffer the consequences. With the help of the mate I finally got clear, but with a
badly mangled hand. Skin and flesh were badly torn, in places to the bone, and everything I touched
became stained with blood.
I was
dazed, but desperately tied to carry on until quitting time, as I could
anticipate the captain's reaction seeing me thus handicapped.
However one of the older men around the ship convinced me that neglect could cost me the loss of my hand.
Reluctantly I went to the captain's quarters for medical aid. At the sight of my shadow a scowl come over his
face. When I showed him my hand he took on a frenzied impatience and squalled loudly about my incompetence. I could
not for the life of me ask the man
for quarter, but apologized for causing him inconvenience.
He then brought a bottle of
white vinegar. I steeled myself for the sting. He poured the vinegar into a wash basin and, with an arrogant gesture, told me
to put my hand into the basin. Pleasure was discernable in his face as I
squirmed. It took all the courage I could muster to hold my hand in the basin
while he scrubbed the cement and blood away. The lose skin and flesh he pulled
away with his fingers.
"How
do you like the treatment?" he queried with a grin. When I didn't answer,
he stamped his foot and said, "Answer me, you brat!" I
told him that it was he, not I, that was complaining. He wrapped a bandage around my hand and sent me back to work with what
he put in as a humorous remark: "Next time put
your head, not your hand, in between." I tuned to offer my opinion of him,
but thought better of it. With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach I resumed
work. In my stupor I resolved vengeance at some
later day. However, this was not to be, as this man passed to his judgment
years later when his ship was driven ashore on a rocky reef, and his body was
beaten to pulp in the breakers.
30
A Better Command
We had
worked under him with reluctance and we were much relieved when he was
transferred to another ship and his brother took over command. Another mate was
signed on, young, but with good experience.
We liked him at once and our ship became a happy ship.
We
traded between German and Scandinavian pots, going as far north as the Baltic
was navigable. Our workday was governed more by the daylight
hours than the clock. In this high latitude it was practically all day in the summer and almost all night
in the winter..
Part of
our voyages consisted of costal navigation. The coast line, with its hundreds of
islands, was fraught with scenic natural beauty. There was one passage in
particular that we passed through that was so
narrow that you could almost touch the vertical cliffs on either side of the
ship. This passage was most appropriately named the "stone
door."
An old
legend told a story of a warring king strategically separated from his militia
by the enemy. Flanked on both sides by a superior force, the
king's horse brought him to the top of the cliff. Capture seemed inevitable, but his noble horse refused to
capitulate. Without hesitation the horse leaped from the cliff into the water below and saved his master. The only
thing left behind was the king's hat. There is an old warrior's hat
pierced on a pole on top of the cliff. This is supposedly the king's hat still
defending the legend.
For sheer
natural beauty it would be hard to find a rival of the archipelago of the
Baltic coast of Sweden in the summer months. Thus far into the
season we had enjoyed fair wind and weather, and showed
our stern to many a proud ship that could naught but look at us with envy. Now
we were heading for
We had
all of our sails set. I hated to call the captain, who apparently was enjoying badly needed sleep. For me there was a thrill to steering a ship heeling to the wind
and racing through the water. Just carry on a bit
longer! The lee railing was now under water. I had never experienced
anything
so thrilling, when suddenly the wind went wild and
a treacherous gust, too fast to luff out, knocked us down on our beam end for a moment. I thought we were going bottom up.
A flame
of falling voices went through the ship and the
captain clammered on deck just as I was slackening the main
sail sheet. Knocked down on your beam end was
a fatal
situation in most cases, but the
vessel's fine design and
seaworthiness manifested itself.
Slowly, but surely, she
began to right herself. Things were
pell-mell as the watch
below hit the deck. The captain took
the wheel and the rest
of us turned to shortening sails.
After a battle with canvas
we snuggled down for the night with topsails lowered and .
the inner and outer jibs belayed. Our ship had
been
severely tested, but not found wanting. She was as
staunch
as her reputation. I expected a severe dressing down from
31
the captain, but he didn’t say anything, which
perhaps hurt more. I told nobody about my thrill, least of all the captain, but in retrospect it depressed me that I
had betrayed my trust and could have been the unhappy
cause of disaster to all of us. I was not habitually disobedient. Thus my
momentary thrill was more than neutralized by the resulting remorse I suffered.
I resolved not to repeat my performance.
We made the rest of the journey in record time.
The manuscript continues in
great detail, so much so that it becomes tedious. Several visits to
Another
winter season, with Christmas spent at home. By this time Gunnar's siblings had
grown to the point that they handled the farm chores,
and he felt himself of little use around the old homestead. In the spring he signed aboard the Rosa, a square rigger out
of Janavik. He notes of laying aloft in the square
rigger:
In the
reefing of the sails the crew had to lay aloft. When you got to the yard with
the sail to be handled you stepped onto a foot rope. Near
the mast your chest was in line with the yard, but at the ends of
the yard it would be a little above your knees. The foot rope would swing with
the movement of your feet. With the ship
inclining at a steep angle or rolling heavily, you were swinging in a precarious
arc a hundred feet above the ship's deck. There was nothing to prevent you from
falling back. If you did, you were a
goner. In a black night, with a howling gale, you had to do the work to save
your ship, or you would both go down together. Strangely enough, it was
seldom the novice who fell into the sea. For the novice, it was "one hand for the ship and one hand for him." It
was always the old timer that took chances,
yet considering the hazardous work the accident rate was low.
The
sails of a square rigger were shaped somewhat like a rectangle. The top side
was fastened to the yard. At the corners of the bottom side sheets were attached, and
as the sail was loosened it was sheeted down
to the next lower yard. In furling a rope rove through a block was fastened to
the comer of the sheet (known as a
clowline), the sheet was slackened and with the clowline the sail was pulled up
double. Then at the bottom of the sail
there were other lines known as "bunt lines" that pulled up the belly of the sail. From there on the crew took
over.
In
giving this simple explanation to a would-be mariner I asked him if I had made
myself clear. "Plain as mud," he replied honestly.
Home
again next winter, he quickly became restless and looked for another ship. This
time he shipped out on the Ellida, a large brigantine sailing out of
Solvesborg.
The manuscript comes to an
abrupt end on page 105, with obviously many more pages having been typed, but subsequently lost. However, in other
papers other stories of adventure provide a sufficient picture of the
Captain's life at sea.
32
The Loss of the 111 Fated Sailing Vessel Camilla May Page
and Her Crew
by Captain Knut Gunnar Augustsson
In the
long ago year of 1922 I was part of the crew of a large sailing vessel bound
for the port of New York. Like a ghost ship we had been caught on the fringe of
the doldrums that tuned into a long voyage
of over two months at sea. Navigating off the Jersey coast at night the
luminous coastline resembled a glittering necklace of diamonds.
But don't be lured close, for the coastal reefs are studded with sunken wrecks and drowned crews, a grim reminder of
hidden reefs. Our ship hove to off Sandy Hook
Point awaiting daybreak for entrance into the port of New York. The city looked
like a giant chandelier looming up in the distance. Dawn
broke bight and clear and soon our ship was docked.
I had
decided to leave the ship to have a good look at the great city. I had just
passed my twenty first birthday and became a man of legal age. I had no intention,
however, to become a landlubber. After the
ship was tied up and everything secured, the crew was paid off and parted ways.
In spite of the oft spoken "never again," most headed off to
do the town. They lived as if thefe were no tomorrow.
This
was not for the likes of me. The sea called and I responded. I was happy to
obtain a berth as an A.B. (able seaman) on a four-masted sailing
vessel named the Camilla May Page. Her home port was
On
approaching my new ship I liked what I saw. Her rigging was stance and her
sleek hull had graceful lines, the sure sign of a fast ship. Boarding, I found
the forecastle let neat and clean by the previous
cew, a sign of good seamanship.
Soon
three more A.B.'s arrived. Swept together by the winds of chance, here we met
to share life together as good shipmates, all for one and
one for all. Obedient to the unwritten law of "seniority rights," being the youngest, I was low man on the
totem pole and came last in selecting my bunk and locker. Then came the hail: "All hand lay aft to sign
the articles." The shipping commissioner and the Captain,
a fine looking young man who seemed unpretentious about rank and ceremony, were
seated at the cabin table. The Captain stated
that the ship's destination was Jacksonville, Florida, for further orders, possibly a load of lumber for Puerto Rico.
Then he asked who wanted the ship's articles, which
33
we were
to sign, read to us. Just a legal formality. We had heard them so many times
and knew what they meant: little or nothing. We had little
regard for all its technical jargon and responded with a unanimous "no." After we affixed our signatures,
thus gaily binding ourselves to the ship, the Captain said, "Unpack your gear and familiarize yourselves
with your new ship. There will be a good meal at five
p.m.. Then say goodbyes, but all hands on board bright and early, no matter
how."
We were
all taken aback; indoctrination and shipboard discipline were not usually
maintained with kind words and soft phrases.
The new day broke bright and
clear. All men were on board and in working condition. After some hot coffee we hove our anchor cable short and
stated hoisting sails, snatches of old shanties broke out. Every man,
jack and tar knew his job. As soon as the sails filled in, the anchor was hove
home. Leaning to the fresh breeze, the ship
picked up speed, heading for open water. Without smoke or mechanical noises, those wind-blown wonders were propelled by
the invisible wind, free for every man's use who knew how to harness its silent
power.
Clear of
the harbor, we took departure off the Ambrose light ship. Our first day at sea
was busy. After all the sails had been set, the halyards
wee coiled and hung up on their respective belaying pins. We
were now on the high seas and everything had to be ready for instant use. After
a good noon meal, decks were washed down from
stem to stern. A clean ship was a healthy ship, and for a happy ship, things had to be shipshape.
After
supper came the dog watch. We were mustered aft for watches to be set. I drew
an old timer with a pug nose (the unmistakable mark from a bucko mate's
belaying pin) for watch partner. I was well pleased, as I was a mere youth. He
was old and had all the wisdom of long experience that I had learned to respect. In the absence of a second mate, we
took our orders from the Captain and were, so to speak, on the Captain's watch. On the mate's watch there
was a young stalwart redhead and a squat Chilano with coal black hair.
These two, oddly enough, responded respectfully to such imaginative sobiquets
as Red and Blacky. Being a blonde, I
responded to "Whitey," and my old watch partner, who could still
carry a lively chantey, became "Chantey." Now that we were all christened,
we could be referred to by name.
The
night set in bight and starry, but the velocity of the wind kept increasing.
Chantey had the first wheel watch. When I came to relieve him, he
looked panic stricken. He had made a terrible discovery which he related to me, mouth to ear. There was a woman on
board, he told me in trembling voice. There
was no more time for further talk on the subject, for a woman was coming up the
companion ladder from the cabin. Chantey took off like he had seen a ghost. He
had me a bit upset, but then something unbelievable
happened. While she was walking back and forth in front of the wheel, the Captain
came up from the cabin with a glass in his hand, which he offered to her. She
thanked him, but said that she didn't really
feel like having a drink right now. With a gesture of her hand, she said,
"Why don't you give it to the boy at the wheel?" Extending the glass
towards me, he said, "Do you think you can handle this?" Oh,
yes sir, I stammered. I wanted to toast the fair lady's health, but didn't dare
in the Captain's presence. They both laughed
while I gulped the dink down nervously. Needless to say, the fair lady had belayed a strong hold on my
affection.
The wind
kept increasing and as the sun took over the sky on our morning watch. It blew
force eight — fresh gale, but dead astern. The ship
was light and high in the water, but she rode the waves with grace; it was the only world she knew.
At the
end of the morning watch we were forced to clew up our topsails and furl them.
A heavy following sea was making up fast, forcing the ship to yaw wildly.
It required astute helmsmanship to keep her from veering off on a comber and
broaching. On our true course the wind was dead astern, but she was kept off course a point to keep the sails from
jibing. I noticed our Captain's vigilant eye watching our ability to
handle the ship's helm. Apparently satisfied, he called the watch below on deck
and ordered us to rig a boom tackle on the spanker boom. Then he said,
"Let's shoot the works; we are going
back on course." Chantey had the wheel; the Captain told him to ease her
to starboard a point, but don't let the spanker jibe. Easy does it. Chantey
understood very well, and it was done. The mizzen sail
34
started fluttering, the
sheet was two-blocked, just a hair more to starboard and the sail came over and
the sheet was paid out.
We were
now sailing with what was known as "wing and wing," a precarious
sailing in a gale with a following sea. If the big spanker jibed it
could easily take the mast with it. To me this was a real thriller. You are staking your skill against the elements;
you can't relax for a moment. Steering wing and wing
in a gale with a heavy following sea was a skill you could never learn from a
book or in a classroom. As a result we easily picked up
another knot in speed.
On our
watch down below I always found Chantey down in the mouth. A woman on board was
bound to cause disaster; he constantly bemoaned the presence of the Captain's
wife on board. I kept telling him that I couldn't see anything
ominous in having a young, pretty woman on board, but I couldn't convince him to the contrary. Chantey was
adamant; the ship was doomed.
The
invisible meridians kept falling astern as our path was lost in our disappearing
wake. I had come in on the tail end of the tall ships
that had opened the trade routes of the seven seas for generations to
follow. The long voyages of the world were first made possible by sail. They
had been instrumental in linking together the
far flung people of our globe. In our trade, a man stood to lose his life by
making one mistake, just one. Slipping off the crosstrees or the foot
rope on a dark and stormy night, plunging into the churning sea, was always a
possibility. The ship's log entry would read: "Lost at sea in a gale at night," then give time and position. Officialese
for "dead." Of course, you never figured you would be that one. Adventure thrives on danger; this was
the life I loved.
As I
mused, a large sailing vessel came into view in the far distance, very low in
the water and apparently in distress. Her spanker mast was gone. By the way she
yawed erratically back and forth into the
wind she must have been abandoned by her crew. Soon we sighted her lifeboat
with the crew fighting madly to stay afloat. We were almost abreast of
the lifeboat and moving fast. There was no time to shorten sail. If our maneuver was to be successful, action had to be
immediate. It was a risky maneuver, but human lives were at stake. Our
Captain proved fully capable of making a snap decision, even though it meant risking his own ship. Orders came fast. "Men,
stand by to take in the slack of the foe, main, mizzen and spanker sheet!"
Then he sprang to the ship's wheel. Helm hard over, he laid her lee
reeling under water as she rounded into the wind. The sails slated madly in the
gale with the roar of cannon thunder. We
now had the lifeboat on our starboard bow, giving it lee and smoother water. As
the lifeboat was coming close amidships, we threw them lifelines. The crew
jumped from their sinking boat onto our deck.
The Captain brought the ship back on course while we slacked sheets and wee on
our way again. The whole operation
had taken less than an hour.
We took the rescued crew
into our quarters; cook made them hot coffee. They seemed frozen with fear. I could share their feelings, for I had once
suffered their fate myself. No further trace of their defenseless ship could be seen; presumably she
had foundered.
On our
fourth day at sea we made land fall, entered St. John's River and dropped
anchor at a lumber deposit on the river bank. We had covered the 792 nautical
miles from New York to Jacksonville in three
days and four hours, averaging better than ten knots an hour. Not bad considering
saving a shipwrecked crew along the
way.
The
day after our arrival was a holiday. Our mate, the Captain and his wife had
gone ashore, but we had procured permission from our mate to use
the ship's small boat. There was a big German sailing ship
anchored close by, also loading lumber, so with our small boat we decided to go
visit the German ship. There was always something of interest to see and talk
about on other ships, particularly those of a foreign
flag. Of course, there would be a language problem, but sailors ae petty good
at sign language. Much to my surprise,
several of the younger boys spoke fluent Swedish, my native tongue. They had been
taken in and raised by sympathetic Swedish families during the cruel war years
in Germany. They were very friendly and
offered to share their meager victuals with us. We in turn gave them American cigarettes and tobacco, which to them was a great
luxury.
Rowing
back to our ship we passed an old steamer anchored close to the river bank. One
of the propeller blades was out of the water and on
top of it lay a big alligator sunning himself. We decided not
35
to interfere with his siesta.
The German crew paid us a
visit before sailing and some trading was happily consummated. We all wished each other "bon voyage." Perhaps
we would meet in some other pot of the world again; it was the strong bond of the sea.
Loading of the lumber was done through two removable pots
on the ships bow and performed by
experienced shore labor. It was surprising how
much lumber they could stow into the ship’s cargo hold. To bring the ship down
to her fall load line marks with light density lumber required a deck load
which in rum required heavy bottom ballast in the ships lower hold to
increase stability to compensate for the increased
weight above the ship's water line. The captain calculated on a lucky fast run,
and that the additional freight
revenue, plus the loss of tine, did not warrant the expense of additional
ballast. Thus the ship was light in
the water and in perfect sailing trim,
On our
last day at the loading berth we were given the afternoon off to explore the
fair city of Jacksonville. This was unusual and much
appreciated by us. In all aspects, Camilla May Page was a happy ship.
The nest
day was sailing day and we hit the deck bright and early. A strong aroma of
coffee permeated our quarters. The smell and taste of coffee in the early
morning on a ship invigorates you like nothing
else. The sails were cast lose and heisted to hearty shanties. The anchor was
broken out and hove home. The ship, free from her bondage, lustily gathered
headway. The weather was fine and the wind
fair. In the evening watches were set and everything became "sea
routine."
Chanty
was in his late seventies and I gladly did some of his work aloft. To my young
inquisitive mind it was a privilege to listen to his experience. Never in time
to come would I have the chance to look into
the mind of these gallant men who crewed the famous China clippers and the
grain racers from Australia around the
cruel Cape Horn to Europe. Their time was running out fast and thy would soon belong to the extinct species of a gallant era.
With the onslaught of mechanization science was industrializing nature
to make faster and bigger profit, diving these wind blown wonders from the
seven seas. Yet, that was where the real
sailors, proud of their profession, were made. In the next generation captains
and officers would be trained to push buttons and wear white uniforms and gold
braid. They would become another
breed.
I loved to listen to
Chantey's adventures on our watch below. He had shipped out in sail at the age
of fourteen, sixty years before we met. I drew him out on fights with pirates
in the
At the end of a long and
arduous voyage the sailor would be "king for a day" and usually
succumb to those that lay in wait for them in
a romantic water front shanty town. What was let of their pay was decimated by sailors' boarding houses, where crimps
lay in wait to shanghai then onto another voyage. It was always the same
old "swan song": Never again will I succumb to the
"Nirvana" of alcohol or the charm
of "Madam Butterfly."
More valuable to me were the
survival tactics I gained from association with these old timers. On the important safety measures they were unanimously
in accord. If your ship was caught in a gale with low visibility, always
give the treacherous rocky lee shoe a wide berth; head for the open water. But
if you are trapped and, in spite of your best
efforts, your ship grounds on a rocky reef, don't abandon her. She is your best and last hope.
We had
enjoyed fair wind and beautiful weather. The sot tropical nights under a
star-studded sky are glorious wonders of our universe to
behold. We had enjoyed undisturbed peace and tranquility for seven days, but in
the dusk early the next morning there was a breach in the rim of the horizon/
Out of
36
the blue Caribbean rose the
tropical isle of Puerto Rico, affectionately known to the natives as La isla de
incante (the isle of enchantment). We passed
the Borinquen lighthouse to our north, having sailed a distance of
approximately 1,150 nautical miles in seven days and two hours. Our average
speed was seven knots per hour.
As if
our arrival had been spectacularly timed to a Sunday, stately we came into the
harbor under full sail, rounded up into the wind and
dropped our anchor in the palm-fringed bay of Mayaques.
After breakfast
we were free to go ashore. The little town, fully awake by now, came to life.
Here in the great depths of the Caribbean a
tropical isle had isen to the surface to grow up with waving palms, where the trade winds blow softly and snow never
falls. All the palms were loaded with green coconuts.
To me, a native of the frozen North, the island looked like an idyllic Shanga-la.
Through our mate we learned that our
captain carried enough money in the ships exchequer to give us a draw, and that we could have the ship's boat to go
ashore. Everybody was in high spirits, but as often
happens, anticipation is greater than reality. A launch with a putt-putt motor
put out from shoe, heading in our direction. A corpulent gentleman smoking a large
cigar sat in the stern sheet. No doubt it was
the town's mayor coming out to bid us welcome to Mayaques. Hurriedly we rigged
our best Jacobs ladder over the
ship's side.
Blacky, who spoke Spanish,
stood by to bid him "welcome aboard." But the nonchalant gentleman told Blacky to take a powder, he would do business
with none less than the captain. When the captain came on deck, the
visitor stated his business very authoritatively. "Captain, your cargo had
been sold in transit. You are hereby ordered
to proceed to
Ignoring the document, our
captain said "Documentary business transacted on a Sunday is illegal in Admiralty law." "Ah, my dear captain, I
too am aware of that, hence the documents have been predated." Our captain had played his last
trump, and lost.
We were
all asked aft to splice the main brace (a tot of rum). Then our captain said
sympathetically, "Well, men, there is nothing for us to do, but to heave
anchor and set sail for
Where we arrived the
following day. Our cargo was to be discharged into lighters by local labor, a lengthy operation. Meanwhile, we did some
maintenance work on our ship. The spanker topmast had suffered damage during
our rescue operation and had to be brought down on deck for overhaul.
Somehow
I seem to have lost interest in my work. I was waylaid by a strange instinct
and began thinking about leaving the ship, but just couldn't f
This time the captain tied a direct appeal to reason. "You don't
have much money. You don't know the
language. There is no sanctuary for destitute seamen in this place. Do you
still want to leave?" I replied in the affirmative. By now the
captain's patience had worn thin and was at a low ebb. "Okay, I will pay
you off in the morning, then accommodate yourself to the inevitable." The
following morning he paid me off in full,
and gave me a first class conduct and ability discharge as well.
I tried to find some words to
justify my behavior, but I became completely tongue-tied. Reluctantly I said goodbye to my shipmates, slung my seabag
over my shoulder, took one last, long look at my former good ship, then walked to the bus station. There I found a bus to
take me over the old Spanish military
road to the capital city of Puerto Rico, San Juan.
A tall,
blue eyed blonde with a seabag stood out in the crowd at the bus station. The
other passengers ogled me with great cuiosity. In
their comments the only word I could decipher was "Gingo," which apparently referred to me. A
mustache, sun glasses and an attache case were the local symbols of status.
37
The hot
sun bore down on the fly- and mosquito-infested bus as we traveled at a
snail-like pace over the rough road to San Juan. At the various
stops one could obtain lukewarm water to quench the constant thirst. At the journey's end I located a boarding
house that reluctantly took me in. The proprietor demanded payment
in advance the moment I crossed the threshold with my seabag. I had lost my appetite for supper and turned in early on a
straw mattress under a mosquito net full of holes.
In retrospect,
the whole affair had been a fabrication of my own making, yet now I felt that I
had made a sorry mistake. But as I was irretrievably
committed, I might as well make the best of it and take a
vacation. After all, change is a part of life. Only one problem: my meager
stake was diminishing with every sunset.
However, when one must get down to bare essentials, it is amazing what one can
do without. A set of cheap sandals and
a pair of shorts sufficed for every day garb. By being poor I managed to avoid the temptation of night life and
romance, such as besets the rich. I went on the poor man's diet of ice and beans which, on special
occasions, when a fighting cock bit the dust in the Saturday night cockfight, a leg or wing was thrown
into the meal on Sunday. Usually this piece of chicken had the tenderness of a roller bearing.
There were
some lovely sandy beaches close by, always crowded with cosmopolitan sun worshipers. I was anxious to learn the Spanish language.
It has been said that the best way to learn to swim
is to jump into deep water. Language-wise, this seemed to work pretty well.
While you hear nothing but another language, some of it is bound to rub off on
you. To practice what you learned was no
problem, everybody loved to talk. These carefree people just lived for the day;
tomorrow was no concern.
The tropical ocean water was
so translucent that you could see a small pebble on the bottom at six fathoms depth. I did a lot of swimming and diving,
but my second passion was fishing. Happily I inheirted a face mask
snorkel from another diver who had stepped on a sea urchin (very painful) and
had given up diving. In the great submerged coral reefs that rise from the
bottom to a height of six to eight feet thee was an abundance of marine life
never seen in colder waters.
About a
fortnight after leaving my ship I had the customary cafe con leche (coffee and
milk) breakfast, then bought an American newspaper
in the news stand around the corner. With the paper tucked
under my arm I walked the coastal esplanade to my favorite rendezvous, a
palm-clad knoll where I had an unobstructed
view of the sea and the rising sun in the eastern sky. A light zephyr breeze freshened my body and blew my thoughts back to sea.
A ballad from The Beachcomber came to my mind: 'The waving of the
fronded palms. The sleepy hush at noon. The wonders of the tropic night, the
magic of the moon. The breakers of the coral beach, that tumble into foam. By
these enchantments we are bound, you cannot
call us home." I propped my back against the trunk of a palm tree and
relaxed.
Such peace, yet I was still
pondering why I had left a good ship and my link with the outside world. The
ship was bound for
My eyes
fell on something that made me wince. I couldn't believe my eyes, but there it
was. To really convince myself, I read it out loud: 'The large American
four-masted sailing vessel, the Camilla May
Page, was driven ashore and grounded on the Brigatine shoal off the New Jersey
coast in a howling snow storm. The crew endeavored to leave the ship in the
ship's lifeboat. The boat capsized in the
beakers and all hands drowned. The grounded vessel survived the storm with the
only loss the ship's spanker top
mast. Exactly how it happened was never revealed."
Fortunately, the end must
have been swift and painless. Now it became definitely clear why I had let a good ship without knowing why. It must have
been the hand of
Here I
sat, still in the land of the living, haunted by memories of my last evening on
the ship. We had all sat together on the forecastle head
watching the setting tropical sun turn the western sky into a blaze of brilliant
vermillion. All talking of their plans for the future, a future full of
promise. Deep in
38
thought I sat alone looking
out over the blue Caribbean and the same tropical sun. How fickle the future of men. No one knows what lies beyond tomorrow's
mystic gates.
The
tragic loss of the Camilla May Page and her crew took place in the year 1922.
Epilogue
What
happened to the ship? When a grounded ship cannot be profitably salvaged, it is
usually let to the destruction of the natural elements.
The submerged skeleton may remain for decades as a grim reminder.
I
thought of old Chantey, that in his youth he had listened to the experience
passed down by word of mouth fom past generations, as he had passed it on to me: the
dread of a rocky lee shore in a gale and poor visibility. Head your ship for
the open sea until the storm abates and visibility increases. If, in spite of your best efforts, your ship goes aground, don't
leave her; she is your best and last hope. Wisdom passed down through the ages. Listen to the voice
of experience, young sailor - and stay alive.
Some
years later when I made application to sit for a second mates examination, the
examining officer noted the attached newspaper clipping to my discharge rom
the Camilla May Page and said, "So you
are the only lucky one that got away!" "Yes, sir, I am the one that
missed the boat." Cheerfully he said,
"Well, with that kind of luck you shouldn't flunk the examination!"
39
Memoies
of the S.S. Tacoma
Excerpts
from a manuscipt by Knut Gunnar (Whitey) Augustsson
It came
to my knowledge that our company was taking over the outitting of an ex-German passenger vessel that had been interned at the outbeak of
the war in the neutral pot of
Thus I
left
Our
plane took departue on May 11th; we passed over
A few days later I got the
irst good look at my new ship. All the documentation of dimensions had been emoved, but by rule of thumb I judged her to
be about 600 feet in length, with about a 70 foot beam. She was of 5,043
net tonnage and had caried about 100 passengers. Her oficial number was 301 and her pot of egistry would be
Methodically I commenced
making notes of what had to be done by the Deck Department to make our ship
seawothy. I would give the most important items pioity. The lifeboats were
constructed of 16 gauge galvanized sheet
metal with a 3x6" stem, keel and stern post. The boats had been left
without covers and the garboard rakes
were badly deteriorated and had to be replaced. The ire fighting equipment
had to be tied and tested in combination with the Engine Room, the same went
for the bidge and emergency steeing gear. I
would stip the magnets rom all the compass binnacles (a lucrative hiding chamber for a clever saboteur), have the
compasses sent ashore for checking with a nautical store, then we could
compensate them for demonstration on our ship's heading. At sea we could
compensate them on all headings from sun or
star azimuths, but that was an after consideration.
40
So far I
had found everything within the scope of my past expeience. I had nosed around
in the engine room a little when no one was around.
This was out of my influence, but not my interest. I noticed
that all the light and power requirements while the vessel was in port were
generated by several auxiliary diesels,
thus the main power plant and boilers could be shut down if time permitted and
repairs wee needed. (If this was
advantageous, my meager engineeing knowledge could not suppot it.) A large generator for power at sea was operated from
the main engine. It appeaed to me that the repair shop foreman (Lorenzo) was the flywheel of this
organization. He was a graduate of the "college of hard knocks," an excellent mechanic, honest and
hard working.
The inal
touch was to be supplied befoe signing the contract, supposedly in accordance
with the Lloyds' policy of "No Cue-No Pay."
Everything seemed to be in order, but not quite. The ship owners looked
at each other, had Loenzo been consulted? No? Well, we have never signed
anything pertaining to a ship's epairs without consulting him, and Lorenzo was
sent for. He arived in a pair of overalls with his cap in his hand, and his Master asked "Lorenzo, we have
inspected everything, all seems to be in order; sign or no sign?" The rest of the crowd was getting
impatient, what could this grease monkey know? He eplied, "Until I've seen the underside of the Bull Gear
hidden in the underside of the lower turbine casing, I would not sign
anything." No one had thought of this. The Bull Gear was jacked over and
lo and behold, an expert act of sabotage had been done with a simple cold
chisel and hammer. The gears wee completely
ruined (and so too would have been the shop owners). What did Lorenzo think could be done? Ater some probing he said "Thee
is enough metal under the gear teeth to remove the broken teeth and cut new ones, the pinion will have
to be increased to mesh with the new Bull Gear. Thee will be an insigniicant reduction in the R.P .M." (All of this
was later conirmed by a slide-rule engineer.) This was a job beyond
local epairs, too big for
This is to cetify that K. Gunnar Augustsson
repoted for duty as Chief Officer on board
the S.S. Tacoma on May 12, 1943 and
subsequently was appointed "Acting Master" in
prepaing the vessel for sea.
Duing
all this time his ability and service were exceptional and far above average.
It is theefore a great pleasure to recommend Mr.
Augustsson for his exceptional ability and devotion
to duty under all conditions.
Signed
Pincipal Surveyor U.S.W.S.A.
Foreign Repairs and Salvage Operation"
The
reconditioning of the lifeboats had been a tedious process, but it was vital
that this was done ight. Now all the boats were in tip top
condition. It was then necessary to make sure that the loweing and hoisting gear had not been sabotaged. To do this
properly the boats had to be weighted to their proper
capacity, lowered to the water and hoisted again. The local inspector attending
this operation suggested using sand bags for weight. To
supply the required sand bags would involve buying them, trucking
them to the ship, binging them up the gangway to the boat deck, some sand would
be bound to spill in the bottoms of the boats, then hard to remove. Then ater
finishing with the bags we couldn't sell
41
them back. Thee must be a better way. A bit of
Yankee ingenuity had rubbed off on me from my past association with masters of improvisation. The inspector
gave me cate blanche on method as long as I guaranteed the weight. What
was the weight equired?
Thirty persons at 70 kilos
per equals 2,100 kilos as far as I can igure it up. It just now so happens that 1 liter If fresh water weighs 1 kilo. We had a
resh water hose connected to a water meter on the dock. Something rang a
bell. I brought the nozzle into the boat, meanwhile I had two men roll up two
boat covers and tie them up foe and aft for swash bulkheads. Then I asked the
inspector to accompany me to the water meter whee we both took a reading. I opened
the valve. After 2,100 liters of water had egistered, I shut the meter off.
2,100 kilos, correct? He seemed mystified, but agreed. Then we went to the lifeboat, but he still seemed dubious, so I
told him, "If you insist on slide-ruling the whole thing I can give you
the average length, depth and width of the water and the coeficient of the boat
and with the instrument in your
potfolio (slide rule) and the time worn 'Simpson's Rule' you can do the thing on
paper." This bluffed him out of any further technicalities. He was a rank
and ile man and admitted he had never done it
this way before (neither had I). When I citicized his "time and mateial
sand bag system," he didn't like it. Time and mateial has its
points.
Caefully
synchronizing the loweing and hoisting, the operation went perfectly. We
cradled the irst boat, loweed the second to the boat deck
level and siphoned the water into it from the irst boat, epeated the operation until all boats wee done. Lastly we
siphoned the water into the double bottom boiler tank. It had all been
done in a day's work and I was happy to see that none of the boats leaked a drop. I knew I was talked about behind my back as a
inicky, chauvinistic cheap skate, but I had a couple of kids back home picking paper off the street for the war effot.
Besides I knew the value of good
water, I had been on water rations in sail. Why not give yourself an
"A" when you can?
In the
deck department the lifesaving and fireighting equipment were in excellent
operating condition. From the main ie station located on
the elevated midship boat deck, under good water pessue,
we could almost reach the bow and the stern with a good stream of water. This
was advantageous should the other stations become inaccessible. The
engagement of the emergency hand steeing gear
on the after deck had the meit of great simplicity. A semicircular geared
quadrant was attached to the head of the rudder stock on a hex shaped vetical
shaft extending to the hand steeing wheel
above the deck. On this shaft rode a geared pinion that meshed into the
semi-circular quadrant gear. When not in use the pinion was lifted. To engage
the hand gear, all you had to do was pull tlse pin and let the pinion drop into
the geared quadrant. I timed the operation down to one minute. I was hoping we would never have to use it, but just in
case. About this time it was decided to remove the big generator diven
from the main engine and depend exclusively on the diesel diven generators.
This my old confidante Lorenzo advised me to
oppose, which I did only to be told to keep my nose out of the Engine
Depatment, and this I did. Next came the overhauling of the cargo gear, nothing
must be let to chance. In the Engine Department they had discoveed that the
propeller shaft coupling bolts had been removed
and hacksawed three quaters of the way through, another pretty piece of
sabotage. This mateial reduction in
strength may not have shown up until on full throttle at sea and we would have difted around helplessly, a sitting duck for a
torpedo.
On our cargo handling gear
we stated forward and gradually worked our way aft. Each boom and the running
gear was tested one and a half times its rated capacity. Surpisingly, all went
well.
At
last things wee beginning to move. Our reconditioned bull and pinion gear
arived and were installed. A new
Chief Engineer came down from the
The large smoke stack had long been an object of my cuiosity. Inside of
the exteior casing there was another
smaller stack suppoted by four wire pulleys. By this means the inner stack
could be telescoped up above the other
stack. It was there for a reason, yet no attempt was made to make it functional. We would learn more about this later.
A year
had passed since I joined the ship and I was getting impatient for action. I
began to feel that the time and money spent were far out of propotion to the
value received, but I was committed to stay as long as the business required.
By now we had the entie hull painted over with the drab war
42
color gey. As a cargo would be booked for us
when sailing for the
into an
expensive and time consuming operation, so I decided to
employ what I had leaned about the good old
Yankee system of
standardization. Number 1 ceiling was in the
worst condition, so
we decided to tear it all out and, with what
boards we could
salvage, to patch the rest of the ceilings.
Then we measued the
fore and aft length and the width of the
cargo hold. The fore and
aft length we divided into the most economical
standard board
length, which we equested to be squared at
both ends at the saw
mill. The order was the amount to it into the
length and width
of the given space. The timming at the sides
was done by our
own carpenter, the rest done by unskilled
labor. Everything
turned out as contemplated and a good job
resulted. The epair
shop observed our method, but their
preferable bread and butter
was "time and mateial."
I had
kept a log of the ship's inventory and work
completed. I kept a copy and turned the
oiginal over to our new
Master, which he seemed to approve. There was
not really much
for him to worry about, but this was as it
should be. In a couple
of weeks we moved from our original lay up
berth to a cargo m
berth. The only important item now missing in the Deck
Depatment
was the ground tackle, which I had not been able to check in the other berth.
With the aid
of a
tug we swung the bow into the harbor basin and let the starboard anchor go with
four shackles of
chain in the water, then we hove it back
home again. When it went into the hawspipe the shackle in the anchor
stock parted and the anchor went "plunk" into the harbor, no doubt
another clever sabotage. I had foreseen this
eventuality and had a weighted line buoy eady, which I dropped on the spot as a
marker. We performed the same operation with the port anchor, but to our
surpise all went well. The next day I
borrowed three lengths of half inch pipe from the Engine Depatment, lowered a
lifeboat and sounded at the marker
buoy. In no time I hit the anchor but twenty feet down on the silty mud bottom.
I knew it was a forlorn case, but our Captain insisted on procuing a diver. I
showed the diver the location, but when I hit the anchor with the pipe he
insisted that it was a rock. I then let him listen to the metallic sound through the pipe. Knowing that he could not
deceive me he said what I wanted to hear; "Do you think you could
go down twenty feet in the mud and hook on to the anchor?" I told him that I thought he was absolutely ight. He didn't
work on a Lloyds open policy (no cure, no pay), his was the customary local "time and
materials" policy. Of course there were spare anchors available, but always for a considerable monetary consideation.
On June
27th, 1944 came the day of signing of the Aticles (for some unexplainable
reason this fell on my birthday) and our league of nations crew, swept
together by the wind of chance, lined up to put
their names on the dotted line. Secretly I knew that some of them had an angle.
Our Dutch-bom Purser had been an orchestra leader of a small band in
Now tied
up at the dock we reinforced all our mooing lines for our irst dock tial of the
new engine. Some expected gear roughness showed
up and had to be honed out. This was a lengthy process and had to be repeated
various times at accelerated speeds until the roughness disappeared. Then came
the long awaited day of the actual tial run in the open sea, the culmination of
the past time and effort.
43
This was
to be a grandstand show so at 0800 we hoisted a brand new Panamanian ensign on
the flag staff aft. Two cases of scotch whiskey from the epair shop
came on board (watch out for squalls). Our Master, in full uniform regalia,
shoes shining like mirrors, caried his immense importance with a professional mien of a Captain of an ocean liner, but
noticeably he had already hoisted a few. It seemed that anybody of note had a inger in the pie and a crowd stated
difting on board. I had instructed the
gangway watchman to escort them to the Master's quaters. Meanwhile I had the steeing gear tested, singled up the mooing lines,
brought our special pilot to the bidge, made the tugs fast fore and at and hooked up the gangway. Then I
went to the Captain's quarters to repot the ship eady to sail. Musteing all the formality I could I said "Ship eady
for sea, sir, permission to take in the
gangway?" "Yeah, take the damn thing in," he said, to which I
replied, "Aye, Aye, Sir."
All
except our War Shipping Representative wee in a hilaious mood, and I noted one
of the cases of Scotch Whiskey was empty. In a little
while the crowd was on the bidge and on our loudspeaker
came our Master's voice loud and clear, 'Take in your lines, make it
snappy." The tugs pulled us away from the pier and the engine went slow ahead. I
stood by the anchors on the foecastle head
until we wee clear of the harbor. The tugs cast off and our engine took over;
so far everything had a professional
touch. Under the capable hands of our Chief Engineer, the engine performed excellently, but all was not going well on the
bidge. Our captain had gotten into a heated argument with the pilot and some of the locals took the
pilot's side. In a rage he flew to his room for refuge to the bottle and, when
he had drunk enough to destroy his judgment, he eturned to the bidge and tried
to take over command from the pilot. The War Shipping ep sent for me and ordeed
me to take over command. This was an order I could not accept from him
as long as the Master was on the bidge. Our Captain
showed signs of passing out and I inally managed to get him below to his
quarters, where I proposed a toast to
the tial run. After that he passed into oblivion in a total collapse. He stayed
in limbo for several hours. All went
well and we retuned to our former berth and tied up.
It was now getting into the
middle of July and we were eady to stat loading. Our cargo consisted of a vaiety of local expot goods, canned meat,
quebracho, native brandy, jerked beef (sun died stips of meat), clothes and
shoes, wet and dry hides and tripe in casks stoed on deck. Our ship had ample cubic space for cargo to be loaded and there were
no optional ports of discharge, so it was easy to adjust our drat. As a matter of self inteest, I had
ascertained the ship's squat under full throttle while on the tial run with a simple carpenter level and
we tied to keep her on an even fore and aft draft. (The propeller will deliver its maximum thrust at
an even keel, a speed and economic factor.)
Our
Radio Operator had put the loud speaker system in good functional order and we
had procured a few phonograph records. One in
paticular was to be our departure faewell to
A crowd
began gatheing on the dock. As we assembled amidship to take the gangway in, a
ine looking young lady with a "beau geste" begged permission to
deliver a small package to her pating lover.
There is a point to which resistance to a pleading woman becomes no longer
possible. It was a fatal mistake. In the twinkling of an eye the gangway was besieged
with squirming female bodies and only on
threats of jettison did they retreat.
As we went fore and aft to
take in our mooing lines, everyone was looking back wistfully. As the last mooing line connecting us to the Uruguayan
shore was on board and the clatteing noise of the mooring winches died
down, our loudspeaker, which was focused on the crowd, struck up: Adios los
muchachos y muchachas companeros de me vida. . . (Goodbye boys and girls of my
life. . .) to cheer
44
those
sick at heart. The tugs pulled us away from the dock and on a slow ahead we
moved away towards the setting sun. The tugs cast off,
a long farewell blast on our whistle and the waving hands on the dock grew smaller until they disappeaed. Soon the familiar
buildings jumbled into a solid mass until
everything obliterated down in a gray mist below the hoizon. We were on our
own.
Night
came on as we moved on the silent sea beneath a starry sky. We were heading on
an east south easterly course, gradually angling away rom the Uruguayan coast.
The weather was ine with a steady barometer and a ine, clear sky.
Watches wee set (I stood no watch) and all settled into routine and quiet until
an eeie howl of a dog rent the air. A stowaway dog had been running up and down
the midship deck looking for the gangway. Seeing nothing but water rushing by
he had become hysteical and tangled with one of the repatriates, who took off
his army boot and flung it at the dog. The shieks wee now coming from the
shelter deck. I went to investigate and saw two men trying to put a dog into a
weighted burlap bag. In the light I could not distinguish their faces, and when
they saw me coming they took off. The idea no
doubt had been to throw the dog overboard. I emptied him out of the bag and
who do you think he was? No less than the little mongrel who had shellacked our
Master's Great Dane. Then I noticed that one
of his front legs was broken. Now here was a pretty piece of business. Like
a wild ceature that freezes into immobility at the approach of danger, he was
shaking like a leaf, and looked at me with
such sad, imploing eyes that I couldn't ind it within me to cast him into the ocean. I picked him up and brought him to my
quaters. His leg was broken clean and the whole problem could have been solved in one second, but I could never kick a
man or beast when he was down. I sent
for our Geek carpenter and got him to make me some ine wooden splints. In the medicine cabinet I found a vial with anesthetic
solution and adhesive tape. Chips arived with the splints, we put some
of the liquid on a sponge and held it over his nose. He didn't take very kindly
to this, but Chips held him immobile and finally he gave up the spasmodic
struggle against the inevitable and keeled
over.
We pulled his leg straight
and I could feel the bone snap back in its proper place. Chips kept the pull on
the leg while I applied the splints and taped them down tight. When I was done
he was still in dreamland, so I put him in
a little hand bag, then made a round of the ship to check on the all important black out. When I retuned the inert body showed
some sign of life, but soon he was sleeping peacefully. Like me, he had had a hard day.
The general opinion in
I was
awakened by the dog's growling and carrying on like a mad dog. I said, "I
have done all I can for you, keep quiet or I'll throw you
overboard," but he was getting worse. Then I heard the hurried footsteps of
Duing
peace time when you received a radio call for help every ship in the vicinity
raced to the rescue. It was a bond of camaradeie and brotherhood of the sea.
Now it could be used as a double
45
edged sword to destroy you. In hurrying from
my quarters I had left my door open, and the terible howl
of my dog could be heard all over the ship. I an below, threw a blanket over
him, closed the door and returned to the bidge. Our decision had been
unanimous: if we wee standing into danger we must head away from it, and thus we changed course for the open ocean.
Immediately I returned to my quaters and to my astonishment found my dog
quiet and peaceful. Was this poor little animal endowed with some sixth sense premonitory power to foretell imminent danger?
(Subsequent events wee to prove this
correct.)
Nothing further could be
done, my thought was that the danger point had been passed — or had it? The dog was fast asleep and soon I went off
to the land of dreams, but my dreams wee short lived. At 02001 was roused rom my bunk. I fumbled for the
light switch, no light! Our ship was blacked out and our engine was
stopped to stave off detection. The blackout esulted in a steeing gear failure
and our ship was diting helplessly about in the ocean. The warning of my old
fiend Lorenzo was echoing in my ear:
"Don't let them take the main generator off the ship, it is part of the
ship's oiginal equipment." But
the project had been so cluttered with professional bureaucracy that the rarest
commodity had been common sense.
The
order had been passed, show no lights, make no noise. If the sub had kept an
ear to the ground and taken up the hunt, he could easily
pick up any "ping" in these still waters. We wee now in deep water with no chance to beach our ship in case of a
hit. Nobody seemed to think of the hand steeing
gear which I had so carefully overhauled in
At sea our Captain's shore
behavior had no relation with his ability as a ship's master. He could identify any of the irst magnitude stars normally
used for navigation, both in the south and north hemispheres, without a star inder, and at sea he never got
supercharged.
Checking
my patient I found that he was already ambulatory on three legs, the broken one
he held out in ront. I got Chips to make me a box illed with sawdust,
which we installed in my bathroom. I asked
Chips if he could suggest a suitable name and he came up with the name
"Bambi." It didn't sound bad so we chistened him ight thee and
then with a water baptism. We both repeated the name until it seemed to acquire
a meaning to him. My room boy, who seemed to have a past acquaintance with the dog, brought his food and water, and he
was established.
If everything went according
to Hoyle, we should enter the pot of
46
solved. With this hoisted the burning soot would have cleared the
ship and fallen into the ocean. The time I had spent in prepaing the ire
fighting equipment had paid dividends. When I inally got back to my room I found Bambi sleeping peacefully. This dog
was a psychic medium with advanced sensitivity
to non-physical forces.
As we were on radio silence
we could not equest a pilot in advance, but a small naval craft came out to
lead us to the anchorage in the inner harbor where a northbound convoy was
shaping up. It was suggested that I come to
the bidge to act as an interpeter, although I was only able to understand Portuguese
when the words resembled Spanish. It seemed like a harmless suggestion and I
accepted it. The naval crat communicated with us by a hand held megaphone and
said (what I took to be) "follow me," and we did at a bae steeage
way. After about half an hour we came to a dead stop, but the naval craft kept on going, never looking behind. Then it
dawned on us that the
The Captain rang the engine
room, "Give me all you can astern within the safety of the engine." The engine went astern, but nothing happened. Then
he said to me, "You got us on, now you get us off," and he
went below to his refuge with the bottle. Chips and I sounded around the ship
and found that she was aground on a mud flat
on our pot bow. Looking up the tide table I found that the tide would commence flowing in about an hour. A fiend in
need is a fiend indeed, so I went below to the engine room to our Chief
Engineer, could he help me out? "Leave it to me," he said. "When
you get back on the bidge put the
engine telegraph on full astern with a jingle." I did as I was told, the
ship started vibrating and shaking and in a few seconds she was clear.
We stopped the engine and with ight rudder making stemway we swung away from
the mud bank. The harbor chat marked the depth of the water and there was no
problem binging the ship to the anchorage. The Captain came on the bidge in an ugly mood, he was wild with rage. He knew what
had happened (he was not on speaking terms with the Chief). 'To think that he would do that for you and not for me, who
is the Master?" he raged. My anger flared up, the harder I tied the
more I became involved. My dream of a happy ship continued to be only a vision.
I left the bidge and went to the forecastle head to stand by the anchor. After
our ship was in free pratique, no shore
leave for the crew was granted (security reasons). Only the Captain went
ashore, as he was to attend a convoy conference. We were to be the
"Commodore Ship."
The
Captain and the Commodore with an "Aide de Camp" embarked in the
evening, and the Commodore was allocated the quaters adjacent to
mine. The "Aide" looked at our Captain inquiingly. At this
the Captain ordered, "Mr. Mate, get this flunky down below."
"Aye, Aye, Sir," and I said to the
flunky, "follow me." He protested that he should be at his master's
side, so I said "See here, Buster, on this ship there is only one Master,
get that staight from the stat." I heard a chuckle behind me and
there was the Captain: "Very well said, Mr. Mate, we can use him as a
potato peeler." Buster was indoctinated and lower-quarter berthed. I
didn't hear how the initial installation suited the Commodore, but I could imagine.
Next day
was sailing day. Now that we were the Commodore Ship we made colors exactly at eight
bells in the moning. The Commodore seemed a bit perturbed, perhaps his Aide de
Camp hadn't been around to lay out his toilet
this morning. We ran our "Blue Peter" up on the signal hoist (ship ready to sail), a pilot boarded and up went
"H" (pilot aboard). The Commodore had found his Aide de Camp,
who for some unknown reason seemed to bear the brunt of our Master's
displeasure from the start. Both of them were now rooting around in our signal
locker, apparently finding what they were looking
for, and to show the eal importance of his Aide de Camp the Commodore had
ordered him to make the hoist: "You Should Follow in My Wake."
Afraid to clash with our Master if he entered the Navigation Room whee the signal book was kept, he pleaded with me to look
it up for him. "You should know
that one by heart, but why don't you ask the Commodore?" Well, he was just
too ashamed to; the poor Aide de Camp
was caught between two ires. "Well (I said) it should be 'UG', but just to make sure I'll look it up. You are in
enough hot water as things are." UG it was, and proudly he made the hoist, he was not stupid. Then all the
est of the vessels were noted flying "ZL' (Your Signal Received But Not Understood). Buster had
put the G above the U. to make "GU" (It Is Not Safe
47
to Fire A Rocket). He may have run through
the rain drops for a long time without getting wet, but this was his inal
The
harbor authoities cleared our ship and we wee eady to sail, but before all the
other ships were cleared by the slow moving local
authoities it was late in the aftenoon. Chips, myself and a deck hand
grabbed a hose to wash the Brazilian mud off our anchor. We wanted to put that
mud back rom whence it came. Then came the
Commodore's order from the Bidge: "Heave away your anchor." Chips
looked at me, both of us thought the same thing, "Vast heavens, Chips,
that order didn't come from the horse's
mouth." Shotly thereafter came the egal "Now you may heave
away." We heard a loud verbal
exchange of profanity on the bidge; our Commodore's very irst command had been countermanded. The anchor went home and we headed
out of the harbor at a slow speed like a mother duck followed by a long line of ducklings in our wake. Our pilot
disembarked in the Roads, wishing us bon
voyage. Twilight fell as our convoy fanned out like a posse of gray ghosts with
us at the spearhead.
We had
averaged better than 14 knots from
With our
superior sped we could have outan a sub and cut down on the exposure element to
danger, but in time of war these things are
worked out for you on paper in shoe offices. I know that we had
come the shortest route, which was 3,271 nautical miles. I know we had averaged
10 miles per hour. This educed our expected time of arival to simple
mathematics. If there were no other factors involved
we should be arriving in Tinidad bight and early this very morning.
This area had been a hotbed
duing the heyday of the submaine blitz in the early part of the war. Hee, relatively safe rom detection, they had been
lurking, listening for a propeller thud on their hydrophone and scanning the sea with their peiscopes. Some of the
bolder sub commanders had even entered
the
In about
an hour the high cliff of Boca del Mono (the Mouth of the Monkey), marking the entance to Tinidad harbor, came into view dead ahead.
Between this and another cliff on the opposite side lay the narrow entrance to
the harbor. Our convoy single-iled up and we all entered and dropped our anchors.
The next
morning I watched our Master's quarters for a sign of life, and then eported
our ship ready to get under way. Then I went forward
with Chips and the big Greek to stand by to heave in the anchor. We wee now on our own, and would be able to
continue on the last leg of our journey at full throttle,
with less time exposue to danger. When our anchor was up our ship was headed on
a reciprocal course to leaving the harbor. The
anchorage was crowded and thee was little room to maneuver the ship around. It
was a situation requiing expeience and keen judgement. Once you embarked on a certain maneuver you could not turn back,
and there would be no chance for a second try.
Full speed in close quarters
can be an ally or an enemy, and takes guts. The telegraph went full ahead on
right rudder. As soon as the ship gathered headway and stated swinging the
telegaph went full astem, with the wheel
amidship. It took nerve and precise judgement to utilize full engine power in such close quaters, but it is most effective and
has the charm of daing. It turned out to be a command performance and we got off to a good stat.
We
enjoyed fair weather, but were now approaching the storm-lashed coast of
48
made one
elementary professional mistake. I had failed in taking up on the lashings in
time. I got up immediately, called out my deck gang and set
to work. Facing the wind and spray was like walking into
a windmill. Just as we thought we had gained control, one barrel slipped out
and all the rest stated rolling around like a
bag full of roller beaings. The ship took one heavy roll and befoe I could
balance myself for the next roll, I slipped and went up against the bulwark.
Seveal barels were heading for me when
the young Greek grabbed my arm and yanked me away. It was a close call and failure to get out of the way could have had fatal
consequences for me. It was touch and go, but we finally managed to secure the slippery barrels.
Now it
fell upon me to get our ship spic and span befoe leaving her. It would not do
for our Captain to come into pot with a sloppy looking
ship and it had always been my policy to leave a job better than I found it.
The proper sailor fashion was to start rom the top and work your way down. If
you started to paint the mast from the bottom up you would have to sit at the
top until the paint died. Of course this would never do. The
entire above deck surface had a good wash down, any sailor woth his salt would never paint over dit. Then two coats
of paint. So we started from the top of the masts, smoke stack and king posts washing down. The
weather was with us. Everyone worked with a will, our simple little party and my personal interest in
their plight had been a shot in the arm and I knew the men would have followed
me into a deadly machine gun nest if I asked. Although they weren't paid
ovetime, I knew they would have worked from sunise to sunset if need be. To set
a good lead I kept wetting down the surface under the men working aloft
to keep the paint from streaking. The harder the work the greater the satisfaction when the job is done. I kept a weather
eye on the sky and the barometer and if only the weather held we would
have our ship in "Bistol Fashion" on arival. We had been proud of the ship leaving
We wound
up ahead of schedule dressing up our ship and this gave us a chance to eady up
our cargo working gear. Slush down the wie runners
that were rust stained from salt water spay, lubicate goose neck pins and ascertain that the cargo winches were
functional. Few ships would arive in pot better prepaed than the S.S.
Tacoma. I knew that we were going through the
Shortly we were anchored
near the entrance of the canal awaiting the pilot and clearance to pass through. As we passed up the inland waterway, my
gang was taking in the scenery with wide eyes.
Two bells struck, there was work to be done. As thee would be no watch
standing this coming night I had the whole deck gang on hand to prepare
the ship for docking on arival. Now out of torpedo range, we swung the lifeboats back inboard. There was something of a
holiday feeling in the air, the crew had all changed into clean work clothes.
Bronzed by the tropical sun, they wee a formidable lot of bleached blond
seamen in a happy mood and all worked with a will. I took some back aft and
sent the rest forward to break out the mooing lines and make everything eady
for a seamanlike docking.
"I
have driven you a bit too hard at times," I told them, "but this will
be your last chance to redeem
yourselves. When this ex-German passenger liner docks there is bound to be some
cuious spectators on the dock
watching. There have been rumors circulating that the
49
The
essential irst when docking is to get a good hawser fast to the dock. "Now
look, Adonis, if you can throw a heaving line like you can
throw knives, that's where you come in. None of this throwing
heaving lines that tangle in the air or drop in the water, you go for the
target. The rest of you hit the ball getting lines ashore."
As anticipated there was a
crowd on the dock craning for a better view, gawking up at us. As our ship veered towards the dock I pointed out the line
tenders to Adonis, as I didn't want him to hit any spectators. Like a coiled wie sping his mighty arm
lobbed the heaving line out to the bitter end and the ball fell ight at the line tender's feet. The
sping line went flying ashore. "All fast" came from the dock. "Slack your sping easy" came from
the bidge. On a dead slow ahead and a slight left rudder, the ship
squeezed alongside while the rest of the mooing lines went ashoe. It was a
perfect landing. In less than twenty minutes
the ship was secure in beth and the gangway landed on the dock. It was August 28,1944.
Bambi
•56 Bambi,
the dog mentioned in the story about the
For seemingly no reason, Bambi would become
restless,
pacing the living room and sniffing at the door. As
the day passed his agitation increased, and he
constantly stood at the window as seen in
&» this picture. This took place over a two-day peiod,
at the end of which Gunnar would appear at the
door.
Bambi
had no knowledge of ship arrivals or secret
government information. He had an innate ability
to be aware of the pending approach of his master.
Who knows how dogs do this?
50
Knut GunnarAugustsson
August
Olsson and Matilda Johansson were maried in the late 1890's. Twelve children
followed:
Gerda September 26, 1899
Gunnar June
27,1901
Annie November
26, 1902
Edith May
9, 1905
Anna Jan
26,1907
Oskar August
6, 1908
Harta January
30, 1910
Ebba March
8,1912
Samuel October
10,1913
Josef January
7, 1916
Elsa February
20, 1918
Rut December
10, 1921
Home was
a farm near Fuemo, about ten kilometers rom Solvesborg, in Blekinge province.
The farm was large enough to suppot the family,
with crops of potatoes and rye. In addition to farming, August served as an itinerant preacher, traveling for a
month at a time duing the non-farming winter months.
The
children were put to work tending the animals and plowing thb ields as soon as
they wee able. Gunnar s favoite pastime, though, was fishing. On a calm
night he would travel the short walk to the
shoes of the
School
was a two kilometer walk rom the farm, a long walk for the beginning ive year
old. An eight o'clock start demanded punctuality, as
the teacher would march the tardy child around the room by the ear, announcing the evils of ariving late. A hard
teacher wasn't appreciated at the time, but his words
upon retiing, duing Gunnar's next-to-last year of schooling, that the students
would appreciate the sternness when they reflected upon it later, proved true.
Schooling ended at fouteen, at which time Gunnar
received a Bible and his irst communion.
Frequently
on tips to market in Solvesborg he would wander down to the docks and admire
the ships. On one of these tips, while gazing at
the Nord Sjternan, Gunnar was accosted by the plump master
of the ship. "What are you staing at, boy? I could use a boy like
you." Gunnar was eager, but the captain requied that the lad get his
parents permission. A little subterfuge followed. Gunner was able to talk his mother into it, but, with father away,
used theatening to force his older sister to sign father's name. As
Gunnar made his escape rom home early the next morning father met him at the
door. After a long discussion, father gave
in, and Gunnar was off to sea.
The ship
shuttled between
51