To do or not. To become or not?
Those are questions rolling around in my head as I prepare to take on the role of volunteer with Seamen’s International. At first I just wanted to give some time to the organization—I liked the idea of making up gift boxes for seamen to open on Christmas day far from their native lands—or from any land, for that matter!
Having been a traveler (Army brat) for all of my youth, I experienced that disconnected feeling of being at sea with my mom and dad, but away from all other family, friends, and most of my personal possessions. At least that’s how I felt after the initial excitement of the first day or so of my crossings (one Atlantic, three Pacific). Ocean travel aboard modern cruise ships is nothing like that aboardU.S.transport ships in the fifties and sixties.
I recall tiny cabins, impersonal mess-hall facilities, drab metal decks, and lots of grey. Nearly everything that could be painted (over 90% of the ship) was painted gunmetal grey. Today’s cargo ships may have more amenities (and perhaps color?), but I suspect crew members experience the same issues I did, and will welcome nearly anything that relieves the tedium of day after day in the same limited environment. After a few hours, the constant sight of a massive expanse of ocean meeting sky in every direction may become so monotonous that just a glimpse of another ship can be cause for comment.
Eagerly anticipated, mealtimes interrupt the boring shipboard routine. The travelers of my adventures were mostly military personnel and their immediate family, with an occasional civil servant thrown in. All passengers gathered at long tables to share the galley’s offerings without regard to rank or station. Conversation usually revolved around three topics: weather, shipboard illness, and tournament standings.
The nautical impact of current weather was then (and remains) of vital interest (a typhoon threatened during one Pacific crossing and we grew more apprehensive hourly). Adults analyzed the symptoms and possible causes of sufferings in fellow passengers (seasickness being the most common), while the more youthful set secreted tidbits stealthily removed from the table for later trading and snacking. A review of scores and standings from the last evening’s pinochle tournament sparked lively debate throughout the meal. Pinochle remains a card game crossing all social barriers.
Certain sights surface sporadically in my nautical glass: viewing the white cliffs of Dover from the sea remains impressive and awe-inspiring as seen though the eyes of my childhood. Crossing the Atlantic seemed darker in my memory and colder than any of my Pacific crossings. Perhaps it was tinged by the fear and trepidation my youthful mother felt since this was her first shipboard experience and first of many journeys away from her roots in rural Georgia.
When our ship’s Captain doggedly steered a course through a typhoon during one memorable Pacific passage, mealtimes saw fewer and few passengers venturing from their cabins until my parents and I were alone in the dining hall. Through a row of portholes on each side of the wide room, the hall commanded a view of a dark churning ocean on one side and a slightly less dark sky on the other. This threatening vista constantly tilted as the ship rolled from side to side in huge waves that struck terror into the hearts of many less seasoned or more knowledgeable travelers. Ignorant to the implications and looming danger, I watched with interest as dishes on the tables slid back and forth in time to the pitch and yaw of the vessel. Eventually the tossing of the ship became so rough that we were obliged to leave the mobile tableware for the relative safety of our cabin.
On another lengthy Pacific voyage, our vessel crossed the International Dateline with fanfare and festivities. I recall the very air crackling with excitement as passengers and crew prepared to celebrate this “rite of passage” for all ocean voyagers who crossed the line. The food was elaborate. Costumes were critical, and the Mardi Gras atmosphere had many of the adult passengers “listing to port” from too much rum–yo ho!
As I recall my ocean voyages, I catch a scent of salt sea spray, hear the raucous cries of seagulls over the ship’s fantail, and remember the awe I felt watching the waves foam away from our ship near the prow—in the inky black of night, the cresting waves hissed and foamed and glowed an eerie green. “It’s the phosphorous, miss,” a savvy seaman explained, but for me, it was magical.
Many years have passed since I became a seasoned ocean voyager and I have long since earned my sea-legs, but my fascination for the great seagoing vessels remains. Drawn to the docks of my coastal city, I gaze with longing at the ships as their crews hustle to unload cargo from the holds before heading back to sea and the next port of call.
I remain behind landlocked, so I look through the spyglass of my memory revisiting old ships and reliving the fantastic voyages of my youth. It is enough.
Now, as a volunteer, I will journey by car to the International Seafarers’ House near the docks, and I will listen to old Seadogs and Seafarers tell their tales. I’ll soak up their stories. It will be good to be among them. Bon Voyage!