Non-fiction / Sea Stories (Chapter 1)

There is a long tradition of storytelling by men who “go down to the sea in ships”, commonly known as “yarns”. Typically, these stories run the gamut from out-and-out fabrications to essentially true stories with somewhat more than slight embellishment. The tales that follow reflect my experiences of nearly 40 years ago and represent the truth to the best of my recollection. Though a long time has passed since these events took place and the memory clouds, this is how I remember them.

Piney Point

Down along the Chesapeake Bay and up the Saint George River sits Piney Point. Piney Point, Maryland was the site of the Harry Lundeberg School of Seamanship (and seaman’s resort) It was here in the spring and summer of 1971 that I attended this sorry excuse for a seaman’s school. In reality, I think they just wanted to see if you could handle being locked up for three months, much like you would be once you were signed on to a ship. Upon boarding ship, you sign the Articles (as they are called), a contract holding you for the length of the journey, typically for three months minimum but sometimes for as long as a year or more. There is no getting off short of extreme sickness unto death or death itself.

As one might expect, there were those who couldn’t make it the entire three months. Some were homesick; others just grew tired of the quasi-military set-up. For my part, this all taking place in the early 1970s, after having my head shaved I was damned if I was going to return home looking like some concentration camp survivor. I was definitely sticking it out. Most of these dropouts departed in the first few weeks. As the weeks wore on, most of us figured if we made it this far what was the use of quitting. Yet, even up to the last week, people dropped out. One of these was a fellow from Philadelphia named Greg with whom I had become friends. Three weeks to go, he up and left in the middle of the night, telling no one.

Ostensibly, the school was set up to teach young seamen the ropes as it were. From where I was sitting, it seemed an opportunity to wring some free labor in return for a union book. Still, they did introduce the basics of life on a ship, or at the least the moil and toil moiety. There are three departments on a ship: Deck, Engine and Steward. At this school, this translated into grounds crew and restaurant work as well as some marginal schooling in the complexities of the internal workings of a ship.

As mentioned, vacationing union members also used the grounds of the school, which included a pool, tennis courts and other game facilities as well as a hotel and restaurant. In addition, there was a marina with slips for several sailboats. For two out of the three months, students were required (as part of their training) to work at the hotel and restaurant. Also included during this time were a couple of weeks of Parade and Dress military-style training and, at the end of our stay, two weeks to sail down the Potomac River to Washington, D.C.

Before Maryland, there was New York, Brooklyn to be exact, where we the union told us to report. After a quick head shave a la the Army, we went to a house on Paul Avenue in Brooklyn. In actuality, I have little memory of this place. I do remember a two-story with large rooms used as a barracks and little privacy. The sense of anticipation for what was to come seems to have limited the capacity for imprint. Besides, we only stayed there for a couple of days until we reached a prescribed quota. From there, we traveled in buses down to Maryland.

Upon our arrival, to my great surprise, we were issued uniforms! This was somewhat of a shock as Seafarers International is a labor union; it is not part of any military service. In fact, back in New York, we were told right off, there would be no “yes sir, no sir” and no saluting. Yet, right away, there was this quasi-military feel to the place. We spent the next two weeks doing daily calisthenics and running laps. We also practiced parade drills interminably. It certainly felt like military service, what with the barracks sleeping arrangement and all the marching around and accompanying flag waving.

After the two weeks of drilling were over, we fell into our real purpose for being there. First, we were set upon to “police the grounds” as they put it, which was actually doing janitorial work, grounds keeping as well as other maintenance around the hotel. Pool cleaning, lawn mowing, bush trimming and general landscaping work were the order of the day for the next month. After this, we shifted into the restaurant for dishwashing and bussing work.

This was actually somewhat of an improvement as the seamen invariably brought guests of the female persuasion, sometimes even their daughters. Working in the restaurant at least provided the opportunity for closer inspection of these guests, very important for teenage boys locked up with only other teenage boys for three long months. This was quite the arrangement for the union, as every few weeks a new crop of recruits arrived providing an endless stream of rotating cost-free labor.

I should mention that in the course of the hotel work period, we sometimes worked as crew aboard the fleet the union had acquired. Some of these were beautiful sailing vessels. The Kennedy family once owned two of these: the Freedom and the Manitou. These were handsome craft outfitted luxuriously with teakwood above decks and fine leather upholstery below.

Guests would be taken out sailing on the bay and the task of handling two masts outfitted with multiple sails would fall to the students. Mostly this involved the hauling in and letting go of lines and rigging. Despite all of that, I would volunteer at every opportunity to go out sailing on these magnificent yachts; the sound of the sails snapping, the lines groaning and the wind whistling through the rigging filled the air as the straining masts bent before the wind.

In between all this free labor, the school sandwiched some general engineering courses to familiarize students with the outer and inner workings of a ship and its engines. It was all quite simplistic but considering that many of the students never got beyond the third grade (true), they had to dumb it down to some extent. To the school’s credit, they did offer GED classes for those that wanted them; a number of people I knew attended and earned their diplomas. For some of these, being from remote rural areas, it was the first time they had access to anything beyond elementary school. At the end, I graduated at the top of my class, not that this was any great distinction. Nevertheless, I received a certificate and my choice of department when I shipped out.

Not surprisingly, in hindsight, this reward turned out to be a fraud. I had chosen the Deck Department, mostly because the work was generally outside and not buried in the bowels of the ship; but I also had fantasies, born in boyhood, involving great blasts of wind blowing through my hair as enormous waves broke over the bow, leaving the decks awash. When I received my union book, however, the inside cover page had Steward Department typed on it. Someone had crudely used whiteout to cover the word Steward and typed Deck over it. Later on, I never failed to be questioned about this whenever I showed my union book to union officials. My explanation sounded lame even to me.

After two and a half months of this grind, we were to take our final sailing voyage on the one three-masted schooner that was owned by the school. This vessel was much larger than the other sailboats we had taken guests out on. A schooner required a large crew, some dozen or more, and the decks below were fitted to accommodate them. We were to sail down Chesapeake Bay to the Potomac River and then up to D.C.

Unfortunately we were becalmed for the most part and forced to use the motor. That was the story told anyway. Still, I would have loved to see all those sails deployed but, in hindsight, the whole idea of sailing down the Potomac with an unskilled crew was probably never even remotely considered. Once we arrived in Washington, we were allowed shore leave. We were only there one night but at least we managed to roam around D.C. and see some of the sights.

One incident on this trip, I will never forget. In the weeks leading up to this final challenge, several candidates had been considered for the job of Boatswain (or Bo’sun in sailor’s parlance). These candidates were selected not only for their perceived ability to lead but also for their physical size and prowess. As I was skinny as a rail in those days, I certainly was not in the running. Ultimately, the student chosen for our group was from Southern California: a tan, blond and muscle-bound specimen. He stood about six-three and looked the part better than any of the rest of our scrawny bunch did.

Well, we were only one day out and this warm weather warrior was exposed. On that first evening, we were tooling down the bay, most of us enjoying the cool night air (this was Maryland in June). There was a bit of a breeze from the forward movement of the boat but not enough to fill the sails had they been unfurled. At any rate, it certainly wasn’t enough to be overly chilled. The instructor called out for the Bo’sun but he was nowhere to be found.

When he was finally located, he was huddling behind some crates, shivering uncontrollably and whimpering like a small child. He kept saying how freezing it was and how he wasn’t sure if he would be able to take it. The instructor, slowly shaking his head, sent him below with a withering, exasperated look. Despite myself, I felt for the guy, our anointed Aryan avatar; he looked so wretched and pathetic, pitiable even. As said, looks can be deceiving.

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