Non-fiction / Sea Stories (Chapter 6)

Coastal Run

After yet another run around the ports of the Pacific Rim, I was once again in San Francisco, my future wide open. Through the grapevine, I heard that the ship I was about to disembark was to head for the East Coast for retooling. Since I had been at sea for a number of months and this looked like an easy way to transport back there, I decided to sign on for the short-term Articles that would allow the ship the necessary complement of sailors. The intent was to sail down the West Coast to the Panama Canal and, once passing through, sail on up the East Coast to Bayonne, New Jersey. This trip took six to eight weeks and, at the end, I would be very near to Boston, my hometown.

West Coast

Since the ship was deadheading (i.e., carrying no cargo), it was only necessary to stop for refueling. Along the West Coast, this led us to stop at a particularly heinous seaport outside Los Angeles. Oxnard lies in an area of Southern California that has long been central to seagoing vessels and, consequently, of great interest to seafaring men. Its history as a port of call for ships coming from across the Pacific as well as from around the Cape of Good Hope at the southern tip of South America is long and colorful. However, the Oxnard that I saw was far gone from those heady days. It sat in a squalid little corner of the southwestern coast, filled with seedy bars and appearing as if out of a film noir about fog bound piers and salty characters of ill will. Perhaps the Oxnard of the present day is different; as for my experiences there, the little said of Oxnard the better.

The following day, the refueling complete, the ship was off again, heading south by southeast, hugging the coast and running always within sight of land. It was late summer and the seas were calm so the journey was uneventful. Sailing along the coast of Mexico and then Central America, misty mountains above the passing shores were all that could be seen. The sea itself was a deep sea green, lightening at the shoreline, which could be faintly seen from the ship rail, to azure and finally to a tropical turquoise. As the days dragged by (for the ship was doing a relatively slow twelve knots), I grew increasingly anxious to hear of a sighting of the mouth of the bay. Soon my wish was granted and the word went out that we would dock at Balboa, Panama that very night.

Panama Canal Zone

The seaport cities of the Panama Canal Zone – Balboa on the west coast and Cristobal on the east – are distinct from other ports I have visited in that there is no on or offloading; the sole purpose for the two ports is simply access and egress. In consequence, the towns engage in activities that pander to the various travelers that pass through, including world-wandering seamen. At the time that I was there (i.e., early 1970s), both of these were smallish towns with Balboa being the smaller of the two.

The canal itself is actually geographically oriented to the north/south; the section of the Central American isthmus upon which Panama lies runs east/west. Entering from the Pacific Ocean requires first turning east and then north to reach the Bay of Panama, which opens onto the port of Balboa and the Canal. The locks within the Panama Canal are relatively narrow and can only allow for one ship at a time; consequently, vessels stand offshore until the notification of their turn in the queue. This sometimes can take a while. For the world-traveling seamen, this arrangement is fine, as they are allowed to go ashore by launch and are not required to return until it is time for their work shift.

As mentioned, Balboa, at the time I was there, was a relatively small town and like all small port towns was fully equipped with emporiums that cater to various desires, whether they be gastronomic, libationary or libidinal. Outside of these palaces of gratification, Balboa held little in the way of cultural amenities. Since we were going to be there for a while, I used my part of my shore leave to go into the capitol, Panama City, which was nearby.

Panama City in the early ‘70s was a bustling metropolis containing all the big city amenities one could wish for; but since I was only in town for a few hours, I used my time to stroll about the bustling burg, if only to better absorb the Central American ambience. I remember life on the streets of Panama City as being somewhat akin to the crowded streets of any American metropolis, only the soundtrack and the cultural character was completely “en Espanol”.

This was not in the vein of Hispanic neighborhoods in U. S. cities: not East Cambridge, MA; not Spanish Harlem in New York City; not the Mission District in San Francisco, CA; not even Miami, FL. No this was complete immersion in Hispanic culture; not unlike what I had experienced on the other side of the Pacific but now this was on the North American continent. Somehow, the fact of considerable displacement made my experiences in Asia seem otherworldly; Panama City rang too close to home for that rationale.

Panama Canal West to East

When the place in the queue was announced for the ship, it maneuvered into position to enter the Miraflores Locks. These are actually two sets of locks that raise a ship a considerable extent, enabling it to cross Miraflores Lake near the center of the isthmus. Once across the lake, ships enter another single lock: the Pedro Miguel Lock. From there, the Continental Divide is crossed through the Gaillard Cut. On the other side of the divide sits Gatun Lake, which leads to the Gatun Locks. Again, these are multiple locks (three), which lower the ship back down to sea level and into the port of Cristobal.

Cristobal sits near another large city, Colon, which is second in size only to Panama City. I never had the chance to experience Colon, or the crossing of the canal for that matter. For, when our turn in the queue was called, it was the middle of the night. By the time I awakened for work, we were well out into Limon Bay. All of the above description is taken from hearsay; I had slept right through the entire crossing.

I take solace in the fact that in the dead of night it would have merely been long hours cruising silent black waters lit only occasionally by the tiny lights of villages along the shores. Still I would love to have seen those massive locks at work, displacing the great physical mass of the ship some hundreds of feet, literally lifting us over the Continental Divide and depositing us gently on the opposite side of the Continent like some modern day Colossus standing astride the passageway from one vast pelagic expanse to another.

Gulf Coast

The passage from Pacific into Caribbean waters afforded a considerable contrast: The Pacific, while certainly stormy at times, proved quite capable of living up to its placid appellation, the Caribbean (and by extension the Atlantic) was considerably choppier. As we motored north (mariners always refer to sailing but the reality was much less romantic) into the deeper waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the sea became quite agitated and I recalled my previous storm chopped experiences; but our fortune held and we encountered no squalls.

Soon (certainly sooner than expected after the long stretches as sea on the seemingly boundless Pacific), we were heading toward land at Biloxi, Mississippi. The Biloxi of recent news events (i.e., Hurricane Katrina) is extremely different from the sleepy ante-bellum southern town that I remember. Gaudy casino boats and their attendant shoreline hotels clutter the shore where great plantation homesteads once stood. When I was there last, it was in winter. A gentle mist fell upon tree-lined avenues running away along the coast giving a sense of a fog of the distant past enveloping the landscape.

For me, the visit was a short one, only time enough for refueling and a short promenade along those ghost filled shores, filled as they were with the memories of long ago chivalrous southern gentlemen willing to risk life (and more, limb) for the honor of defending the south. These honored sirs lived an oddly juxtaposed existence of duty, honor and the abysmal shame of using human beings as chattel (and cattle). Yet, they always put family before all, abhorring the slightest character flaw. Considering what a good part of that region (and its denizens) has become, it is a sad commentary indeed.

As we left Mississippi and headed south to navigate around the Florida peninsula, we again entered unsettled waters. Heading south, we rounded the tip of the peninsula and were treated to an unusual sight. For there were the skyscrapers of Miami thrusting into the cerulean sky but their bases seemed rooted on the ocean floor. Due to the curve of the earth and the fact we were a considerable distance away only the tallest buildings were visible, not the landmass. Seemingly, Neptune disgorged these sparkling phallic protuberances onto a shimmering watery world.

Norfolk, VA

We stuck close to the East Coast as we advanced north out of semi-tropical waters. Encountering almost uninterrupted choppy seas, there was an unerring sense of nostalgia for the broad, calm depths of the Pacific. Obviously contributing to this melancholia was the fact that we carried no cargo, so there were no ports of call, only the stifling sameness of life at sea. Thus, it was with heightened anticipation that we made for Norfolk, Virginia.

Unlike Biloxi (which was the only other port we called at in the South), Norfolk was a big, bustling city. Just as in Biloxi, we were only there for several hours, not long enough to truly explore and hardly worth the time going ashore. Go ashore we did, however, for the draw of dry land for legs beleaguered by days at sea is too strong.

As in most big city ports, the area around the piers is usually peppered with seedy, dive bars so naturally I was in my element. I went ashore with a friend of a few months, a young guy from Texas, and we wandered into the nearest likely looking libation emporium. Once inside, we hesitated for a moment, for this was a black bar and every head inside was turned in our direction, stopped short in whatever conversation or dalliance to peer at two skinny white boys who had the audacity to enter their province.

Not wanting to appear intimidated, we sauntered over to the bar and ordered two cold ones. The bartender, after giving us the once over, shrugged and served us. This seemed to diffuse the tension and the locals resumed whatever it was they were up to and left us to our drinks. The bartender amused himself by grilling us as to our particulars: where we were from and where we were going. We happily acquiesced if only to relieve some tension of our own.

Once our credentials were established and everyone was reasonably comfortable, I asked about a pool table just to fill a lull in the conversation. Suddenly, the barkeep perked up. “Oh, it’s pool y’all interested in? Come on back here” he offered and led us through a door behind the bar. The smallish back room was nearly filled by a regulation size table, some cue racks, hanging counters and a couple of small tables and chairs. “This is where we play”, said our overly unctuous friend. I was to understand the meaning of his obsequious affability in a short time.

We racked and played a couple of games of eight ball without interruption before the door to the bar opened. Expecting another round of beers, we were surprised by a group of young black men who walked in and promptly assumed ownership privileges to the table. When my friend and I protested (for we were already getting a little steamed from the steady stream of beers our bartender friend had been delivering), the new arrivals offered to play a game for the use of the table. As this was proper poolroom etiquette and a defusing devise everyone could live with, we quickly agreed.

The game progressed quickly with both sides (for we were playing partners) making fair and even good shots. One necessary note on my own pool playing skills: then as now, I have the uncanny ability to suddenly go on a roll, making a fusillade of logic defying shots that seem to feed on themselves. This began happening in that back room all those years ago and my opponents were none to happy to be witnesses to my seeming transformation from B-game wannabe to mister too slick hustler.

A particularly tough pool shot to master involves the target ball laying directly against the short rail while the cue ball is shot straight at the rail just to the side of the ball, in essence “kissing” the ball, causing it to run along the rail and into the corner pocket. After I perfectly executed this neat trick, one of the assembled asked if I was attempting to hustle them. Despite my assurances to the negative (and my nervous partner), I continued my run of luck. Not for long, though, as I returned to the pattern of one in, two misses that usually comprises my game.

In the end, they won the game and were pleased enough with themselves to offer to play us for money. With a look from my friend that spoke volumes that needn’t have been communicated, we opted out of the match and quickly sidled out the door and out of the bar with the sound of the patrons jeers and catcalls (their tone indicating their mistaken assuredness that their boys had wowed us with their pool skills) providing the soundtrack for our egress.

The walk back to the ship was filled with musings as to what had ensued after we had left. Did the regulars hear the true story of the near defeat of their purported heroes at the hands of some pasty little Yankees; or was it all shuck and jive, all reassurances that the ringers brought in to lighten the seamen’s pockets (for I felt then as I do now with this retelling that that was the intended purpose from the moment we were given unexpected access to the lion’s den) had frightened away the timorous interlopers.

Bayonne, NJ

At last, the final port of call was upon me. Fitting as it was (for short of pulling into Boston Harbor, this was as close as I was going to get to home); Bayonne hardly had the picturesque soul that would have provided the perfect denouement to this group of tales. Taken as a part of the whole, though, it seemed appropriate enough. It had all the right ingredients: a long history as a port dating back to colonial times, just the right urban mix of grime and seed and certainly it had proximity on its side, for I could smell home.

We arrived late at night and I decided to sleep in to prepare for a big following day. I packed my duffel for the final time the following morning. After alighting to the captain’s foc’s’le to sign off, I descended to the crew mess to be paid off. As usual, the union hierarchy was assembled for payoff (for all the crew was disembarking, as the ship was to go up to dry dock for repairs) and they were eager to lighten our wallets for their dues. I quickly concluded my business, gathered my belongings and headed down the gangway.

As I stepped upon the pier, I turned for what was to be my last look at a ship on which I had sailed. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the finality of the duffel that lay at my feet. The possessions contained within, meager as they were, had represented my place of being for the longest time and that place was no longer within the comforting confines of the ship. It was out here, amongst the world of men and the travails that must accompany them (and me).

During my time at sea, unbeknownst to me, I had released my sense of agency to the articles of employment signed upon joining the ship. Now I was no longer shackled to the ship and its chain of command but under its protection no longer as well. From here on in, I was on my own and entirely unsure what to do with myself. It was as sobering a thought as I have ever had.

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