Read Looking for a Ship Online
Authors: John McPhee
Looking for a Ship (4 page)
Dauksevich said, “It sucked.”
The telephone rang at one-thirty-one. MaLinda was calling from Maine. Yes, Andy had the ship: the Stella Lykes.
Dauksevich and Abbate signed on to night-mate her in Charleston. The various men present started to leave, telling Andy to say hello to this person or that on the Stella.
Dauksevich, surprisingly, said, “Where you going?”
“West coast of South America,” Andy said.
Dauksevich said, “Don't get the clap.”
There was a television set in the union hall, and it happened to be on for the two-o'clock local news. The Ben Sawyer Bridge was stuck open. It had been stuck open since twelve-forty, when its brakes had failed and it had swung too far.
F
our A.M., 32.25 degrees south, sky overcast, an almost total darkness on the bridge. To all horizons, no light. We have seen one ship in six days, since Guayaquil.
our A.M., 32.25 degrees south, sky overcast, an almost total darkness on the bridge. To all horizons, no light. We have seen one ship in six days, since Guayaquil.
This is the tenth of August, the antipodal mirror of the tenth of February. The ocean air is cool. The momentum of more than forty thousand tons is as absolute as the darkness. In no hurried way is it going to change. If a target should appear on one of the radars, Andy, in avoiding it, would try to preserve a cushion of at least two miles. Very slowly, toward six, shapes will form in the developing light. Anyone coming or going through the passageway to the wheelhouse passes through two doors. When either door opens, the passageway lights go out. The bridge has to be dark, so that more than radar can see into the night. Andy is pacing around somewhere, invisible. Vernon McLaughlin is at the helm. The autopilot has the ship, but Mac stands by the helm.
I have attached myself to the four-to-eight watch. It is Andy's watch. It is the watch of both dawn and sunset. Mac will tell you, “It's the
only
watch.” Mac is an able-bodied seaman. Calvin King, who is also an A.B., is far up in the bow, on lookout. William Kennedy, an ordinary seaman, will relieve Calvin at five. That Kennedy's name is William is as little known to the crew as the fact that his wife's name is Ethel. The crew, like his neighbors in Savannah, call him Peewee. Andy, Peewee, Calvin, Mac: the second mate, the ordinary, the two A.B.sâthe deck watch, four to eight.
only
watch.” Mac is an able-bodied seaman. Calvin King, who is also an A.B., is far up in the bow, on lookout. William Kennedy, an ordinary seaman, will relieve Calvin at five. That Kennedy's name is William is as little known to the crew as the fact that his wife's name is Ethel. The crew, like his neighbors in Savannah, call him Peewee. Andy, Peewee, Calvin, Mac: the second mate, the ordinary, the two A.B.sâthe deck watch, four to eight.
Getting up at three-thirty every morning is not as difficult as one might thinkânot if, in the evening, you are asleep soon after eight. I wander around the ship all day, but I go to bed at eight. Suppose I were in Icelandâfour time zones eastâand were asleep by midnight and awake by seven-thirty. I would be setting and rising at the exact moments that I set and rise out here.
This is the twentieth day of the voyage. For this ship, a voyage is forty-two days and begins and ends in New York. Our present position is about as far south as the Cape of Good Hope. Almost all of Australia is farther north than we are. Halfway up a straight line between here and New York is a point in the mantle two thousand miles deep.
Mac's voice, in the dark, says, “This ship goes to coke country. This ship is hot as a potato.”
The captain, who worries, can list dozens of disquietudes idiosyncratic to this run. Mac has just mentioned one. Steamship companies are responsible for what they carry even if they don't know it is there. Fines in six figures
can make significant contributions to overhead. Stacked on the main deck and down in the hatches are five hundred boxesâthe amphorae of this era, the containers that fit on highway trailers. The containers are sealed. Everywhere in the cargo manifests are the letters “STC” or the words “Said to Contain”:
can make significant contributions to overhead. Stacked on the main deck and down in the hatches are five hundred boxesâthe amphorae of this era, the containers that fit on highway trailers. The containers are sealed. Everywhere in the cargo manifests are the letters “STC” or the words “Said to Contain”:
Said to Contain 16,636 pounds of shower curtains, telephones, and wall clocks.
Said to Contain 7,650 pounds of religious books.
STC 6,000 kits for assembling black-and-white TV sets.
STC panties de señora, five and a half tons.
Customs officials of six countries are interested in our ship. In Port Newark, they have turned out to greet her in very large numbers with dogs. Mac remarks that a white Cadillac with both front doors open was sitting on the pier once in Newark. When Mac went down the gangway and off the ship, someone inside the Cadillac asked him where he was going. “I said, âIs that any of your God-damned business?' He said, âYes, it is.' He said he was the Man. He said, âWhat have you got in there?' I said, âHere, take it,' and threw it in the car. He said, âOh, it's your clothes.' I said, âWhatever.'”
The first gray light will delineate the speaker at the helmâa man built strong and square-shouldered, with a large head, a regal paunch, an equitable mustache, and eyes that gleam with fun and anger. Not to mention moral
indignation. Targets turn up on the radar. Fishing boats. Answering instructions from Andy, Mac turns off the autopilot and moves the wheel of the ship.
indignation. Targets turn up on the radar. Fishing boats. Answering instructions from Andy, Mac turns off the autopilot and moves the wheel of the ship.
Andy is soon on the telephone: “Good morning, Captain, it's five-thirty. We are twenty miles out, and at our present rate of speed we should arrive at seven-ten.” Normallyâwhen we are at sea, and not about to intersect a continentâAndy calls the captain at half past six. No matter what the time is, the captain always answers quickly, and always sounds wide awake.
Gradually, the Fathometer has been sketching the steep slope of the Peru-Chile Trench, and the extremely narrow continental shelf. Electric lights come into view, rising high in sinuous lines, like ornamental strings in leafless trees. There are thousands of them, and they are beautiful. They define dark hills we cannot see.
We hear a door open and close. Another opens. Captain Washburn comes into the wheelhouse. “Good morning, good morning,” he says. The first salutation may be for us, the second for the ship. More likely, the other way round. The captain routinely talks to the ship. Now, though, he goes directly to the radio. Channel 16. “Valparaiso pilots, Valparaiso pilots. This is the American steamship Stella Lykes. Stella Lykes. Whiskey, Mike, Romeo, Golf. Over.” If you say those wordsâWhiskey, Mike, Romeo, Golfâin that order anywhere in the world, they mean this ship. In this part of the world, at the moment, no one seems to care. The captain waits in silence until his patience runs out.' His patience could set a record at a
hundred metres. Again he says, “Valparaiso pilots, Valparaiso pilots. This is the American steamship Stella Lykes. Stella Lykes. Whiskey, Mike, Romeo, Golf. Over.”
hundred metres. Again he says, “Valparaiso pilots, Valparaiso pilots. This is the American steamship Stella Lykes. Stella Lykes. Whiskey, Mike, Romeo, Golf. Over.”
No response.
“So much for moving ships at this hour in the morning,” the captain says. “The port isn't even awake yet. When Ethan Allen was expiring, people said to him, âEthan, the angels expect you,' and Ethan said, âGod damn them. Let them wait.' Then he expired.”
The complete resonance of the captain's parable passes above the head of the Person in Addition to Crew. In the dark, the captain paces back and forth across the wheelhouse. Andy is also a bridge pacer. Andy and the captain have long since developed a collision-avoidance system. “I don't stay in one place,” the captain says. “I never did. I don't stay in one place even when I'm in one place. Give 'em a moving target.”
The light rises. There stands Mac at the wheel, his eyes agleam. His visored cap is white. He is wearing a cardigan sweatshirt, bluejeans, street shoesâand the keys dangling at his hip are attached to a halyard clip. Andy is revealed on the bridge wing, out in the winter air, leaving lots of room for the captain. Andy is wearing a down vest, a light-blue shirt, jeans, and running shoes. Gold letters on his blue cap say “STATE OF MAINE.” Andy has the metabolism of Eugene O'Neill. He is six feet tall and weightless. Food is squandered on him. He eats ravenously, gains nothing. His stomach is flatter than a deck. His hair is reddish-brown and halfway covers his ears. His beard is
rufous, too. His eyeglasses, lacking rims, invest him with a professorial veneer.
rufous, too. His eyeglasses, lacking rims, invest him with a professorial veneer.
Across the front of the wheelhouse are ten large windows, rounded at the corners, providing an interrupted view of the sea and the enlarging city. The lashed containers are visible now, stacked so high that they block the line of sight from bridge to bow. On top of some of the stacks, riding far up in the sky, are bulldozers and earthmovers and big backhoes that look like thunder lizards. There is a small fire engine, white with red trim.
Andy telephones Peewee, who is on lookout in the bow. Now that dawn has passed, Peewee can knock off. As Andy puts down the phone, he says reflectively, and with some feeling, “There's no sunrise in the engine room.”
In front of the bridge telegraph and the redundant radars and the redundant steering mechanisms lies a long rubber mat, which firms the footsteps of anyone traversing the bridge. With the captain present, it is not a good place to linger. Back and forth through the wheelhouse he moves, from one bridge-wing door to the otherânow indoors, now outdoors and a spin around a binnacle, now indoors, now outdoors and a look over the side. Occasionally, he stops and talks to someone. Sometimes he just stops and talks. Out of the blue, I have heard him say, “A little here, a little there.” Out of the blue, I have heard him say, “If you don't like to do that, seek gainful employment elsewhere. The army of the unemployed has an opening.” Out of nowhere, I have heard him say, “O.K., ye of little faith, there has been a change in the program; the regular cast
has left and the stand-ins are taking over.” With no related dialogue coming before or after, I have heard him say, “Any jackass can do that.” Quite evidently speaking to the ship, he will sometimes say, “I don't like to lose and I never quit.” Often he asks questions and then provides answers. One day, offering advice to all within earshot, he said, “In Rome, do as the Romanians do.” His political opinions are unambiguous. Adlai Stevenson was “a wimpy little coward mumbling platitudes.” The President of the Republic of Panama is “a pineapple-faced bum.” The United States has been reduced to “a choice between being poor-and-weak and poor-and-strong.” Pleasantly, he says, “You can get all the vitriol out of me you want, because I'm loaded with it.”
has left and the stand-ins are taking over.” With no related dialogue coming before or after, I have heard him say, “Any jackass can do that.” Quite evidently speaking to the ship, he will sometimes say, “I don't like to lose and I never quit.” Often he asks questions and then provides answers. One day, offering advice to all within earshot, he said, “In Rome, do as the Romanians do.” His political opinions are unambiguous. Adlai Stevenson was “a wimpy little coward mumbling platitudes.” The President of the Republic of Panama is “a pineapple-faced bum.” The United States has been reduced to “a choice between being poor-and-weak and poor-and-strong.” Pleasantly, he says, “You can get all the vitriol out of me you want, because I'm loaded with it.”
This captain runs a happy ship. There are personnel aboard, both licensed and unlicensed, who have patterned their time and risked unemployment in order to sail with him. He has not won them over with fraternization. In the same unvarying manner in which Pinckney B. Ezekiel is called Zeke and Trevor Procter is called Kiwi and William Kennedy is called Peewee, Paul McHenry Washburn is called Captain Washburn. His family's early background is deep New England. His middle name relates to the fort of the star-spangled banner. He knows what a magisterial distance is, and he knows how to keep it.
“He's wrung more seawater out of his boots than I'll ever sail across,” Andy says of the captain, awarding him the status of a marine cliché.
When Luke Midgett, the old second mate, was getting
off the ship and turning his job over to Andy, he remarked of Washburn, “He's a wonderful old man. He doesn't bother you. He likes for you to do your job and do it thorough. He's a big thing on these national flags. Make sure the flags are up. If you don't, the country will write a letter.” Jerome Pope, one of the A.B.s who sought their jobs because Washburn is the skipper, has told me that Washburn is “a good captain, a senior captain, a good ship handler with a lot of experience, who doesn't hassle the crew and isn't all scared to death of that Lykes Brothers.” In the radio shack, William Raymond Charteris Beach, who is known in this milieu as Sparks, will tell you that Washburn is “confident of the sea.” Beach goes on to say, “He knows his job. He is strict. He will bring the book down, but he runs a happy ship. I have sailed on ships with a captain who is sarcastic with the chief mate to the point that the mate won't talk with him, and if the ship was going to run aground he wouldn't tell him.” Washburn will talk to anybody. If he sometimes seems to prefer talking with himself, there's an obvious reason: he's the most interesting person on the ship.
off the ship and turning his job over to Andy, he remarked of Washburn, “He's a wonderful old man. He doesn't bother you. He likes for you to do your job and do it thorough. He's a big thing on these national flags. Make sure the flags are up. If you don't, the country will write a letter.” Jerome Pope, one of the A.B.s who sought their jobs because Washburn is the skipper, has told me that Washburn is “a good captain, a senior captain, a good ship handler with a lot of experience, who doesn't hassle the crew and isn't all scared to death of that Lykes Brothers.” In the radio shack, William Raymond Charteris Beach, who is known in this milieu as Sparks, will tell you that Washburn is “confident of the sea.” Beach goes on to say, “He knows his job. He is strict. He will bring the book down, but he runs a happy ship. I have sailed on ships with a captain who is sarcastic with the chief mate to the point that the mate won't talk with him, and if the ship was going to run aground he wouldn't tell him.” Washburn will talk to anybody. If he sometimes seems to prefer talking with himself, there's an obvious reason: he's the most interesting person on the ship.
Now about to dock in a foreign city, he is wearing his more-or-less-dress blues. His shoes and trousers are dark and naval. His white short-sleeved shirt, open at the collar, has epaulets striped with gold. There is gold braid on his visor. His glasses are rimmed with gold. As he moves back and forth on the bridge, he takes things in with the comprehensive gaze of a boxer. He leans forward like a boxer, his mouth and jaw set firm. His body is chunky, his paunch under control, like a trimmed spinnaker. Wisps of gray edge
his cap. His faceâbeardless, full-featuredâappears to have been the site of an epic battle, wherein the vitriol he speaks of has at last been subdued by humor.
his cap. His faceâbeardless, full-featuredâappears to have been the site of an epic battle, wherein the vitriol he speaks of has at last been subdued by humor.
The day's first light displays the breakwater, the harbor, the hills of Valparaiso. The coastal plain, if one can call it that, runs a few blocks to the rising ground. The community sweeps upward many hundreds of vertical feet on hills that descend into deep sea. The harbor is just an artifact stuck to the hull of the continent. When big swells come in, as they often do, on a long reach across the Pacific, they can shake out the basin and render it absurd. “The swell comes right over the breakwater,” the captain remarks. “I've seen green seas on top of the docks, water running uptown. Ships break free and go off the pier.” Years ago, as an able-bodied seaman, he came down here on a stick ship called Gulf Merchant. It broke twenty-three lines tied to the dock at Valparaiso.
Today, the breakwater is effective; the harbor ahead is evidently calm. The pilot boat at last approaches. “Mr. Chase, please run up the Chilean flag,” Captain Washburn says. “We won't offend their delicate sensitivities, their national pride and honor.” After a pause, he adds, “Chile is the best-run country in South America. And we would like to change it.”
Other books
Reave the Just and Other Tales by Donaldson, Stephen R.
A Taste of Sauvignon by Heather Heyford
Tormented (Evolution Series Book 2) by Carrero, Kelly
Vapor Trail by Chuck Logan
Legacy of the Sword by Jennifer Roberson
To Trap A Temptress (Southern Sanctuary - Book 2) by Cousins, Jane
The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty
Scarlet Dream by James Axler
Blood and Judgement by Michael Gilbert
Nightmare at 20,000 Feet: Horror Stories by Matheson, Richard