Looking for a Ship (6 page)

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Authors: John McPhee

BOOK: Looking for a Ship
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From the privacy of his cabin, on the boat deck just below the bridge, Captain Washburn can look forward past
containers and over the starboard sea. He tends to linger over the view when he is uncomfortable about an officer on the bridge. As he describes it, “I stand a lot of watches from my window.”
Asked if he sleeps well on the ship, he says, “I have made trips where I couldn't sleep at all. The main thing is to have people who will call you when trouble is imminent. I say to the mates, ‘I'm not supposed to sleep. Courts don't think so. Call me early, don't just call me up here to be a witness.'”
I have asked him how long it takes him to become comfortable with a new chief mate, second, or third.
“Sometimes almost right away,” he said. “Sometimes half a trip. Sometimes I'm never totally sure but I'll just kind of take a chance. I pick the watches that I can sleep on. I can sleep on any of these.”
In certain concatenating circumstances, he has remained awake for as many as seventy-two consecutive hours. “I made trips to Vietnam where, on the coast, I stayed awake as long as I could, got the ship into shallow water, and anchored it, and lay down and slept for a few hours, and got up and picked the anchor up and went on, because I was not going to sleep on the coast with one of the men that I had. In the middle of the ocean, I'd have hoped they wouldn't run into somebody. But if there was land or rocks or coastwise things or small boats or fishermen to run into … they weren't doing it. On one ship, the only man I could rely on was the chief engineer. That included the
radio officer, the other licensed officers, and all of the unlicensed crew. This was at the height of Vietnam. When you talk to the veteran seamen, they'll all tell you that was the worst—I mean, personnelwise. Over the years, there has been a slow change in the personnel in the Merchant Marine. We don't have the knife fights, the broken-bottle fights. They're isolated instances today. The people are older. They are more steady. Hey, there are more people who are dependent on this job to support a family.”
Which did not necessarily mean that he would trust them on the bridge. “In crossing and passing situations, you have a privileged vessel and a burdened vessel,” he said to the four-to-eight watch, and the dialogue that followed had some subtle bifurcations. While ostensibly educating me, he included messages to Andy. While not exactly lecturing to Andy, he reassured the ship. “I wouldn't have a person around that wanted to hold on to a crossing or passing situation in which a chance of collision was prevalent,” he continued. “The old rule was that the privileged vessel held its course, the burdened vessel had to give way. They followed that rule for a hundred years and piled up one ship after another. The privileged vessel was required to maintain course and speed until such time that only action by both vessels would prevent collision. You had to hang on so long that even if only you took action it was too late. I myself never hung on to a situation that long, even though that was the court interpretation of the rules, and I didn't abide my officers' hanging on to it that long. We were out of
there before the situation got that close. The rule has been changed now. You are not required to do that. You have more leeway to play with. It's more a question of prudence and good seamanship now. When I see certain ships, I seem to have some kind of an instinct that says, ‘Hey, give this guy a little more room.' In ship channels and rivers, you pass fifty feet apart all the time, but that don't mean it's apropos to do it in the middle of an ocean. Hey, it's just like driving, out here. You sail defensively. You cannot depend on that other fella to always stop at the stop sign or not change lanes or give you the right of way or use his blinker signal. You can't count on him to do anything. Hey, the
only
way I'm going to get hit is in the stern. Somebody faster who is really after me is going to have to run me down and hit me in the stern.”
In the
Merchant Marine Officers' Handbook
, I found a reprinted article called “Tips on Practical Shiphandling” by Captain H. A. V. von Pflugk. One of those mornings on the way to Guayaquil, I carried the book to the captain's cabin and read this passage to him:
If … you feel, when laying your hand upon the rail, that you are in contact with something alive, responsive to your slightest touch, something that is a part of you, something that you really love, then you are in a good position to become truly expert at shiphandling—if you have the knack and are gifted with good judgment and have an eye for distance and are the calm rather than the excitable type.
He said, “You're singing my song. I don't fancy myself as those things, but the love that I have for this business … I've spoken to you about being emotionally involved with ships. I get carried away by it sometimes—ships that I really liked and ones that I didn't care for. But the opening part of that … To feel that I am part of a living thing and that I love what I'm doing and would rather do this than anything else … I'd rather be here than anywhere. Whether I am gifted with those other things I would leave for someone else to say. I might fancy myself that I am. But when I put my hand on a rail and think that I am associated with a living thing, and that I cannot only control it but that I have something going with it, we understand each other. It isn't all me taking and her giving. We work as a unit. I talk things over with her, and almost ask her, ‘Hey, can we do this?' I am not just demanding what this ship can do for me, I'm asking what I can do for her. ‘Look, old girl, you're in trouble. Let's see if we can help each other.'”
There had been a recent moment when the old girl was in trouble. In Cartagena, we drew a pilot of whom Washburn said, “He can't dock a ship. He can take you from the sea buoy to an anchorage. He can undock you and take you out. But he goes all to pieces when he gets close to a dock coming in. There are a scattered few of us around who can't play golf. He can't dock a ship.”
The pilot lived up to this job description. Dead slow, the six-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot Stella Lykes—as large as most old-time ocean liners—entered its designated slip,
which it would share with the Colombian freighter Ciudad de Manizales. Stella would tie up on her portside. A firm wind was blowing across her port quarter. The mistakes made by the pilot were several. He misjudged the wind. He had a tug pushing Stella on the wrong side. To put the bow in, he called for full ahead when he was very close to the dock.
The stern swung wide of the bollards it was trying for, and toward the City of Manizales. The water narrowed between the ships. A collision seemed imminent. There is one place in the world where pilots are in absolute charge of ships, and the place is not Cartagena. (Pilots are supreme in the Panama Canal.) There is always some insurance risk if a local pilot is ignored, and plenty of insurance risk if a local pilot is not aboard. Washburn has said, “Your worst enemy can be your own underwriter. If I'm in Borneo and a guy comes on board with a spear in his hand and a bone in his nose and says he's the pilot, he's hired.” Now, however, this man in Cartagena had come on board with a pencil in his hand and a bone in his head, and misjudged the wind and misused a tug and called for full ahead within inches of the pier. Washburn literally stood him in a corner and took the ship away from him. The Colombian freighter was twenty feet away. In a tone that contained no panic, Washburn said to Andy, “Get a stern line to the pier with a small boat if you can.” Meanwhile, he maneuvered: sculling, in effect, to preserve his distance—engineers running among the burners as Washburn gave them bells.
Ships are tied up with what the rest of the world would
call ropes. They look anachronistic—like rope you would see in a seaport museum, but larger. A good mooring line costs eight thousand dollars. Made of Dacron for strength and polypropylene for flexibility, it is six hundred feet long. We carry eighteen. As a mooring line payed out over the side and reached like a suspension cable in the direction of the pier, the ship was so askew that the six hundred feet might not do. You marry one line to another if the need arises. In Genoa once, on the Almeria Lykes, Washburn married three lines and winched the ship more than a thousand feet. The one line spanned the distance here and was soon secured to the bollards. A dugout canoe passed below it, moving smartly under a sail made of flour sacks. Very slowly against the wind—completing what Washburn would later call “one of the poorest dockings in marine history”—Stella reeled herself in.
Captain Washburn's family name derives from Great Washburne, near Evesham, in the English Midlands. The McHenrys in his background of course were Scots. John Washburn of Evesham immigrated to the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1631. The family were in coastal shipping in the Boston area before going into timber and allied enterprises in Maine. In lake-and-river country near New Hampshire, they had a hilltop farm called Norlands—hundreds of acres and long deep views—that might as well have been called a plantation. It looks today much as it did a century ago. As Norlands Living History Center, it attracts school buses and preserves its first demeanor. There is a widow's walk on top of the house, for a widow with exceptional
eyes, Norlands being fifty miles from the sea. Samuel Washburn (1824-90) was a skipper of clipper ships, a captain in the United States Merchant Marine. Elihu Washburn (1816-87) was named Secretary of State and minister to France by Ulysses S. Grant, whose portrait is prominent in the freestanding Washburn Memorial Library (1883), with its spinning wheels, its Britannica IX, its rose and pale-blue windows. Washburns went west, founded the Minneapolis Mill Company, and made Gold Medal Flour. They were involved in the beginnings of General Mills. Washburn College, in Topeka, Kansas, is named for Ichabod Washburn. The father of our Captain Washburn was a Washington lawyer. (“He had the trait of honesty. Hey, he didn't have a chance.”) As a schoolboy in the District of Columbia, aged thirteen, Paul McHenry Washburn was told to write an essay about an ancestor. He wrote about Chief Justice John Marshall. He turned in the essay, but he was not for school. He ran away from home.
The captain learned from Leadline Dunn, from Terrible Terry Harmon, from Dirty Shirt George Price. These are the old skippers with whom he sailed when he was young, and on whose seamanship he modelled his own. They were not his only icons. He had plenty of admiration for Herbert P. High Pressure Erwin, for Clean Shirt George Price, and for Rebel Frazier. He even learned from Wacky Wacker. He had less affection for Jake the Snake Jacobs, Tanktop Evans, and Wild Buck Newsome. With the exception of Tanktop, who was an engineer, all were skippers. Some were still mates when Washburn sailed with them.
He sailed on Liberty ships. He sailed with the International Freighting Corporation, the Luckenbach Steamship Company, the United Fruit Company, the Mystic Steamship Company, the South Atlantic Mail Line. He sailed with Lykes Brothers Steamship Company. Dirty Shirt George Price and Clean Shirt George Price were not related. Each man, as it happened, was named George F. Price, Jr. Harmon was Terrible Terry when he was a first mate. Later, he renamed himself Harmless Harmon. Washburn says, “He was called Terrible Terry because of his personality. He was his own worst enemy. But he knew the sea. He knew ships.” Leadline (whose nickname rhymed with “deadline”) was actually John Dunn. Among these first-class seamen, Dirty Shirt and Terrible Terry were especially gifted in the art of stowage and also had high reputations for “protecting ships and protecting people.” Their example became Washburn's fixed priorities, which he lists as
1.
people
2.
ship
3.
cargo.
When he himself became a master, and a difficult situation came up, he would think of the old skippers. He would think, If they threw this at Dirty Shirt, what would he do?
Dirty Shirt was a short man with “inky-black hair and cold dark direct eyes,” as Washburn describes him. “Two hours after he shaved he looked like he needed a shave; he was of small stature but commanding, no less a man than
a man six-four.” Leadline had legs like beer kegs. “Rebel Frazier was a husky six-footer, dark visaged—he scowled. The closest thing to a smile was just not a scowl. He laughed once a month. He was not hostile, but there was no friendship in him. He was an excellent ship's master. He knew the sea. He knew ships. He knew cargo. He knew weather. He had that instinct for dead reckoning that the old-timers had to have, because if you didn't have it you didn't make it.” Dirty Shirt, Rebel, and Leadline instilled in Washburn the importance of confidence in your own dead reckoning: “Never doubt it. Never—as in do not ever—doubt it. Leadline came up in the twenties, when you didn't have a lot of navigation things to help you. You did it on your own or you fell by the wayside.” Washburn went on to say, “The old skippers did all their own piloting, docking, and undocking. They were their own agents. They did all the ship's business. They'd go up to the customhouse to enter a ship and clear a ship. They did the manifests. Each was a one-man floating industry. Leadline had a sixth sense as to what types of wave action and sky action hint at coming weather. I learned to read the sky from him. From him I learned things not to do. Leadline was an aggressor in dealing with people. A steamship master—while he's there—
is
the master. Leadline and Dirty Shirt and Terrible Terry—they did not back off from anyone. I learned from them to maintain a gulf between yourself and the other officers. I learned, Never cross that gulf. I learned, Don't act like the other officers, dress like them, or socialize with them. I learned, Don't be like them. Whatever they are, be different. Never
waver in your dealings with them. Don't vacillate. I learned, Never chastise people in public, even if they have earned it. I learned, Don't alibi, don't complain.”

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