Saudades

I was 23. The Great War had just ended, but I continued to go the sea, my refuge from being drafted as a GI. I was running between New Orleans and Buenas Aires with a long stop at Santos, Brazil on the way (we loaded her down with coffee).

I had met some young people there of remarkable culture (they all spoke two or three languages), the girls were lovely. I fell in love with a couple of them, Maria Teresa and Wanda; the second one had more substance; she said she meant to go to Medical School.

Those girls were crazy about Americans; they couldn't have treated Jimmy Stewart any better than they treated me. I once asked Wanda why they like Americans so much; her reply: because they're not 'malicioso'; I understood perfectly what she meant.

Now it was my last trip; I hated the thought of giving up Santos, but I knew that if I kept on, I would soon become nothing but an old sea dog.

As the radio operator I had little to do except listen to the radio. Going home I came across Rachmaninoff

child's journey

(This post was requested by my good wife.)

I was 16. I graduated in Jan of 43. I had
seen an airview of the Duke campus at 10
and resolved to go there for high education.

My folks put me on the Southerner, the main
line train that ran from New Orleans to
Boston (and maybe points farther north).

I had a seat in a coach car. I was there
23 hours, then I emerged at Greensboro, and
took the milk train which took another four
hours to get to Durham.

What an impression it made. Wow. But it was
nothing like New Orleans.

Mood Swings

Some people can keep their nose to the grindstone for long periods.

In contrast there are those who work so hard at (any) form of escape that it becomes a grindstone itself; sooner or later they have to escape from their escape.

Most of us have a fairly regular moodswing. In later years we may confess, with C.S.Lewis, that we love monotony, but eventually we have to ease off (or out).

In the course of a long and happy life I've noticed various forms of moodswing at various times:

1. I will omit adolescence; it isn't really worth talking about.

2. During WWII as a merchant seaman life went on pretty routinely while at sea. But at port! oh my! A more concentrated and illumined life broke out with great intensity. (One poor devil had been torpedoed three times; he still went to sea, but in port he went blotto ASAP, to stave off the horrors.)

3. Aboard ship I played checkers with an old boy named Noisy, because he hardly ever opened his mouth except to eat. But everytime he went ashore his shipmates brought him back in an hour or so all banged up from fighting somebody; that was the shape of his escape.

4. In the civilian interlude between WWII and the Korean "police action" escape (for me) was pandemic; a creative routine had just disappeared. (Mother called me part of the 'lost generation'.)

5. Korea: on a D.E. in the Pacific it was much like it had been in the 40's-- we lived primarily during those precious hours ashore.

6. Still in the navy in San Diego in 1953 I rented a house in Tiajuana for intense celebrations on weekends.

7. In 1963 when I began working with alcohol problems (of other people), I found many of the factory workers had no idea of spending Friday any way but getting drunk.
Or take Fred Johnson. He satisfactorily coped with a dreary job and a shrewish wife- for a period! For about three months he was such a good boy that he became president of the Baptist Training Union in his local church.

Then he got drunk! He made the 'chain gang' for three months. Fred did moodswing with a vengeance.

Back in '55 working my way into the usual conventional life of quiet desperation a high school chum and I had regular mood swings at the French Quarter. There were lots of diversions there; we preferred drinking quietly at the Napoleon Bar on Chartres St. where they played classical music records.

One day, after a fairly long period of 'quiet desperation' it came to me that I was going to have to get drunk (not much in the way of drugs in those days). I didn't want to, but I felt like I had to.

The good Lord had mercy on me because soon after I found the ultimate 'escape' in a higher calling. Mood swings continued, and still do today, but the quiet desperation is gone.

May all your mood swings become creative.

This post was inspired by Christopher Phillips latest book intitled Socrates in Love.

Fagley

Move forward from Buenos Aires at 20 to Tulane at 30. Fagley, a priest of science, consultant at the N.O.Regional Research Lab where I worked as a research chemist, and professor of Physical Chemistry at Tulane impacted my life in several ways:

It may have been my first semester on the GI Bill of Rights, providing essentially free schooling to us vets. Anyway, while still working at the lab, I took a night course in Fagley's famous undergraduate Physical Chemistry. He had a reputation for failing half the engineering students (who had to have the course to graduate).

It was difficult, but I was cutting it. A recent acquaintance was trying hard, but without much success. I invited him to my house for the evening before the big exam. I extended myself to teach it.

I don't remember how he came out, but I got 100, almost unheard of for Fagley's students.

That fall I enrolled as a graduate student in Physical Chemistry, with Fagley as my professor. At the beginning of the term he told us we would all receive B's.

His lectures were a trial for him and for his students. If he could go as slow as possible (for him) and we could get on our tiptoes with attention, the two minds occasionally met.

I was there (near a window), but I wasn't really. My mind was a thousand miles away, thinking about a call to be a minister. Fagley was working patiently, and I got it (sort of), well enough to light up a cigarette.

He gave no overt indication that he had noticed that; he just advanced his pace about 300% and started scribbling formulas on the blackboard faster than anyone could possibly grasp.

I had chosen Fagley for my teacher because I discerned that he was a priest of science. But I suddenly realized that he was emotionally quite immature. "Was that the mind I wanted to take as my guru?"

Soon thereafter I went to Fagley and confessed to him that I was about to enter the ministry.

Now here's the shocking thing: he informed me that I was the third of his students to take that course.

Glory be!

Cripp and Josephine

Here's a story about N.O. without me as the main character for a change:

Cripp and Josephine were our heroes from way back. They resided in the New Orleans Zoo, if not quite the equal of the Washington Zoo, then a good second. Elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers, panthers, a wonderland for any child. But the whooping cranes were the piece de resistance (spelling???).

In the old days there were fantastic flights of whooping cranes, but in the 1960's they had dwindled down to one pair, Cripp and Josephine-- another priceless treasure of New Orleans.

But Cripp and Josephine were very prolific. Today their progency has increased to a modest flock. In 2000 "The wild whooping crane population at last count was 182." (quoted from Wildlife Sanctuaries & the Audubon Society: Places to Hide and Seek University of Texas Press.

Yesterday's local paper, the Ocala Star Banner, had this item: "A group of visitors on their way to Marion County from the north soon will give a new meaning to the term "snowbird." These birds come from Wiscosin, led by an ultralight (airplane). We're invited to go to the Dunellon Airport on the day they arrive. They will be led to the nearby wintering area, and the pilot will return to answer our questions about the flight.

It is so good to keep in touch with the greatx grandchildren of our old friends, Cripp and Josephine.

B.A.

For a 20 year old American the interesting thing about
all of these South American countries is that all of
the wealth and culture of the country seemed invariably
concentrated in the capital. In Argentina this was true
in spads.

One of the prettiest, most modern, cultured cities in the
world, or so it seemed to me. My first trip there I
disembarked and started heading over toward what
seemed to be the city center. I collared a man
I was passing with this query-- in very awkward Spanish:

"Puede Vd .. uh.. decirme.. uh donde esta .. uh Avenida
Corrientes." He looked at me rather quizzically for a
moment, then said, "Oh, you mean Corrientes St. It's
two blocks straight ahead." I thanked him --- in English.

There was actually a large English colony in B.A.
(Actually there's also a large American colony in
Brazil. These were the descendants of my Confederate
cousins, who couldn't abide Reconstruction in their fallen
country and took up residence in a place where slavery
still happened (though not for long). I heard of a man
named Larry Clayton, but didn't get a chance to look him
up.)

The English in Buenos Aires were my first close
exposure to perfectly bi-cultural people. They looked,
spoke and acted just like the Brits and also fit in
perfectly in the Latin scene. Unbelievable!

I was sitting in a barber chair (we Americans were very
well treated there), and I must have commented on how
nice everyone looked or some such inanity. A man
responded like this: "In Argentina everybody dresses
like a millionaire." I thought for a moment and
replied, "In America the millionaires try their best
to dress just like ordinary people."

I met some naval cadets; they took me aboard their ship
and really seemed to enjoy my company. We all felt like
princes in those ports during and shortly after the war.

In Montevideo I went into a bar to eat: filet mignon
with all the trimmings for 25c. What really broke me
up was the string quartet provided as entertainment in
that place. Those people lived well-- in the capital.

Our last trip included two disasters. On the way over
we were approaching Belem, on the Amazon near its mouth. The Brazilian pilot managed to put us on a sand bar at the entrance. He pleaded insanity at his trial.

We were on that sandbar for a month. Had to get a ship
from Merrit-Chapman ; they unloaded the entire ship to get us off that sandbar. The Brazilians robbed us blind, more than all the profit of that cruise.

We finally got off, did our business in Belem and went
on our way. Going back was a sad time for me; I was
saying goodbye to those wonderful people in Santos
who had put me so high; romances were ending.

I fell into a depression. I had the benefit of music in
the radio shack, and I heard Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano
Concerto. That work still haunts me.

The last disaster: cruising up the coast of Brazil two
messboys got into an altercation, one of them threw a
plate that cut the other near the temple. It wasn't
bleeding bad, but the purser just couldn't stop it.

We had to put in at Fortaleza to get a surgeon. Once
again the Brazilians robbed us blind.

Coming up the Mississipi on Jan 1 the pilot was bent
on getting to the Sugar Bowl. Half the time we were
on one side of the river, and the other half on the
other side (you know it's quite serpentine). Duke
was playing somebody. I would have dearly loved to
see that game, but no chance. (I believe the pilot
did get to it-- some of it anyway.)

Back in New Orleans: I had made up my mind I must
give up sailing. Either that or resign myself to
being nothing more in my life. Back to Duke I went.

The port of New Orleans practically evaporated soon
after that. The corrupt levee board was stealing
everyone blind, and the steamship companies came to
prefer the Houston Ship Channel. Houston became a
megalopolis, and from then on the population of N.O.
remained around half a million. Until Katrina of
course. Who knows what it will become now.

(At some more recent time, with modern inventions,
N.O. has made a comeback as a port. There are
three 'ports of N.O.' apparently. One at the
mouth of the river that deals in oil. Somewhere
else the wheat barges offload to deep sea vessels;
then what used to be the port, the wharves along
the river adjacent to the city.)

A South American Paradise

As stated before this 'B.A. run' was all any seaman
could wish: getting home regularly, lovely adventures
in those wonderful Latin countries. Brazil was my
favorite, and among ports Santos was the best of the
Brazilian ones:

Santos was the coffee port (probably the greatest
single importer of coffee in those days). Right at
the foot of the escarpment that leads up to Sao Paulo,
which at that time was a faster growing metropolis
than any other in the world. But Santos was relaxed;
the elite lived along the beach. You could swim, but
there were usually more exciting things to do.

At 20 I was still something of a reclusive, innocent
of most of the habitual pastimes in which seamen
engage. But like most young men I was interested
in a relationship.

I was in the radio shack one morning when the phone
rang; a young woman spoke; apparently she thought I
was someone else. I couldn't figure out who to direct
her to. But lo and behold you wanted to talk with me.
More than talk, she invited me to meet here at the
beach. I met her, and she was upper-class!!

Well this may sound very conceited-- until you
understand the circumstances. Believe it or not,
this was the sort of thing that upper class young
women in Santos did in those days.

Maria (I won't give her middle name) introduced me
to many of her friends (boys and girls). We had
wonderful times at the beach. My favorite activity
was to sit with some of those friends in the sidewalk
cafe of the main hotel watching the paseo.

(The paseo was the every evening social: people went
around in a circle: the boys counter clockwise and the
girls clockwise. Oh joy!)

These were idealistic and (very) literate people (I
had never met anybody like those Santistas). Most of
them spoke three or four languages; they were musical;
the girls generally went to 'normal' (even in my day
normal meant, even in the good old U.S.A., a
teachers' school).

It was the thing for these young women to go to
teachers' school, maybe teach a year or two before
taking up 'real life'.

ITEM: Strangely enough to these girls American boys
were just like movie stars. I can't explain it: maybe
we were war heroes (BTW Brazil had the only Latin
American expeditionary force in World War II).

But I think the real reason was deeper; I once asked
Wanda, my second girl friend there, why they thought
so highly of American boys. Her answer was revealing:
because they're not malicioso.

For my part they make wonderful companions. With no
duties on the ship while in port I spent a lot of time
on the beach. I thought seriously about settling down
there. I got a room at a pensao on the beach. Now
this was something else: $7 a week for a room,
breakfast, and two six course meals. I was eating
irregular hours by Brazilian standards and often the
only one in the dining room.

The waiter would bring me the first course and stand
there near my table. I would finish it and push back a
bit; he was right there ready to fill my plate again --
with the first course. I learned to say no mas! no
mas!. Then he would bring the next course. Oh my.
I've never seen (before or since) anything like that
pensao.

There's lots more to say about Santos and S.A., but it
will have to await another post. Thanks for reading, if
anyone has.

VE to VJ Day at Sea

I was sitting in the upstairs parlor of the parsonage at St. Marks (edge of the French Quarter when the phone rang. Mr. Wright, the union dispatcher, informed me that a radio operator was needed in Houston. I jumped on a plane to get over there. But in flight I realized I had left my operator's license at home; a radio operator without a license is worth nothing to any steamship company.

At Houston I called Dad and informed him of my quandary. He agreed to send it post haste to the hotel where I was staying. The next morning I went into the steamship office and informed them of my quandary. What to do? I was the only man available, such as I was. They told me to come in as soon as I got it.

I got it later that day, went to the office. They had sent the ship, another T2, the Drapers Meadow, down the Houston Ship Channel to Galveston; it could legally go that far without a radio operator. They put me in a car with an office boy (he happened to be a (discharged) Air Force Major (jobs were in short supply about that time). Anyway we hightailed it down to Galveston and were there waiting for the Draper's Meadow. When she arrived I went out and boarded her, and away we went to Norfolk, or rather Newport News to put her in mothballs at the boneyard with dozens of other old tubs of every description-- no longer needed with the end of the European War.

Home I went again with a nice check in my pocket. Next week I got the Pan York. Formerly a nice steamer, she had been retired and turned over to the Panamanians about 1904, but rejoined our merchant fleet during the war. She was a banana boat. We took cargo down to Colombia-- a lovely place to visit at that time (Cartegena and Barranquilla), then up to Panama for a load of bananas and back to New Orleans.

We often had to lay over several days at Panama. The U.S.Army installation was available to us, the post exchange, etc., but more common was the waterfront bars. At that point I became a drinking sailor. Worse than the others, being perfectly free with the ship in port, I used to go ashore at 11 or 12 o'clock, so I had a pretty good head start on my shipmates who got off a 5. Rum and coke was 25 cents, and went down easier and easier.

On board we spent time in what we called the 'saloon'; a better name for it would have been the officers' mess. We had a purser, a pretty nice man, but a terrible wino. One day, half drunk as usual, he said to me, "Sparky, you're a nice kid, but you're getting to be a terrible wino." Me? I thought, oh my stars, what about you, purser.

But it made me do some thinking and I got off that ship.

Mr. Wright liked me; he must have thought I was a cut above most of his clients. Anyway we offered me a real plum for my next cruise. The Delta Line was the premier steamship company running between N.O. and B.A. and all points between. He gave me the Cuba Victory (the Liberty ships ran 8 knots; the victories 14, a much more decent speed).

Our first cruise was Virgin Islands, Trinidad, several ports in Brazil, culminating in Rio, then Montevideo (capital of Uruguay), and Buenos Aires. They were all beautiful places for a (fairly innocent) 20 year old very interested in seeing the world. Those ports were seaman's ports par excellence (or something like that).

And Addendum to an Earlier Post

I inserted this, but after my readers had been there, so I will include this little (precious) event here:

Going back to the very beginning of my mariner's career shortly after we left Mobile we put in at Port Arthur to take on a load of aviation gasolene, right at the tip of Sabine Pass. It was a Sunday afternoon and I went ashore. Found a Methodist Church with evening services, went in early and sat down. An eagle eyed usher saw me, came over and welcomed me. Then he cast his eye over the scattering of other early arrivals and settled on a young woman. "Come on over here" he said, "I'd like you to meet Miss ??? (God knows what her name was). We chatted; I sat down beside her.After the service she took me home, introduced me to her parents, and they welcomed me like one of their own. Praise God. I've never seen such extravagant hospitality in a Methodist Church (other than my own!). Going over that incident at lunch with Ellie, I concluded, "that's true Christianity", and very, very rare. They had plenty of reason to fear and distrust travelers. In fact a few years further along that will be demonstrated-- still in Texas.

VE Day

(Going back to the very beginning of my mariner's career shortly after we left Mobile we put in at Port Arthur, right at the tip of Sabine Pass. It was a Sunday afternoon and I went ashore. Found a Methodist Church with evening services, went in early and sat down. An eagle eyed usher saw me, came over and welcomed me. The he cast his eye over the scattering of other early arrivals and settled on a young woman. "Come of over here" he said, "I'd like you to meet Miss ??? (God knows what her name was). We chatted; I sat down beside her.

After the service she took me home, introduced me to her parents, and they welcomed me like one of their own. Praise God. I've never seen such extravagant hospitality in a Methodist Church (other than my own!). Going over that incident at lunch with Ellie, I concluded, "that's true Christianity", and very, very rare. They had plenty of reason to fear and distrust travelers.)

My next cruise was to France, and I had become the Chief Radio Officer (at 18!). Starting out from the East Coast, in the usual large convoy (there was no longer much danger of U-boats by then, at least in convoy), we sailed for LeHavre and Rouen. We keep a close watch, but somehow managed to miss a message for us at BAMS (at a certain point we dropped the East Coast watch and took up the European watch; we were supplying the ETO). Orders came that we were diverted to the Med, Marseilles in fact. But we made port at Le Havre, then moved up the Seine to Rouen; I doubt that it made much difference: 100,000 gallons of gasoline here or there, like peanuts.

I thought this might be (and it turned out that it was) my only chance to see Paris, so up the river I went, spent a couple of days there getting acquainted: fat chance! I couldn't find anybody who spoke English. (I noticed this many years later in Quebec; they claim not to speak English, whether they do or not.) Unlike many ports I visited, they were not very friendly with Americans. At last I bumped into a GI; he took me into the military world, sponsored me for the rest of the day; nice guy!

We sailed back home, and I decided to leave the ship and spend a few days in N.O. Lucky I did because the ship then went to the South Pacific and stayed there the next two years.

My next cruise was a brand new C2 called the Sea Dolphin (couldn't find any records on the web). We took this new ship out of Pasagoula Shipyard (now called the Northrop Grumman shipyard)(There is an aerial vew of submerged Ingalls (NG) shipyard after Katrina also on the web).

The C2's were the greyhounds of WWII merchant shipping. On my first voyage with the Sea Dolphin she sailed from NY to the Med, though the Suez Canal, stopping at Aden (now -sorry I can't remember the name of the little Arab country where the Red Sea opens out into the Indian Ocean-- senior moment). Anyway Aden was a British protectorate, and we stopped there for routing instructions. 3 of us went ashore (the skipper, the Armed Guard Lt, and yours truly). We completed our business before 10 o'clock, and the skipper inquired if we might get a beer. "Not until none" was the reply; the temp was 130 in the shade. And his reply, "I wouldn't stay here until noon for Cleopatra herself". (It give me a kick to remember that incident.)

We perservered to Calcutta (this is already too long to talk about Calcutta during WWII). We had broken the record for the time it took a merchant ship to go from N.Y. to Calcutta (don't ask me how long it was).

We came back via E Africa (Mombasa, Zanzibar, Beira, East London, Port Elizabeth, and Capetown. Heading home from there we found ourselves near the equator when word came of VE day.