Rosanne Wasserman at the Groundwater Press

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Sharon Ackerman's SEA STORIES 1996

The Chief Engineer

A berthing space, formed by four cold metal bulkheads, houses a large empty desk and a double bed that lay bolted to the deck. The sheets are starched and the blankets pulled tight by the hands of an unlicensed, nameless crew member. A single plant hangs adjacent a porthole, evidence of a failed effort at a personal signature. The light streaks through the glassed opening, pouring harsh white color on the blanched carpet. Sitting in the darkest corner of the room rests a steel chest of drawers. Lying in balance on the edge of this bureau is an antiquated photo of two children.

Standing outside the door is a thin shadow of a man. His clothes are grease stained and patched, his hands are twisted and scarred. The fingers of his left hand grip the railing for support against the gales of a storm on a different ocean. The fourth finger bears a simple wedding band of plain gold. The shapeless link anchors the ghost to another life on land. The ring and the photo are the only tangible connections to a lost reality. His right hand grasps a short tumbler, half emptied of its smooth, brown alcohol. The ice in the glass crashes against itself in reaction to the soothing hum and vibration of the propulsion machinery that drives the vessel to its destination.

The thrust of the propeller carries the old man into a century he does not belong in, away from a life that was never his. The ship steams on and the world never notices.


A Hazing Experience

I looked on as my new roommate stood bolt upright. The sweat trickled down her beet red face. She screamed an answer, her voice cracking in the middle. She clutched her rifle as panic set deeper and deeper into her thoughts. Every minute meant a greater badgering of brain cells, a never ending influx of information. The stress of the first day of indoctrination.

Jenny was the last to fall out after the changing party, a tool used to teach time management. In her haste, she had forgotten to change from the white socks of her physical training gear to the black socks of her tattoo gear. From down the hall she heard the other forty plebes chanting in time, creating a beat that quickened her heart.

Knowing that each second she was late meant a longer game, more push-ups for arms that were too sore, more rifle maneuvers for hands that were too clumsy, simple tasks that became insurmountable in this frame of mind. The circumstances had pushed her over the edge and now her mind was spinning and her stomach, churning. The drill instructor bellowed and Jenny completely lost her composure. She threw up on him.


An Excursion Ashore

As a cadet on board the M/v Sea Wolf, I did not look forward to venturing ashore. This vessel tramped through South America, tying up in obscure ports filled with poverty. The crew loved the available night life and just couldn’t wait to take me to their favorite spots. I quickly learned that their interests were not mine. They enjoyed spending their free time in cheap bars and discos packed with prostitutes and beggars.

Realizing my indifference, the third engineer told me of how he liked to walk with his small son, who was now living in Venezuela. He spoke of the outskirts of a rain forest located some fifteen miles from a desolate port near his home. He promised me butterflies with wingspans of two hands, lush greenery that obscured the sky completely from view. One Sunday we arrived in his home port, his wife and his son meeting us at the ship. We walked for hours, following a path cut from an extinct stream. The once rushing water had cleared the dirt and smoothed the large rocks to a shiny finish. The smell of the impending rain hung in the air as the moisture enveloped bare arms. He led us through the winding roots of the towering trees, pausing only to point out an exotic leaf. His son lagged behind and then rushed ahead chasing the shadows the swayed with the breezes.

I learned that day that South America held beauty that far surpassed the bars.

Rough Weather

The unoccupied chairs in the officer’s mess come to a crashing halt as they strike the wall. The ship heaves and rolls in response to the heavy gales and the stormy seas. Unsecured drawers slam open and then closed, their contents clattering. A glass salt shaker crashes to the floor and everyone in the mess hall turns to see the salt spread across the tiles. I just stare at the water in my clear plastic cup. The level in the glass reads half empty. I watch as the meniscus calms and then curls against the sides of the cup. The water in my glass reacts to the massive rolls, while the sudden pounding registers a splatter.

Outside the porthole, the rain knocks incessantly. Huge drops bombard the thick glass as the wind carries the force of the storm closer. It is safer for the ship to stay out to sea in the bad weather, but the waves speak only of the impending danger. The warmth and security of a home port promises shelter from the shear strength of the elements. The haven found only in the steel structures made by man.

Fire on Board

At 1:46 am smoke as observed to blow from the pump room hatch. Immediately the bridge was notified. The hatch was then removed to ascertain the cause, when a billow of smoke shot out. Both fire teams were assembled, three members dressed out and ready to enter. The engine room announced the fire pumps running and the hoses charged. After 38 minutes of sweat and labor, the flames ceased. A team was then assembled to enter the compartment and assess the damage so as to begin a clean-up. After much inspection, a smoldering oily rag bin was discovered.

Legend

There’s an old story about a captain from Sandy’s Point who knew his sailing territory so well he could tell where he was by the taste of the ocean. He thought the Earth and the Sea to be a living and breathing creature that carried him to his destination. He had stepped onto a shanty at age 11 and grew as Mother Nature cared and provided for him. At 18, this boy fell from aloft and somewhere something inside of his brain and threw off his bitter bindings. Isolated in his own skull, thoughts ebbed and flowed. Images came to him of his real mother and of his chosen one. In this dream-like state, his attentions were called to a large sea serpent. The serpent was at least sixty feet in length and yet so graceful in the water. As it continued to swim closer, the boy reached out for the serpent and grasped its neck. He felt the cool smoothness of skin and smelled warm blood. He stroked the face and back of the creature and felt no fins, only an enormous mane of washed seaweed.

It was at this moment that he knew that this creature was his brother, that he was so much a kin. This boy was only human in form and his heart and his mind belonged to the leviathans. This boy was the great sea captain and destined rise in life as the tides did in the sea.

Who was Old Stormalong?

Illustration by Al Schmidt from Irwin Shapiro, Tall Tales of America (Weekly Reader Children's Book Club, 1958).

Captain Alfred Bulltop Stormalong is an American folk hero, subject of tall tales originating in Massachusetts in the days of sail. Thirty feet tall, he sailed on a clipper ship called the Courser by some storytellers, the Tuscaloosa by others. A ship built to his own proportions, it had hinges on its masts so that they wouldn't scrape the moon.

This blog originates from the United States Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point, New York. It is maintained by Dr. W. of the Humanities Department, who purposes to collect here sea stories and memoirs by her students, past and present, for the delight and enlightenment of midshipmen and alumni, parents and friends, of the USMMA. A hearty welcome aboard!