The Voyage of the Rose City

by John Moynihan

Tony was in fine form. Ned and Billy had never really seen him in action, except for the one time when we were doing the jigs in the lounge. Tonight he was completely out of control, sending Billy and Ned into tears of laughter. He pranced about the room and made the balcony his stage, shouting at the buildings across the way.

  My steam finally ran out and I crawled into one of the beds. Billy shook me and asked me if I was okay.

  “Are you all right, Monahan? How you doing? You goofy motherfucker!” He patted me on the shoulder as if to tuck me in.

  The next morning we awoke in a predictable fog. Miguel was already gone, and Ned had called the steam company and found out that the Rose City was not leaving until after four. Hell, that gave us plenty of time—we could catch the 3:30 launch and make it back for the afternoon watch.

  I made it clear that what we were to do today was to drink the original and quintessential Singapore Sling. This was agreed upon and we struck out. Our friend from the night before said the Jockey Pub was the home of the Sling. This sounded erroneous to me, but the others insisted. Again I wanted Raffles, but majority ruled.

  After some negotiations we grabbed the fastest taxi and found ourselves in an exquisite Victorian pub. We settled ourselves down at the bar and ordered four Slings. The publican poured the rose-colored elixir into four tall glasses placed before us. It was magic.

  Delighted at the success of our mission, we promptly ordered another round. I was leaning on the bar when I heard a grunt behind me. I turned around to see a bear of a man looking at me from a couple of seats down. I said howdy-do.

  He was an American. Well over two hundred pounds, he sported a great bushy beard and smoked Lucky Strikes and drank Jack Daniel’s. As we got to talking, I found out that he worked on the oil rigs all over these islands and lived in a bungalow just outside of town. He was an excellent character who lived the kind of carefree life we only dreamed about. He had all the advantages of the merchantman, without being out to sea for months at a time. He lived in a town populated by Australians, Indians, Chinese, Malaysians, Brits, and every other nationality on the seven seas. I asked him about Singapore Slings and he shook his head. We were in the wrong place; Raffles was the home of this peerless concoction. We rose to the occasion and bid the gentleman adieu. We had important business to attend to, and commanded the next taxi we saw to take us to Raffles Hotel, on the double.

  We were greeted by a white colonial façade with lush tropical plants flourishing before the impressive colonnade. The smart Rajasthani doorman ushered us up the Persian carpet. Within the cool halls, the marble floor led past the Joseph Conrad Room and into the Long Bar. The potted palms swayed to the motion of the fans gently swirling overhead. A turbaned waiter carried in his white-gloved hand a silver tray of crystal cocktail glasses, each filled to the lip with a rich blend of Beefeater gin, Triple Sec, Bénédictine, orange-lime-pineapple juice, and Angostura bitters.

  We leaned back in the wicker lounge chairs and ordered more rounds.

  The ride back to the launch is not very clear in my memory. Of the four of us, Tony was the only one lucid enough to coordinate our getting back to the ship on time.

  We spotted the launch in the crowded marina by the company flag she flew. The men on board said she wouldn’t be leaving for another hour, so off we went to a seafood restaurant right on the water. There was an oversized fish tank next to our table that served as a foil to our pranks.

  Once we were on the launch, the two employees sat us down in the back and took her out to sea. Ned passed out in the cabin while the rest of us lolled our heads to the rhythm of the waves.

  From my seat I spied the flag waving from the mast over the pilothouse. There it was, the company insignia. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. While Tony and Billy acted as lookouts from their seats, I crept up on the roof and unhitched the flag from right over the pilots. The mission was a success.

  Billy decided that was a good idea, and responded by throwing the life preservers overboard. The pilots saw him, however, and turned around to pick them up.

  When we reached the Rose City, the Bosun was at the gangway, waiting for us. It was just four o’clock, and though we’d missed the morning’s watch we were back in time to let go the ship. But there was a slight complication: The ship had been scheduled to leave at four. We had been sadly misinformed.

  I turned to immediately upon boarding and went with Dave to the bow to hoist anchor. Billy and the others retired to the house. This was yet another mark against us. The old-timers were especially annoyed at Billy and Ned for being the worst performers on the ship. And the old-timers didn’t take to the idea that I was one of Billy’s running mates now. They thought he was a bad influence on me.

  We hoisted anchor and let go for Borneo. Two and a half weeks and we’d be back in the States.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE TWO HOURS we delayed the ship cost the company $2,000. Billy was too drunk to go on watch and asked Tony to stand in for him but the Chief had seen him from the bridge and knocked him off before he had a chance to report the substitution. Another strike against Billy Mahoney.

  The next morning the Chief filed a report against Ned and Billy in the official ship’s log. It was now in the hands of the Coast Guard inspectors, who’d be reading the log upon arrival. Tony and I, because we had missed only one watch and were first-time offenders, each received a letter of warning. The Chief said it was little more than a formality. In truth, it was a political move on his part, as Tony and I were the only people left doing overtime, and the ship still looked like an ad for Rustoleum. He wanted to get as much work out of us as he could before the Coast Guard inspection.

  We got to Brunei, a small British protectorate on the north coast of Borneo Island, on Friday. The story was that the last monarch of the kingdom was lying on his deathbed when he decided to name an English friend of his as heir to the throne. Although it hasn’t any cricket lawns of the quality of the other colonial possessions in the area, it had held out against the saints and despots of the postwar era.

  There was no legal reason we couldn’t go ashore, as was the case in Angola, but the company “was unable to contract a shuttle service to the shore.” This time we were a good three miles offshore and didn’t even bother trying.

  Only two people came on board the ship. One was a dark executive type and the other a vaguely Chinese worker who helped with raising the submarine lines and attaching them to the manifold. It was probably just as well we didn’t go ashore; some of the crew, including Sam, the new QMED, had once, and from the sound of it Dumai was by comparison a holiday.

  There were also the spiders. Huge three-to-four-inch hairy spiders. Gathering in groups of fifty or more, they spun communal webs as long as 150 feet, and 75 feet deep, in order to catch and eat large birds and animals.

  It was a sweltering, humid day, and the sun beat down on us with a vengeance. Normally we’d only have to work at hooking everything up for a couple of hours, but the winch broke. This created major logistical problems, like how in hell we were going to haul the cargo lines up on deck. The engineers were called out but hadn’t a clue as to how to fix the bloody thing. In the end the only alternative was to cross-rig the stern winch, running the cable 200 feet down the deck and splicing it with the broken machine.

  It was heavy sledding, and we worked for seventeen hours in the heat without a single break. The dusty strip of green that was the shore looked inhospitable anyway.

  I was leaning against the rail when the Old Man ambled up to me. He rolled his unlit cigar in his mouth and stared out at the steamy harbor.

  “See that water out there?”

  I nodded. It was a sickly green hue and filled with mold like seaweed and algae.

  “If the sharks don’t get you the sea snakes will.” He had a wonderfully bleak way of putting it. He chewed on his cigar some more before ambling away again. The blistering sun obscured him from view.

  We got off work at nine p.m. and crash
ed. Tomorrow we’d be moving on. Homeward bound.

  The next day was almost as long. The winch was still broken and it took hours to disconnect the cargo lines.

  Normal procedure for the unhooking of the cargo lines involves a “pelican hook.” This is a device that allows the seaman in charge of the operation to swing the line via the boom out over the water and snap it free. It is safe and effective, in addition to being standard equipment.

  Needless to say, the SS Rose City did not have one. To make up for this, we were using a rope lasso to unhitch the lines. Billy and I were in charge of guiding the boom out over the railing and freeing the line. While I reached out and steadied her, Billy worked the lasso. Then a swell rocked the boat.

  The rope snapped and the cargo line crashed into the sea. Before he could move out of the way Billy was struck full in the face by the half-ton block as it ricocheted back over the deck. He fell down screaming and went into convulsions, clutching his face in agony. I jumped to his side and put a rag under his head as a pillow. Then came the hard part. I gently grabbed hold of his hands and peeled them back from his face, not knowing if there was going to be anything left but a bloody pulp. It was incredible—the man must have been made of tempered Hyrcanian steel; the only visible marks were a large swelling welt on his right cheekbone and blood in his nose.

  But I saw the block hit him, heard a sickening crack when it struck, and knew Billy was in a bad way. He was continuing to have mild seizures. I screamed to the second mate to tell me what the proper procedure was for shock, but our erstwhile medical officer stood there dumbly with his mouth hanging open. Dave knelt down on the other side of Billy, but the others, including the Chief, nervously sidestepped the issue. I screamed at the Second again—this man could be dying—but there was no response.

  As if he had heard all this, Billy suddenly broke free of my hold and jumped to his feet. The crew stared at him in stony silence, as if Lazarus had risen. A couple of us tried to help support him but he tore away from our attempts. He had literally shaken off the blow.

  The Bosun had somebody walk him back to his cabin. He was still in great pain and had trouble walking on his own. And before he’d even reached the house, the Captain gave the orders to move out. The Old Man knew what had happened, but he was damned if he was going to delay sailing so a helicopter could fly out and take Billy to a hospital. He was a company man, and there was a schedule to keep.

  None of us could believe this latest show of indifference. A man might well be dead in a few hours and the Captain was thinking in terms of percentages and assets. As we were casting off, we heard the Old Man yell over the Chief’s radio that we were a bunch of pansies for jumping out of the way when the sea lines tightened. So what if they could snap and cut you in half; this was a ship, and ships had to move out fast and efficiently. He had already lost one man when Jimmy was flown home in Singapore.

  We made the big turn today, out of the Philippines and into the Pacific. Straight across.

  —9/7/80

  As humorous and celebratory as Jimmy’s injury was, Billy’s was grim. For two days there was quiet on B deck while Billy lay in his darkened room with Jake and the Second watching over him. Jimmy had been bruised in a drunken fall and used the excuse to threaten to sue the company and be flown home to his girlfriend. Billy was struck by what should have been a fatal blow and by a quirk of fate survived. We had no way of knowing if he had a concussion or other complications. Head injuries are the worst kind.

  Meanwhile, the deck department was now reduced to seven men. Joe and I were upgraded to acting ABs, and our respective watches split the disabled men’s hours and pay. Injury was a way of life on the sea. After Billy’s accident, Tony confided that the year before he had taken a dive from the Bosun’s chair (a makeshift scaffolding used on the king posts and other out-of-reach spots). He was on his back for six months.

  The Old Man was adamant in his decision. He’d show up on the bridge with his cigar, sunglasses, and potbelly hanging out of his open shirt. I kept to myself on the bridge, not carrying on the usual conversation with the mate on duty and speaking only when spoken to. There was a lot of tension building up.

  My first day as acting AB, the Chief had me steer the ship through the Gulf of Leyte. There were only a few course changes, but we were on manual the whole time. I got my first taste of worming a supertanker through narrow sea lanes. The Chief said I did all right.

  After a few days, Billy appeared to be recovered. He had an ostrich egg of a lump but was otherwise all right so far as we could tell. Jake was coaching him on how to get a good case against the company and had him feign complete illness for another day or so. It was a pleasure for them to have me go wake the Second whenever he was asleep and make him come down to check on some “new” ailment. If they were going to harass us, we were going to play the same game.

  Ned, Billy, and I, as soon as Billy was well enough, made a practice of sitting in his room and drinking long into the night. After our adventures in Dumai, and especially Singapore, we were solid. Ned revealed his other tattoo to me: a multicolored face of a monster that went from the base of his spine up his back to his neck, so that the horns curled over his shoulder and onto his chest. He said the pain of the needle was unbearable. I decided I was going to forgo the gold earring and get a tattoo of the rising sun on my right arm. It might not have been as classic as the Bosun’s Popeye tattoo, but it was better than the fellow he told me about from another ship who had his fingernails pulled and LOVE and HATE tattooed on the soft skin underneath.

  I didn’t turn to this afternoon. I think the Bos was a little disappointed. Tony and I are the only ones left doing OT. Sugie-Sugie-Sugie. We’re catching the tail end of a typhoon.

  God, sometimes the wait is suffocating.

  —9/9/80

  These last two weeks were nerve-racking and relaxing at the same time. Two weeks and we’d be in Seattle. That was all right, but even though we had come through it, we couldn’t take it much longer. The old-timers took to reflecting with me on the old days. These new container ships, flag-of-convenience vessels, and the proliferation of licensed seamen in a dwindling job market had ruined it all for them. The good old days of the ’50s were sadly lost forever, and they were just waiting to cash it in.

  Above all, it was a lonely life. They kept telling me over and over to go back to school. “Get out of this racket. There’s no future here. This is no way for a man to live.” I had never seen people so depressed with the life they led.

  Now was the time when they started thinking about seeing their wives and girlfriends again. Billy was desperate. His wife hung out with young, single secretaries when he was away, and he pictured her going off with them to some disco and meeting an available stud.

  Bud had had a girl for two weeks when he got the job. He was mad about her, but the chances were she wouldn’t be at the dock waiting to greet him with loving arms. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  The others, the old-timers, knew what to expect. The ones who were married would return home for a couple of months and then ship out again. The wife would deposit the allotment check and take care of the kids and the house while the husband was away. Those who weren’t married, like Tony and Joe, would stay with their families, be it parents or a relative, and pass the time spending down their earnings before returning to the union hall.

  Seamen had strange relationships with women. They loved to whore—it was their passion. But if they had a girl back home, she was to remain true. This was to a certain extent because of the allotment checks. They risked their lives and worked sixteen hours a day seven days a week for slave wages and felt resentful of their dependents, who were getting a free ride.

  Marriage was a singular phenomenon. More often than not it happened overnight. Both Jake and the Bosun had tied the knot after having met a girl in a foreign country (Jake in Italy, Dave in South America) and fallen madly in love. Then they’d send for her from the States and she’d a
rrive after long and tedious State Department and immigration hassles. Rarely if ever were the matches made in heaven, though, and they soon turned into contracts of domestic convenience. The girls were also generally using matrimony as a means to emigrate.

  So the sailors were a melancholy lot. Half their lives were spent either at sea or in godforsaken spots like Dumai. At home there was nothing to make them stay; a seaman writes himself out of any domestic security after only a year or so. Before long he knows no other life, has no other skills and no other future. Some advance through the ranks and become officers. Most are content to stay as ABs or QMEDs, not wishing to complicate what little stability there is left to their lives.

  There was no hint of homosexuality on board. Occasionally you’d hear of a character or two, but that was rare. In Japan the sight of a woman was enough to give one the jitters. I felt like a Shaker when I first got ashore, the spasms literally running from my head to my toes and back. The officers were probably a different story. If they weren’t gay, as the joke went, they were eunuchs.

  The Bos and the chief mate hovered over me at this morning’s OT while I was sugieing. Aye, it got on my nerves. Billy and all talk of boycott, but what the fuck, I need the money.

  The saddest thing I’ve seen all trip are the storm-blown swallows and other birds who circle our ship expectantly and futilely pecking on our deck for food.

  In these manic last daze you don’t want to stir any waves if at all possible unless you can hold your own. If you don’t realize what you’re doing, that’s okay, that’s ignorance. But if you do and you step on someone’s toes, that’s guilt.

  And so it goes.

  —9/10/80

  Entropy set in, settling over everyone on board the SS Rose City. I stopped working in the morning, turning to only for afternoon overtime. Billy continued to play dead for the mates but found plenty of time to party.