This post is contributed by Barnaby Porter. Read the previous post here.
I was seventeen. I was making my first crossing of the Atlantic aboard the S.S. America, once queen of the United States Line, and I was looking over the rail, inspecting one of her lifeboats.
It was very exciting. We had boarded in New York Harbor; destination, Ireland, the “Emerald Isle.” There was exploring to do. I began at the bow intending to make a full circuit of the promenade deck. There, hawsers and chains, everything, was of gigantic size. I leaned far over the prow to watch the ship’s bow wave, farther forward than anyone else on that great ship, whose stern was more than seven hundred feet behind me. Quite a feeling.
I made my way back, past passengers lounging in deck chairs drinking iced tea and eating sandwiches, past uniformed ship’s officers and porters, past the lifeboats again and all the way to the broad stern afterdeck.
What made the greatest impression on me on my wander was the glorious, sunlit royal blue of the deep open Atlantic. I had never seen it before.
The crossing to Ireland was to take five days, giving me five days to learn all I could about the S.S. America. Aside from dining in the grand dining room with my family, playing Bingo and shuffle board… and swimming in the surprisingly gloomy salt water swimming pool in the bowels of the ship where its confined waves steadily sloshed up and over the sides of the pool as the ship responded to the Atlantic’s seas, I had the good fortune to make a friend who offered me a personal tour of the ship
His name was Abraham. He was one of the ship’s crew. I introduced myself and we shook hands, whereupon he smiled and said, “We’re two of a kind” as he pointed at the patch sewn on his blue uniform coveralls. It read “PORTER.” Abe was my man. He gave me a tour of the America’s engine rooms – loud as hell; introduced me to his crew mates; led me through the enormous kitchens, segregated by cuisines, salads, hors ‘d’oeuvres, bakery and pastries – and most impressive was the pastry chef’s huge creation of Nautilus (complete with his crown and trident), a cake for the special occasion at the Captain’s table the next evening. All of this tour took place in the middle of the night. I even saw the very large safe where the ship’s Purser kept passengers’ valuables, and, I could only assume, lots and lots of jewels.
Days, I regularly ran into Abraham, always smiling, always working. He had shown me a lot, and through him I had gained a sense of the workings of the ship, a community of over 2,000 people… at sea. At the time I sailed aboard America, she was 24 years old, but had seen a good deal of hard duty, especially as a troop carrier during World War II, carrying well over 7,000 passengers. Painted camouflage grey, decks loaded high with life rafts and armed with several antiaircraft guns and other defensive weapons, she transported a lot of humanity, including many people escaping the war in Europe, P.O.W.s, holocaust survivors and royalty. Her name had been changed many times… and then reverted to S.S. America again and again.
I did not know any of this at seventeen. But I did know that, historically, ships sank with great regularity and have been sinking for many, many thousands of years and that the world’s ocean bottoms are strewn with wrecked and sunken ships. This basic understanding saw me making frequent visits to look at the America’s lifeboats to get some idea of what last resort was available to help save our souls in the event the captain shouted the order to ABANDON SHIP on his bullhorn. I was fascinated.
They were double-ended, open boats, painted white, perhaps 24 feet long, with looped grab-lines all along the gunnels on both sides. Each carried two pairs of long oars lying atop 6 board bench seats fixed from side to side. I did not see much else of what I expected to see: such as flotation chambers, water tanks, coils of rope, fishing gear, a compass, a stowable tiller, maybe at least a short mast and sail. There were, however, stowage spaces running the length of both sides of the boat that might have held medical kits, canned food, knives, horns, mirrors, flares and smoke signals, warm clothing and, of course, something, a pump or at least a bucket, to bail the boat. It should take a lot of doing and forethought, it seemed to me, to maintain a lifeboat.
But I was only seventeen back then. I’m older and a lot more philosophical now. I have grown to realize that we all, all living things, all caring beings, are sailing in the endless bright blackness of space on the only safe celestial world there is anywhere. The Earth is our ship of life, of beauty, of hope, of dreams and aspirations… the only place we can possibly exist.
And at the same time, she is in reality our lifeboat too; our only lifeboat!
Not much more needs to be said, except:
ALL HANDS ON DECK!
HUMANITY HAS SOME RESPONSIBILITY HERE!
PULL ON THOSE OARS FOR ALL YOU’RE WORTH!
Epilogue:
In 1994 the S.S. America ran aground and was wrecked at Playa de Garcey on the west coast of Fuerteventura in the Canary Islands. The ship had broken free from towlines during a severe storm while en route to Thailand for conversion into a floating hotel. She had been renamed American Star.
Lifeboat (detail), oil on canvas by George Percy Jacomb-Hood (1857–1929)
Artist and author Barnaby Porter has had a varied career in marine research, aquaculture, and woodworking, among others. Most recently he partnered with his wife Susan as co-owners of the Maine Coast Book Shop & Cafe in downtown Damariscotta. In October 2021, Barnaby completed his tenure on Coastal Rivers’ Board of Trustees after six years of service.
