(This "poem" was discovered, almost to my surprise, because I had no recollection of it. It seems to have a hint of melancholy. But Jo and our daughters were impressed, they said, (maybe bemused?). Linda had visited Odda in 1968 and climbed up to the cottage. She could explain the idea behind the poem with pictures I had taken at various times. Nora, the French teacher, allowed there was some merit and provided an insight into Dad’s background. Perhaps they were "pulling my leg"?)

The next day any hint of melancholy mentioned above seemed just a passing notion. Now that the war was over there were times at sea when life seemed quite enjoyable, despite the oft stated opinion the sea life was not for me.

Digression:

Life on most ships, especially American, was in -46 a world away from former conditions. On Norwegian ships, in long time charter routes, pleasant topside reading rooms with books, etc., were installed for the crews’ comforts, and to keep the crews. Fresh milk, as long as it would keep refrigerated, and variable menus were available to please almost anyone’s taste.

Presently, summer of -95, a Hollywood movie on TV was depicting life in the Merchant Marine, World War I time. It is anything but romantic. The harbor is San Francisco.

John Wayne is featured as is an actor called "Ollie the Swede". I believe this actor also portrayed Knut Rockne’s father in the film about Rockne’s life. The action of ‘Shanghai’ is described as a way to obtain crews for rundown ships shunned by regular Seamen. Shady people were paid to use any means of ruse or duress, like getting unsuspecting Seamen drunk. once out at sea the life was described by John Wayne as work around the clock with bad food.

Which brings back the story about Vasco da Gama’s ruse to obtain the route to India by luring a knowledgeable tradesman at Mozambique, East Africa, onboard da Gama’s ship for a dinner party. When the tradesman woke up after the party purportedly they were too far out at sea, on the way to India, to turn back. Life at sea, then, as a profession or trade seems to have had a varied, colorful, up and down side...

The old Seamen on the Ringulv would recall life at sea, not quite as depicted in the film. These men had been sailing from not too long after World War I time. They did not mention being shanghaied. Their working conditions and the food were explained by the Ringulv "deep-water" Seamen as, "you young guys just don’t know how well you’re off!"; -like a generation complaint?.

Even so, -in -95, general cargo ships as I knew them are largely being replaced. Modern, faster and highly efficient container ships generally dwarf the older ships. Huge cranes have taken over the old winch and derrick operations.

Containers the size of railroad boxcars, already packed with goods and sealed, are brought to dockside by trains or semi-trailer trucks.

The containers are lifted and stacked on these ships by huge dockside cranes, the containers locked in place by container construction. Crews on these ships number about eighteen, about a third of Hoegh Silverlight’s crew. Automation is brought to a level where, for instance, the operation of the engine is largely controlled from the bridge, likely with an engineer on standby. The mustering of the old longshoremen gangs on the docks to work the ships is also but a memory. The old pilferage problem is also likely largely gone...

-Back to Josiah Macy...

I was enjoying this trip down the west coast of South America; "new" ship, new people, new experiences. The job was easy, life was pleasant, it was almost vacation time with different discoveries at every port. Days at sea were peaceful, uncomplicated. (Years later when visiting New York, or any other port I would allow time to view ships, at anchor. The expression -"the lure of the sea", fair weather or foul, there was a remembrance, -an uncomplicated time, always there; the lure, even if as much wishful thinking).

But there, on the Josiah Macy, there was a restless feeling as well. As if an old, latent urge, a reminder, to get on with the future, as a learned purpose. It crowded the pleasant times when the thought was that this life was not hard to get used to. Don’t recall how the idea of a purpose arose; there was a notion to live up to one’s competence, as a duty owed. After all, the idea with this break-away was for more education; enjoyment is OK but...

Our ship’s electrician was a Swede, Lars Oberg. We were about the same age, in a similar occupation, enjoyed one another’s company. He was married in Sweden hoping to bring his wife to the U.S. (After I had gone ashore and had married in Brooklyn I visited Lars on Long Island, New York. He was doing electrical contracting work on newly built homes and had brought his wife from Sweden).

Our last port of call was Valparaiso. Talking to one of the mates in the chartroom, while at anchor, I was surprised to discover on a map that this city in the Pacific actually is as far east as the city of Boston in the Atlantic; which I should have known?.

Trips ashore were a reminder of the difference between the haves and have-nots, to use a later expression. There had been one or two racing type motorboats running around the harbor; this seemed an exception... The dwelling areas of the well-off were in evidence, but away from our usual haunts, too far to walk to.

I do remember the city was quite hilly. Early Saturday afternoon the Second Mate and I were just walking aimlessly, more or less to pass time. It seemed the natives were regarding us, curiously, strangers normally not walking around. We surmised it was a type tenement district. Maybe, we wondered, we ought to try to find some place to eat, act like big spenders rather than going back onboard for our free meal.

We were about ready to look for a way downward again when a young woman came out from a house. We recognized her as a girl ‘working in one of the bars down by the harbor and were somewhat surprised being asked into her living quarters. She seemed to indicate she was available for business. The Second Mate said he had declined an offer at the bar the night before. She wished to know what we were talking about, in passable English. It was our ‘slip’, talking Norwegian in her presence; in a sense she was reminding us. We managed to excuse ourselves, -maybe we’d see her at the bar... (once outside I recalled a remark by the Captain on Rio Branco, when I had to escort one of the Seamen to a doctor ‘for possible minor’ VD. The sailor’s expression seemed flippant; irritated at the sailors expression the Captain, with some fervor, stated that there was no minor VD in South America. It was not only pervasive but almost all "hard core"... )

It occurred to me I had moved from general cargo ships to tank ships because of the former’s usual long stay in port. This was our fourth stop with this small tanker and it was almost a relief to finish discharging and be ready for our northward trip. I had bought a couple of books in New York to try to improve my English and just to be occupied. Trying to read seemed to emphasize it was much an exercise in trying to keep occupied. I remember having sought the bookstore proprietor’s advice on type of books to read. Even so, not a ‘bookworm’ type, perhaps age was against me, I would find my thoughts strayed often enough to have to backtrack in order to follow the contents. Perhaps just lack of concentration, also came to mind. Remembering being almost addicted to travelogues, "in my youth", reading should have been like a cup of tea; except, maybe, I was traveling now...

Often, I would look for Lars during my off-duty hours, and almost beg to accompany him on his jobs; maybe I’d even learn something attending, sort of, during his maintenance routines. The Panama Canal was not that far away...

Arriving at Balboa to enter the Panama Canal, thinking "eastbound", I discovered that the canal actually takes a north-westerly course, rather than expected east across the isthmus. Passing through the Gatun Lake, on watch for possible radio orders I was sitting on deck just outside the radio shack, my feet propped on the lower part of the railing with a soft drink in a glass. The weather was balmy and I was in suitable shorts and light shirt, lounging actually. Some of the crew on a passing American Navy ship apparently surmised the glass contained some type of a drink. Holding the glass up as a toast they responded with in a jocular manner as if to indicate they thought it was OK.

Exiting the Canal at Colon the ship proceeded to Aruba, again. The next orders were to take oil to Scotland, including surprising news that the Josiah Macy was to be transferred to English flag there, the crew would be shipped back to New York. The trip across the Atlantic was merely routine, like the oft repeated, much later, expression, -"deja vue all over again", (supposedly by Yankee catcher Yogi Berra. My Uncle Kris in New York was an avid Yankee fan!). The weather was balmy, the ship seemed only to be moving ahead in the balmy sea. I asked Lars to review electrical equipment in the station that I normally would not be involved with to make sure no questions should arise when the new crew came onboard. Some of our crew expressed apprehension over possible future jobs with the company, now with one less ship of this particular group.

About five days before we expected to reach land we received a radio message that our port of call would be at Ardrossah, near Glasgow. I was surprised that the shore station at Lands End used a working rather than the usual calling frequency to contact us; I almost just chanced to be listening to this frequency. The operator noted they had tried to contact US. Duly entering the telegram in the logbook and forwarding it to the Captain I quietly wondered whether this was a case of mislaid, or missed, travel information by the Captain, or, -me(?). The condition was reminiscent of the signal flags on the Ringulv in the convoy; the mix-up arising from ships not having the same equipment, when Hoeg Silverlight was nearly rammed in a convoy, near Gibraltar, came to mind again.

(Writing about this event, looking for some dates among old ship papers, I came across an Alien Registration card, with picture, issued to me June 1946 at Ardrossah. It became the source of much fun with our grandchildren. I, of course, tried to prove I was really a registered "Alien" because it stated I had "landed" at Ardrossah; -"that’s why I have an accent!").

I understood it was often usual for the Chief Engineer to stay on with the ship for a time, on the first trip with a new engine crew, especially on an older ship. Their first trip was to be back to Aruba for oil for Britain. We learned that our Chief Engineer insisted that the Second Engineer also stay for the return trip. One of the engine crew noted that he expected this because the Chief always had included the Second Engineer on any decisions regarding the operation of the engine room operations, but did not elaborate; I let the insinuation pass, if there was any...

We were initiated to a different type of operation of the ship by the British section of the Standard Oil. Short wave radios had been accepted as a fixture in both the deck and engine crews’ messrooms. Lars reported that even before our crews were ready to move ashore two electricians came onboard. Lars was asked to assist removing the two radios. Other crew’s amenities, like the coffee makers, standard on American ships, likewise were removed. Perhaps this was because they generally were not coffee drinkers? But there was some talk among our crew about the rather ‘shabby’ treatment of crews on English ships, generally.

We were quartered at a barracks-type area for transients at Glasgow, supervised by a manager with cleaning personnel, almost "Motel" fashion with our own rooms. During about a week there Lars and I "reviewed" the dancing areas. I became aquatinted with an English Navy nurse there on a "holiday"‘ from the Liverpool area. We made an all-day Sunday trip by train to Edinburgh where we went sight-seeing to an old fort, resting in a surrounding park area. Back at Glasgow we enjoyed a couple of dinners and dances till she had to return to her hospital.

Our crew was finally entrained to Liverpool to board the Swedish liner Drottningholm to return to New York, first class. Lars and I had a nice cabin. I always would relate how I danced my way across the Atlantic reveling in first class accommodations. I was almost aghast at the amount of food available at all hours; food was never one of my vices. Beer was 15 cents American and whiskey 25 cents; no one misbehaved. When our money ran low our Captain was able to borrow from one of our sailors, a Maltese, again, who had several hundred dollars in traveling checks. We had two tables in the dining room for all of us.

I surprised Lars with my French when I became acquainted with a French woman passenger during my dancing forays Introducing her to Lars she and I had lively discussions concerning the Germans and the war time in France. Lars said he didn’t mind. Life was very enjoyable... There were three American/Swedish couples, ladies being Swedish or 2nd generation Swedish/American, all probably in their forties. The men were happy that I would dance with their wives. The weather was beautiful, the light breeze just caressing the ocean... Lars and I spent considerable time promenading on the main boatdeck just to pass the time. One of the Swedish ladies offered to introduce me to a young Swedish girl. She thought I would be better company than a young Dutchman squiring her around; -she was a beautiful thing. Can’t remember why nothing came of it; -ah well...

Arriving at New York, end of June -46, I bid the Captain and Lars good bye as I was offered the Radio Officer’s position on the tankship M/T Peter Hurll, 18,000 tons sailing between New York and Aruba, Dutch West Indies. She was like the ‘flag ship’ of the Panama Transport Fleet, of the Standard Oil Company. It was a coveted job because she always returned to the home port at New York, with fuel oil, about every three weeks. I, then, became the source of news for the several other ships in the fleet.

The several Sparks would "meet" regularly on a shortwave frequency at nine o’clock, or 2100 hours, New York time two or three times a week. I could answer questions about goings on, company-wise, and ship to ship. My old friend John Baatnes also made contact and we kept track of each other. Thinking back, I believe we made plans attend school together at the RCA Technical Institute.

The time on the Peter Hurll, then, became as a time of coming of age. As if I gained a confidence and assurance that I could make it in this big country. It seemed I felt this assurance build as I handled my job with ease doing the ships books for a big company, easily handling the necessary communication with the home office and with the other ships, almost as a source of information, as noted.

I often recalled with fondness a time when the Peter Hurll and John’s ship were anchored at Las Palmas, Venezuela, awaiting berths to take on cargo. It was almost like homecoming time because most of the crews of both ships were acquaintances. Both ships lowered lifeboats to allow visits ashore and between the ships; rowing back and forth between the ships was a change from duty for the regular crew. John and I having the best of it because this was free time for us, no particular duties while at anchor.

The crews on both ships were made up, curiously almost, of about a third Danes, Norwegians, and Swedes. (As an aside, a latent, mild, animosity supposedly existed between the different Scandinavian groups in America, second generation generally, was a surprise to me. On these several ships with about same mix crews this mild animosity was unknown. The Danes at times would call the Norwegians ‘mountain monkeys’ whenever the Norwegians said Denmark was flat like a pancake, etc). Most seemed bent on achieving emigration status to the U.S. As noted, I had learned about a school, the R.C.A. Technical Institute, in New York, offering a course and further education in the radio broadcasting field. The course that struck my fancy was, Radio Broadcasting Engineering. The time was the early Fall of -46. I seemed to have become imbued with the same drive to attend this school as when I was looking ahead to go to Radio Officer school, at London, while still in camps in North Africa.

This was a different situation entirely. My decision to leave Norway was now as a "fait accompli", i.e. the step was taken without hesitation. It was as if I was starting on an adventure of my own choosing, acting with a newfound confidence. (Because my choice was in a technical field I may have felt, subconsciously, that once finished with the education an eventual return to Norway would not be precluded; never sever all bridges?).