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In the national archives of the united states in washington, D.C., lies a dense report--several inches high of typed papers-- on top of which rests a separate, summarizing document ten pages long. This is "the record of the Marine Board convened to investigate subject casualty, together with its Findings of Fact, Opinions and Recommendations." Dated February 26, 1952, and signed by "P. A. Ovenden, Chief of the Merchant Vessel Inspection Division in the United States Coast Guard," this official prose contains no hint of the magic energy that conceives a legend.
Mr. Ovenden's conclusions, sent by the Coast Guard to the chief of Merchant Marine Safety, begin by observing that a welded freighter named S.S. Flying Enterprise "departed from Hamburg, Germany for New York on 21 December 1951, loaded, among other things, with 762.6 tons of pig iron in No. 2 lower hold and 508 tons of pig iron in No. 4 hold."
Flying Enterprise, a freighter in the class known as "C1-B," was built in the Wilmington yards at Los Angeles by the Consolidated Steel Corporation and released from the shipbuilder's yard to the War Shipping Administration on March 18, 1944. (The man who stamped her brass registration plate made an error in the date, and his original "1943" is overstamped with "1944.") She had the registration number 245133 and thecombined signal and radio call sign KWFZ. After the war she went, in January 1946, to the U.S. Maritime Administration, where she was named Cape Kumukaki.
On April 25, 1947, Cape Kumukaki became one of twelve vessels in the Isbrandtsen Line, out of New York, owned by a buccaneering Scandinavian, Hans Isbrandtsen, who, to echo the old sailing clippers, used the prefix Flying for all his cargo ships. He had accumulated his fleet largely by purchasing, at bargain prices from the U.S. Navy, those ships no longer required for the transport of wartime supplies. For this, his competitors in the bare-knuckle freight shipping business disliked him--largely because he had stolen a march on them.
His son, Jakob Isbrandtsen, thinks today that Flying Enterprise "must have been one of the last of the C1-B class. They weren't great freighters; they were too small and too slow."
Yet they were not, in a landsman's terms, insignificant ships. Here are Flying Enterprise's vital statistics, which become crucial to her poignant history. She had three decks and two masts; her length, stem to stern, was 396 feet, her breadth 60 feet, her depth just short of 26 feet; she had 4,000 horsepower, weighed 6,711 tons, had a range of 15,000 miles without refueling, and had a cruising speed of 14 knots (equivalent on land to 16 miles per hour, a knot equaling 2,027 yards per hour).
You will not find anywhere in her papers the astounding fact that S.S. Flying Enterprise once became the most famous ship in the world--a renown that lingers, especially among career sailors. And among men who, inside themselves, can still be boys: for us, this cargo ship, longer than a football field and painted jet-black, became and remained part of our inner lives. In the typeface named Cheltenham, the white name isbrandtsen stood ten feet high along her sides, with flying enterprise inscribed smaller on her bows; for two weeks these thrilling words dominated the conversation of the planet.
She was that most romantic of sea creatures, a tramp steamer, and after departing New York on November 24, she called to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Norfolk, Virginia. Now, almost ready for the homebound leg of her twenty-seventh voyage, she sat patiently, being loaded in Hamburg on the shortest day of the year.
i was nine years old in December 1951; and, if a shade too shrewd for Santa Claus, I believed in everything else: miracles, the power of magnets, haunted houses, the truth of all stories, time travel. As do all wary children, I watched everything--my parents, my seven older siblings, the sky above my head. On good days I believed that every time I ran anywhere, the globe of the world spun faster under the pressure of my feet. On bad days I looked for ways of escape.
Soon, this American ship in a German harbor, and a sea captain whose name had a hero's ring to it, would take and maintain a grip on my romantic but uneasy world. In the way of only the most inspiring stories, Flying Enterprise and Carlsen, her skipper, would, in effect, bear me to the eventual safety of great example. In the process, I developed a permanent near obsession with this man and his ship and the legend that grew up around them.
Although my family lived solidly inland, I already had a strong awareness of the sea's wonder. Limerick, the city of my mother's birth, has a port on the river Shannon, Ireland's largest waterway, which runs on down to the Atlantic on the southwestern coast. The Shannon estuary favors big ships--or at least they seemed big to me when my grandfather first took me down to see them at Arthur's Quay.
He was known to all in that small city--Stephen O'Sullivan, six feet four, benign as a sultan and with what he told me was "grass" growing under his nose, a bushy mustache. None of the menace that I already felt in life, and the daily fear that I already knew, came from him. This big, warmhearted man ate breakfasts that were world- famous in our family: steak and eggs, bacon, sausages, blood pudding, fried bread, fried potatoes, mushrooms if he could get them--his plate looked like a market food stall. He himself cooked this huge dawn feast, to the accompaniment of bawdy songs, which, to my mother's consternation, I picked up.
Mischief clung to him. Steve Sullivan drove trains but refused to handle the honored carriages bearing Queen Victoria around our province of Munster. "Let her drive it herself--it'll do her good," he said. Of humble origins, he married a woman of substance, but all his life he refused her trappings--the furs, the cruises, the haughty friends. He smoked a pipe hour upon hour, with the most rancid tobacco ever rubbed--a cut plug that stank, as he said, "like a hoor's boot."
On our walk to Arthur's Quay that day (I was about five years old), he told me to watch out for "a gent on a bollard." This was an old sailor who pulled a stunt for passersby: he would pare his own plug of tobacco with a hunting knife and then slam the blade vertically into his thigh, halfway above the right knee. There it stood, the white bone handle projecting from the unbloodied blue of his canvas trousers.
That day we went down, the cork-legged sailor never showed. I went back many times on my own, but I never found him. Am I and my imagination the richer for not having seen him? In any case, my grandfather overturned my disappointment by leading me along the line of moored ships at the quay. I had never seen a ship before and we stopped at each and every one. Big, black, tawdry vessels they were, and the white paint had rusted on their housings, but I gazed up at them wide-eyed.
Each ship had a "load line," better known as a "Plimsoll line"--a legal, Egyptian-looking hieroglyphic running down the side into the water; my grandfather told me that a freighter must carry this to indicate how heavily she was permitted to load. To the small boy's inevitable "Why?" he told me that ship owners used to overload the holds with useless cargo so that the vessel would sink and they could claim the insurance, like people who had what he called "a good fire." And he then explained the term "a good fire." My mother, when I told her, grunted a knowing concern at my grandfather's mischievous ethics.
after she left america, Flying Enterprise "discharged and loaded cargo" (according to the Coast Guard report) "at several north European ports"; this included five tons of carpets loaded at Antwerp on December 10. In Rotterdam five days later, she picked up her pig iron freight, plus 447 tons of rags, 486 tons of coffee, six tons of onions and gherkins in brine, and seventeen tons of animal hair, listed as "bristles."
At the port of Bremen, she loaded thirty-nine tons of peat moss, a dozen Volkswagen cars, a few tons of birdcages--and a cargo of antiques, with eight early Chippendale chairs, a collection of Worcester china miniature pitchers, a gilded convex mirror decorated with the insignia of the British Order of the Garter, and a needleworked fireplace screen dated 1740.
These glorious pieces, in addition to Louis XIV furniture, a small orchestra's worth of priceless antique musical instruments, a handful of Old Masters, and some rare Belgian porcelain, were being shipped, port by port, to New York antiques dealers on Third Avenue and East Forty-seventh Street. Not detailed item by item, they came aboard under catchall terms such as "general" or "special" cargo.
By the time she was ready to sail from Hamburg, Flying Enterprise had also taken on such oddities as several hundred typewriters, as well as zirconium or zirconite powder, one application of which included the making of fuel for the U.S. nuclear submarine program. She also loaded thirty tons of the volatile chemical naphthalene, which is a coal tar product smelling of mothballs, used in the making of plastics and dyes; they stowed it on deck so as not to contaminate the foodstuffs in the holds.
Far from fully loaded (always disappointing to a ship owner), she was due to reach New York on January 3.
That dockside walk with my grandfather in limer- ick stays in my mind like a song. Like a shell held to my ear, or any of the commonplace magic that adults weave for children, it gave me a flavor of ships and the sea as piquant as the first taste of coffee or coconut. Pointing out the great hairy ropes angled down to the quayside, he told me that rats ran up along these mooring lines and into the ships; in the tropics, he said, the monkeys climbed them. He showed me the anchor and told me the word meant a crooked angle, a hook that caught in things.
When I worried about the rust marks on the white trim, he said that all sailors had to swear an oath to paint their ships constantly and that on some vessels, such as the great ocean liners, no sooner had the men finished than they had to start all over again, because the salt of the sea grew rust so quickly.
"It's how they learn patience," he said. "That's why they don't mind long days at sea when nothing happens. Sailors are very patient men."
He knew the Limerick stevedores--slightly confusing, given that everyone on the docks called him Steve. Then he told me, with huge authority, that they were all named after him, because he was the "Steve" who first showed them how to load the cargo down into the holds, and that he was famous because he could shove more cargo down a hatch faster than anybody else. I believed every word; I needed this whiff of adventure. The atmosphere of our household too often crackled with the bewildering terror of my father's hair-trigger rage, and even at that age I had begun to grasp the hope of the horizon. These ships, my grandfather said, sailed the world. And he spun the names of glorious ports as though they were foreign coins: Tangier, Hyderabad, Marseilles, Famagusta, Montevideo, Valparaiso, Cairo, Casablanca, Venice.
Their holds contained bales of silk, barrels of port, casks of brandy and wine, carved elephants of ebony with tusks of real ivory, huge crates of chocolate ingots that would later be trimmed down into chocolate bars, slabs of gold for the priests to melt down and make into chalices, bales of tobacco from which his own plug was cut personally, dancing shoes for men, corsets for, he said, "comfortable ladies," boxes of sheet music for the piano players of Ireland, and brooches of jade and necklaces of jet for their singers and sweethearts.
It never occurred to me to ask what customers existed for such exotica in Limerick (corsets excepted), because his talk boomed like a South Seas conch. And presently, my lessons in school supported his wondrous version of freight. The poem "Cargoes," by John Masefield, appeared on our English syllabus and Masefield's ships carried "diamonds, emeralds, amethysts, topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores." No reason, therefore, why these shabby old dames in their rusty black couldn't also bring back to the docks of Limerick "apes and peacocks, sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine."
Thus, in the afternoon of a child is a man's lifelong pathway of fancy and possibility opened up, like the moment when a plowman cuts a headland in a rich field. After that afternoon walk and its ships and ropes and anchors, and all the fancies of a beneficent and merry grandfather, Flying Enterprise with her valiant skipper, with the mysteries of their 1951 Christmas voyage (mysteries that I have now at last solved to my own satisfaction)--she made steam shipping at least as glamorous as schooners and square-riggers and she had an easy passage into my heart.
Flying enterprise had five holds, each of whose hatch covers was the area of an average living room floor. Every hold went down three levels; if you fell from the bright open deck to the darkness of the keel, you'd have dropped off a three-story house.
Hamburg has long, gray wharves; they seem to stretch for miles. As the last freight came on board there that December afternoon, Carlsen reckoned his ship little more than a third full, with individual loads distributed here and there in the holds, many of them according to their shape and nature. The Volkswagen cars, for instance, had arrived in Bremen uncrated--they were, in effect, "parked" on the second level in the No. 3 hold, close to midships, along with twenty-nine tons of steel pipes.
Then, with sailing a matter of hours away, a large cargo of U.S. mail came into Hamburg. Mainly from American servicemen still in the German postwar garrisons, there were seventeen hundred or so mailbags weighing close to five hundred tons. The chief mate directed the Port of Hamburg's dockhands and his own crewmen to load this pile amidships too, in No. 3 hold, which had a strong room for the fifty sacks of registered mail.<<br>
Excerpted from Simple Courage by Frank Delaney Excerpted by permission.
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Posted January 3, 2013
Since Frank Delaney is among my most favorite and respected author, I felt the need to read his epic true story. I feel it equals "The Perfect Storm" in high drama at sea. He is so descriptive in the unfolding of this nightmare adventure that I shuddered at the idea of yet another rogue wave crashing down on the ship. It was one thing to read about the nightmare at sea, but to read what the captain, and hero of the attempt to save his ship was subjected to and criticized for years after the event was also a nightmare and unbelievable.
I am drawn towards reading "drama at sea" stories, and this did not disappoint me.
Posted May 19, 2011
No text was provided for this review.
Posted September 3, 2010
No text was provided for this review.