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“This is what we call Matson Avenue,” he
pilots follow our wake, so I guess it’s just basie^.
pulling aside, however, there really is a seerf’1
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The tugs pull the Lurline away from the dock in Oakland just after five o’clock this Friday evening, lining her up for Hawaii. Over the next two weeks, she’ll run out the 2,200 miles to Honolulu, over the 97 to Hilo, then back the 2,120 to Oakland to prepare for the cycle again. On this run it’s a little cool on board, but to be expected for early spring. A small chop ripples the bay as the Matson freighter slides past first the Oakland Bay Bridge, then the Golden Gate, nosing toward open water. Paul Heard, the Lurline's master, is on the bridge as we begin to feel the swells of the open sea beyond the bay’s mouth. He has been going to sea the past 28 years, since he graduated from maritime school. Both his dress and humor are casual.
serves, a wry smile in his voice. “All we do is follow flight 189’s vapor trail for about four J and we’ll be there.” (There’s a brief pause to Iec listener bite on that one.) “It’s said, too, that t ., a matter of the blind following the blind.” Sue
sense of effortlessness to the operations on -- ^ The atmosphere that permeates the Lurline >s ^ of relaxed efficiency. “This ship is designed t0^y itself,” Heard notes. “If things are going the they’re supposed to, we stand around a lot.
Perhaps at this point the captain’s modestystl be reeled in a bit, for a ship 700 feet long-
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Standing lookout watch in the eyes of the ship is a lonely business for Lou Bruno, top left. A veteran of more than 30 years at sea, Bruno is shown in closeup at left. Above, Second Mate Gordon Gimbel catches up on his suntan and reading during off-duty time.
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d0’e , "Prsepower and a 25,350-ton displacement m0rn * JUst transit 2,000 miles of ocean without On (, taan a little help from her crew. Of the 39 men Lo^, many have 20 or 30 years at sea.
I’veh rUn° 's one ^ose l°n8 on experience: so ex . ,en shipping out since 1949, and it all looked that w-tln® when I was a young kid. 1 knew a guy ex0lj as going to South America and it sounded I weC’ y°u know, so I figured I’d give it a try. So t° Seg *° South America, and then I figured I’d like alwJaPan’ and Europe, and on and on. There’s ‘Tv SornePlace else y°u haven’t been to. ahd i’ 6 ^een on every line that runs in the Pacific Vears ^een Pretty much everywhere the last 25 • out I like freighters better than cruise ships.
On the cruise ship the crews are real cliquey. If you’re not in, you get all the dirty work. On a freighter, everybody works together. It’s more like a big family. You feel like you belong to something on a freighter.
“I just can’t stand that shore life all the time. At least you’ve got some pride in what you do out here. Now today, for instance, is the kind of day you want to be a sailor. Warm wind, quiet seas. Just stand out here on watch and take it easy. Couple trips back, though, it was pretty rough, standing out here in the rain and cold and the ship bouncing around. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather be doing at a time like that.”
Down in the engine room, operations go like the
Contrasts in the shipboard environment are provided by the engineering spaces, dominated by propulsion equipment and controls, and the dining room with its sense of relaxation and camaraderie.
proverbial well-oiled machine as the ship settles into her ocean run. Above and aft of the two huge boilers and their steam turbine is the console that monitors the operation. Near it stand a few men who gaze at the array of dials, chat a few moments, then review the gauges again—making a few minor adjustments. There is the feeling that the bases here are covered.
“Either it’s very quiet, or it’s very busy on this ship,” observes first mate Vern Pilgrim. “There’s nothing in between. Most of the time, though, this is a milk run. We don’t get any real weather out here on the California to Hawaii run very often. I describe my job here as working in an air conditioned office that runs through the water.”
Bruce Wachtell, the radio officer on board, adds
another dimension to Vern’s comment, “Our 1 , on this ship have come together much like an aC j family. Everyone is dependent on one another ^ the guy who’s not pulling his share finds out f fast. Eventually the expectations become unafl stood. I’ll bet the skipper doesn’t give more r two direct orders a day. We all just take care o responsibilities on our own.”
As we continue away from the Calif°rnt1‘5 coast—the days warming as we steam neare Hawaii—another aspect of this crew becomes^, parent. Among the officers in particular, c0IVts. sation has a consistency of well-informed Perhaps not too surprisingly, the ship’s library
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The varied duties of First Mate Vern Pilgrim are shown as he ensures that pipes are properly lashed down prior to a voyage, checks tie-downs on containers, and does paperwork in his spacious shipboard office. The man with the beard is Radio Officer Bruce Wachtell.
y s ,a range of book titles which include I’m OK, As'* re L°r<J of the Flies; and Elia Kazan’s The
sossins. As another Matson skipper once ob- ^e'S never met so mar*y people in one place fre^htCou^ Quote Shakespeare as on board a
Cr the turn of the century most men on deck Cou^n t read,” offers Vern Pilgrim. “They sCr-nt sPare time on board making rope designs, or asth1S*law’ or *3°ats *n bottles. But all that died out Hoy became better educated and could read dime Pnd6 S’ lbe *ate Thirties, the unions developed that C^an8ed the type of man going to sea. Before Co’ theY tended to be rough, unrooted men who u never get ahead enough to afford a life ashore.
But as wages improved, men could afford to marry and support a family. So the attitude aboard ship changed. Those older reckless types started to be phased out of the business. Now today you’ve got a very stable man for a sailor. He’s got a wife and kids to go home to every few months.”
If it is true that today’s crews are wiser, it is also true that they are becoming increasingly older. With the changes of the past ten years, it’s not abnormal today for the youngest seaman on board a U. S. freighter to be in his 40s. “It’s almost impossible to become a seaman today,” Pilgrim says. “Since World War II, a great deal of our freighters have been sold abroad, and more recently, the end of the Vietnam War has cut it even more drastically. There
A rainbow greets the Lurline at the end of her trip to Hawaii. Shown upper left is the Aloha Tower, a Honolulu landmark.
aren't enough jobs to go around anymore, and as automation continues, it’s going to get worse.”
Bruno amplifies that thought, “They're talking about eventually doing away with almost all the crews of a ship altogether and running it just about entirely by mechanics. Can you imagine that? Maybe five men aboard? Whew, that would really be strange. I’d feel like the old man and the sea out there.”
Three days and 18 hours out of Oakland, southern Oahu slips above the horizon, and the air is full of the smell of land. A few hours later, with the Lurline approaching Honolulu Harbor, a rainbow arches over the city. The crew’s stay will be short, because wheeled cargo is quickly discharged. Things are
modern and efficient, but that is not entire) change for the better. As Captain Heard puts, “Personally, I regret the loss of romance of sea ing. Today it is more a business and less a 'var
' ~ Tim Thompson received a bachelor of arts -
in English from the University of Mary sa Jmml 1969. He worked for Time-Life publican01^ 3s copyboy and writer, then spent three y pot E^f , a part-time writer for The Washington ^ , the past ten years, he has been a freelaw- ^ j„ Mm tographer. His work has previously apP*. iei^° ■■■FTB) Time, Smithsonian, and Oceans, and IS s |jvf5 be published in the National Geographic. Mr. ThomPs on Bainbridge Island. Washington.