Stormy Passage
Three letters from Claire awaited me on our return to Milltown, each more unhappy than the last. These tipped the scales so that I finally mustered the will to go home. Together Harold and I decommissioned Happy Adventure, and I made arrangements locally for her to be hauled ashore and looked after for the winter. Then we took the next eastbound coast boat as far as Terrenceville at the head of Fortune Bay.
Once there, forty or fifty passengers raced off the boat in a mad rush to grab a seat in one of several “taxis” waiting to make the long drive to St. John’s. Shoving and pushing in proper mainland style, Harold and I got berths in a battered sedan belonging to young Jimmy Hickey, together with (very much together with) seven others. Somehow we all got stowed aboard, though our luggage overflowed the trunk and festooned the roof.
Four people occupied the front seat and five the rear one. There was a pregnant woman; one baby; one twelve-year-old with what sounded like whooping cough; a garrulous and weighty woman heading for hospital because she had “wind in me bowel” two young male teachers; and a young woman prone to car sickness. Harold and I shared the back seat with one of the teachers, the pregnant woman, and the one with the delicate stomach.
As Jimmy Hickey cheerfully put it, the car was “dragging her arse” before the four-mile stretch of pavement leading out of Terrenceville ended and we began the hundred and seventy miles of gravel-surfaced track leading to Newfoundland’s capital city.
The re-entry into modern life was not easy to take. During the six hours required to reach St. John’s the radio blared rock and roll at full volume. We had to stop countless times for the pregnant lady to relieve herself; for the lady with the delicate stomach to throw up; and for we males to repair or replace burst tires. I longed to be back aboard Happy Adventure!
I was now determined to face and force the decisions that had to be made if Claire and I were to have a life together, but the way was not easy.
Frances would not agree to an uncontested divorce, and in those times obtaining a contested one was a horrific ordeal entailing such unsavoury expedients as having oneself photographed committing adultery in a sleazy motel room. Neither Claire nor I was prepared for that; having canvassed all the possibilities, we concluded that the only solution for us was to live together common-law.
To ease the embarrassment this would create for Claire and for her family, and to make it harder for me to backslide, we decided to travel to England. There I could begin researching my next book–a history of Newfoundland. Claire would join me as soon as she could disentangle herself from familial and other obligations in Toronto.
Jack McClelland played the role of fairy godfather, even as he insisted, “You are fucking daft, Farley. A history of Newfoundland? We won’t sell fifty copies! But what the hell. If that’s what it takes to get you and Claire together, so be it. You have my blessing. And here’s a cheque for the advance against the goddamn history.”
Jack also ensured that promotional tours for my newly published Owls in the Family and The Serpent’s Coil would keep me away from Palgrave until I sailed for England. This was a very good thing since guilt at leaving my wife and sons was weighing heavily upon me, and I was showing signs of vacillating.
Claire was not having an easy time of it either. In 1962 the stigma of running away with a married man (and of living with any man without benefit of clergy) was considerable. I felt it imperative to take decisive action before either of us could change our minds so on December 2 I booked passage aboard a small passenger liner sailing from St. John’s for Liverpool.
My father was delighted by our plan for he approved of Claire. However, he may have been dubious about my resolution for he insisted on accompanying me to St. John’s by coast boat from Port aux Basques.
In late November he and I flew to Sydney, crossed to Port aux Basques, and boarded the redoubtable Baccalieu, still skippered by the equally redoubtable Ernie Riggs.
Skipper Riggs and Angus got on so well that for the duration of the voyage they were seldom apart. My father spent almost all his waking hours on the bridge or in the skipper’s cabin trading yarns. He was having the time of his life–so much so that I suspect it would not have taken much to persuade him to begin a new life, on the coastal boats.
For me, that six days spent travelling the coast was bittersweet. Each took me farther away from Claire, even as it shortened the time before we would be together again. At Milltown the spectacle of Happy Adventure high and dry, dusted with snow, and looking abandoned and forlorn, was hard to bear.
Harold met us at St. John’s. The following day–a grey and sombre one it was–he and Angus accompanied me aboard the SS Newfoundland, saw me to my stateroom, wished me luck, and left me there.
The SS Newfoundland, a well-worn vessel of seven thousand tons, had just arrived from Boston with most of her cargo and passengers already aboard. She was what used to be called a North Atlantic packet, carrying both freight and passengers across the ocean. But transatlantic flying had sealed her fate and that of her sister packets. Their day was almost done.
What follows is from the letter-journal I wrote Claire during the voyage.
We’ve been at sea three days but are only about 250 miles from St. John’s. A full-scale North Atlantic gale has been blowing since soon after our departure. Great greybeard seas humping out of the nor’east bear down upon us and this old ship rises heavily to them. Spindrift scuds across a seascape empty of visible life except for a few shearwaters skating up the long slopes of the seas and down into deep green valleys.
Apart from the crew the ship seems almost abandoned. She carries just three first-class passengers–me and two ladies from Manchester. They have been in Hollywood, which was “absolute heaven, don’t you know?” I think they are now in purgatory. At any rate I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since this storm caught us.
There are about forty people in Tourist class (it is more like steer-age), mostly young Americans trying to get to Europe as cheaply as possible. Well, they may be saving money but they’re paying in a different coin. Their quarters–below decks in the stern of the vessel–are as gloomy and odoriferous as a dungeon. A real dungeon might be preferable since at least it would be stable.
This old tub is certainly no Blue-Ribbon Liner. Her cargo holds carry Yankee onions, Nova Scotian apples, and Newfoundland salt fish. She also carries the Royal Mail, which is likely the only thing enabling her to pay her way. If she was solely dependent on what freight and passengers she’s got, her owners would soon be bankrupt.
Apparently they’re going to be in any case. My cabin steward, whose name is Harry Mathers, tells me the scuttlebutt [rumour] is that this is the SS Newfoundland’s last voyage. The crew of fifty-five are to be laid off after we dock at Liverpool and the old lady herself will then go to the breakers’ yard to be cut up for scrap.
Harry is phlegmatic about it:
“In this world if a thing don’t pay hard coin, somebody’s going to suffer. And it won’t be the owners if they can help it.”
Does all this seem pretty grim? Well, it likely would be if I was travelling away from you, but that isn’t how I see it. We’re coming together…the long way round maybe…but together, for good and always. And together we’ll vanquish fear and solitude and all such bleak uncertainties, and dark shadows will be put to flight….
It’s noon now, and there’s been a calamity. While I was in the first class lounge, attempting to lighten the bartender’s gloom (I seem to be his only customer), a heavy sea struck us broadside and nearly rolled the ship on her beam ends. When I scrambled back to my cabin I found my trusty portable typewriter had been flung against a bulkhead so hard the keys were bent and the ribbon was festooning the space like a funeral decoration. Fortunately, it’s a tough little thing. After a lot of cursing and fiddling I seem to have it working again.
The gale continues. It is now keening at Force 8 and we are practically stopped in the water, probably not m
aking any headway at all. Everyone, even the crew, seems to have disappeared leaving me in possession of what feels like a derelict. I haven’t seen the captain since we left St. John’s. I’m alone in the dining saloon at mealtimes except for a couple of waiters who, in view of what awaits them in Liverpool, act more like undertakers as they slither about trying to keep crockery and cutlery from being turned into lethal flying objects. I’ll bet they wish I’d do the sensible thing and lose my appetite too, but I seem to have a cast-iron stomach.
There’s a dog aboard, quartered in a kennel under a shelter on the boat deck. I went out a little while ago to see if she is surviving. Found the poor thing–some kind of a spaniel–sprawled in a corner of her cage and doubtless sure her time had come. Holding onto a stanchion with one hand, I held out the other to her. She gave it a thorough licking, after which she seemed a little happier. When I left her she howled despairingly but the sound was lost in the roaring of the gale. I’d sneak her into my cabin, except she’d be flung about like a rag doll there.
This is one hell of a storm. I climbed to the lower bridge and watched, appalled, as the old girl drove her bows right under, sending a deluge over the upper bridge. I wonder if she’s seen the copy of my book about the salvage tugs I brought with me, and wants to show me that anything a salvage tug can handle, she can too.
2300 hours. It is now blowing Force 10 on the Beaufort Scale, which means around seventy-five miles an hour. I tried to visit the bar but got slung about like a ping-pong ball so I clawed my way back to my cabin, physically encountering the first mate in the corridor en route. We clung to each other as he told me the forecast is for more of the same for the next two days! We are now hove-to and being blown backward toward Labrador, which, I hope and trust, is a safe distance to leeward. I’m wedged into my bunk, trying to type with one hand while holding onto the typewriter with the other. Wooooops! The chair just broke loose and committed hara-kiri against the washstand.
For the first time, and I never thought I’d say this, I’m glad you aren’t with me. When you do come across, make sure it’s on the Queen Mary, and pray her skipper has the sense to take the southern steamer track, not the northern one as our suicidal captain has done.
Wednesday. Last night was the worst I’ve ever spent at sea. Around midnight I was flung out of my bunk and if it hadn’t been for a pile of life jackets that had spilled out of their locker onto the floor, I might well have done myself some damage. But I’m fine, though cured once and for all of any mad dreams I ever had about sailing around the world. Bay Despair will be big enough from now on.
Thursday morning. This old bitch is now in the troughs and rolling like the proverbial drunken sailor. I inched my way down to B-Deck and peered into the Tourist section. Not a soul to be seen though there were ominous crashes and bangs from the narrow little cabins. And the sounds of straining stomachs. And odd little moans, and yips of pain, or ultimate resignation. Also one shrill scrap of conversation.
“Oh, Fred! We’re sinking! I know we’re sinking!”
To which Fred replied:
“Lay still, you bitch!” I don’t know if he was talking to the lady or to the ship.
The cold grey dawn found us hove-to in such a sea as I hope never to witness again. The first mate said some of the waves were cresting at a height of forty-five feet or more. Their tops were being blown clean away as if sliced off with a knife. The noise was fearsome as the wind, at Force 12, which is a full hurricane, ripped through the vessel’s top-hamper. The mate told me we rolled past 40 degrees several times last night, but the worst roll–the one that threw me out of my bunk–was closer to 45 degrees.
That happened because the radar was useless–just a clutter of wave reflections–and suddenly the dim lights of a very big, westbound tanker glimmered through the murk almost dead ahead. She was bearing down upon us with the full weight of the hurricane driving her. Our lookouts on the bridge saw her just in time. The skipper rang for full ahead on both engines and ordered the helm hard over. This brought the ship from being head-to-the-seas, to broadside in the troughs. She came as close as billy-be-damned to rolling over and everything aboard that wasn’t nailed down came adrift.
Evening. The wind is dropping off some and we are actually underway and making about three knots. The vessel’s motion is so extreme the only safe place to be is in the bunk or wedged into a chair that’s bolted to the floor. Harry and I managed a sally to see how the dog was making out. We took her food and water since her owner, whoever he may be, seems to have vanished. Surprisingly, she was in pretty good shape. There are advantages to having four feet and being low to the ground. But she was so glad to see someone she had hysterics. With difficulty we moved her, cage and all, and now she is snugly settled in a spare First Class cabin. As Harry says, “Who’s to know?”
I spent much of today reading a book by Alex Waugh about middle-aged men screwing young women. It’s full of superficialities and viciousness, and almost devoid of tenderness or compassion. I thought Waugh seemed to have no concept of what love is all about. Then I reflected that not so long ago I would have been inclined to share his cynical delineation of love as being little more than a transient and foredoomed evocation of the flesh.
But that was B.C.–Before Claire. You’ve changed all that. You are a sorceress or, at least, an enchantress who has utterly enchanted me and given me some understanding of what love is all about. You are so vividly with me at this moment, turning your dark eyes on me and making me yearn for you as for life itself. Slim little one with a maiden’s breasts and a woman’s warmth; that happy nymph who is Claire Angel Wheeler to most people. But who is my beloved!
Friday. The storm has moved on and life is again stirring in this old vessel. The Manchester ladies actually appeared for breakfast. They are of indeterminate age and neither is pretty though one has a pert appearance and a sense of humour. Harry told me they had been in the U.S. of A. for two years working as domestics (his word) and had intended this homeward journey to be the crowning event of their sojourn in the New World–a triumphant return, travelling First Class and sitting at the Captain’s table! Alas, they have yet to see him. He has been on the bridge or in his quarters since we sailed.
They’ve had a bad time of it. Their bathroom door burst off its hinges, shattering a full-length mirror whose shards showered all over them as they rolled about in their bunks. Then their washbasin tore loose and flooded the cabin and all the pretty clothes and mementoes from lotus land they were bringing back to Manchester.
This afternoon the sun shone briefly and we had lifeboat drill! When I jokingly suggested to one of the officers this was like locking the barn door after the horse had fled, he did not smile.
“Not really, sir. There’s another storm coming up astern. Might not be as bad as the last one, but one never knows….”
By suppertime the new storm had caught up with us and now all hell is breaking loose again. The passengers have all fled to their cells. The ship is pounding along through mammoth swells, chased by a heavy following sea. At noon today the chart posted in the saloon showed we had made good just five hundred miles of easting, and still have fifteen hundred to go. If I was the superstitious type I’d suspect that old Father Neptune doesn’t want to let this one go to the ship breakers and is determined to take her for himself.
[This second storm proved less fearsome than had been predicted. By Saturday we were clear of the worst of it and conditions were returning to relative placidity, both on the sea and on board.]
We have a mystery passenger or rather two mystery passengers, husband and wife, who came aboard at Boston. Harry has confided their secret to me. The husband is not present in the flesh; only his ashes are, contained in an ornate bronze urn that, at the beginning of the voyage, occupied the upper berth in the couple’s two-berth cabin. But the first big storm pitched the unfortunate fellow onto the floor, where he rolled noisily about, smashing furniture and wreaking havoc in the cabin until Harry rop
ed him back into his bunk.
When he broke free again, and yet again, his wife took drastic action. Here is as much of the story as Harry has confided to me.
The husband, whose name was George, originally came from a village near Leeds but had lived most of his adult life in the States, where he had made a good deal of money. Late in life he married a younger woman, but died not long thereafter leaving her as his sole inheritor. However, he had specified that she should take his ashes back to his natal village and bury him in ancestral ground.
The widow told all this to the cabin stewardess who looked after her while she was sick as a dog during the storms. The stewardess told Harry, who believes the widow must have become a bit unhinged because she offered the stewardess fifty dollars to rid her of what remained of her spouse. The stewardess accepted and, in the dark of night, she and Harry pitched George overboard. I wish I’d been there. It must have been a scene such as even Joseph Conrad could hardly have imagined.
Sunday morning. We’ve now been nine days at sea and have made a huge diversion to the south to avoid a couple more major depressions. Now we are plowing northeast at fifteen knots and expect to raise Cape Clear on southern Ireland this afternoon. Eureka! This voyage is almost over, and I can’t say I’m sorry.
2000 hours. Famous last words! Almost over? Holy Mother! Before noon today we were up to our ass in another bloody storm. We are again hove-to and again being blown westward!
The ship is rolling her guts out and the passengers are emptying theirs. I’m wedged into my bunk after a fantastic exercise in the dining saloon–a Farewell Dinner for all the passengers to celebrate our pending arrival in England but the only people present were the ship’s doctor and me. We two sat there, grimly hanging on while the poor bloody waiters engaged in a nightmare ballet. I don’t know why arms and legs didn’t get broken; but when I met the purser in the corridor as I crept back to my cabin he told me a hundred pounds’ worth of crockery had been smashed.