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Flawed Cadaver
cc&d, v278
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Flawed Cadaver

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Clouds and Hues

Marc Livanos a/k/a Panhandle Poet

    I had been at sea for over a week headed towards the Panama Canal. I needed to be away for at least a few days to forget the pretty girls and strange places before succumbing to her solitude. The sea became a friend to share intimacies and sorrows. Listening to the ship pound, I picture places once known and people loved till eventually submitting to her lyrical whims. I feel safe in her routine.
    My tenth day out was like most others in the doldrums; hot and muggy. As usual, the sea glittered with rays of sun dancing on the waves. The boatswain of the SS AUSTRAL PILOT was sweeping chipped pieces of paint into small piles. The men around him were eagerly talking-up the latest baseball scores. Heat slowed their rate of work to the point of being minimal.
    I was a few yards away, painting the ladder to the forecastle. I did not care to get involved in their conversation. Being depressed from not having eaten breakfast, hunger made my memory start working. It took me to an office filled with boys in naval uniforms. I was glad to be away from the United States Merchant Marine Academy. No longer having to contend with six classes a day, cramming for exams and a strict military system. I was more than ready to start my sea year of practical experience.
    I was rising from my seat with the rest of the cadets, when a glimpse of a khaki uniform caught my peripheral vision. Captain Truman beckoned a good morning and called us into his office as a group. He assigned us according to ship and route. I ended up with the run to Australia – the most sought after by cadets. A long day ensued with my going to the steamship company, taking a medical exam and signing foreign articles with the U.S. Coast Guard.
    When I finally got to see the AUSTRAL PILOT, it was at Todd Drydock in Brooklyn. The ship was an impressive 540 feet long with a bulbous bow and cruiser stern. There was a look of defiance, as it sat squatting on keel blocks dressed in a new coat of black and white paint on her hull and superstructure.
    My cabin – long, narrow and grey – looked like the inside of an empty shoe box. It was located at the furthest point aft, behind the baggage locker, medicine closet, hospital and ship’s office. The only porthole gave a view of container number INTU 275779. The trip from New York to Sydney would be twenty-one days.
    Stirring the paint, I moved to the other side of the ladder to escape the sun’s oppressive grip.
    The trip to Panama was unmarked by storm. Even our passage off Hatteras went unnoticed. The same was true for Rum Cay, Long Island, Crooked Island Passage and the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti. I remember the laughter aboard ship at the sight of a bearded water skier coming out of the bay. We joked it was Castro out to greet us personally.
    Basically, the entire passage was easy. I spent much of the time on the bridge piloting and navigating. The nights were spent on my school’s sea-year project. I knew it had to be completed before reaching Sydney. Once in port, I’d spend my evening seeing the three things it was noted for – girls, beaches and beer. I felt no need to be confined to the seamen’s bars. The world had become smaller and friendlier, especially with the world debut of the Beatles. There were advances in everything from electric guitars to television shows on how to do the twist. President Kennedy had pointed to the moon and said let’s go there. We did that in 1969. Even the AUSTRAL PILOT’S voyage from Brooklyn to Sydney in three weeks made anything look possible.
    The approach to Sydney was beautiful. The sun had already set, leaving much of the harbor shadowed. However, the darkness did not distract from its beauty. I have always enjoyed helping take a vessel into a foreign port under the blanket of darkness. The ever-present fear of going aground lies within every officer. Piloting through foreign waters using radar, fathometers, lighted buoys and harbor sights allows for proper course changes and maneuvers. Everyone on the bridge knows his job and executes it with speed and efficiency.
    The first night in Sydney was a disappointment. I expected too much from this host country. “Scuttlebutt” told by the crew had me imagining streets lined with pretty girls waiting to see Americans. With these impressions in my mind, I inwardly yelled “Australia! Here I am and will be for a week.” Australia never answered the call. With the hope of hitching a ride, I decided to walk towards town. It was a long walk. I passed the town hall, library, university and City Hall before finding that the action was located at Kings Cross.
    I decided to go to the discotheque, Whiskey-A-Go-Go, I soon realized that dates had to be brought into that club. Without a date, I was told to move on. Getting my head around that thought, the first night ended with nothing but tired feet.
    The next morning, I worked cargo. As a cadet officer, I was given the responsibility of the officer-on-deck. Calling the boatswain to change cargo gear, aiding the deck maintenance man in removing obstructions, shifting ballast as containers are off-loaded, taking the draft, checking the stowage plans and accepting cargoes was the routine.
    The seamen’s nearby laughter startled me. They were laughing at the boatswain’s remarks on the Mets winning the Pennant. I worked a little higher on the ladder, hoping not to be brought into the conversation. They did not notice that I had already sank back into my thoughts.
    All that walking on my first night ashore, left me with a problem – a hole in my shoe. I found a shoe store just as it was getting ready to close. After telling the cobbler I was a cadet on an American vessel, he fixed it for free. Happy that the shoe was fixed, I decided to do some more walking. The streets were jammed with people and cars heading for home. In less than an hour, those streets were nearly deserted. I was walking slowly through the city’s maze trying to find my directions, when a crewmember with two young girls appeared. I quickened my pace toward them.
    The girls were asking him for two “bob.” He did not have any change and walked away. Giving them the twenty cents, I asked if they would like some coffee. Agreeing, we walked back to a café. They said their names were Morene and Linda. Neither of them looked much over eighteen. Linda looked like the type of high school girl who would be popular at any party. Morene looked like the singer Cher. Their appearances were wild and sexy with short yellow dress, matching leggings and low heels. After seeing through their cover of clothing, I was surprised to find down to earth girls.
    My train of thought was distracted by the boatswain’s sharp remark on where the green paint was stored. Without stopping work, “The green paint is in the after-paint locker. The boatswain brushed passed me headed for the stern. Looking down, I noticed that the level of paint in my bucket was good and continued brushing the ship’s ladder. With each stroke of the brush, my mind wondered back to Morene.
    The café was deserted with the exception of an elderly waitress. We ordered tea and a type of pastry that turned out to be a Yodel, a cream-filled cake made by Drake’s. The waitress brought the tea over. It looked like milk with a light brown color. “Excuse me,” I said facing the waitress, “Ah, what is this?” “What do you think it is? Tea” “May I have a cup of black tea?” The waitress returned shortly with a cup of plain black tea. “Thank you. Taa,” we all said in chorus.
    The girls laughed, mocking the way the waitress answered. They were having fun too. “What’s there to do?” “Nothing much,” said Linda, we just try different places.” “Do you girls live nearby?” “In a flat,” replied Linda. Morene’s eyes dropped solemnly and gazing at her clasped hands in a sullen voice said, “My stepfather came home really drunk one night and told me to get out.” She talked no more in the café. “I worked in a cafeteria first,” said Linda. “I met Morene there and she let me room with her. I’m saving money now to travel.” “How much do you make a week?” “Less than AUS $25.”
    We made small talk for an hour. They were more nervous than I was by the way they kept playing with the salt and pepper shaker, spilling them out on the table. I told them they better cool it. Sure enough, the waitress asked who made the mess. To my surprise, they were not concerned and answered her rudely. The waitress let us be. As time progressed, I began to feel more at ease with them. Throughout the night, they refused my efforts to pay for their drinks, even paying for some of mine.
    The girls were talking to each other. “I wonder what this bloke thinks of us? said Morene. “Probably thinks we’re crazy by the way we kept spilling the salt. As we finished our drinks, I asked Morene, if I could meet her after work tomorrow. She gave me her address and said to come by for tea.
    I could not wait. The next day’s routine of loading containers full of frozen mutton took my mind off what I hoped would be a good time. After knocking off work, I walked to Morene’s home and knocked on the door. She answered looking real good. She had on the shortest mini-skirt I had ever seen. I asked where Linda was. “She’s putting the wash on the clothes line. She will be back soon.” Morene offered beers, as I came in and looked around. Later, Linda brought out some silverware and put it on the table. Morene started talking about designs they had for different rooms. As she talked about colors and what looked like graffiti on the walls, I couldn’t keep my mind off her long legs. I asked if we were going to go out. Morene said that by asking me to come by for tea, she meant supper. I had some learning to catch up on Australian ways.
    Anyway, the food smelled ready – maybe too ready. The girls brought out plates with the meat and vegetables already spooned out. The vegetables were great but the meat was overdone. The girls were waiting for me to take a piece. It took some effort to cut off a piece and went down taking a piece of my throat with it. I said something about the food being really good.
    They turned the TV on and we sat round an electric heater. There was only one channel and it was the news. I turned off the volume and laughed at the serous faces trying to give accounts of politicians, death and war. We laughed a lot. Trying to keep things moving, I started a pantomime game, but they weren’t interested. I asked Morene, if she wanted to go out. “I have to get up early,” said Morene, “What do you want to do tomorrow?” I said it was really hard for seamen to meet real people, “I’d like to meet-up with you.” “How about seven thirty at the London Bar in King’s Cross?” Before I could accept, Linda said better make it seven. “Wait and I’ll call you a cab.” In the cab, all I could do was think about her. She too was probably talking about me with Linda.

    The next evening, I headed for the London Bar. The Club was stacked three levels high with the most luxurious on top. The people there looked like young executives. I bought a pitcher of beer and waited. The disappointment at first sharp, slid to a steady dullness. The pitcher was finished before I left.
    While walking home alone, feeling angry that she had set me up, I kept thinking why Morene played me, or had she. It was a good bar with plenty of opportunity to meet other girls. I walked back to the ship with that thought pulsating through my mind. I knew by morning, I’d get over my predicament as the ship’s routine took its hold over me. By evening, the Master posted departure time to coincide with high tide.
    Lost in thought, the boatswain’s shadow interrupted the mindless routine. “No spots missed,” he bellowed, but before I could smile, he added “Next time, do it ten times faster.” Pointing me to the next ladder that needed painting, I drifted off again.
    I licked the sea spray from my lips and thought how the AUSTRAL PILOT could do twenty-two knots through the doldrums. She passed through them for five years without a scar. Her youth and tenacity reminded me of mine. We both knew the drill of sailing on a container ship – one or two days in port followed by a long voyage.



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