" Sea Stories" The Geenhorn.

[Billius]

Another interesting story Cap! Thanks!

[BobG]

What a charming memoir. Modest and self-effacing. I'm a fan of this fine storyteller.

[Don_Detloff]

Capt, - Thanks for another great sea story.

Don

[Paul A]

Thanks always for the stories Capt. Metz. I have your books and enjoy them a lot but to get little installments at random is so much more enjoyable than rereading the books. Thanks for the presents.
Paul

[Lappeman]

Awesome story Capt! Loved it!

[Earl]

Capt. Metz
Coming from Goderich, I too knew Ralph Morris.
Could you email me at erlyung@rogers.com
Thanks
Earl Young

[elroy noreen]

Thanks dick for the blast from the past i remember you seeing you
come down to the quarters and meeting us deckhands in our room.
We shared a lot of things that we both had in common. You were from Rhinelander and i was just across the wisconsin border from your town. We explored Duluth in your black corvair chevy. lot of good times had by all. How can we not forget Jim the First mate ???

I can never forget that you went on to be a Captain on the great lakes,very proud that i sailed with you.

Elroy Noreen

[Guest]

Great tale as always Capt keep em coming!!

[mopar tim]

Great story Capt. I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for sharing.

[guest]

As usual. . . a great story! And I always thought the Maritimers had a bit of class in their lines even if they were hastily built war tonnage!

[captrmetz]

Greenhorn

One night as I sat on a roll of paper during a break at my paper mill job, I was thinking about the lake - Lake Superior - and I drew my thoughts on the paper. It was a large drawing of the lake, its islands, shipwreck locations, and the shipping routes from Duluth to the Soo (Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan).
A coworker walked by and looked at my drawing. “That’s very good,” he said. “Could I have it?” I tore off the piece of paper and handed it to him. “Dick, you love the lakes so much, why don’t you quit and get a job on the boats?”
I thought about this for a few days and made up my mind. When I asked the foreman if I could have a few days off, he said, “Yes, but for what?”
“To try to find out how to get a job on the boats.”
“Go ahead.” He understood my feelings. “I know your heart is set on the boats and not on this job.”
I drove up to Duluth and registered with Mike Ross at the Lake Carriers’ Association Hiring Hall. “Do you want to work in the engine room or as a deckhand?” he asked.
“What’s the difference?” I had no idea.
Mike explained each job to me. When he finished, I didn’t hesitate. I did not want to work where it was so hot, and I wanted to see where I was going. “I want to be a deckhand,” I said.
I drove back home, quit the mill, and packed my sea bag.

About a week later, Mike called. “I’ve got a deckhand job that opened up on the Thomas F. Cole for United States Steel. Come on in to my office and I’ll get you set up.”
My friends gave me a going away party. Big mistake; they should have had it without me. When I arrived at Mike’s office, he took one look at me and said, “What happened to you? Don’t you know you have to take a physical for this company?”
“No, I didn’t know.” Ashamed, I went off to get my physical. I failed it, due to elevated blood sugar level, elevated heart rate, elevated blood pressure (otherwise known as a hangover).
I went aboard the Cole anyway and asked for the Captain. A crewman led me to his quarters. We exchanged introductions, and the Captain sat down. I figured that since he sat down, it was okay for me to sit, too. When I did, there was a crunching noise. I moved to locate the source of the crunch, and discovered that I had sat on his glasses. Things were off to a bad start, I said to myself.
I told the Captain my story. “I’m not a drinker,” I said, “and I would like to work on your boat.”
“You look big and strong, and I’d like to have you as a deckhand,” he replied. “But it’s company policy that if you don’t pass a physical, you don’t get the job.”
That was that. I went back to Mike’s office and told him what happened. “Well, there are no more jobs on the board,” he said. “If you want to go back home, I will contact you if another ship becomes available.”
Instinct told me differently. I knew he wouldn’t call me. I had had my chance to sail, and I goofed up the opportunity. I decided to sit at the Lake Carriers’ hall every day until a ship came in needing a deckhand. For two weeks, I sat in the hall from 0800 to 1600 and played checkers every day. I became so good at checkers that I beat everyone in the hall and no one would play against me any more. Ship came; ships left. Jobs were filled, but there was none for me.

Finally, Mike said that I could have a job on the Steamer Thomas Wilson. I was to meet the ship at Silver Bay, Minnesota, in two days. Mike’s advice: “No partying!”
I drove to Silver Bay and got a hotel room. The night before the Wilson was due to arrive, I walked down to the cliffs that overlooked the lake, and I stared out across Lake Superior. “What’s in it for me?” I wondered. “What will tomorrow bring?” I was a bit nervous. I watched a freighter pass by very slowly. All of her deck lights and navigation lights shone brightly, and I heard the banging of the hatch covers as they were being lifted off the hatches. The ship was headed for the loading berth at Silver Bay. I went back to my hotel and tried to sleep.
My friend, Vince, had sailed on the lakes for a while, and I thought about what he had told me about sailing. He said to bring my diving gear, because if the ship sinks, I would survive. Vince had said it was important to batten down the hatches and make sure they were down tight. Vince said that when he went into the mess hall to eat, he looked around the table and saw a few empty stools, so he sat down on one. A big, mean-looking sailor came in and saw Vince sitting on his stool. Without a word, he smacked Vince alongside the head. Vince landed on the deck. He warned me to ask where my seat was located when I went into the mess hall. Vince told me that beginning on August 1 of each year, the ships do not go more than a mile from the shore because the lakes get too rough and it is dangerous.
My head full of all these thoughts, I finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
Early the next morning, I went for breakfast and then drove to the Silver Bay pellet plant. I parked my car behind the guard shack at the entrance. “I’m here to go aboard the Wilson as deckhand,” I told the guard. After he made a few phone calls, a truck pulled up in front of the shack, and I loaded my gear on it. The driver took me to the dock where the Wilson was loading iron ore (taconite) pellets.
My mouth fell open when I first saw the Wilson. God, she was big! She had a huge, black hull and a black smokestack with a large, white “W” painted on it. The truck driver pulled up to the boarding ladder. I got out, looked up, and saw two men standing on deck with a line. One yelled, “Tie your sea bag with this line and we will bring it aboard.”
I remembered something Vince had told me. “Don’t trust anyone aboard a ship; they will steal anything.” I tied that line to my sea bag and raced up the ladder to keep an eye on my bag.
Halfway up the ladder, I heard the seaman say, “What have you got in this sea bag?”
“Just my gear.” Little did he know, my gear included a diving tank, wet suit, mask, fins, and an 18-pound weight belt!
I threw the bag over my shoulder, and he picked up my other smaller, lighter bag. He took me forward to show me my quarters. “Get yourself settled, and then report to the mate on deck,” he instructed.
About midship was a man with pen and paper in hand. I figured that he had to be the mate. I went up to him and introduced myself, saying that I was the new deckhand and this was my first time on a ship. I was really a greenhorn.
He turned, shook my hand, and said, “That’s the way I like them. Then I can train a man my way.”
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Stand by.”
I looked around the deck. “Stand by what?” I asked.
The mate looked at me. “Boy, I guess you are a greenhorn. It’s dinner time, so go to the galley and have your dinner.”
As I headed for the galley, I saw Vince’s face in my mind. “Watch where you sit. Remember that big guy!” I told myself. I opened the door to the mess hall, stepped inside, and met the porter, Ernie. “I’m the new deckhand,” I announced. “Where should I sit?”
“Any place you like is fine.”
I chose the very last stool, thinking no one would want that spot and I could keep my eye out for the big guy.
Ernie served me a big T-bone and baked potatoes with homemade buns. Other crew members came in to eat, and soon the table was full. They all shook hands with me and were very friendly. There was no big guy.
Dinner done, I went back out on deck. “Put on the hatches and all the clamps,” the mate instructed.
After the first hatch was on, I began tightening down the clamps, and again, I thought about what Vince had said. “Make sure they are on tight!” I found a small length of pipe which gave me more leverage, and I really tightened each clamp down. I had tightened the clamps on about four hatches, when I heard loud voices. Steam winches were clanking, and soon men were climbing up the ladder from the dock as fast as they could. I was watching all the commotion when the ship’s whistle blew. It scared the heck right out of me, and I jumped about a foot off the deck. I quickly learned that when a ship was leaving port, the whistle was sounded to alert other ships to one leaving a dock. I felt slight motion and saw the dock moving slowly away from the side of the ship. A strange feeling came over me, and I felt like jumping off the ship back onto the dock, heading for my car, and driving back home.
The daydream ended abruptly when the mate yelled, “Get those hatches dogged down!” As I put the hatch clamps on, I kept one eye on the dock that was getting farther and farther away. Soon it disappeared into a cold, white fog. Thus began my first trip on a steamboat - the first of numerous trips that would fill a career for over 30 years. The date was April 27, 1964.
We cleared the piers and, as I later learned, set a course for Copper Harbor. The ship’s whistle sounded fog signals - three blasts every minute. After the deck was battened down, the mate knocked us off for the day. Most of the crew headed for the showers and to their rooms. Not me. I didn’t feel like going to my quarters. I wanted to look this old girl over, so I started up the stairway toward the pilothouse. I walked around and finally the mate noticed me. “Would you like to see the inside of the wheelhouse?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” was my response.
I met the wheelsman, Bill Liberity. “This guy must really know his stuff to steer such a big ship,” I thought. “How long have you been sailing?” I asked.
“About 25 years,” he replied.
“Have you been in many storms?”
“Oh, just a few,” he answered.
When the door opened and the first mate walked in, I thought, “This man must really know his stuff to be a first mate; he must be right next to God!”
The door opened again, and it was Captain Peter Peterson who came in. I thought, “Here is God!”
Captain Peterson was a kind, gentle, old man, and we talked for a few minutes. Then the mate said, “You better go down and get some rest; morning comes early.”
In my room, the only bunk that was empty was a top bunk, so I unpacked my clothes, showered, and jumped up into my new bed. It was too small. My feet touched the wire mesh at the end, but for tonight it would be fine. Two more deckhands arrived in the room, and I started asking Jim questions about my job. Jim had sailed for years, so he was my main man for information.
One by one, we all fell asleep. It was the end of the first day.
Early the next morning, our door opened, all the lights came on, and we heard the deckwatch yell, “Everybody out of that sack!” It was his job to wake us up every morning. He really loved his job. Someday I would pay him back.
We sat down at the mess table to order our breakfast, and Ernie was his cheery self. Food gone, it was time to jump into our rain gear and boots and head for the deck and the hoses. We started at the forward cabins, hosing down all of the iron ore dust and then down on the main (spar) deck hosing the stray pellets over the side. I thought there must be a furrow of iron ore pellets from Duluth all the way across Lake Superior from all the ships hosing down their decks while on the same course year after year.
At the end of our workday, we had finished hosing the deck and all the cabins. We made another visit to cheery Ernie for dinner, and then off for a hot shower. Next stop - the Soo Locks.
That night, I asked Jim to clue me in on what I must do on arrival at the Soo. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The mate will tell you what to do.”
His answer wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted details. I kept asking, and finally he gave me a rundown of what to expect. Then I was satisfied, but as I drifted off to sleep, I worried, “Will I be able to do my job?”
Out on deck the next morning, there was still a very thick fog. “Put on your life jackets and stand by,” the mate ordered. (By then I knew what “stand by” meant.)
I stood at the rail along the side of the ship trying to see through the fog, when all of a sudden, a wall came into view. We were at the Soo! “Wow,” I thought, how did they find their way from Silver Bay to the Soo in this fog?” I thought that was the greatest feat in the world.
I was jolted from my thoughts by the mate’s roar, “Dick, get over here and hop on this bos’n chair.”
I did, and before I knew what was happening, I was flung over the side of a moving ship and hanging on to the chair’s line for dear life. Bang! My feet hit the concrete on a dead run, and someone threw a heaving line from the deck right at me and into my face. I knew what to do now. I was at the Soo.
We entered the MacArthur Lock and tied the Wilson up with her wires. Wires taut and lock gates closed, the water level in the lock was lowered and in a few minutes we were at the level of Lake Huron. When the ship’s gunwale was even with the lock’s edge, we all climbed back aboard. One blast of the whistle (I didn’t even jump this time, because I had been listening to the whistle’s fog signals for 24 hours), the winches started heaving in the wires, and slowly “Big Tom” started moving ahead. We were underway once again. All my worry about what to do at the Soo was over. I did a good job. I considered myself a pro now.
As we headed downbound in the St. Marys River for the open waters of Lake Huron, the mate yelled, “Start soogie-ing the white work on the forward cabins.”
Soogie, soogie, and soogie. That’s all we ever did, every trip. I scrubbed the overhead with a brush on a long handle. The soogie ran down the handle and right up my sleeves into my armpits. I was wet all the time. “Is this what it means to be a sailor, washing white work all of the time?” Later, I noticed the deckwatch didn’t do much soogie-ing. He was always busy doing something else. “Hmm,” I thought, “I could do his job.” My sights were on a deckwatch job. To heck with this soogie-ing all of the time.
After an uneventful trip down Lake Huron and through the St. Clair and Detroit Rivers, we arrived in Cleveland. When the ship was tied up, it was the deckhands’ job to take the hatch clamps off. What a wail rose from the other deckhands! “Who in the world (not exactly in those words) tightened all of these clamps so tight?” They looked at me.
Sheepishly, I admitted it was me, which was no surprise to them. I thought, “Darn you, Vince, again!”
The mate knocked us off and said to be back aboard at midnight, so we all strolled uptown. It felt good to be on land where it was warm and there were no fog signals blowing. I felt I had been at sea for years instead of only two and a half days.