"The island of lost ships and lost souls," he said.
He spoke of ships trapped in the weeds, as well as wrecked vessels that drifted into this watery graveyard, with crews of corpses waiting to be freed from the sargasso weed. He spoke of his own crew surviving there on the worms and tiny crabs, shrimps and octopuses that had changed color and shape, taking on camouflage to look like the floating, bulbous seaweed they lived on. Of mosquitoes big as birds.
"That's where the eels return to," he said, "millions of slimy snakes of the sea, from thousands of miles, from faraway waters coming back to mate, spawn, and die."
He was a good storyteller, and I sat there spellbound, listening to him for a long time, pipe smoke curling between us. Then he nodded off to sleep, and I slipped away.
Looking at the ocean now from the deck of the Polestar I felt lonely and sad, and then an idea surfaced. In "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," Coleridge must have been describing the Sargasso when he wrote:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea....
and
wYea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
The engines throbbing beneath my feet brought me back to reality. I turned away from the railing, climbed down from the guntub, and crossed the catwalk to the officers' dining saloon.
There, at breakfast, I was introduced to the chief mate who looked like a wrestler, and to the chief engineer, a huge, red-faced Georgian who sported pearl-handled six-guns, and to Sparks, the radio operator, whose eyes stared in different directions.
The captain informed us that he had opened the Navy's sealed orders. "The Polestar's destination is Aruba," he said. "There we take on bunkers for our own fuel supply. Then to Caracas, loading a full cargo of Venezuelan heating oil and off-loading it in Philadelphia. Expected duration of voyage, three weeks."
After breakfast, he motioned for me to stay behind.
"The men will get overnight shore leave in Aruba, and two days in Caracas," he said. "The last purser was supposed to lay in a good supply of condoms and prophylaxis ointment kits, but he slipped up. Normally, you'd conduct short-arm inspection for gonorrhea after the men come back aboard from each port, but since most of the crew signed on again in New York, you'd better do your first short-arm tomorrow."
I reminded him that he was to officially appoint me ship's doctor.
"Consider yourself so appointed."
I thought a moment. "I'd like it in writing, Captain."
He glared at me. "Eh?" Which I mentally translated as, Smart-Ass.
But then he softened, scribbled a note on a napkin, and handed it to me. I folded it carefully and put it into my wallet for safekeeping beside my staff officer's papers.
Several of the men showed the green-pus symptoms of gonorrhea, and I put them on a regimen of penicillin shots every four hours around the clock for two days. For the night shots, I had to go down to the men's quarters with a flashlight, shine it into their eyes to waken them, and roll them over. I gave each one a slap on the butt before punching in the needle, and few of them felt it going in.
I splinted one man's broken left arm—a simple fracture that could be set after we returned to the States.
My other duties included once-a-week openings of the slop chest for candy, cigarettes, and sundries. We were running low on most supplies so I had to ration them. It confirmed what the captain had said about the last purser. He'd been sloppy about provisioning the slop chest.
Other than medical duties and tending the store, I was financial officer. I would have to give the men a draw, advancing them local currency for shore leave in each port. To prevent them from jumping ship in midvoyage, the advance was limited to one-half the money they'd already earned. All I needed to do was multiply each man's rate of pay by the number of days at sea. They could draw up to one-half that amount. I couldn't begin to calculate the draw until the captain told me the date of arrival.
That left me lots of time to read and write. I used my office typewriter to try my hand at writing sketches from my past and keeping my personal journal for material to store away for the sea novel I knew I would write someday.
I realized I had to train myself in the craft of writing. I had studied every book on the subject I could get my hands on. Somerset Maugham, in his autobiographical The Summing Up, describes how he taught himself to write by spending days in the library copying passages of authors he admired. That shocked me, at first, but then I understood. Now, with books from the ship's library, I did the same.
I believed that, like Maugham, I would eventually outgrow imitation, but by then I would have learned to shape words into sentences, and to mold them into paragraphs. I trusted myself to develop an ear for language, and to find my own voice and personal style, as well as those of my characters. Since Maugham hadn't been too proud to learn to write as children do—by imitation—neither was I.
From Hemingway, I learned to write simple declarative sentences devoid of figures of speech, in the down-to-earth, transparent style he had learned from Mark Twain. Huckleberry Finn, Hemingway said, is the book from which all American fiction descended, and I believe it was the poet Archibald MacLeish who said that Hemingway had fashioned "a style for his time," playing on the title of Hemingways first published collection of short stories, In Our Time.
From Faulkner, I learned to break those chains, freeing myself to write long, complex sentences and parenthetical paragraphs, often with imagery that explodes into metaphor.
Eventually, I weaned myself from both of them.
In the beginning of "Flowers for Algernon," Charlie's style is direct, childlike, and free of metaphors, but as he changes, his simple declarative sentences become compound and then complex, then intricate and metaphoric. As his ability to write deteriorates, his style becomes simple again, until he reverts to near illiteracy.
I learned from the masters in the ship's library.
After refueling in Aruba, the Polestar sailed to Caracas for a cargo of heating oil. Then we were homeward bound, with little for me to do until the captain gave me our arrival date in Philadelphia.
Sparks and I were playing chess in my office when, suddenly, there was a furious banging at my door, and a distraught seaman burst into my cabin. "Purser! Come quick! Something's wrong with one of the deckhands."
"What is it?"
"I dunno, but he's been puking, and now there's dark stuff coming out of his mouth and nose."
I grabbed my black bag and shouted to Sparks to alert the captain or chief mate. Then I followed the seaman along the catwalk to the men's quarters on the forward deck. A crowd outside the fo'c'sle parted to make way for me. As I reached the doorway and smelled a mixture of sweet lemony syrup and vomit, I started to gag, but I braced myself and went inside.
A heavyset man was lying on his back across a bottom bunk, with his head halfway to the deck, his face covered with dark, bloody ooze. He was sucking it in and out of his nostrils and mouth, gurgling and gasping for air.
I had seen this middle-aged seaman, from time to time, mopping oil from the well deck, or on a scaffold over the side, painting or chipping. He'd come to the dispensary a couple of times for aspirin to dull his hangovers, and once he mentioned a large family in Philadelphia.
I had no idea what was wrong with him, but I realized he was drowning in his own blood-filled vomit.
"Help me roll him over!"
Two men jumped forward and we turned him facedown to keep him from choking.
"Anyone know what happened? What's that sweet smell?"
"He ran out of booze after we left Caracas," one of the seamen said. "Broke into the galley after Cookie closed it, and stole a quart of lemon extract. I think he drank it all."
I shook my head. What was I going to do? Even facedown, he was still choking, sucking fluid back up his nose.
Sparks showed up. "What a stink! Need help, Purse?"
"Get the captain!"
"
Orders not to wake him. First mate's on watch in the wheelhouse."
"This guy's drowning in his own bloody vomit. I'll give him artificial respiration, to see if I can clear his lungs. Get on the radio and try to contact the nearest Navy ship with a doctor aboard. Tell them this guy drank a quart of lemon extract."
Sparks nodded and dashed out.
I took off my shoes, straddled the seaman, and turned his head to the left. Then I began pumping him as I'd learned in the Sea Scouts.
"Out goes the bad air..." pressing down on his back. "In comes the good air..." releasing to let the lungs fill. "Out goes the bad air ... in comes the good air."
I sat astride him for nearly half an hour, pumping and releasing, wondering if I was helping him or killing him.
A messman showed up with a radio message Sparks had received from a Navy ship. It read, "Give artificial respiration."
I felt better knowing I was doing the right thing. I showed one of the seamen how to spell me, and he began by imitating my movements, and then taking over. "Out goes the bad air ... In comes the good..."
When I could no longer find a pulse, I sent word back to Sparks to radio the Navy doctor for instructions.
A few minutes later the captain showed up with a radio message in his hand. "How's it going, Purser?"
"I think he's a goner."
"The Navy doctor says to give your patient a shot of adrenaline to the heart."
I balked at that. "He's not my patient!"
"He damned well is. You're ship's doctor."
"Only under your orders."
"Then I order you to give your patient a shot of adrenaline to the heart."
"I wouldn't know how to do it I might kill him."
"It's a direct order, Purser. Do it, or I'll throw you in the brig, and bring you up on charges when we get back."
I looked around at my witnesses. "Put the order in writing, Captain."
He found someone with pen and paper and wrote it out.
"Okay," I said, "but I'm sure he's dead already."
I got the adrenaline out of the medicine bag, found a hypodermic and fresh needle, and prepared the injection. I looked up at the captain one more time. "You sure?"
"If he's dead, there's nothing to lose."
"But I'm not sure."
"Do id"
The men rolled him onto his back at my instruction.
With no heartbeat to guide me, I searched for where I hoped this man's heart would be. I shoved the hypo in and jammed the plunger.
Nothing.
The captain told the messenger to have Sparks notify the Navy doctor. Minutes later, the man returned with the message. The captain read it aloud. "Continue artificial respiration until midnight. Then declare the sailor dead."
"But he's dead already!"
"There's going to be a Naval inquest. Go ahead, Purse, follow the doctor's orders."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the duly appointed doctor on this ship, and he's your patient, and you've got your order in writing."
We rolled the dead seaman back onto his stomach, and for the next hour and a half, I sat astride a stiffening corpse, whispering, "Out goes the bad air. In comes the good."
At midnight, I declared him dead. After we wrapped him in canvas, I asked the captain if we would bury him at sea.
"Can't do it. We're two days off the Florida coast. I have to bring him in for the inquiry."
"Where do we keep him until then?"
The captain shrugged. "Put him into the refrigerator."
A murmur of disapproval at the captain's words traveled from the seamen at the entrance to the fo c sle, all the way back to the catwalk. The bosun stepped through the crowd, pushed the onlookers outside, and closed the hatch.
"Cap'n, with all respects..."
"What is it, Boats?"
"The men don't take to the idea of having a dead man stored in with their food. A lot of them are real superstitious. I think you'd have a mutiny on your hands."
The captain looked at me. "Any suggestions, Doctor?"
I winced at the word. "We've got him wrapped in waterproof canvas. Why don't we just put him on some boards in one of the empty cargo holds and pile dry ice around him?"
The bosun nodded. "That won't bother them."
"Okay, Boats," the captain said. "Have the deck crew take care of it." Then he turned on his heel and climbed the ladder to the catwalk and back to officers' quarters.
We anchored off Fort Lauderdale, and I watched from the railing as a launch brought Navy officers out to the Polestar. Although I had done the best I could under the captain's direct orders, I was frightened and nervous about the inquiry. I put his written orders into my briefcase and congratulated myself on my foresight. What would have happened to me without them? Might I have been accused of practicing medicine without a license? Manslaughter? Well, aboard ship, a captain was all-powerful. He had said I was a doctor, and that made it so.
It was a perfunctory inquiry. The ruling was something like "self-inflicted accidental death," and I was cleared.
After we arrived in port, my job was to assist the shipping commissioner who brought aboard ship's articles for the sign-off. I gave each man his official U.S. Coast Guard Certificate of Discharge.
But when the time came to sign ship's articles for the next voyage, only the officers signed on, none of the crew. As the bosun had said, most seamen were superstitious, and a ship aboard which a sailor had died was considered a vessel of doom. Despite my having been cleared at the inquest, they had all seen or heard how I had sat astride the dead man, and the word spread that I was a Jonah who urged him on with my incantation of good and bad air, squeezing the breath out of him, as I had ridden his soul down to hell.
Out on deck, I ran into the Bosun and some of the crew ready to go ashore. Feeling guilty under the stare of the dead man's shipmates, I said, "Sorry I couldn't save him."
The Bosun put his hand on my shoulder. "You did all you could, Purse. Most doctors lose a patient now and then."
As I watched them go down the gangway, his words hit home.
I'd kept my promise to my parents, and practiced medicine, but I'd lost a patient. I knew that when my eighteen months' tour of duty was over and I signed off the Polestar, that would end my medical career.
Like Somerset Maugham and Chekhov and Conan Doyle, I had been a doctor for a while, and like them I had failed. Now, I would keep following in their footsteps and try to become a writer.
Part Two
From Ship to Shrink
6. Inkblots
I SHIPPED OUT on the Polestar a second time, a planned one-year voyage from Newport News, Virginia, to Naples, and then a shuttle run carrying oil from Bahrain, Arabia, to the Naval station on Okinawa. However, the Navy changed our orders three times, and we ended up circling the globe in ninety-one days. When I signed off the Polestar, I said good-bye and good riddance to my seagoing medical career.
During six more voyages on other ships, I never once mentioned to any of the captains that I was first aid expert. Then, finally, after eighteen months of sea duty, I signed off my last oil tanker on December 6, 1946, with a Certificate of Continuous Service and a letter under presidential seal from the White House.
To you who answered the call of your country and served in its Merchant Marine to bring about the total defeat of the enemy, I extend the heartfelt thanks of the Nation. You undertook a most severe task—one which called for courage and fortitude. Because you demonstrated the resourcefulness and calm judgment necessary to carry out that task, we now look to you for leadership and example in further serving our country in peace.
Signed: Harry Truman
I went back to my parents' home in Brooklyn where I planned to live while I continued my college education.
My first day home after my discharge, Mom made a large dinner, and invited relatives and guests to celebrate my sister Gail's ninth birthday and my return. The nineteen-year-old prodigal son, my parents as
sumed, would now go on to become a doctor. I hadn't yet gotten up the courage to tell them I had already fulfilled my promise by practicing medicine aboard ship, and I had no intention of continuing premed or going to medical school.
After dinner, I headed down to my cellar library for a novel to read in bed. But as I opened the door—even before I took the stairs down—I sensed something was missing. Where was the smell of wet coal?
I turned on the light and saw that my bookshelves, books and all, were gone. I tasted panic in my throat as I walked quickly to the alcove behind the steps. The coal bin was gone, and the old furnace had been replaced by an oil-burner.
No books. No coal. No toys in the bin. All the real things were gone. I wanted to dash upstairs and ask my parents, "Why?"
But it wasn't necessary. I understood. They had decided I was no longer a child. I had left as a seventeen-year-old surrogate to their dreams and they had gotten rid of my childish things. They could never have known that their son's ideas and memories and dreams—things he would use to make himself a writer—would always occupy the hideaway beneath the cellar steps.
At breakfast next morning, I told them I had already tasted a doctor's life, and like Maugham and Chekhov and Doyle, I had failed at it. I was not cut out to practice medicine. I was going to become a writer, I said, and now I had to leave Brooklyn to do it.
My mother wept and my father walked out of the room.
I moved from my parents' apartment to an inexpensive furnished room on the west side of Manhattan, in the neighborhood called Hells Kitchen. "What money I had left from my service pay would have to support me while I wrote my first novel. It was about a seventeen-year-old purser's adventures at sea.
The novel was rejected by a dozen publishers. The last one had left a reader's coverage behind in the manuscript. By mistake? On purpose? Only two lines remain in my memory. The critique began: "It isn't as bad as some unsolicited manuscripts, but it's not good enough..." And the last line: "The basic story is good, but it is all on the surface and the characters' motivations are never too clear."