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lRisb r ic o e s - oececoBeR. 200 t-jANUARy. 2002 lCDpRlNrs 11 The Odyssey of an Immigrant- P a n i x by Seam u s McMahon © 2001 The Doldrums, a hundred mile wide strip of calmness at the Equator, was a big event on cruise passenger ships, where fancy dress balls and shows honoring King Neptune, mer maids, and denizens of the deep were topical occasions. To us, of course, working on our aged freighter was business as usual. Waking at dawn a strange surreal and unearthly quiet per vaded our cabin. The shock of the ghostly silence was broken by Pat and fellow workers as they came into the cabin on deck shouting, “Sean, we’re in big trouble. The engines in this bloody old clunker of a ship have broken down and we’re sitting like a cork bobbing on a dead sea.” With the ship stationary, sti fling heat replaced the usual light breeze that prevailed. The non movement of the ship was so frightening that even walking the deck to the galley for break fast was like being on another planet, dead calm and stillness everywhere. Under normal ship movements, one would make compensations by swaying to counter the ship’s roll. Two days later, while eating breakfast of bread and tea, an announcement came from Captain McSwain who came down on the deck to calm the ship’s crew. “Men,” he began with a brave confident expres sion to cover nervousness, “Men, as you know, we are repairing the engines, there is no need to worry as we are in con tact with a passenger ship approximately three days away and speeding to our rescue.” With his splendid English accent, Captain McSwain con tinued, “There is nothing to worry about. It’s not like it had happened in the swells.” An anguished crewman asked, “Captain, did you have to send out an SOS?” The captain replied, “Well my man, we have to do that anyway as per naval law.” I could see the expression on the captain’s face as if wonder ing if he had quelled the crew’s fears. He then laughed with a false nonchalance repeating, “We should be back on our way within a day.” Sitting on the deck after work, the setting sun created a blaze of red on the horizon but its intensity waned as it dropped out of sight. The calmness induced a flood of pleasant thoughts while gazing vaguely at this magnificence; magnifi cence so profound that our very existence seemed so infinitesi mal. Engines repaired, we crossed the Equator and proceeded northeast to bypass Hawaii. Our daily routine of climbing the catwalks to paint the deck heads stayed on schedule as we bal anced and swayed like trapeze artists countering the movement of the ship. In the midst of our sweat, Pat, my partner in paint called out with his Welsh accent, “Oh Sean me boy,” while wiping the drips from his brow, “I swear that when we get to Vancouver, I’ll drink a gallon of beer without stopping for a breath.” I replied, “Would you like to bet a pound on that? I’ll hold you to it.” Pat countered, “With the sweat that’s on me, I could drink five gallons. You know me.” The routine was shattered one day as an uncontrolled drip of paint evaded me during my gymnastics. As I tried to reach an inaccessible spot, my arm and body extended, I lost con trol of the brush and as I watched with amazement and apprehension, a large drip of black paint decided to part com pany from its family and my gaze followed its path toward the engine room floor. At this precise moment, John Coleman, the third officer, decided to look up at us high wire Michelangelos. With unerring accuracy, the drip exploded on his polished baldpate. My apprehension then turned to uncontrolled laughter, fol lowed by giggles which were short lived when the captain ordered us down to explain what had happened. “Sir,” I said with a false straight face, “I don’t know why the paint drip did what it did.” Fortunately, his fellow officer thought this was so hilarious that in no time, everyone was convulsed with laughter, including the captain whose stern face broke into a smile. The laughter went on and on. Every time it started to subside, someone looked at Coleman’s painted black face and exploded with laughter. Later, when the paint had been removed, word came down from headquarters that Coleman’s face and eyes were all right. A crewmember uttered a thank God under his breath. Twenty days at sea was beginning to wear on us as we endured the incessant rise and fall of the ship as she plowed steadily through the swells. The dots moving in the sky were like insects that trans formed into Navy planes as they passed overhead, then turned back and headed over the hori zon. Later in the morning, an aircraft carrier of the U.S. Navy appeared like a mother duck with her noisy chicks (the planes) coming and going. A thought struck me that although at times we could not see them in the clouds, they were the first human contact we had in almost three weeks. Except of course the albatross. The weather cooled consid erably as we rounded Victoria Island, British Columbia, Canada, a large green snow capped forested isle. A brisk March wind cut across the bow like a dagger slicing the air; it’s source direct from the Arctic regions. As I shivered, the thought crossed my mind that not ten days before, we had suf fered from the mind boggling heat of the Equator. Through this miserable cold of present, our bodies adjusted to this seemingly impossible tempera ture difference. How lovely the green land scape of the island looked after twenty-eight days of sea and sky isolation. Our ship, the Trewellard, loomed like a four story building as it was guided into a small space at the Vancouver dock. While daydreaming, it occurred to me that now the ship would be turned toward the direction of home. I was sud denly awakened by a nudge on my shoulder. I turned into the large grin of John Coleman, the third officer I had inadvertently painted. Only I had forgotten. My recognition was so slow it prompted him to quip, “Apparently you only recognize me with a black painted face.” In his humorous mood, he went on with a slight sarcastic subtle ty, “My Michelangelo friend, if you decided to become an artist, you should not specialize in brush painting. I can verify just how good you are at it, say at thirty feet.” Then with a smile, he left. The following day after church, Pat and I went for a walk around the beautiful city of Vancouver set on a plateau from which you can view the beauti ful bay and no matter what way you turn the panorama seemed to become more spectacular. While viewing the Victoria Island with its snow-capped mountains, we crossed the street to get a better view. “Pat,” I said and he suddenly turned toward me, “there is a pub behind us. I think we should have lunch and a few jars. And Pat me boy, as a matter of fact, this is where I can relieve you of easily earned money. Remember when you were gasping with the heat at the Doldrums? You said, ‘Sean, I could drink two or three bottles in one go.’ What a lovely dream.” Grandpa, there were some corrections you made that were incomprehensible because of the fax. I changed what I think you wanted. Bring this over tonight and let me know. U A t l A Gift Shoppe 250 Abbott Rd, Buffalo, NY 14220 (716) 825-6700 Win a Free Trip for four to Ireland Stop in to the Tara Gift Shoppe and enter to win a luxury trip to Ireland which includes round trip air travel for four on Aer Lingus, one weeks accommodation at Kilkea Castle in County Kildare and one weeks car rental. No purchase necessary. HOLIDAY HOURS; M on-Sat. 10am -6pm Thurs. 10am -pm • Sun. Noon-4pm Extended hours Dec. 22 a n d Dec. 23 Instructor— Paula W o o d g a te, T.C.R.G., A.D.C.R.G. Dance Classes: Tuesday Evenings Beginning at 5 p.m. Sunday Evenings beginning at 6 p.m. For Class information Call: Mary Holzerland 693-4859 For Show Bookings: Carole Collins, 667-3760 or John Oakley 823-8632 Buffalo Irish Center, 245 Abbott Rd. Buffalo, NY 14220 VFW Post 18 Spring St., Williamsville, NY 14228 Proud of Being IRISH and CATHOLIC? Join The Ancient Order of Hibernians Call Mike Redmond 883-5930
