In order to maintain his sanity, Hans tried to think about other small things from his past. He recalled all sorts of simple pleasures from his earlier days in the Netherlands. His mouth watered longingly for the marvelous bakery treats and especially his all-time favorite, room brotjes (a cream-filled pastry). That brought to mind the Dutch chocolate, which many consider the best in the world, and the chocolate letters everyone exchanged every year in early December on the feast of St. Nicholas. Along with the letters came an enormous selection of marzipan in every imaginable size and shape. He thought about the weekly flower market held on the square in his native Baarn. What could be purchased in Cleveland could never hold a candle to the beauty and variety there, and at a price that almost anyone could afford. The next thing that came to mind was a memory of riding his bike down the path to Hilversum one early spring day. That was how nearly everyone got around, but on that particular day, after an unusually cool winter for Holland, the buds on the trees were popping out leaves with such a vengeance he would have had to holler to be heard by anyone nearby. He even missed his Klompen (wooden shoes). With the proper socks, they were very comfortable; plus they saved his leather shoes from the ever-present rain.
His concentration was broken for the moment, so he put aside his reports and went to his bunk. With the gently rolling waves and the rhythm of the big diesel pushing them along at a steady fifteen knots, he was asleep before he could count even one sheep. It would be a long night, what with loading the coal in Toledo and all, so he would need his rest while he could get it. Tomorrow was a question yet to be answered. Anxiety was not a normal trait in Hans’s makeup, but at the moment, he could not entirely rid himself of it.
Chapter 3
Sunday, October 20
I
Hans was up before the call at 10:00 p.m. on Saturday evening. He had been dreaming about the plight of the William R. Jammison. The dream was not a pleasant one. He was still at a loss to explain what had happened to the steering system between Friday, when it was operating by the book, and this morning when it was not. Could it have anything to do with the new unknown crewmen? A deckhand would not have access to any critical areas, but an engineer definitely would. He promised himself to keep a watchful eye on Norm Bitterman, the new assistant in that department. A talk with George would also be a wise move to make him aware of what might turn out to be a problem. There was no solid reason for Hans’s suspicions, but he preferred to take the cautious route.
When he got back to the wheelhouse, he sent Fred down to get some rest. He had been on duty for most of the day. He would need some time off if he was going to be at his best over the next few days.
Hans watched the nearly flat surface of Lake Erie, all the while contemplating the history of that particular Great Lake. It was the shallowest of the five, and because of that, it could generate some of the tallest seas. Over the years, the number of ships and boats that met their fate on Erie was astounding. Even right near their homeport, there were several victims that could be visited by skilled divers. They could investigate the hulk of the Algeria, a 289-foot schooner that went down in 1906 under sixty feet of water. There were several seagoing tugs, including the Admiral and the John B. Griffen, both of which had foundered while attempting to rescue larger ships. In the case of the Admiral, the other end of their towline at the time was attached to the Cleveco, a 260-foot steel tanker, which escaped disaster at that time. But the Cleveco sunk at a later date at Euclid, Ohio, also on Lake Erie. Because the Great Lakes contain some of the freshest and coldest water anywhere, most of the derelicts sit in a fine state of preservation.
Nearing Toledo, Hans was feeling very humble. To think that he was in total charge of this 730-foot, 13,000-ton vessel made him feel very small considering the monumental responsibility he bore on his shoulders. His crew looked up to him as a sort of father figure despite the fact that he is younger than several of them. They knew that he knew. They were certain that he did know. Everyone was counting on his decisions.
They steamed into Maumee Bay and a short distance down the Maumee River to the Chesapeake and Ohio coal dock at Oregon, a suburb of Toledo. By 12:15 on Sunday morning, they were secured at the wharf ready to be loaded. Nothing more had gone awry during the first leg, so, just maybe, they could count on smooth sailing the rest of the way.
All eighteen hatches were opened, so now all they had to do was to observe while the holds were being filled to capacity. The watches and the hands would be kept busy, but their hardest work would be the clean up after the covers were back in place. It was always amazing to see the Sputnik spew out coal at an unbelievable rate. What was even more entertaining was to watch the system that fed the huge rotating ball. They could see the tower with its long, wide conveyer belt sending coal to the Sputnik. Beyond that was a row of railroad hopper cars full to the brim with coal, which were being pushed, one by one, up the ramp to the top of the tower. There they would be hoisted off the rails, turned completely upside down over the catching pit, shaken to insure that they were empty, and then dropped on the opposite side for the steep downhill run back to ground level. Since they were moving too fast to stop at the bottom, they were shunted onto another shorter uphill ramp where they lost their momentum. They rode back down at low speed and were switched onto a siding to make room for the next in line. The whole apparatus worked well except for an occasional foul up. Unfortunately, as one of the cars was waiting its turn for its trip up to the dumper, the mule operator made contact a few seconds too soon, hit the car a trifle too fast, and derailed it. A nearby crane righted the situation, but by the time they could proceed, another thirty minutes was lost.
When the Jammison was finally loaded and buckled up, it was 6:30 on a still calm Sunday morning. As they left the harbor, Hans noticed that the temperature had risen a bit more than it normally should while they were in Toledo. With the cold water under a warm, humid sky, and virtually no wind, it could only mean one probable thing—fog! So far it was still clear, but he knew from long experience that it would be changing. He did not need any more hassles. All he could say to himself was, “Why me?”
II
When he looked out his hotel window on Sunday morning at 7:00, Phil saw that his day might not go entirely as planned. What he could see was almost nothing. Dense fog had crept in while he slept. There was a good chance that it would lift in an hour or two if the slight breeze began to freshen even a little, but that was not certain. Driving could prove to be arduous under such obscured conditions.
He called the desk for a weather update and was told that this was not uncommon for Port Huron in October when the temps were higher than normal and there was no wind to help. The forecast was for a ten- to fifteen-mile-per-hour offshore breeze that would begin to bring sunny skies by nine or ten o’clock. If this came to pass, Phil would be able to leave on schedule after breakfast. He would take a pass on the architectural tour until some later date. With his knowledge of meteorological phenomena, something all good pilots must have, he assumed he would be able to see the shoreline but not much of the waterscape. Warm, damp air has a tendency to hang over cold water. The day would just have to play itself out. At least he should get to Tobormory without much delay.
By the time he crossed the majestic Blue Bay Bridge into Sarnia, on the Ontario side and cleared customs, the sun had, indeed, made its appearance. As he traversed the span of that marvel of engineering, he could envision the ship traffic far below him even though he could not see them. What must it be like to feel their way through the shrouded silence in that narrow waterway? He thought that they must have radar and sonar to assist them, but even those systems could not offer a one-hundred-percent guarantee of safety. Phil likened it to flying on instruments and making gut-wrenching ILS (instrument landing