As a Cynic Sees It: Sailing the Memory Sea

My father crossed the International Date Line aboard the USNS General E. T. Collins on July 15, 1953, headed to Korea. I know this because he oddly enough kept the Domain of the Golden Dragon certificate he received that day (image above). I crossed the IDL fourteen months later, on another Navy transport ship, but I was only six and not as organized as he; I don’t know the ship’s name. I’ve spent some time over the last few days trying to figure it out.

It’s amazing what’s available online, and though I haven’t yet found what I’m looking for, I’ve learned a lot and had a great deal of fun. The closest I came was an article -- well worth reading -- published in MS Musings, an online journal for those with MS. Its author, Ron Crooker, sailed from Oakland, CA, to Yokohama, Japan, on September 4, 1954. At first I was convinced he was on the same ship I was, but the dates, while tantalizingly close, don’t quite match up. He arrived in Japan on Sep 17 while I celebrated my sixth birthday on Sep 19, still on the Pacific.

Of course his dates could be off . . . or maybe we celebrated my birthday early, knowing there would be no time while we were getting from Yokohama to our new house in Tokyo.

I’ll keep looking.

What’s most intriguing is that he sailed on the General Edwin D. Patrick – the very ship that we sailed on nine years later after Dad’s second tour of duty.

There are two stories that bear retelling, one from each of my early sailings.

On that first Pacific crossing I turned six, as I’ve said. We celebrated with a party and a game of Mr. Potato Head. I remember it well, for the game was interrupted by the ship’s PA system blaring “Man overboard!” Today of course it would be a soothing female voice saying gently, “Code 8, Code 8,” (or some such); back then we were more direct.

We rushed to the railing and watched with equal parts fascination and horror as they threw dye in the water, stopped the ship and sent out a boat. He was never found. It’s a memory, and a birthday party, I’ve never forgotten.

The other tale, tall but true, took place on the final night of our return stateside in June of 1963. I shared a cabin with my brother and a friend, but there was a fourth bunk. We stripped a sheet from that bunk and fashioned a pirate flag, using shoe polish for paint. We crept out on deck, lowered the American flag and added our skull and crossbones under it, raising the two together. Miraculously, we were not detected.

Just about the time we were sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge, the GIs onboard saw our flag and started hooting and hollering. This time the voice on the PA was clearly that of the captain: “Mate, bring that flag to the bridge!”

As we were getting off the ship a couple hours later the Captain, at the gangway to say goodbye to the officers, pulled us out of line and asked us to wait a bit. We were terrified. Visions of Dad being court-martialed played in our heads. Our parents went down the gangway wondering what the hell was going on.

“Boys, with your permission I’m going to keep that flag,” said the Captain, as we did our most nonchalant shoulder-shrugging, what-does-this-have-to-do-with-us pantomime. “That’s the best thing that’s ever happened on one of these crossings. Let’s just be glad the Navy didn’t see it and start shooting at us!”

Holy war at sea! We hadn’t really thought through all the consequences. We ran off the ship, shaking and laughing at the same time. Don’t remember what we told the ‘rents. Don’t wanna remember.