The Saga of the Three Condoms

© by Jackson Ragsdale

We had six missionary passengers. The others who boarded the Chincha at Capetown in late November, 1935, were Miss Stuart, a young lady coming to America to get married, a paunchy Armenian businessman, twenty-eight year-old David Windly, rubber-stamp wielding clerk in the American consulate in Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia, his mother Thelma, and lastly, a Mrs. Jones, about thirty from Queens in New York City, accompanied by her five year-old son. The boy gained some fame on board for he had approached one of the crew sitting in a card game and peed on the man’s leg.

Thelma Windly, whose vinegary face unmasked the creepy hypocrite behind the pious façade, immediately installed herself as the Chincha’s moral arbiter-in-chief for the thirty-day trip back to the States.

Occasionally, a passenger might stop a crewmember to ask a question or make a comment, but only seldom would they engage in extended conversation. Usage opposed it. My fellow cadet and roommate, Bill Fellows and Mrs. Jones broke that rule. Fairly early out of Capetown, he and the lady talked and exchanged smiles whenever they met.

The “master” of a ship holds that title with good reason. Captain Arthur Lee immediately took on the duty of entertaining the young bride to be. They often sat in intimate tête á tête in beach chairs on the captain’s private deck sipping lemonade or something stronger. Actually, they made a handsome couple, he, aged sixty but unwrinkled, silky haired and youthful, she, smiling, svelte and blonde, no more than twenty-five.

The watch plan at sea is four hours on duty and eight hours off. Fellows had the eight to twelve watch. Mornings he worked on deck criss-crossing the small passenger area, seeing and being seen by Mrs. Jones. At night he and his watch mates alternated in their several tasks. At midnight when Bill came off duty as the watch changed, he found Mrs. Jones taking the air or having a last smoke before bed. While it was not scandalous for Bill and Mrs. Jones to meet “accidentally” at such a late hour, the constancy of their rendezvous, lent credence to the accusation that their meetings were in fact trysts. It was a delightful story and excellent grist for the ship’s gossip mill, due to the otherwise stultifying dullness of shipboard life.

The forecastle riff-raff was dying to know more of the captivating details of the friendship between Bill and Mrs. Jones and during meals there was no shortage of unwelcome suggestions as to how our young swain might effectively advance his sexual success with the lady. Bill declined those offers of advice, remaining silent to all references to their friendship.

The direct avenue to first hand information having been effectively closed off, the unrequited mob descended on me as roommate, for information they felt certain I had.

I have neglected to emphasize the friendly relations that existed from the beginning between Bill and me. From our first meeting we exchanged confidences and told each other some details about our lives. In an early interview he showed me some condoms he carried in his wallet. He had three as I remember. He praised their high quality and extreme thinness. In effect, he was telling me: “I am a man of the world” and “Women, go for me!” All told, I found Bill Fellows a pretty cool guy. He stood out in his indifference to and his absolute independence from the mob.

At meals, Bill bore the burden of intrusive comments with relative ease. He laughed with the rest of us and made no attempt to choke off the ribald repartee that involved him. While no one had any evidence to state a definite fact, everyone was sure to a certainty that a serious affair was going on.

Keeping the details so close to his breast was a heavy burden on Bill and he soon found himself in need of someone on whom to shift some of that heavy weight. That person happened to be me, and that confidence—sweet as it was, became an anchor around my neck. I lied that I was not Bill’s confidant but everyone assumed that I knew. It was simply not believed that someone could be so burdened with so rich a fortune in scuttlebutt and contain it within his own soul when there were many empty vessels at hand anxious to share the burden.

Actually my entry into that sacred realm of knowledge had come about by accident. Bill had only three condoms. As we know, love may advance slowly in its first stages, but once the flame is lit, it flares into a roaring inferno. In no time, Bill would have exhausted his supply of condoms even as the flame of love burned ever more brightly.

One day, I entered our room when the door was closed. There was Bill sitting on his bunk over his bucket, washing a used condom in soap and water. His sputtering explanation revealed the dilemma: his fountain of pleasure was in danger of being cut off for the lack of an accessory. When the washing was completed, the cleansed condom was rolled down over a broomstick and placed in the remotest corner out of sight to dry.

The saloon at this time had become divided in two warring camps. Mounted on her high horse, Thelma Windly imperially snubbed Mrs. Jones, the young bride to be, and our majestic captain. She made clear to all her disapproval of the disgraceful goings on.

It was not until we got into cold weather that I learned we were going first to Halifax and not directly to New York. In the Nova Scotia city, passengers were put up in a hotel and were to be sent on to New York at company expense, probably because we were to call at Boston which would have meant a delay of almost another week.

We arrived in Halifax on a Sunday morning and Mrs. Jones invited both Bill and me to visit her in the hotel. It was the dead of winter and I was happy to have such an opportunity to get away from the ship into a warm hotel room in such pleasant company. The city’s landscape was bleak and encrusted in frost. Furthermore, when we arrived at the noon hour, Mrs. Jones ordered food for all and we had a feast. Warmly welcomed by her and the child who knew us well, having played amongst us for a month, our meal became a gala farewell party.

In the middle of our little fiesta there was a knock at the door and when Mrs. Jones answered, in walked the Marine Superintendent of the American South African Line, the man who had hired me. He seemed embarrassed and immediately sought refuge in chitchat, asking Mrs. Jones how she had enjoyed the trip. She replied that it had been just fine. I heard later through Sparks, the radio operator, that Mrs. Windly had radioed her complaints to the company. Why he came snooping was a mystery. Was he surprised when he found us with our clothes on? Did he come to rescue innocent Bill Fellows from this conquering siren?

Bill left the ship in Boston. I continued with the Chincha up and down the coast and made the next trip back to Africa with the same captain, Arthur Lee. That next trip was dull as hell!