Sleepin' Under the Stars in Ole Bombay
©By Jack Ragsdale
Zoroastrianism was the state religion of Persia until the seventh century. At that time Mohammed’s armies swept over the country and converted its people to Islam. To continue the practice of their traditional religion many Persians fled to India where they settled in Bombay. There they continued to handle their dead in their own sacred way. So as not to offend the Gods of the Holy Earth or those of Fire, bodies of the dead were laid out on the roofs of temples for vultures to consume. The sun-bleached bones are eventually recovered and preserved as sacred. As they did millennia ago, those practices continued in Bombay in an impressive multi-storied temple.
In the early fall of 1941, I was offered a berth as third officer on the SS Exiria on a voyage to Burma and India via the Cape of Good Hope. The ship was a Hog Island type vessel, ungainly but practical—a Liberty Ship of the First World War.
Though we were not at war, the U. S. Government was doing a toe dance to keep its shipping safe. The Mediterranean and the Suez Canal were too dangerous for its ships. The Roosevelt government’s interest was not in some fatuous point; they wanted the Exiria’s cargo in Chiang kai Shek’s hands, not at the bottom of the sea. Thus it was that we went around the African continent at the cost of one whole month’s extra travel.
East and west of the Cape of Good Hope south to the pole, there is a vast expanse of open water and ample opportunity for vagary to occur—that is: the unusual, the rare, the extraordinary. Vagary in this case did take place.
As Third Mate I had the 8 to 12 watch. On a moon-lit night, in clear weather with excellent visibility, far from land, approaching the passage east of Madagascar, about ten in the evening, I saw a particular swell to the east that gave me pause. It was at least a mile away and very different from all the others approaching us: as it advanced, it was combing into a huge white column. That way it would engage us broadside and put the ship in danger by dropping it into a deep trough, overwhelming us with the massive following wave.
I changed course fifteen or twenty degrees to the port so as to have the renegade wave meet us on the starboard after-quarter. Unfortunately my tactic proved insufficient. We ended up in the trough! As expected, the next wave inundated us over the tops of the hatches.
Usually when water comes on board it is quickly discharged by the ship’s buoyancy but in this case the trough was so deep and the amount of water so vast, the ship struggled mightily to rise in recovery. Entrances to cabins are raised about ten inches to obviate flooding but with the deck so deeply inundated, any open door allowed the crashing entry to seawater. The Chief Engineer’s screen door was torn asunder and his cabin flooded as were others including the officers’ saloon. As I looked down from my high perch on the bridge, I saw the entire ship below me under water. It was difficult to conceive how the ship could come back. At the same time, the vessel’s forward movement was halted as the little ship twisted as a man might, to free himself of chains. I changed our heading a bit more a-port and gradually we recovered and again began to make headway. It was only then that it registered in my mind that at the moment of the wave’s impact, I had heard the loud crashes of crockery and glassware. In my twelve years as a seaman, this was my most dangerous experience.
In time, we arrived at Rangoon, a port on the rapid-flowing tidal-affected Rangoon River. Our cargo was discharged into barges at our anchorage, later to travel on the new and historic seven hundred mile Burma Road into western China. Chiang kai Shek had fled there from the Japanese who controlled all of the eastern part of his country.
From Rangoon we moved across the Bay of Bengal to Calcutta for a pay load back to the States and then on to the great city of Bombay. At sea I had relief but in port, the debilitating heat left me ill from lost of sleep.
In Bombay I had a few days off so I splurged: I retired to a palatial hotel where I lived like a rajah for three days. My huge room had two ceiling fans that achieved a miracle of cool and a bed to match the story-book atmosphere. I bathed often in cool water and drank freely of the icy stuff on assurance that it had been boiled. The hotel had few guests but was possessed of an enormous staff. When I moved about, men in colorful attire bowed low in my honor. A week in that giddy environment would have debased me forever. That was what happened to the British—they began to think they were gods sent from the holy House of Windsor to rule over benighted brown people.
All too soon that solo honeymoon ended and I returned to duty on the ship. At night I lay down in my cabin but was sleep would not come. In desperation I took a heavy counterpane and pillow and sought relief on the monkey bridge under the stars. There, at last, I slept.
Let me tell you the rest of story as I wrote it in 2004 to a world traveler who was writing about my subject:—the Parsees of Bombay. “I was in Bombay in 1941” I wrote, “as Third Mate on the American ship “Exiria.” I spent several nights in a fancy hotel but went back to the ship when I had to work. The heat-absorbing steel vessel was unbearably hot. One night, unable to sleep, I took my counterpane and pillow, went up to the monkey bridge and lay down under the stars. In the early dawn, I was awakened by the rustle of feathers. There on the rail just outside of my arm’s reach, were several greedy-looking vultures that seemed to have breakfast on their minds. I hadn't given the least thought to the Parsee's burial practice before, but I quickly gathered up my bedclothes and never slept outside again. Later I was told that those birds go first for the eyes which for them may be a particularly tasty morsel. My encounter with those birds was brief. I beat a hasty retreat. I recall only that they are smaller than vultures I've seen in my country. I still don’t know the color of those birds but I respect them for the valuable function they perform. However, while I remain alive, I plan to keep them at a little more than arm’s length.
Zoroastrianism was the state religion of Persia until the seventh century. At that time Mohammed’s armies swept over the country and converted its people to Islam. To continue the practice of their traditional religion many Persians fled to India where they settled in Bombay. There they continued to handle their dead in their own sacred way. So as not to offend the Gods of the Holy Earth or those of Fire, bodies of the dead were laid out on the roofs of temples for vultures to consume. The sun-bleached bones are eventually recovered and preserved as sacred. As they did millennia ago, those practices continued in Bombay in an impressive multi-storied temple.
In the early fall of 1941, I was offered a berth as third officer on the SS Exiria on a voyage to Burma and India via the Cape of Good Hope. The ship was a Hog Island type vessel, ungainly but practical—a Liberty Ship of the First World War.
Though we were not at war, the U. S. Government was doing a toe dance to keep its shipping safe. The Mediterranean and the Suez Canal were too dangerous for its ships. The Roosevelt government’s interest was not in some fatuous point; they wanted the Exiria’s cargo in Chiang kai Shek’s hands, not at the bottom of the sea. Thus it was that we went around the African continent at the cost of one whole month’s extra travel.
East and west of the Cape of Good Hope south to the pole, there is a vast expanse of open water and ample opportunity for vagary to occur—that is: the unusual, the rare, the extraordinary. Vagary in this case did take place.
As Third Mate I had the 8 to 12 watch. On a moon-lit night, in clear weather with excellent visibility, far from land, approaching the passage east of Madagascar, about ten in the evening, I saw a particular swell to the east that gave me pause. It was at least a mile away and very different from all the others approaching us: as it advanced, it was combing into a huge white column. That way it would engage us broadside and put the ship in danger by dropping it into a deep trough, overwhelming us with the massive following wave.
I changed course fifteen or twenty degrees to the port so as to have the renegade wave meet us on the starboard after-quarter. Unfortunately my tactic proved insufficient. We ended up in the trough! As expected, the next wave inundated us over the tops of the hatches.
Usually when water comes on board it is quickly discharged by the ship’s buoyancy but in this case the trough was so deep and the amount of water so vast, the ship struggled mightily to rise in recovery. Entrances to cabins are raised about ten inches to obviate flooding but with the deck so deeply inundated, any open door allowed the crashing entry to seawater. The Chief Engineer’s screen door was torn asunder and his cabin flooded as were others including the officers’ saloon. As I looked down from my high perch on the bridge, I saw the entire ship below me under water. It was difficult to conceive how the ship could come back. At the same time, the vessel’s forward movement was halted as the little ship twisted as a man might, to free himself of chains. I changed our heading a bit more a-port and gradually we recovered and again began to make headway. It was only then that it registered in my mind that at the moment of the wave’s impact, I had heard the loud crashes of crockery and glassware. In my twelve years as a seaman, this was my most dangerous experience.
In time, we arrived at Rangoon, a port on the rapid-flowing tidal-affected Rangoon River. Our cargo was discharged into barges at our anchorage, later to travel on the new and historic seven hundred mile Burma Road into western China. Chiang kai Shek had fled there from the Japanese who controlled all of the eastern part of his country.
From Rangoon we moved across the Bay of Bengal to Calcutta for a pay load back to the States and then on to the great city of Bombay. At sea I had relief but in port, the debilitating heat left me ill from lost of sleep.
In Bombay I had a few days off so I splurged: I retired to a palatial hotel where I lived like a rajah for three days. My huge room had two ceiling fans that achieved a miracle of cool and a bed to match the story-book atmosphere. I bathed often in cool water and drank freely of the icy stuff on assurance that it had been boiled. The hotel had few guests but was possessed of an enormous staff. When I moved about, men in colorful attire bowed low in my honor. A week in that giddy environment would have debased me forever. That was what happened to the British—they began to think they were gods sent from the holy House of Windsor to rule over benighted brown people.
All too soon that solo honeymoon ended and I returned to duty on the ship. At night I lay down in my cabin but was sleep would not come. In desperation I took a heavy counterpane and pillow and sought relief on the monkey bridge under the stars. There, at last, I slept.
Let me tell you the rest of story as I wrote it in 2004 to a world traveler who was writing about my subject:—the Parsees of Bombay. “I was in Bombay in 1941” I wrote, “as Third Mate on the American ship “Exiria.” I spent several nights in a fancy hotel but went back to the ship when I had to work. The heat-absorbing steel vessel was unbearably hot. One night, unable to sleep, I took my counterpane and pillow, went up to the monkey bridge and lay down under the stars. In the early dawn, I was awakened by the rustle of feathers. There on the rail just outside of my arm’s reach, were several greedy-looking vultures that seemed to have breakfast on their minds. I hadn't given the least thought to the Parsee's burial practice before, but I quickly gathered up my bedclothes and never slept outside again. Later I was told that those birds go first for the eyes which for them may be a particularly tasty morsel. My encounter with those birds was brief. I beat a hasty retreat. I recall only that they are smaller than vultures I've seen in my country. I still don’t know the color of those birds but I respect them for the valuable function they perform. However, while I remain alive, I plan to keep them at a little more than arm’s length.
Labels: The hazards of jes sleepin'
posted by Jack Ragsdale @ 7:28 PM
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