Oceans Rose

Grif went below and returned quickly with a couple of well-oiled shotguns for self defense, just in case we ran into trouble.

“Stay up here and keep watch,” he told me as he tossed me one of the guns and one to his deck hand. “This shouldn’t take too long and then we’ll be on our way. See anybody you haven’t seen before, stop them.” Then he and Terry went below decks with the two strangers before shutting the hatchway. We had finally reached our destination and I was overcome by a mixture of excitement and fear that made me tightly grip the cold weapon. I had never shot anyone before and I hoped it wouldn’t be tonight. While standing there in the silence I thought how surreal the trip seemed. It was like when I had my first sail boat and dreamed of seeing the world.

The tropic night air was heavy with humidity that hung like thick motor oil in every breath. When combined with the stillness and eerie darkness, it gave the river a mood as if it were the end of the world. With sails furled, we had been motoring without running lights for hours through an endless blackness; the absence of horizon, stars or moon, gave the illusion there was no up or down; no forward or backward.

One of the two Chinese crewmen on the bow was sweeping the water ahead with a flashlight looking for obstructions but the darkness absorbed the light as if shining into an empty, bottomless well. The atmosphere was very tense despite assurances from Terry and Grif that everything was fine.

Then in the distance flickering lights, shimmering in long streaks over the ebony, calm waters, split the gloom and a welcomed sense of balance between feelings of uncertainty and confidence came over me. Although some uncertainty remained, much of it disappeared with the sight of the far-away lights.

We had been at sea for almost three weeks and, as if trying to make a deadline, stopped only on some small island in the Philippines for provisions. My work was standing limited watches when the weather was fair to give everyone else a break. After reaching some nameless river on the southern coast of China, in the late afternoon, we were making our way slowly into one of the many obscure branches that seemed to crisscross the river. It was easy to understand why Terry and Grif had only Chinese crewmen for this trip. The two apparently knew where we were, as they took control of the Black Rose once we got into the rivers.

As we drew nearer, it was clear that the flickering lights came from torches in the water meant to light the way along the river’s channel, into a very small and otherwise unlit port. The first light was a small crudely made and candle-lit, bright red lantern of paper and bamboo, hanging from a pole. As we passed, Terry snagged it with a boat hook and quickly extinguished it. 

“The red lantern lets us know the torches need to be on the port, or left side, as we go into the narrow channel so we don’t run aground,” Terry explained with a whisper. “If the lantern was green, we’d have to keep it on our right side.”

Not knowing how to respond or what to say, except to shake my head as though I understood, there were no further explanations for the secrecy and no reason for me to ask. It was completely unexpected there would be this much mystery when leaving Honolulu. Now it was too late to do anything except for me to remain intensely on guard while being cautiously excited.

Terry stopped the engine as a narrow dock emerged from the dark. Looking at the whole scene in the oppressive darkness seemed almost bizarre—the silhouettes of our two Chinese crewmen poised to throw dock lines, several motionless figures standing on the low, wooden pier as we drifted slowly and noiselessly up to the dock. The stillness underscored everything. The lines were thrown to silent men who quickly tied them, fore and aft, to pilings, securing us tightly against the fragile structure. Two figures dressed in white suddenly appeared, like ghosts from the shadows and jumped aboard without a word to quickly descend through the open hatch with Grif close behind.

Filled with mystery, I was in the middle of some truly strange, business. Not knowing what was to come before I joined the crew, would probably have made no difference in my decision to make the trip, but perhaps I would have been better prepared. It was my first long sailing trip and my enthusiasm wasn’t spoiled by these curious events. The fact it was an adventure with the potential for real trouble intrigued me.

Now alone on the deck, and a long way from home with a shotgun cradled in my arms, I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in the dark giving me time to think aimlessly. As a teenager, I had an uncontrollable urge for changes, guarded anticipations, subdued fear and a thirst for worldly knowledge; the results of being raised in a military family. This urge led me to many challenging experiences but this one on the Black Rose was proving to be way beyond anything my imagination had ever have conjured up.

As I looked at the sails, now loosely furled between the main boom and the gaff, now resting in the gallows where they were cradled, I laughed when thinking back to the Army base at Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland where my dad was stationed and where I got my first taste of sailing in the backwaters of the Chesapeake Bay. Finding a small, sodden rowboat in the swamp grass, awash in a shallow creek near the spot where I fished for crabs, I salvaged the waterlogged, mud- filled boat, dried it out and patched the holes. A make-shift sail I made from a boat cover and a mast from a piece of a two-by-four from which to hang the clumsy sail. Proudly launched, it became my first sailboat and the boat cover sail performed remarkably well, although sailing a rowboat was not without its drawbacks.

Upon reaching the windward end of the cove it was necessary to turn the boat around, drop the sail and row back. Some days the wind would shift, making for a longer voyage, but it also made for a longer row back to shore. I sailed that boat until it sank when the two-by-four mast plunged, like a spear, through a rotten board in its bottom.

Looking up at the tall masts of the “Black Rose” and remembering that primitive sailboat and the smell of its moldy wood permeated with swamp mud, brought back fond memories that seemed like yesterday. While standing watch on the “Black Rose” during the trip, seeing her full sails and feeling her roll and pitch in the sometimes stormy Pacific, caused me to also remember my favorite high school art project, a painting of a Spanish treasure ship.

I had devoted almost an entire semester to working carefully on the fine details of the ship’s complex rigging and applying mixtures of various shades of blue to create an angry, boiling ocean topped with wind-swept white caps to suggest an approaching squall. Towers of sails were highlighted to give the billowing canvas distinction against a background of rain-filled ominous dark clouds. It seemed as if the sails would split at any moment as the ship sailed full force into the storm driven seas. While applying more paint, I was swept away into a daydream of a sailors’ life, almost tasting the salt air, feeling its sting on my face and hearing men loudly yell orders above the high pitch of wind and sea.

Then, during a semester break, my painting disappeared. It was an insult that someone would take it without knowing the painting, without being aware of the treasures and secrets hidden deep in her hold, without seeing the sailors rushing aloft and on deck preparing for the approaching storm. Nor would they ever explore the exotic islands or make new and the exhilarating discoveries I painted into that ship. My painting was gone but not my imagination or enthusiasm for sailing.

When the “Black Rose” came into my life I became inspired to make more paintings of ships but my first sail boat and treasure ship painting was never far from memory.

Suddenly a strange clatter from the dock startled me. With quick reflexes I jumped, my heart pounding with fear, the shotgun shaking in my hand. I was ready to shoot anything or anyone unrecognized that moved on deck and in the darkness, everything was reduced to formless, unrecognizable shapes. I cautiously approached the place where the noise came from, then made out the dim outlines of some men in the shadows along the shoreline.

The noise had come from when they unloaded their truck. It took a while for me to calm down enough to relax again. Alone in the darkness with only a dim glow on the deck from the covered portholes, to guide me back to the deck house, the gloom seemed more perilous. The men unloading the truck were softly chattering and laughing. It made me nervous not able to understand what they were saying. 

After what seemed an eternity, they finished unloading what looked like heavy rope and diving gear. I first thought how strange that we would sail all this way to go diving at night, but I put the mystery on hold in my mind. As exciting as it was exciting to be here I was far too tired to mull over, or try to figure out the night’s strange events. Despite my nervousness my heart finally normalized to a dull beat and relaxed. We’d be gone soon.

Terry and Grif, although older than me, were not particularly good friends, but they were two guys who taught me a lot about sailing while in Honolulu. It was a great birthday gift when they allowed me to accompany them on this trip. To finally be called a sailor made me feel a real fraternal spark of achievement and a sense of belonging.

In the dark, the familiar aroma of varnish and new paint, of new and musty wood, brought back a flood of memories of time spent visiting marinas along the Chesapeake while looking for ideas on how to improve my simply rigged rowboat.

Then we moved to Schofield Barracks, on the island of Oahu and my spare time from high school was spent exploring some of the many marinas that spot the island. It was at the Keehi Harbor that I focused my attention and curiosity on one particular yacht. The “Black Rose” was an impressive eighty-five foot two masted   gaff-rigged schooner from California. She was tied up with her port side against a concrete and wood dock. Her black painted hull, tall varnished masts, neatly furled sails and many belayed lines created an indefinable excitement that reached deep within me, stirring up memories of my stolen painting.

After discovering the “Black Rose,” my free time was spent at the marina. I stood and stared at her as time allowed. Her decks were always clean and uncluttered, her curtains drawn over the deckhouse portholes. With a pad and pencil to sketch her from several angles, I would spend many hours drawing and re-drawing the “Black Rose.” While standing on the dock sketching, it seemed odd not to see anyone leave or go aboard. The ship and marina seemed unusually quiet, lonely and, at times, deserted.

Then one day, daring to cautiously approach the seemingly empty schooner until near enough to step onto her decks, I heard conversation coming from below that caught my attention. Pacing back and forth on the dock, scraping my feet loudly against the concrete hoping to be noticed, I was disappointed when no one appeared. Oh well, maybe next time.

For several weeks the trips to the marina ceased because of school commitments. But final exams were soon over and summer vacation gave me free time to spend at the marina. My fears the “Black Rose” would be gone, never to be seen again, haunted me during school when I was at last free to look for the “Black Rose,” the bus service couldn’t get me to the marina fast enough. There were the telltale masts rising above all the other boats. The “Black Rose” was there and this time with several men on her deck. Opening my sketch book without wanting to seem too curious, while wandering nonchalantly over to where they were standing seemed to be the best approach. The men stopped talking and unsmilingly watched me, like mannequin whose eyes moved. Both men were dark brown from years of sun exposure and were dressed in blue jean cut-offs and sun-bleached flowered Hawaiian shirts, with well-worn canvas deck shoes on their feet. Several other men, apparently crew, were working in the rigging above deck

“How you guys doin’, “ I blurted out. “That’s really a beautiful ship. Lotsa’ work I bet.”

They stared and then gave me a half nod while I fumbled with my sketch pad and nervously dropped it. Standing, after recovering the wayward book, I saw that the men were gone. The bus ride home was filled with disappointment.

When I returned another day to the marina, the “Black Rose” was gone. For several weeks after, I languished in despair while searching for a diversion that would take my mind from this deeply personal loss. I felt like I had lost a friend. Time after school and weekends was spent on a summer league bowling team and working on my sketches and paintings

After a month of boring, mediocre, uninspiring summer bowling league games, I ventured back to the marina where the Black Rose was berthed. To my surprise, there she was. Just as beautiful as before she left and on deck one of the men in cut-offs. This time, though, he unexpectedly smiled and waved. 

“Come aboard,” he said in a friendly way, “I’ve seen you hanging around before. You some kind of artist, or what?”

“No, not really. I just like sail boats and hope to own one some day.”

“Well come on and I’ll show you around. We just got back from a business trip to China and we’re trying to get the Rose cleaned up before our next trip. She’s a real mess.”

Looking around it seemed to me that nothing was out of place; she was a beautiful, neat and tidy schooner with a few odd lines lying around. Two Chinese crewmen were busy coiling lines and hanging them neatly from the pin rails.

“I’m Richard,” I said. “My dad’s stationed at Schofield.

“And I’m Terry. Glad to meet you Richard. Let me see your sketch pad, if you don’t mind.”

Handing him my sketch pad filled with pencil drawings of the Black Rose; some traced with ink lines to give some dimension to the drawings, Terry slowly leafed through the pages making approving nods.

“You’re pretty good,” he said handing back my book. “Do you sell them?”

“No I do it for fun and never thought about selling them.”

“Tell you what,” he said as he reached in his front pocket and pulled out several twenty dollar Williams, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for the one on the fourth page.”

That was one of my favorites because it depicted the Black Rose under sail at sea. Agreeing to the twenty bucks we exchanged money and drawing. Lost in my excitement and trailing behind Terry from stateroom to galley to engine room we went below, all the time talking about sailing. The focs’l—quarters in the front of the ship— where the two crewmen had their bunks were tidy as on deck where they were working.

Following him back up on deck, he pointed out the lines; halyards for raising the sails, shrouds that supported the masts, lines to trim the sails and he pointed to the pin rails where all the ships’ lines were fastened to belaying pins. My joy was hard to conceal. My welcome had run its’ coarse, though when his partner showed up and Terry saw me off the ship.

“Glad you could come aboard,” he said as he patted me on the shoulder while gently urging me to the gangway. “Come down and see me again.”

“Thanks,” I said, “for letting me look around.” He and the other man went below out of sight.

Those first meetings made me feel there was an air of mystery surrounding Terry and the Black Rose. More so when seeing the Black Rose hauled out at a nearby ship yard. It was discovering her total shape and bulk; her construction that she could provoke a profound sense of nervous adventure and how important it was for me to have more than a dreamer’s attachment to this bold fraternity of sailors.

Her Douglas fir masts were unmistakable and easily seen above the other boats. Hoping to see Terry again to talk more about life aboard a sail boat and deep water sailing; this trip to the yard was disappointing when he was no where to be seen.

Surprisingly it was how much larger than her eighty-five feet the Rose looked once hauled out of the water. After walking around the large whale like hull for several minutes, staring up at the recently scraped bottom, the view gave me a new appreciation of a ship’s design. Very noticeable on the keel was an unusual place where it appeared as though a piece several feet long had been damaged and repaired. Seemed peculiar to me that such a repair would be made with what looked like lead. While bending down to inspect a small unusual spot of bright yellow, which caught my attention under the reddish paint, a strange voice startled me.

“Hey, you.” It was the other guy with the faded Hawaiian shirt and cut-offs. “What’re you doin?” he bellowed.

“Just looking at your boat,” I turned and replied nervously. “Terry invited me down to visit again and I was….”

“So you’re the kid that was here a few weeks ago?” he interrupted sounding almost apologetic. “Well Terry aint’ on board so you better get away from here before somethin’ happens and you get hurt. You’re some artist,” he said as he grabbed me by the arm and steered me away from the boat. “Terry got your picture framed and hung in the galley. It’s really nice.”

“Hey Grif, what’s goin’ on? Terry’s voice was loud but firm. “That’s Richard. Remember I asked him to come down to visit?”

Grif let go of my arm and apologized. The three of us climbed a ladder and went below. Sitting motionless I listened in awe for hours as they described some of their trips to the Orient, around the islands and it made the world seem a lot smaller.

A few days later the Black Rose’s hull and bottom were painted and she returned to the dock. For the time being the odd repair and paint on the keel was forgotten. She left shortly afterward and was gone for more than a month. This time, though, forgetting ten pins, concentrating on school and my paintings with confidence she would return soon, time passed quickly.

As weeks turned into months, visiting Grif and Terry when they were in town, my ship-board sailing lessons continued and developed. As time passed, deep water was the missing factor for me to become a real sailor. One day, following a trip to California, the Rose was hauled out again to be readied for another trip. The three of us were sitting at the outdoor marina bar celebrating my eighteenth birthday; me with a coke, when they suggested they would take me on their upcoming trip to China. Parental permission was granted and my first ever ocean voyage became a certainty. My excitement was unparalleled.

Again a loud noise came from somewhere on shore as more equipment was unloaded and dragged to the dock. Standing up with a little less fright than before, all my thoughts about the past quickly evaporated, when the activity around the ship became frantic as the two men with Terry and Grif reappeared on deck. Several men on the dock, who were dressed in diving gear, slipped like fat shiny eels into the water as others dropped block and tackle into the water behind them followed by loud banging on the outside of the ship’s hull. It wasn’t long until the banging ceased; divers returned to the dock, removed their gear and assisted the other men heave on ropes attached to something quite heavy submerged in the river.

Before seeing what it was they were hauling up, Terry started the engines, the crewmen untied the ship’s lines, the Black Rose was turned around and headed back to the river. Watching off the stern of the ship, as the men continued their struggle, they seemed to be fastening the lines to what looked like the silhouettes of horses. Then all was consumed in darkness; only a few remaining torches guided us out of the channel and into the main river not far from the ocean.

Knowing not to ask questions, enjoying the long sail home though, the events were being silently tossed over in my mind about what had just happened. My thoughts raced way beyond the boundaries of reason or rationale. That was my state of mind for the trip back to Honolulu. Even with a number of storms plaguing us for several days, thoughts never ceased to poll my imagination for answers. Despite all my snooping there was not a clue of what happened that night on the river. There were no explanations given therefore no reason to be dissatisfied with an answer. Surviving the experience, the trip home was shortened by my occupation with the mystery.

Everyone, including me, was happy to see me safely home. Not mentioning the mysterious trip seemed best. Telling them of the wonderful time stopping at several small islands in the Philippines and the great trip home kept them entertained. Terry and Grif hauled the Black Rose out again for what they called routine maintenance and repairs. Stopping at the yard, where the ship was out of the water, and seeing the empty hole in her keel gave her an odd appearance making the bottom look incomplete. Lying on the ground was a large, rusty iron ingot that seemed to be about the same size as the missing piece with two large holes in both ends. Terry and Grif were arguing inside the ship, giving me time to study the strange shaped piece. It had holes large enough for two huge bolts lying nearby. The iron bar seemed to be made to fit into the opening. When bolted into the keel it would look like the earlier repairs. The iron block was, by my quick estimation, to be almost six feet long, twelve inches high and as thick. It was then I decided to leave quickly before they saw me there. My affair with the Black Rose had to end before it became too complicated and dangerous. One day, while standing on the beach, not long after getting my courage to end the friendship, the Black Rose appeared under sail on the horizon and slowly faded away in the distance as the weather clouded over and a cool wind rose out of the west.

Time quickly passed and my life traveled many roads; most full of audacious adventures; many at a high personal cost, none with regrets. It was after living in St. Thomas for a number of years, that realizing my life’s dream of owning a sail boat had become a reality. It was a fine, sleek, Oregon built fifty foot yawl.

One day, in the marina at Yacht Haven, every ones attention was drawn to a black hulled ketch being towed into the harbor. Her hull shape looked vaguely familiar. The similarity to another ship in my past made me look more closely. Looking her over, once she was docked, revealed it was, in fact, the remains of the schooner Black Rose hidden under years of neglect and alterations, now named the Black Swan,. The hull was a faded, dull black with rust stains covering her like spider webs; old sails hung limply and lay in dirty laundry like heaps of stained canvas. Faded decks badly needing caulking looked like bleached bones of some large skeleton. The schooner that had sailed from Honolulu was no longer the mysterious, sleek, beautiful ship that sailed to China. The Black Rose was reminiscent of my first painting in high school; both disappeared and like that painting, the owners would never feel her passion, feel the same wind or taste the same salt air of adventure with Terry and Grif. The Black Rose was now a battered ghost of her former glory.

Benny, the new owner of the schooner’s remains, talked proudly about her over a cold beer with me sharing my exciting and youthful experiences with the Black Rose. Then he revealed more of her recent history. He was told by a Coast Guard friend the Rose was captured off the West coast of Panama under suspicion of smuggling gold from California to China. The authorities were unable to find any gold, after a thorough search of the schooner, or prove their suspicions, so the two men, assumed to be Terry and Grif, were released. The two men reportedly returned to Honolulu and sold the ship to a new group of smugglers who were captured by the Mexican navy near the coastal town of Manzanillo with a cargo of heroine hidden in the ship’s secret compartments. The Black Rose was given to the U.S. Coastal Geological Survey agency that promptly renovated the schooner into its present unfamiliar ketch rig and renamed the Black Swan.

She was replaced a few years later with a newer ship, put in a Miami government dock and put up for auction along with many other, newer, confiscated boats. That’s when Benny saw her. With a few, low, disinterested bids, he succeeded in purchasing what seemed to everyone else as a dying ship. Like a true sailor, he did see beyond the neglect and into her strengths.

Benny towed the Black Swan to St. Thomas and hired a crew of workers to make her ready for charter. Although he could not afford to return her to the glorious schooner she once was, he did manage to restore her dignity, beauty and sleek lines despite the Governments faulty make over. The Black Swan and Benny became a charter success story. Unlike my personal losses of ships over the years, the Black Rose returned, with many changes and a new owner. If a ship could ever seem grateful, the Black Swan responded to Benny as only a ship with gratitude for a new life and dignity could; dependable and seaworthy.

With his chartering successes Benny took a year off and sailed on a trans-Atlantic crossing producing a slightly profitable movie of that experience before returning to St. Thomas. We became pretty good friends, after he returned, tirelessly talking for hours about the ship and our experiences with her.

I sailed back to the States, aboard another schooner, and never returned to the islands. A few years’ later friends in Fort Lauderdale told me that Benny had sailed to Martinique to pick up a charter party and for some reason decided to anchor in the harbor instead of the yacht basin. When the charter party and the ships’ crew showed up at the docks the Black Swan was gone; nowhere to be seen in the harbor. The crew expressed concern over the yacht’s disappearance and in spite of days and hundreds of square miles of Coast Guard searching; Benny and the Black Swan were never found. Her whereabouts had remained a mystery for almost two decades—some claimed to have seen her sailing around the Bahamas Islands and as far away as Hawaii.

While searching for friends, who sailed up from Fort Lauderdale, in the yacht basin in Titusville, Florida, I caught sight of a familiar looking boat in a dry-dock cradle behind the maintenance building. It was a weed covered remains of a shapely hull that was once a graceful sailing yacht. Now bare of her masts and rigging the Black Rose had finally reached an irreversible, humble and humiliating end. In shock and disbelief I walked through the weeds to stand under her whale-like rust-colored hull, now pocked with dead barnacles, and found the tell-tale scab in her keel. The piece that had been bolted there was gone; leaving a gaping hole like a missing tooth under her hull.

The dock master didn’t know Benny or who owned the now derelict boat although each month a check was received to pay her dockage along with a note that stated instructions will be provided as to when she was to be burned and her ashes returned to Honolulu. Instructions will follow.