The riverboat captain is a storyteller, and Captain Don Sanders will be sharing the stories of his long association with the river — from discovery to a way of love and life. This a part of a long and continuing story.
By Capt. Don Sanders
Special to NKyTribune
After the Fish walked out the door the last time and left me alone at the Albro House, I panicked. Once my 1937 trawler, JOHN HENRY, was dry docked and the Weaver Skiff, FLYIN’ FISH, sold to a friend and hauled away to be stolen and never heard from again, I soon found myself on the Greyhound bus for the long ride to New Orleans in pursuit of the red-haired beauty. Once finally in the Crescent City, nothing I said could change her mind to return. Fish said I needed to “get back on the water to get my head straightened out.” She was right. Especially following two recent devastating events involving a top official from my old steamboat company and myself that had a ruinous effect upon my emotional well-being, I was overdue for the disciplined life only a professional boat job can offer.
New Orleans is the place to find boating jobs on the Gulf of Mexico, and even on the sea.
As there was nothing for me in the limited passenger boat business at that time, and as I didn’t want to “go back to towboating,” I started looking elsewhere. New Orleans is the place to find boating jobs on the Gulf of Mexico, and even on the sea, so I joined a long line of like-minded men standing outside the Arcadian Marine Services office on Decatur Street. When I finally talked to an interviewer, I showed him my Unlimited Tonnage Masters and First Class Pilots License for the Ohio River, but he promptly reminded me that the company operated no boats inland.
“But I don’t want to work on the river,” I replied. “I wanna go to sea.”
Impressed, however, with my license, I was handed a “Letter of Intent” to take to the United States Coast Guard Office on Upper Canal Street. If I were issued a “Z-Card,” or “Merchant Mariner’s Document” by the Coast Guard, Acadian Marine Services would employee me only as an “Ordinary Seaman and Wiper” on their many small ships called Offshore Supply Vessels, or “OSVs,” as I was inexperienced on blue waters and my license specified “rivers.” Unlike the inland waterways where Z-Cards were unnecessary for getting hired aboard a riverboat, finding a slot offshore required both a company letter and the official USCG document in a “Catch-22-sort-of-way” in that someone “cannot get a job without a Z-Card, and the Coasties won’t issue a card unless the applicant already has the promise of a job.” Sheesh…!
I showed him my Unlimited Tonnage Masters and First Class Pilots License for the Ohio River, but he promptly reminded me that the company operated no boats inland.
At the Canal Street office of the U. S. Coast Guard, everyone took a number and waited until it was called to speak with an evaluator who went over the letters and documents before issuing, or not issuing, whatever it was the applicant was hoping to obtain. Everyone’s livelihood depended upon the decision of the man wearing a blue uniform sitting across from them. There were no women Coast Guard evaluators in the office, nor were there female applicants waiting for an interview, although Fish was, sometime later, issued a Z-Card and sailed the briny seas and did well before she fell into an open hatch and was forced to retire.
My interviewer, a friendly, helpful Lieutenant, also took notice of my riverboat license and not only issued me the necessary Z-Card for “Wiper and Oiler,” but he included a letter saying that after I served at least ninety-days on blue water, I would be eligible to “sit” for an endorsement as a master of small-tonnage vessels on “near coastal” waters. Satisfied, I returned to Decatur Street, and soon as all the in-house paperwork was in my professional file, I was bus-ward bound for Port Canaveral, Florida.
The view from the upper deck of what was the epitome of bus coaches on the road to my Florida destination was on the same level as the second floors of the buildings in the small burghs through which the Greyhound passed. The view from within the windows, equal with mine, was terrific, but sometimes shocking, as most dwellers failed to secure the privacy of their homes on the upper levels. But generally, the continuous Florida rain made the bus comfortable enough that I slept most of the way to the Orlando bus station, which in those days, was across the road from an amazingly resourceful woman’s business filled with gaudy signage on the front of her establishment advertising every service except for birthing and funeral services. The departure of the bus for Cocoa Beach left little time for exploration, but I sensed I would return soon.
After settling into a room on the beach overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I charged a phone call on my room bill to the Acadian office in New Orleans; only to be told that there were “union problems” on the OSV I was supposed to board the next morning. Under no circumstances, was I to approach the vessel waiting at the dock in nearby Port Canaveral, so I spent my unexpected free time to explore and lay-out on the beach despite the chilly February temperatures. After a couple of days, I lost my room to another party who had prior reservations, and I retreated inland to Orlando to visit Disney World and the Magic Kingdom.
Fish was, sometime later, issued a Z-Card and sailed the briny seas and did well before she fell into an open hatch and was forced to retire.
With a limited budget, I sought to find the cheapest place to stay. That opportunity came at the “Palace of the Gaudy Signs” across from the bus station. There, for twelve bucks a night, I slept in a camper of the type made to fit onto the bed of a pickup truck, but only after promising not to use the toilet inside the unique living facility. Instead, I vowed to patronize the campground’s public restrooms only a short walk away. The outdoor showers were alongside a wooden fence tall-enough that only my legs from below the knees were visible to passersby walking within a few feet beyond the barrier. Showering outside in the nude on the white Florida sand was somewhat erotic once I got used to the idea and realized my nakedness was unseen by those passing so closely by.
Soon after I settled into my exotic accommodations, I walked to what was once a busy downtown neighborhood in search of a refreshing brew but was stopped cold by the sign on the marquee of a former movie theater featuring live entertainment acts:
“JOHN HARTFORD HERE THURSDAY”
After a couple of days, the New Orleans office assured me that all prospects for crewing the nearby OSV were impossible and suggested I return to Decatur Street for another assignment as soon as one became available. The loss of that particular job prospect was disappointing as the Port Canaveral vessel supplied the various Gulf of Mexico radar stations tracking the downbound paths of the rockets launched from the Cape. With more time to enjoy the Sunshine State, I stashed my awkward duffle bag in a pay locker inside the Orlando station and grabbed the next bus to Tampa. There, my new fifteen-dollar-a-night lodging was a noisy, rundown hotel across the street from the Greyhound depot and recently converted to Section 8 housing where everyone enjoyed socializing in the halls at all hours of the day and night.
By the time I entered the darkened theater John was already well into his act as I walked to the very first row where I grabbed the only empty seat and sat down to listen to some entertaining John Hartford Bluegrass “singin’, pickin’ and a’ fiddlin’.”
Little did all the ruckus in the hallways matter as my only day in Tampa was spent touring Busch Gardens, but when I returned to my room, I realized it was Thursday, and my friend John Hartford was entertaining that night at the downtown Orlando theater. Without bothering to ask for a refund, I grabbed my small bag and walked across the street to the Greyhound station where a coach was boarding for Orlando.
By the time I entered the darkened theater John was already well into his act as I walked to the very first row where I grabbed the only empty seat and sat down to listen to some entertaining John Hartford Bluegrass “singin’, pickin’ and a’ fiddlin’.” After the show was over, I stayed in my seat and waited until all the audience was gone and John was putting his instruments away before I called to him:
“Hey, John! Which way are you headed?”
Squinting over the glare of the footlights, he was startled to see me and answered:
When John said, “We,” he meant his future bride Marie. (PixByPeg)
“Why Don, what a surprise! We’re headin’ to Key West. Wanna come?”
When John said, “We,” he meant his future bride Marie and their driver, Joe, who drove the van filled with comforts for the little troupe, instruments, luggage, tee-shirts, CDs, and other John Hartford souvenirs that Marie peddled before and after the show. While I thought I could hitch a ride north far enough to grab a bus westward to New Orleans; instead, I found myself invited by my friends to accompany them to the very southern tip of Florida. With little else to do, I accepted John’s generous invitation. Allow me to say, had I not also been a long-time friend of Marie’s, John would not have extended the invite, nor would I gained approval by his Lady who was rather fussy about who hung with them at the zenith of John’s fame after his tune, “Gentle on My Mind,” elevated him to musical stardom.
While Joe drove through the night, John, Marie, and I soundly slept until daylight found us stopping in front of a small house in the Keys where a familiar-looking, bald, full-bearded man dressed in white tropic wear, looking like pajamas, hustled about the van gathering the Hartford’s luggage.
“You know who that is?” John asked.
“I believe I do,” I replied. “That’s got to be Shel Silverstein!”
It was.
A familiar-looking, bald, full-bearded man dressed in white tropic wear, looking like pajamas, hustled about the van gathering the Hartford’s luggage. “That’s got to be Shel Silverstein!”
I remembered Shel from my college days when Playboy magazines were in every room in the men’s’ dorm, and Shel Silverstein was a regular contributing cartoonist featuring himself in all sorts of amusing situations with sexual overtones. But most people, today, know Mr. Silverstein as an author and illustrator of books for children with “Where the Sidewalk Ends” as one of his best sellers with nearly five-million copies sold. His books have been translated into more than thirty languages and have sold more than 20-million copies.
John and Marie stayed with Shel while Joe and I found lodgings elsewhere, but the next day, we all met for a tour of Key West guided by our host. We hit all the places high on the tourist’s must-see list: Mallory Square; Duvall Street past Sloppy Joe’s Bar where we didn’t stop, but, instead, climbed to the top of the historic 65-foot Key West Lighthouse and spent more than an hour wandering through Ernest Hemmingway’s place just across Whitehead Street from the lighthouse. I noticed a copy of ’“Old Jules,” by Mari Sandoz on Hemingway’s bookshelf just like mine back home in Covington.
On our parade marching around town, many of the locals recognized Silverstein and politely spoke, waved, or just nodded their heads. A couple of delightfully-looking young women on bicycles sang out in harmony, “Hellooo, Shel…” as they peddled by.
“It’s about time for lunch. I know a great place,” our host suggested as he guided us toward a favorite spot with a back room where he and John would be unfazed by beseeching admirers.
We found a table in a sizable room behind a saloon sparsely populated with more natives than tourists. Except for a couple seated closely together in a dark corner with their foreheads touching, our’s was the only other table occupied in the room. Here and there against the walls, potted palms interrupted the simpleness of the decor. Two overhead skylights cast shafts of tropic sunlight onto the tile floor. I don’t remember the food, but it came quickly, and we ate without complaint. But I do recall the substance of the conversation after the table was clear and cold drinks replaced the dishes.
Perhaps, more than anything else said, it was when both John Hartford and Shel Silverstein agreed that the most satisfying aspect of their lives was their ability to make a success from what Shel described as “that which is inside us,” or what I took to mean were their naturally-given talents and artistic attributes. Both men were undoubtedly gifted artists, authors, and musicians who took full advantage of their God-given aptitudes which certainly made them, as the saying goes, “rich and famous,” but on a personal level, John Hartford and Shel Silverstein were decent men who found happiness with their lives.
Leaving the back room behind, we walked by a local artist who displayed his sketches hanging on an iron fence for the tourist to peruse and hopefully purchase. Shel had undoubtedly given the fledgling artist some prior professional tips revealed when asked:
“How are my drawings looking now, Shel?”
Stopping and studying one carefully, Shel Silverstein answered:
John and I had plenty of rest so we “steamboated” the length of Florida while Joe drove and Marie dozed.
“Looking much better. But maybe with a little more shading here…” he added as he smudged the area with his finger to the delight of his student.
That evening, John, Marie, and Joe stopped by my hotel and picked me up for the trip back north. This time, John and I had plenty of rest so we “steamboated” the length of Florida while Joe drove and Marie dozed and occasionally added a comment.
“Why don’t you come home with us to Nashville?” John asked.
Though I was flattered by his sincere invitation, I replied I had to get back to the Acadian Marine office on Decatur Street in New Orleans where an assignment awaited my return. On the outskirts of Lake City, Joe called over the CB radio and asked for directions to the Greyhound Bus terminal. Within several minutes, the van stopped in front of a small depot at the intersection of US 441 and SE Tucker Street. John carried my grip while I lugged the heavy duffle bag into the crowded station. As we shook hands, I thanked him for the hospitality and the adventures we shared.
After John Hartford departed and left me standing alone in the station, a drunk wandered up and asked, apparently mistaking Hartford’s long hair made stringy in the hot, humid Florida night:
“Hey, buddy… that your girlfriend?”
“No,” I replied, “That wasn’t my girlfriend.”
Finally, the bus for New Orleans arrived, and after I entered the Acadian Marine Services office the next day, I found another bus ticket waiting for me.
“You’re going to Norfolk to catch the ACADIAN VICTORY for Bermuda,” I was informed.
“I’ve never been to either,” I answered as I carefully stowed the ticket and my instruction packet so they would be safe and secure.
“Bermuda, eh? That sounds like a lotta fun.”
(To be continued.)
Captain Don Sanders is a river man. He has been a riverboat captain with the Delta Queen Steamboat Company and with Rising Star Casino. He learned to fly an airplane before he learned to drive a “machine” and became a captain in the USAF. He is an adventurer, a historian, and a storyteller. Now, he is a columnist for the NKyTribune and will share his stories of growing up in Covington and his stories of the river. Hang on for the ride — the river never looked so good.
Click here to read all of Capt. Don Sanders’ stories of The River.
Another entertaining and informative read! Can’t wait to read what happened next…
Thank you.Don. This is another great tale bringing people and placrs to life so that one feels they’re actually there with you at the time. I can’t wait for “the rest of the story” as Paul Harvey would say.
Once again, a good read. Thanks,Captain, for the memories you share with those of us who didn’t grow up on the rivers. You bring it all alive.