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.
(Editor’s Note: The Captain is focused on the health and well-being of his wife, Peggy, as her primary caretaker at home from rehab. We are repeating some of his columns until he can return to his writing. This column first appeared in April 2021)
By Captain Don Sanders
Special to NKyTribune
The wharfboat wreckage broke the racing water’s surface and beckoned the DELTA QUEEN like the steel teeth of an angry gator.
The DELTA QUEEN blew a departure salute at 25 minutes past noon to the small crowd of well-wishers clustered on the cobblestones of the Cincinnati Public Landing.
Monday, May the 8th, 1972, was a raw, windy day when the DELTA QUEEN blew a departure salute at 25 minutes past noon to the small crowd of well-wishers clustered on the cobblestones of the Cincinnati Public Landing. Aboard the QUEEN were 122 passengers; some paying as little as $703 for a single berth in a tiny C-Cabin while others sprang for $1,254 a person in the AAA rooms. In 1972, seven-hundred-three dollars would have equaled $4,417.58 in today’s (2021) inflated script, while $1,254 would be a whopping $7,880 today.
Captain “Handsome Harry” Hamilton, a sometimes cantankerous steamboatman whose early days in the wheelhouse went back to the Steamer SPRAGUE, the largest steam towboat ever built, chuckled to himself as the last of the whistle echoes faded from the seven hills surrounding Cincinnati. Steamboat oldsters also knew Cincy as “Ragtown” for the numerous boats arriving loaded to their guards with bales of reclaimed cotton, wool, and linen textiles. Handsome Harry’s partner on the front watch was Captain Harry Louden, a genial river veteran who recently retired from the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers. No one knew the Ohio River more intimately than Harry Louden was the consensus, even among his ofttimes envious pilothouse peers.
Handsome Harry’s partner on the front watch was Captain Harry Louden, a genial river veteran who recently retired from the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers.
Only four months before the May 8th departure, I drove through a blinding snowstorm from my home in Covington on the Kentucky shore of the Ohio, across from the Public Landing, to the Coast Guard office in St. Louis to “sit” for my Master’s and First Class Pilot’s examinations. Thankfully, after checking in to my hotel, I trudged to the government office to let the Inspector know I was in town and ready to start testing the next morning.
“What are you doing here?” the Coast Guard officer asked. “We’re closing the office for the blizzard.”
After I recounted the close calls I had driving the nearly 370 miles in the ice, snow, and blustery winds, my tester replied, “If you went through all that to get here, I can certainly drive from my house to the office and administer your tests.”
Everything else about the Ohio River had to be represented on my “charts,” as boatmen call their maps.
Only the Commander and I graced the St. Louis inspection office’s hallowed halls for the next three days. For two days, I battled the government essay exams. There was no multiple choice or true or false quizzes. All the answers were handwritten in the familiar paper “blue books” I first encountered during my collegiate days at Eastern Kentucky State College. The last day was a race against the clock to draw a long section of the Ohio River in map form, showing all the navigation aids with their lights’ milages and frequencies. Bridges, too, with all their specifications: names, lengths, heights above the water, and milage numbers from Pittsburgh were required. Also, docks, piers, underwater cable crossings, overhead transmission lines, ferry routes, and everything else about the Ohio River had to be represented on my “charts,” as boatmen call their maps.
At the end of the three-day session, just as the Sun returned to help melt away the ice and snow for my long drive home, the Commander firmly gripped my right hand and pumped my arm up and down:
“Congratulations, Captain. You are now a duly licensed Master of Steam and Motor Vessels of Any Gross Tons Upon Rivers and a First-Class Pilot on the Ohio River from above Cincinnati to Mile 981 at the Mississippi River.”
At precisely 12:25 PM on Monday, 08 May 1972, less than four months after the Coast Guardsman shook my hand as he handed me the license with the ink still wet, I stood on the wing bridge of the DELTA QUEEN departing for the Crescent City of far-off New Orleans as the Master, or Captain, of what was at the time, the most famous steamboat still operating anywhere in the world. I was but 30 years and six months of age and in command of the DELTA QUEEN. Please tell me if that wasn’t something to contemplate.
“Congratulations, Captain. You are now a duly licensed Master of Steam and Motor Vessels of Any Gross Tons Upon Rivers and a First-Class Pilot on the Ohio River.”
Nearly as amazing, as far as I was concerned, the Mate of the DELTA QUEEN serving under my direction was none other than my longtime mentor and captain, Captain Ernest E. Wagner.
Surprised? The last person, before me, that Captain Wagner “mated” for on a steamboat was possibly Captain Charles N. Hall of the Steamer ISLAND QUEEN. Captain Doc Hawley may have enjoyed the pleasure, too, but I’ll have to check with the “doctor” to be sure.
Jim Blum (yet to have his Master’s license) was slated to be the Mate on the Cincinnati – New Orleans 19 day round trip, but Jim had a personal engagement and planned to meet the boat at Madison, Indiana, later that evening. As the steamboat’s Certificate of Inspection (COI) required a licensed officer to fulfill the Inland Mate’s slot, Captain Wagner agreed to fill in for Blum. A company car stashed on the bow waited to be put ashore for Cap’s drive back to Cincinnati once the regular mate got aboard.
Far below in the engineroom, Kenny P. Howe, Jr., a year younger than I, was the Chief Engineer in charge. Once Captain Wagner got off the boat, all the licensed officers aboard the DELTA QUEEN, except for the two pilots, would be 30 years of age or younger. “Cap’n” Betty Blake, the company’s VP & GM, had all this planned. As the celebrated QUEEN made its way to the Crescent City and back, Ms. Blake had legions of reporters and writers ready to troop aboard packing tape recorders, cameras, and notepads to interview us, the youngsters she touted as the “Kiddie Crew.” As cornball as it sounds, Captain Betty’s strategy galvanized eager journalists to flock on board at each landing to meet the ever-growing famous “Kiddie Crew of the Steamer DELTA QUEEN.”
Far below in the engineroom, Kenny P. Howe, Jr., a year younger than I, was the Chief Engineer in charge.
The QUEEN’s Log Book for that day shows we were at Boswell’s Oil Dock along River Road on the westside of Cincinnati from 1:12 to 3 PM, taking on heavy Bunker-C fuel oil. By the time the steamboat reached Markland Lock, the dam was running 60-feet of gates with the lower gauge reading 27.7-feet on a rising river. Normally, the lower gauge read 12-feet. The river was swift and getting swifter.
Though he was acting as the Mate as required by the COI, Captain Wagner was dressed in his finest matching suit and expensive, leather shoes as he was anticipating doing nothing but “meeting the law” as far as the workings of the vessel went. Everything was supposed to be up to me as the Master along with the crew under my command. “Big Cap,” as his admiring crew fondly called him, had no intentions of getting dirty. In fact, as soon as the boat landed long enough to swap Mates and get the car ashore, Captain Wagner anticipated the easy hour and a half ride back to Cincinnati for a rare vacation at home with his family in New Richmond.
Once the auto was firmly onto Indiana soil, Captain Wagner stood ashore as Jim Blum scampered aboard, taking his place as the Mate. Instead of getting into the automobile and heading home, Big Cap waited on the riverbank, watching for the DELTA QUEEN to back away from the landing, turn around, and head downstream towards New Orleans.
For those unfamiliar with Captain Wagner, literally a manly colossus, he stood at least 6-feet 6-inches tall and weighed better than 275 solid pounds. On the 8th of May, 1972, Cap was 61 years old.
Captain Wagner, literally a manly colossus, stood at least 6-feet 6-inches tall and weighed better than 275 solid pounds.
On the bow, four decks below where I stood on the portside wing outside the pilothouse, Mate Jim Blum raised the head of the stage several feet off the Indiana shore. Nearby, Captain Wagner watched as I worked the QUEEN’s stern up into the current of the swiftly flowing river. Several boat lengths below where the bow shoved into the bank, the remains of the wreck of the old Greene Line Wharfboat, once the floating home for the DELTA QUEEN and other steamboats before her, jutted angrily above the surface of the rushing water.
As soon as I had the stern to where I felt I could back off the riverbank, I called for “ALL STOPPED.” Then I yelled, “ON BACK” to Captain Hamilton to work the boat away from the shore. As the DELTA QUEEN’s engines are controlled from the engineroom and not by the pilot, many precious moments passed before the engines shipped into reverse. As the steamboat lifted its nose out of the sand, the ripping current dropped the QUEEN closer to the wreck. Quickly. I nosed back into the bank and worked to lift the stern again. But, when I tried to back away a second time, the closer the boat settled nearer to the yawning, bare steel fangs of the wharfboat’s bones.
As I looked below, towards the shore, I saw Big Cap watching apprehensively but keeping quiet to let me work out the problem. Again I tried, but the results were frightfully the same. Over the loudspeaker on the bow, I asked Mate Jim to lower the landing stage so Captain Wagner could come aboard and help me get into better shape to safely back away without getting the boat wrapped up in the wreck that seemed far closer than it was when I first tried leaving.
Jim Blum (yet to have his Master’s license) was slated to be the Mate on the Cincinnati – New Orleans 19 day round trip.
With Captain Wagner on the wing bridge beside me, he showed me how to get the stern further up into the current than I had. With the DELTA QUEEN finally in shape, he said to keep it there until he got off the boat. However, by the time Cap reached the bow, the stage no longer reached all the way to dry ground. Captain Wagner had no choice. All he could do was pull up his trouser legs and wade ashore in his best pair of shoes and stockings. Although I felt lousy for Cap, we both knew that a ruined pair of shoes was far better than tangling with the dreadful wreck.
The rest of the trip went exceptionally well, both to New Orleans and back home, to Ragtown. The one redeeming feature I learned from Big Cap, long before that day, was never to be too shy or too proud to ask for help. Memories of the yawning, steel jaws of the wharfboat wreckage still give me chills, but I’ve never felt shame or embarrassment for asking the Captain’s help. I do cringe, though, recalling that gracious giant tippytoeing through the muddy river water from the end of the stage to the shore in his best pair of dress shoes.
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.
Thank you for repeating this great story.
I never get tired of hearing & rehearing his memories & knowledge gleaned over 60+ years.
Capt. Don brings to life the trials of a steamboat Capt & the sometimes ‘larger than life’ people & occurrences on the river. God bless Peg & Capt Don as she recovers .