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The River: The voyage to Bermuda on the ACADIAN VICTORY as low man on the totem pole


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

This is the first of two parts

Forty years have mercifully erased the memory of the more than fifteen-hour and one-thousand-and-some-mile bus ride from New Orleans to the Norfolk, Virginia Naval Station.

The ACADIAN VICTORY – with the name boldly painted on its bow.

What I do remember is the taxi pulling up to one of a series of piers inside the Navy Yard and stepping out into a canyon of large gray ships like the ones I’d seen in movies. Nestled among them was a tiny civilian Offshore Supply Vessel (OSV), I was to find, that had concrete poured into the hull for stability on the open seas.

The name boldly painted on its bow read, “ACADIAN VICTORY.”

After dragging my awkward duffle bag and such plunder aboard, a mate showed me to my bunk in the crew’s quarters in the far-forward fo’c’sle section I shared with three others.

The VICTORY, a not-that-old vessel in the Acadian Marine Services fleet, looked to be reasonably cared for by a crew of young men of around my age, and, as I was to find, commanded by a stern, peculiarly-strange, captain I would come to call, the “Nazi U-boat Commander.”

The 185-foot OSV looked like a traditional ocean-going ship with a high bow, navigation bridge, with a pair of side-by-side, athwartships, smokestacks immediately behind and on the same level as the elevated deck.

Aft of the stacks on both port and starboard sides, exterior stairs, or “ladders,” led to the lower open cargo, or “pipe” deck.

Similar vessels operating in the “oil patch” of the Gulf of Mexico often carry oil field drilling pipe there; giving the area its name.

On the ACADIAN VICTORY, the cargo was twenty, in-number, 40-foot shipping containers.

But on the ACADIAN VICTORY, the cargo was twenty, in-number, 40-foot shipping containers of the type capable of fitting together atop one another aboard ship, or mounted onto the wheeled frame on a highway trailer and hauled by a tractor overland. These containers hauled cargo and supplies to the U. S. Naval contingency on the Islands of Bermuda.

At the very forward end of the cargo deck were the watertight doors to the engine room located below-decks in the hold. These doors were never closed and dogged-down regardless of the weather.

A tall metal sill, at least two feet high that one had to step across, kept the waves breaking onto the flat deck out of the engineering spaces. When the doors were closed, according to an Oiler, the engine room became “hotter n the hinges of hell,” so they propped them open and kept an eye on the height of the incoming sea.

While the VICTORY was not underway and at the navy yard, the schedule was casual. Except for the engineering staff, formal watches were unassigned.

The rest of the crew fell to getting supplies aboard and ready to “set sail” within another couple of days since I signed on. To my great pleasure, I delighted in observing how the “Ship Chandler” arrived and took orders for groceries and stores for the trip to Bermuda and back. 

To my great pleasure, I delighted in observing how the “Ship Chandler” arrived and took orders for groceries and stores for the trip to Bermuda and back.

The retailer even asked me if I wanted anything special, as he did everyone on the crew. Some ordered personal items such as cigarettes, “dip; ” also “girlie mags,” and paid the chandler when he returned with the specific requests along with the ship’s order.

“Stores boats” generally serve the same purpose on the river; especially for towboats that usually do not make shore stops where the crew can get off and purchase personal items.

The VICTORY carried a crew of about thirteen: a Captain, three Mates, one Chief Engineer, an Oiler, two Able Bodied Seamen (ABs), four of us Ordinary Seamen, and a Cook.

All were men except for the young woman in the galley of about Fish’s age who was also the Chief’s girlfriend. Usually, the ship had but two Mates, but the third was a captain of another OSV kept on the payroll while his vessel was in the shipyard. 

Although I had an Unlimited Master and First Class Pilot’s License Upon Rivers, no one aboard knew, and I certainly was not about to squeal. 

When it came to seniority aboard the ACADIAN VICTORY, I was the lowest of the low which allowed me to get used to this new sea experience without too much in the way of shouldering responsibility asked of me.  As I had started at the bottom of the heap on the river; returning there at sea was comfortable while I “re-learned the ropes,” so to speak.

Before lunch on the second day, a mate informed me that the VICTORY needed repositioning on the dock and told me to stand by the Spring Line.

I expected him to be with me as the small ship began maneuvering on my line, but I was left alone. Whether that was intentional, or not, I didn’t know, but I soon saw that if the lead on the cleat remained the same and not changed to the opposite direction, the line would foul; so I changed leads without supervision and did so several times until the vessel was secure in its new position.

Never, once did anyone on the crew say anything to me about how I manipulated the line. As the new guy, I expected to hear some comment such as:

“Hey, you did pretty well handling that line. Where’d you learn how?

Departure time reminded me of the many times I’d experienced leaving port on the DELTA QUEEN… as the QUEEN blew one long and three short whistles while backing away from a landing along any of the many rivers she traveled (photo by Ran Cochran)

Nothing, Nada, Zilch –  Zero. It was like I was expected to know. No one said or asked a thing about where I came from, where I’d been, or what, if any, experience I had as far as boats were concerned.

But, again, that worked in my favor while I was trying to pick up all I could learn about life aboard a small ship.

As I quickly found out as the junior crewman, my daily duties included cleaning the ship’s head, including all the toilets, sinks, decks, etc., mopping the decks in the common companionways (halls), and keeping the “Old Man’s” quarters tidy.

The Captain, a former Navy man, “made his rack” after each time he climbed from it, so that gave me one less job inside his quarters where I made it my mission to make his room sparkle.

I even got onto my hands and knees inside his shower stall and polished the brass drain screen to a high shine, hoping he would comment. But he never said a word one way or another about how well I did, or did not, maintain his room.

By the third day, with the twenty-odd containers secured in place by union longshoremen on the cargo deck, and stores brought aboard and stowed wherever space allowed, an air of anticipation was evident among the crew who knew the routine of the ship from prior involvements.

As I stood and wondered at the case of fresh eggs stashed on the galley deck instead of inside the reefer, one of the hands remarked as he hurried by:

“Them eggs’ll keep like that for quite a while…  Cap’n told me so, hisself. Better be gettin’ yerself ready. We’ll be leavin’ soon’s the Chief’s got everything runnin’.”

Departure time reminded me of the many times I’d experienced leaving port on the DELTA QUEEN.

The same general atmosphere of excitement and whistles blaring. The distant voices of sailors pausing aboard their tall, gray ships to echo greetings of farewell sounded like well-wishers calling from ashore as the QUEEN blew one long and three short whistles while backing away from a landing along any of the many rivers she traveled.

All aboard the vessel were men except for the young woman in the galley of about Fish’s age who was also the Chief’s girlfriend. The food served in the crew’s mess by the young cook was as palatable as I’d enjoyed anywhere ashore or afloat.

As the ACADIAN VICTORY approached the submerged tunnels of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge some thirteen miles later, the Mate called out, “Standby the anchor!” Which I did until the ship sailed safely over where vehicular traffic flowed unaware of our passage, perhaps one hundred feet beneath our keel.

Passing off Cape Henry, the VICTORY found the outbound lane of the deepwater channel and aimed her bow south-by-west toward the Bermuda Islands some seven-hundred miles in the distance.

The trip across the gentle swelling sea was like a vacation cruise. Bottlenose Dolphins played at the bow; the air turned from Virginia frigid to tropically balmy, while the sea became the color of turquoise as the VICTORY plowed into the current of the warm Gulf Stream.

The food served in the crew’s mess by the young cook was as palatable as I’d enjoyed anywhere ashore or afloat.

The ship’s larder overflowed with only the finest the Norfolk chandler had in stock. There was even a special refrigerator for the crew filled with all sorts of snacks and fixings in case someone got “the munchies” when the cook was off duty.

All too soon the light from the Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse toward the west end of the island twinkled in the distance.

Bermuda was best approached from the west, where vessels can then sail along the southern shore as a shallow and hazardous reef surrounds the north side of the archipelago.

Once the ACADIAN VICTORY rounded the western point of the island following the south coast, the Captain pointed the ship toward St. David’s Lighthouse on the far eastern end. There the Victory headed for the cove of St. George’s Harbour where the U. S. Navy maintained docks for transient vessels like our’s serving the Naval Air Station Bermuda.

All too soon the light from the Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse toward the west end of the island twinkled in the distance.

With a Harbor Pilot aboard, the VICTORY slipped through the narrow inlet between Gate’s Fort Point and Higg’s Island to an awaiting dock below the airfield.

Once all was secure, and the engines shut down, the Captain assembled his crew in the mess.

Minutes later, two no-nonsense-looking uniformed British policemen arrived; one was leading a German Shepherd dog trained to sniff around and find drugs.

Following a brief, but formal welcome, the officers instructed everyone to standby their bunks with their passports ready for a personal inspection. As one policeman carefully examined our documents, the other roamed about the quarters, crew’s head, companionways, and practically every nook and cranny as the dog, eager to find what he was trained to discover, excitedly yelped and barked as he went about his business.

Once all was secure, and the engines shut down, the Captain assembled his crew in the mess. Minutes later, two no-nonsense-looking uniformed British policemen arrived.

Though I knew some of the fellows were harboring “some pretty good shit,” the dog found nothing in the way of illicit drugs and the policemen suddenly relaxed and became friendlier before stamping everyone’s passports, leaving the crew with a clean bill of health to enjoy their stay in the Bermuda Islands. 

Let’s make some extra money,” a fellow seaman on my watch suggested. “We can make twenty-five bucks just helping with the cargo. Easy money!”

(Note: $25 in 1979 dollars had the purchasing power that some $152 would in today’s nearly worthless script.)

The men unloading the forty-foot containers at the Bermuda dock were non-union workers which allowed the ship’s crew members to help ready the cargo boxes by unstrapping the ratchet ties that bound them to each other and the deck. This prevented the containers from moving about and possibly falling overboard while in transit.

While the ship was not underway and alongside the dock, formal watches went unobserved as the crew casually proceeded with their cleaning and maintenance assignments.

As long as a few men volunteered to be aboard for “fire watch,” the rest of the crew could do with their free time as they wanted.

Several headstones in the cemetery noted that the occupants resting beneath them met their tragic ends far from their native England nearly two centuries earlier.

One afternoon, I discovered the impressive ruin of an abandoned stone cathedral complete with a bell tower and an ancient cemetery nearby.

The climb to the top of the bell-less tower was on a narrow, stone, spiral staircase where the view at the top was impressive, but the way back down the sandy stones was tread with caution.

Several headstones in the cemetery noted that the occupants resting beneath them met their tragic ends far from their native England nearly two centuries earlier.

One, a British soldier of about my age when he died from cholera in the late 1700s, particularly caught my attention. How far from those he loved, Bermuda must have seemed in those times. I tried to imagine how forsaken the lad surely felt in his last hours knowing he would never see home nor hearth again.

(To be continued…a storm is brewing)

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.


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6 Comments

  1. Ron Bishop says:

    Always interesting reading.
    Enjoy each article very much.

  2. Joy Scudder says:

    Look forward to Part 2, Captain. Great story.

  3. Bob Sanders says:

    Good story, Don. Sounds like a plesant cruise to Bermuda. How was the return boyage?

  4. Ginnie Rhynders says:

    Looking forward to hearing the “rest of the story”.

  5. Brian Tully says:

    Your stories and the manner in which you present, enrich us all. Truly felt like I was the proverbial fly on the wall seeing everything you described in my mind’s eye. Thank You and ;looking forward to the next installment. Cheers!

  6. Keith Tinnin says:

    Sure enjoy reading your stories, Don. Wish we could could have another evening in the Texas Bar like the one I

    had in Chattanooga with you and Kenny Howe…

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