my story - why not?

EPISODE 17                                     JAPAN

Mid-morning, a few days out of Honolulu, I stood in the shade on deck listening to Al and Bert describe their mission in Vietnam. They were civil engineers working for an international engineering company with a hyphenated name. I believe it was headquartered in Wyoming. Al said he would be working to expand Saigon's harbor. Bert would be stationed inland. The news startled me because I had not read any news about a dramatic expansion in Vietnam before I left.  They assured me that the US planned a massive expansion of its presence. I accepted their invitation to visit if I went through Saigon. We exchanged contact information which consisted of Al's address.

I must digress here.

I don't think that the term “contact information” existed back then. We had mailing addresses and a landline, worthless without a cell. That was it. No Internet, iPhone messaging, faxes, zoom. Nothing. My address enroute to Japan, for example, was Dan Bell, c/o American Express at its Tokyo address. As I moved around the globe, that changed. For example, after Tokyo, I think Bangkok and then Calcutta as it was known then, followed. Public telephones existed, but language issues made local calls difficult and international calls all but impossible. I do not think I called  to the US during my entire trip.  

Post offices around the World facilitated international correspondence by selling blue single sheets pre-stamped to cover the country's airmail cost. The sheet folded up on itself into a size slightly larger than a postcard. Open, it provided space for a single-page letter. 

When it came time to notify Al of my date of arrival, I wrote him using Japan’s version of the blue sheet confident that it would be delivered on time.

Visiting the AMEX in a new city was a very big deal. I would present my passport and politely ask if I had mail. An equally polite woman would say something like “I'll be glad to check for you, Mr. Bell”. Like a cat at feeding time, my eyes locked on her hands until she returned. Empty handed signaled despair. Envelopes brought joy. I did not open my mail until I could celebrate at a tea or coffee shop or park bench. 

I liked Al and Bert. We understood each other. They were a couple of good-timing young guys in their mid to late 20’s looking forward to an adventure in Vietnam and wherever else their jobs took them. The ship rocked slightly as we talked, even though the ocean looked flat. My knees absorbed the general motion, and I felt at peace with the sea and my life. 

The captain's crackly voice notified us that we had crossed the International Date Line and reminded us to set our calendar ahead one day. I had heard of the International Date Line, but I really didn't know what it meant, Bert described it as the attempt to manage and merge time and distance worldwide by time zones based on an imaginary line running through the Pacific Ocean  connecting the North Pole to the South Pole halfway around the World(180 degrees) from Greenwich, England. Travelling west, you lose one hour with each time zone you pass through. When you cross the International Dateline. You're effectively capturing all those lost hours.  I nodded at his description but, on that day, the captain's Instruction to reduce  the number of calendar days until we landed in Japan upset my lineal mind.

Earlier in the voyage, that would have been 100% good news to me for me. But in the last few days, clouds shaped like reality arrived in my clear sailing sky. Today, for the first time, I accepted that I would not be speaking much Japanese when we landed. I had sensed trouble the first time I opened the Japanese language book and learned that written Japanese uses three different systems, including Kanji consisting of about 2,000 characters borrowed from the Chinese language. Each Kanji represents something like an event, a feeling, or a meaning rather than a sound like the letters in our alphabet. The two  other systems, Katakana and Hiragana, function like alphabets and are used when a Kanji does not exist such as for a borrowed word: bieru for beer is an example. A combination of symbols from different systems may be included in the written expression of a phrase like those shown on the above image. This made it practically impossible to memorize quicky. I realized that I would not be reading menus, information signs, or  transportation schedules. 

And I knew that I needed language for my food, accommodations, directions, purchases, and transportation.

But hey, I wasn't worried. I had already learned how to count to ten, be polite, and say, “I don't understand”. I believed that everything would work out. After all, I was on a roll .Right?

The imminent arrival in Japan swept aside all my doubts and concerns. On deck and in the bar, I found the passengers anticipation growing like water about to boil. Early one morning, the captain announced that the ship would dock that morning at Yokohama. I grabbed a coffee and a  glazed doughnut and went to the deck quickly enough to find an open spot at the railing, A man nearby swept the hazy horizon with his  binoculars. I cannot specifically list my emotions. Excited and thrilled of course. And some “ Damn it, I did it” as well. Binocular man suddenly turned to his audience and pointed. We peered quietly for a couple minutes, then each passenger made his or her own sound acknowledging visual contact of Japan. As if on cue, the captain announced the arrival time. We scattered below to pack. I double checked my storage  trunk and tightened my pack’s zippers and straps  before reconvening on deck to watch the docking. I recall being grateful and proud and somewhat anxious about the future. Six or eight of us  clumped together to exchange addresses. Midori surprised me by including her telephone number with her address before hurrying  off toward her waiting family. I promised to call her. Stefan, Al, Bert and the rest of us hustled down the gangplank and took our  first steps on Japanese soil.  

 My story begins in the summer of’ '63 after my junior year at the University of Colorado and ends two years later when I returned to Boulder after I finished hitchhiking around the world.This was a very low-budget trip taken by a 22-year-old kid who learned the benefits of tolerance, patience, perseverance, and self-confidence from wonderful people in 21 countries. My Story will unfold over an undetermined number of episodes written over an unknown amount of time.  Unfortunately, I must rely on my memory because Hurricane Floyd destroyed my travel journal and photos.

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Beginning today, I will use this blog to do what I am urging you to do – tell your story before it escapes.

I have heard many men tell stories of their past. At the dinner break in our monthly card game a few months ago, Ted spontaneously told us about his work with airplane equipment in China and Southeast Asia decades ago. Later that week, among a different cast of characters, Don delivered an unprompted monologue about working on an Alaskan fishing boat when he was young. I have heard Jimmy’s story about tobacco farming in North Carolina and his father-in-law’s story about growing huge tomatoes in Ohio. 

As I listened to these storytellers, I deeply sensed that these men needed to tell the stories and that they felt better for having told them. I realized that probably millions of Olde Goats have untold stories. I created this website for them about two months ago. After the site went live, I found Dr. Jeremy Nobel’s article “Writing as an Antidote to Loneliness”. Dr. Nobel, a physician and a professor at Harvard Medical School, founded The Foundation for Art and Healing, which advocates using the healing power of all creative art forms, including writing.

Usually, this is done in groups. However, not everyone wants to join a group. This website, our oldegoats.com website, invites those who may be more comfortable online to tell their stories. I agree that storytelling helps the lonely, but I believe it benefits all Olde Goats, from the very lonely to the most content. 

What is a story? Whatever is comfortable for you. It can be a few lines at a time. I will tell my story in weekly fragments.

Our parents, aptly named the Greatest Generation, toughed it out through the Great Depression and WWII. The generations after us have been monstrously controlled by the computer and social media in ways not yet apparent. The current herd of Olde Goats came of age in the '50s, '60s, and '70s. Personally, I think we were the most fortunate of generations because we had unequaled Freedom of Choice. The post-war economic boom created disposable income that supported a long list of the previously unimaginable such asrock n' roll, fast food, drive-in movies, and rebellious good times. The government built an interstate system, kept rules to a minimum, and took us into a war that sobered us up at a terrible cost. We have a Google-sized library of good stories that start with those days and run up to this moment. 

My story starts in the summer of '63, after my junior year at the University of Colorado. John, my best friend from high school, and I were driving back to Denver from a party in Boulder Canyon. He attended the University of California-Berkeley. We both expected to graduate next year. We were searching for an answer to the question that had contaminated conversations for months:

Then what? 

EPISODE 2 The Grand Idea

John drove his father’s MG that night. I don’t think we had any beer because of the twisting road down from the mountains. Our brief discussion about our future ended without a resolution. I continued to think about it as if the headlights cutting through the black would reveal the answer. 

John and I became friends late in high school. Our families could have posed as typical families  for Norman Rockwell. They had been planted in the poverty of the Great Depression and nurtured by the economic success of the booming economy of the 1950’s to reach middle class. Our successful businessmen dads worked hard, our moms cooked, cleaned, shopped, and, most importantly, raised the kids in their image.

My dad worked for the Better Business Bureau beginning in Peoria, where I was born, then to Buffalo, Akron, and finally promoted to manager of the new Denver office. We moved there in the late 1950’s. Denver had just begun to grow. We lived in a nice house in Denver, but I think that my father understood that my mother wanted more. She searched relentlessly, and found a building lot in Cherry Hills, a maturing subdivision that would become one of the most exclusive areas in the Denver area. 

Her choice was wise, because property values did increase, but not smart because they did not have the money to build the house she wanted. When they could not pay the builder, he walked away. They did all the landscaping and my father finished most of the interior. They tasked my two sisters and I with cleaning up the construction debris of wood scraps and broken bricks and often disciplined us by sentencing us to work the woodpile. 

The school board built our brand-new high school for the future just southeast of the City of Denver. John and I graduated as part of the school’s first class to attend for four years. Some of our classmates came from poor families in the undeveloped rural areas of the school district. Other classmates lived in middle-class suburban developments. The district also included Cherry Hills.  As very wealthy families moved in, they quickly outnumbered the middle-class Cherry Hills residents.

During high school, I came not to like living in Cherry Hills because I felt a sense of relative poverty. I know this sounds strange and perhaps selfish, but I was teenager with immature ideas.  I have had many friends who grew up genuinely poor. Childhood poor as in not enough money for food and ragged clothes. Relative poverty does not compare to the real thing. But my mother, who grew up poor, loved quality things - her clothes, furniture, car. All of it. Honestly, I do not know how my dad kept up. And she consciously taught us to value the same the things. 

There was no way I could keep up with the kids from rich families even though I began working at my father’s office at 13 filing papers and held other jobs after school and during summers until I graduated. I bought a car and other things. But it was different. The Dire Straits line “…money for nothing and the chicks for free.” applies. Not only did I know that I could not keep up, but I knew that these rich kids knew that I could not keep up. I did not like those feelings of inequality and patronization.

So, thinking about future, I knew absolutely that I did not want to follow my parents’ dream for me. I needed freedom and an exploratory challenge. As John piloted around the last curve revealing the night lights of Denver, the answer shot impulsively from the heart to my mouth, bypassing my brain.

“Let’s hitchhike around the world,” I said. 

EPISODE 3 Into the Unknown

Hitchhike around the world? 

At 21? No experience, no credentials, no backup?

Naïve. Ridiculous. Really stupid. So judged the older generation.

But place this idea in its chronological context. From 1960 to 1962, JFK had unlocked the chains that had shackled my generation with caution and common sense. He gave us permission to go far and fast into space and asked us to spend two years of our life improving the lives of others in faraway countries. He spoke to us and for us.

I am confident that if I had asked The President  whether he approved of my decision, he would have released me to my adventure and told me to properly represent the United States and to be respectful.

I was 90% sure John would agree. Our close friendship in high school spilled over into the summers when he came home from California. We read Kerouac and Ferlinghetti and were drawn to the beatnik counterculture that flourished in New York and San Francisco..

I gave him a very sparse 1-2-3 skeleton of the plan; One, earn enough to get to San Francisco; Two, work and save for one year, Three, in June 1964 depart. Simple, right? I was too young to know that the devil is in the details.

John bought in immediately. He said we could stay temporarily at an apartment his cousin, a professor at Stanford, owned in the bohemian North Beach area until we found a place. His parents told him that he  could take the early 50s Plymouth station wagon. This news fit flawlessly into my plan. Then came the realities.

First, I no longer had a relationship with my father. After a couple days of his insults and discouraging words, he turned to ferocious glares and silence. In retrospect, I understand his position. He had to quit college after three years to go to work. Despite a very successful career, he never hung a diploma on his office wall. His son completed three years of college and stood two semesters away from becoming the first person to graduate in his family. Although my mother continued to feed me, she was consumed by fear and worry.

Second, I wanted  to leave as soon as I had enough money to survive until I got a job in San Francisco. I did not know that amount, but I calculated that by July 1 I would earn enough at my summer job as a cashier at a horse racetrack. Then along came the second reality. I got fired for the only time in my life because I forgot turn in a cash drawer at the end of my shift. No money was lost, but the boss invoked a zero-tolerance policy. I began hustling. 

We decided to go after we delivered telephone books for six days. I I tossed a laundry bag of clothes, a sleeping bag and my typewriter in the back. My mom gave me a long hug. I did not see my dad. 

We headed for Wyoming because John wanted to see Yellowstone and I wanted to see the new Space Needle. When we left Seattle, the excitement of a life in San Francisco consumed me. I expected that I would quickly find a good job, that we would find a reasonable place to live, that we would enjoy the city, and that I would save enough money to travel in a year.

I did not know that SF would chew me up and spit me out as a different person,

EPISODE 4 Prevail or Derail

I was fired up with excitement on our way south along the coast. John talked about the wonders of life in San Francisco, the Bohemian lifestyle. the exquisite food, and the very cool apartment where we would temporarily live in North Beach one-half block down Kearney Street from Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. I knew that John looked forward to seeing friends and enjoying the bohemian life. 

I vividly remember crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, and the colorful hills of San Francisco with the Bay in her lap and her back to the blue, blue sky.

When we turned on Kearney. How steep and narrow it was! John parallel parked  by tap dancing on the pedals to keep the car from either running down the hill or into the grille of the car parked behind us.

The third-floor apartment featured a living area overlooking the street. Off the hall leading to the kitchen was the bathroom and one bedroom. Of course,  John had blood rights to his cousin’s bedroom. I had squatters right to a place on the living room floor to blow up an air mattress. It wasn't what I expected, but I was fine with this arrangement. I realized it would be temporary. I was very confident we would get jobs and be able to move into our own place in maybe a week or two. 

John gave me a walking tour of North Beach, which concluded at a bar on Grant Street. He introduced me to his bohemian friends and, sadly, I don’t recall my reaction. But 60 years has eroded my memory of the time I spent in the Bay Area. I wish I could ask John for help. but he passed away in the early 70s.

I knew that the people in the bar were authentic beatniks and that I was there as John’s friend, not as a tourist, I also knew that, through John, they invited me to join them. I know that I missed the opportunity to participate in a breathing segment of Americana. 

I may have been high on our accomplishment that day. We had successfully taken the first step of our plan. We were out of Denver. We were in San Francisco. We were living in a cool pad in North Beach.

And I could start looking for a job the next day. I had no doubt that that a fulltime job would come quickly. But it did not. I got several short-term hourly jobs primarily painting moving, and warehouse work. But not enough work. Money became so tight that I pawned my beloved typewriter. I refused to consider retreating to Colorado, but I confess that I was concerned that the black cloud of unemployment on the horizon would wash away my plan before I really got started. 

EPISODE 5 Lessons Learned

Dear reader, I must explain why I paused writing My Story two months ago. I wrote my first version of this San Francisco section from memory. It read like a  travelogue.  I did not like it. So, I had to think about how to rewrite this piece because I did not come to SF as a sightseer. I came to prepare for my adventure. As I thought about rewriting, I had this remarkable realization that I had gone to San Francisco to learn about myself. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was as if I had gone to a boot camp, except that I did not receive a course syllabus, nor did anyone grade me. I alone determined if I learned enough to  take care of myself thousands of miles away as an adventurous traveler.

I only had a naked assumption about my future  when John wheeled onto the Golden Gate Bridge and the San Francisco panorama opened as brilliantly as a Georgia O'Keeffe flower. The blue San Francisco Bay framed the hills crowded with multicolored buildings. I rolled down the window to absorb the smells and sounds of this city as John  introduced me to this place that was like no other.

This first impression strengthened my belief I had chosen the right city to enjoy while I promptly found a job and saved my money to go hitchhike around the world next June. I expected this to mimic my routine for last 15 years in school ---attend classes, study, have fun, make good grades, and be promoted to the next grades.  I assumed that I  would simply substitute a job for classes. How hard could that be? I was a rookie green in the realities of the world. 

For example, I did not know that “assume” is a trick word with a dangerous meaning. I do not think that the inherent danger of using this word can be taught. I believe that it must be learned. And I learned it multiple times during the next 11 months.  

Honestly, I knew little about life. I was a sheltered suburban white boy. I knew nothing about the qualities needed to travel alone and on the cheap in truly foreign countries like India and Afghanistan.  I did not know that I would acquire these qualities as unexpected dividends during my life in San Francisco.

Because I was on my own, I simply dealt  with each problem and forged ahead toward my goal which built my self-confidence and taught me basic skills. Amazingly, when I left for Japan, i had unconsciously prepared myself for almost all the new occurrences and new experiences that I encountered during the trip.

My first problem was serious. My assumption that I would find a full-time job during the first week - Or the second or the third or the first month - was wrong. I only found an occasional day job lifting or cleaning. John and I needed money to move out of our temporary quarters in his cousin’s apartment. I got so short on funds that I pawned my typewriter which was my most valuable possession.  I was glad for John, but it hurt when he got the well-paying job that we both had applied for.

I learned my first lesson: Never assume.

I was broke, nearly homeless, disappointed, and unhappy. This was the first problem that I had to solve by myself. Remember, cell phones did not exist in 1963, Nor did social media or You Tube. It was my decision to make about myself. Was I going to keep searching for a job, any job, or was I going to quit and drag my miserable self back to Colorado. 

I learned this about myself: I don’t quit unless it is the only option.

I gave up my search for a good paying desk job like John got. I was open to any job, and  I decided that  the best place to find any job  is to look for jobs no one else wants. I remembered seeing a reoccurring ad in the want ads for newspaper route delivery. Paid weekly. Car required. I cut a deal with John to use his car in the early morning and answered the ad.

At 5 a.m. the next morning I picked up a stack of the San Francisco Chronicle, known as “The Chron”, a list of addresses, and a map showing my territory on Russian Hill from the route manager.  . 

I was employed.

Dan meets SF - Love at First Sight

At 5:30 a.m. on my first day delivering papers, I stood under the streetlight to read the boundary map I got from my route manager. I made a mental note to bring a flashlight. I could not make that note on my phone because I did not have one. No cell, no iPad, no Siri, no GPS, no trainer, no guide. In one direction the streets flowed up Russian Hill through my area in a sensible grid pattern. Between these streets, a collection of old pedestrian walkways twisted up the Hill briefly before merging into the maze separating old Russian Hill residences. I folded some papers into my carrier bag and started up the nearest walkway. I had to get very close to the addresses to read them in the dim dawn light. It was a strange morning. Here I was alone in a place I had never been, doing a task I had never done, solving a puzzle I had never solved. I made mistakes. More than once I made a second trip up a walkway or exited the area onto a different street from where I parked the car. The first day took four hours. I cut that time in half on the second day. I proceeded with my rule of halves and continued to reduce my completion by halves until I became proficient at one hour. I measured my customers' satisfaction with the bottle of Remy Martin and the multiple plates of cookies I found outside the doors during the Christmas Season.This job improved my patience and perseverance. The fact that I couldn't call for help made me stronger and more able to make good decisions and weigh my experiences and knowledge before deciding:When to leave, where to go. When to say yes, when to say no.This experience later guided me to decide correctly to accept the invitation to climb Mt. Fuji and to reject the invitation to teach English in Vietnam.This job also improved my finances. I was not paid enough to open a savings account, but John and I could look for extra cheap housing. I wanted to stop sleeping on the living room floor at  John's cousin's apartment. We did find an ultra-cheap old beat-up house on Castro Street where the hills begin. The owner intended to demolish it in the summer and did not care what we did. I recall he charged maybe $100 a month rent, but no damage deposit which would have been a joke. It had a stove, hot water heater, furnace, and a semi-attached bath. Semi-attached means that we had to go out the back door and make a hard left into the bathroom which had a sink, a toilet, a shower, and no heat. I moved up from sleeping on the living room floor to sleeping on the floor of my own room. So, I was living large. One weekend I bought the cheapest wall paint I could find. It was ghastly blue. I painted monthly calendars through next May on the walls. I marked off days by the handful on the weekends when I had time to open the paint. I never had a guest. John may have had a girl over. I don't know.I considered the house as little more than a place to sleep, but it prepared me for what otherwise might have been some challenging accommodations on the trip such as the triple bunks of steerage class on the ship to Japan, the crowded main deck on the tramp steamer from Malaysia to India, and many others that lacked the conveniences and comforts of Castro St.The newspaper delivery money paid my share of the rent and food, but I could not save anything. I definitely needed a second job to save money for my trip. Daily, after delivering the last paper, I'd come home, check the classified and other sources for new listings, send resumes and applications, and request interviews. When I could do no more, I often hiked over Telegraph Hill past Coit Tower and down to the docks which became my place to gather myself and keep the faith.After I returned from this trip, I heard Otis Redding's. “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Those words flashed me back to my time hanging out at the docks. Some say that the song reflects depression. I disagree. I think it’s a song of hope.Otis, and I, each waited patiently for our respective ships to come in. Unfortunately, Redding was killed in a plane crash in Madison, Wisconsin, two days after the song was recorded in 1967. He could not revel in the shipful of awards the song won after its release in 1968 including topping the charts and two Emmys. It lived on to be named the sixth most-performed song of the 20thCentury with more than 6,000,000 radio performances.Fortunately, my ship arrived shortly in the shape of a second job. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-q559-hhUAProvided to YouTube by Universal Music Group [Sittin' On] The Dock Of The Bay · Otis Redding Remember Me ℗ 1992 Fantasy,.BACK STORY .Although he identified "' Frisco Bay" in the song, Redding reportedly was inspired while on a houseboat tied up in Sausalito on Richardson Bay, a small finger bay off San Francisco Bay. 

EPISODE 7  Workaholism

The Weyerhauser Steamship Company probably hired me because I was good with numbers. It didn't hire me for my looks. I wore a pair of old black shoes crudely polished, a wrinkled pair of trousers without a belt, new white dress shirt with a new clip-on tie, and a sport coat borrowed from John's cousin to the interview. I got the job because I could operate an adding machine and reminded the interviewer of his grandson. I remember these details because I really needed the job.I thought it was a cool job because it worked well with my newspaper route and paid $300 monthly. I got home, got clean, and caught the streetcar to the downtown San Francisco office building where I sat at my desk from 8:30 to 5:00 checking ships’ manifests. Believe me, I followed my manager’s directions without screwing up. I figured I could save about one half of each month's pay, but I daily read the classified because I needed more money. My third job at Crocker Citizens Bank fit my needs exactly. I worked from  6:00 pm to midnight or whenever we finished Monday through Friday. I don't remember the pay, but it exceeded expectations because of the hours. I took the streetcar home about midnight, slept till the 5:00 am alarm, delivered the papers, got to Weyerhauser by 8;30 am, and went to the bank at 6:00 pm. Could I do that now? No way. But back then I thought I was like a rock.At the bank I learned about my first computers which were giant machines that spit out 2-inch-thick stacks of printouts containing lists of checks the bank cashed that day. And most importantly, I spent time with five of the most delightful coworkers ever -  Maria and another woman who were housewives and moms; Joe, about whom I cannot remember much; Stefan, a student at the University of San Francisco, and Lenny. Lenny, who was black, was the first nonwhite person that I spent any time with. He ran the computer room. Nightly as the newest hire, I trekked to the computer room multiple times to carry the printouts from the computer to my coworkers. If the computer had not finished printing Lenny and I would talk.I believe that we came to understand that we meant no harm to each other. We even managed the light trash talk favored by men playing a Sunday morning basketball game. I credit my experience with Lenny as crucial to my ability during my trip, without fear or concern, to be the only white person standing on a train full of Japanese, or sitting in a room full of Indians, or walking down a street full of Afghanis.I must digress. My family's neighborhood was pure white as was my high school until a black student enrolled in my final semester in 1960. My father was a young boy when his family moved from Georgia to Ohio. He brought along what he had been taught about blacks. The black's enrollment in my school traveled quickly through our neighborhood causing my father could give me this never-to-be-forgotten advice: "If he gives you trouble, kick him in the shins. They hate that.” I was shocked and mentally ran his advice through a shredder.But he was a man who accepted change. Years later, my eldest sister and her husband adopted two mixed race children. In one of our family's fondest photos, my father sits in his favorite chair smiling and holding close his five-year-old adopted granddaughter on his lap.At the bank, every night each of us would start with a printout and a bundle of the checks listed on that printout. Some checks would not be listed causing the printout and the bundle to not balance. The veterans gave me precise directions about the best way to bring them to balance. I followed the directions exactly because once I finished all my printouts I could leave. But I never chose to leave before the others. No one did. We all helped each other balance so we could all leave at the same time. It was that kind of workplace.I realized later that my three jobs taught me the people give two kinds of directions. The newspaper job taught me about what I'll call “results” directions. As in, make sure each customer gets a newspaper on time. It gave me no directions about how to accomplish that result. It let me decide who got the first paper and what route I took.The second I'll call “best way” directions which describe step-by step how you get to the destination. These specific sets of directions tell you how to balance the manifest and to balance your printout. Also, I learned, a set explains how to obtain your first passport.I cannot explain why I took a very temporary fourth job for two weekends during the holiday season unpacking products at a large department store. I must have been numb or dumb.About that time my savings account hit four figures. All was well in my tiny world because I was on schedule for a June departure date 

Dan

EPISODE 8  John's Shocker

I closed out 1963 with shorter days, colder temps, and stiffer winds.Work, sleep, work, eat, work. I spent Christmas Day away from my family for the first time. John had flown home. I slid onto a stool at the long bar in a classic  Irish tavern in downtown San Francisco alone among many. I ate a  midday meal of a beer and a sandwich and, feeling the blues, one more beer before I made the long walk home. At the first signs of spring, I knew I needed time to reconnect with the world.I had to shed a job like a grizzly sheds its winter coat. I now believe I quit the paper first because it paid the least. And I wanted my weekends. I was still working 14-hour days, five days a week.I felt the need to be a part of the Civil Rights Movement prevalent throughout the country. In San Francisco protesters picketed the new car dealers in Auto Row along Van Ness Avenue and well-known hotels demanding equal employment for African Americans. John and I joined the Saturday morning picket line at the Cadillac dealer. No conflict. No harassment. No blocking of entrances or sitting in. Just peacefully carrying a sign and slowly walking an imaginary rectangular track in the parking lot. It felt righteous. One morning, a movement leader announced that all car dealers had signed an agreement to open their jobs to African Americans. The little victory that mandated a celebratory party that night. A young black woman gave me her hand at the beginning of a song. We danced one dance, touching hands only and smiling but not speaking. Maybe it is not a big deal now. But back then, for this white boy, it was huge. It was like the last stitch in the seam creating racial equality in my mind. On another weekend, John and I drove south to the Monterey Jazz Festival. For some reason, we took a two-lane inland highway through agricultural country rather than the famous coastal highway. We were admiring the miles of surrounding green artichoke fields when a hornet's nest of Harleys came upon us. The noise was something else. John slowed to let them by, and I read Hells Angels on the jackets. They treated us like we didn’t exist.  A memorable California moment. I believe that the Festival was my first outdoor music concert. Good music. Cheap wine. Interesting people. We slept in our sleeping bags next to the car. Overall, a fine California dayI had another California traffic experience. My mother told me that, when I was very young, I had an allergic reaction to penicillin, and she pleaded with me to get it checked before I left. I found a free clinical study at the University of California Hospital in Berkeley that required four bi-weekly trips across the Bay Bridge from San Francisco. The doctor tatted a one-inch square of little injections into my arm. On the next visit, he would record my reactions and tat me again. For the last visit, the car was unavailable, and I borrowed a motorcycle from Stefan my coworker at the bank. I knew I could handle the bike because I had a Norton 750 during my last year at Boulder.But I had not experienced anything close to the ride across the Bay Bridge at rush hour. I was like an acorn riding white water through a narrow canyon bordered by steep cliffs. I was sharing the multiple lanes with tailgating vehicles as large as 18-wheelers going as fast as traffic allowed. I kept my speed up and adjusted to the quirky winds produced by the trucks. The good news is that the doctor pronounced me allergy-free.The bad news is that two weeks later, a drunk driver ran a red light and crushed Stefan and that very bike. He was pronounced dead.His death wrinkled me up some. I had no real experience with death. He was a good man and one of the few I tried to make time to hang out with.  He left behind a two-year-old daughter and a devastated wife who after the funeral asked some of us to accompany them to the beach. I tried but could not find words that brought her comfort.Not too many weeks later, John and I were at home early on a Saturday evening when a very unusual event occurred. Not only was the telephone for me, but it was also a telephone call from a woman named Kay. She reminded me that we had dated a couple times in high school five or so years ago. When she added that she was living nearby and invited me over for wine, right now, I began to believe in magic. John smiled wolfishly when he slid the car keys. He knew that I had not made time for a woman since we arrived in San Francisco.I realized my high school fantasy in her tiny apartment. She set the stage with incense, a bottle of wine, and a flowery, flowy long dress. The next day we went to the beach and learned that our futures ran along different tracks I was going overseas. She was a counterculture queen courting her future disciples. I never saw her again. I heard that drugs had extinguished her light. I hope that was false news.In April, I gave notice to the bank, signaling that the end was near. John and I kept our agreement to treat our see ourselves to the cioppino at the best-smelling Italian restaurant in North Beach before we left on our trip. I brought along my passport and brochures for passenger ships to Japan. John surprised me by saying that he couldn't go by boat because the water scared him. Instead, he had bought an around-the-world airline ticket.  The next week I booked my steerage-class space in the American President Lines President Wilson to Hawaii, Yokohama, Japan, and Hong Kong.   

EPISODE 9 Qeeen  SF- I couldn't have done it without her

I accepted the obvious. These three jobs absorbed my days, weeks, and months until May 1964. I plunged ahead with the resilience and rashness of youth. No doubt it was hard. No doubt  I had days when I did not want to get up. But I couldn't quit on my own plan. Months ago, I had a vision that I could go to San Francisco, work to save money to take a boat to Japan the next June, and hitchhike around the world. Now I was doing exactly that and found positives in each of my jobs.During delivery of the San Francisco Chronicle, the “Chron”, I almost always challenged myself to cut time by finding a new shortcut. I enjoyed beginning my day by hustling through Russian Hill’s quiet streets to improve the way that my 100 or so customers began their day. Occasionally, I might have paused beside one of my customer’s fantastic flower beds, and thought, “This isn't so bad.” I have always preferred a job like this where I felt like while I had a boss, I did not have a supervisor. At Weyerhauser, my supervisor always was in close contact with me. This job paid the most, but I quit it first in early May, mostly because I needed daytime hours to prepare for the trip. I confess I enjoyed the process of getting to that job. Exiting the tram onto the sidewalk pooled with the energy of other office workers, entering my building, and greeting the elevator operator made me feel like a San Franciscan rather than a tourist. Also, most of Weyerhauser’s ships served Japan, and I took some pleasure visualizing that trip when I reviewed their manifests.On my walk from Weyerhauser to Crocker Citizens Bank, I often stopped at a small grocery for a sub sandwich for dinner. I still picture the homemade bun of genuine San Francisco sourdough. It was about the length of a standard hotdog bun but wider and thicker with a crusty top dusted very lightly with flour. I usually got salami and Swiss with the grocer’s own sauce.

I could throttle back a bit when I got to the bank. I think it was a second job for all of us and that we all had because we needed it. While we waited for the printouts, I heard a few reasons why my co-workers worked at the bank such as  kids, illnesses, classes, and new cars or houses. Somewhat hesitantly, I revealed my travel plan. Most offered encouragement tinged with wistfulness.  

I doubt whether I could have succeeded with my 3-job life in another city. The joy of San Francisco allowed me to be positive rather than negative, optimistic rather than pessimistic, and resolute rather than halfhearted. 

San Francisco at that time was one of the world's great cities. Herb Caen, the beloved Pulitzer Prize winning columnist of the Cron epitomized the spirit of San Francisco - colorful, proud, worldly, and welcoming. Caen nicknamed his City “Baghdad by the Bay” because of its multicultural population including descendants from the 1849 Gold Rush that increased to population from 459 persons in 1847 to 25,000 people in 1849, the Chinese who came to work on construction of the trans-continental railway; the African Americans who came to work in the WWII shipyards, and the men and women who fought in the Pacific and stayed after they were discharged in San Francisco.

The 1905 earthquake destroyed three-quarters of the City. The citizens famously rebuilt with speed, style, and important public works, parks, and places. Ten years later, San Francisco showcased itself by hosting the Panama-Pacific International Exposition. During the Great Depression, no bank in the San Francisco failed and the City built two great bridges, the Golden Gate Bridge completed in 1937 and the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge finished in 1936. 

This palpable positive spirit was the power of the place. 

I embraced this spirit as I worked these three jobs. When I could, I enjoyed the varied cuisine and entertainment that I could afford, as well as the cable cars, hilly walks, the weather, fog and all, and the City's parks and places.

Tony Bennet released “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” in 1962. He got it right.

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=Ysw4svDmcxc&list=RDAMVMYsw4svDmcxc 

Episode 10  Staying True to the Dream

John's surprise announcement disappointed me. We had traveled a bumpy road together since we made that shotgun decision heading home from a party in Boulder nine months ago. We were good friends, and I had looked forward to circling the world with him. After all, that was the point of all this. But I did not waver for one second. I was going. Dumb, fearless, and ready to make my own decisions whatever happens.It was May and we were almost out of days to cross off on the house wall. I had to quit my last job, get a passport, reserve passage on a ship, join the International Youth Hostel Association, and obtain a proper International Certificate of Vaccination.I cannot help comparing those tasks now and then and realizing how starkly different that process has become in the last 60 years. The results are the same – a trip abroad. At that time, I researched printed material at the San Francisco Public Library, no Google; talked to real people over a landline and pay phones, no AI on cells; paid cash, no credit cards or online transfers; US Mail, no email or messages; and brick and mortar stores, no online stores and all their issues. Is it easier now? Sometimes, only sometimes.I gave Weyerhauser two weeks' notice. On my last day, my boss shook my hand for the first time and wished me well. I sensed a mix of skepticism and admiration in his tone. He was about my father's age.I finished the passport application in three stops. I went to the post office for information, to a photography store for a passport photo, and back to the post office to complete the application and pay, When the passport arrived in a few weeks with its sea-blue, durable cover and US-centric pages it instantly became a prized possession.I equally treasured my ticket to Japan. After research I selected the American President Line's SS President Wilson departing from San Francisco on some date I don't recall in early June 1964 and arriving in Yokohama, Japan 14 days later with a one-day stop in Hawaii. My steerage accommodations cost between $200-300, including food and the option to travel five days to Hong Kong at no additional cost on the date I chose to leave Japan. A true good deal. I accepted without learning what steerage meant.But I knew that crossing the Pacific Ocean on a 600-foot ship was an adventure. And that was all I needed to know. Unfortunately, this adventure has almost disappeared. Ocean liners like the President Wilson disappeared like Studebakers. Now, only the Queen Mary 2 transports patient travelers round trip from New York to London. I doubt that she has steerage accommodations.I purchased my ticket at the American President Line San Francisco office. I paid the sales agent cash. Credit cards did not exist. She probably had to see my passport, which lengthened the process to perhaps 10 minutes. The ticket I held in my hand announced the pier where President Wilson would be berthed, the date of departure, the time I would get on the ship, and the time the ship dropped its lines and began its voyage across the Pacific Ocean.My mind fell away. I wanted to show the ticket to strangers and sing the news in the street like a star in a 60's musical.I also joined the International Youth Hostel Association by returning its membership form and sending the nominal fee of $10 as I recall. They promptly mailed my membership card and the soft-covered information book listing member hostels all over the world including address, phone number, cost, ($2-5), and important facts about each hostel, such as food availability sleeping arrangements, and public transportation. During the trip, I slept in hostels every night except for a park bench in Osaka, Japan, a very cheap hotel in Hong Kong, one night in a private home in Pakistan, and, perhaps, a few unlisted YMCAs.Finally, I returned to the University of California Hospital in Berkeley to get the doctor's signature on my International Certificate of Vaccination verifying that I had all the necessary shots.I successfully carried the passport, health certificate, hostel membership card, and information book with me at all times during the trip. I recognized their importance and realized that replacement would be a horrible experience.It was time to unplug the cord to San Francisco and return to Colorado to say goodbye to my parents. I packed what I could carry and gave the rest away. John dropped me off east of the Bay Area suburbs. To save money, I intended to hitchhike to Denver and back.I would sail in 20 days.  

EPISODE 11  On the Road

The trucker stopped in Winnemucca for some R and R. He said I could ride with him in the morning. I told him that I might take him up on his offer if I couldn't catch a ride and walked out of town on old U.S. Highway 40 past the sweeping curve to the east to a good hitchhiking spot. 

From my experience, I learned how to select hitchhiking spots where I could safely stand, a vehicle could safely pull over, and an oncoming vehicle could see me for a good distance. I also wanted to be far enough out of town so I wouldn't be bothered by kind souls offering me a half-mile ride to the street where they turn. I put my bag down and looked into the mid-afternoon sun and waited. And waited. And waited.

I've learned how erratic my memory is about events 60 years ago. For example, I remember so very clearly how quiet it was standing on the side of the road that day, and how the sound of an infrequent vehicle accelerating out of Winnemucca built to a crescendo as it blew up dust and passed me by. I had about decided to hike back to Winnemucca and find that trucker when my eyes followed the newer sedan gliding by me and a bit down the road. Brake lights. It began to slowly back up. I trotted towards it. I opened the passenger door and asked him how far he was going, he replied, "East “ and asked if I had a driver's license. I nodded and said I was going to Denver.

He nodded and I got in. He did not answer my few general questions. That was okay that he was a non-talker type. I had experienced that before. But something about his demeanor and the tight look on his face put me on edge. That was a first.

I read Jack Kerouac’s  On the Road in high school. It validated my perception of hitchhiking as a form of romantic adventure. I did it occasionally during college and concluded that the person who picks up a stranger almost always has a reason. Maybe the person innocently wants to help another or maybe the person wants someone to talk to.  I had a talker the only other time I hitchhiked through the night in Nevada. A trucker in an 18-wheeler picked me up. He worked his way up through the gears. He said his truck topped out at 105 mph and that we were there. 

He rested his right hand at 360 on the steering wheel, looked at me over his arm, and began to talk. Infrequently he would glance at the road, but his truck was outrunning its headlines so he couldn’t see much. He kept looking at me, talking, and answering his questions. We were blindly roaring through this tunnel of night. It was surreal. I decided that I could do nothing, so I began to talk to him. He seemed to enjoy that like a dog getting its head scratched.

I could not put my current driver into a category other than unpredictable.

He gassed up near the Utah State Line. I quickly grabbed a couple of candy bars and hustled back to the car. He stopped me. I thought he was leaving me there. But he handed me the keys and ordered me to drive. I think he fell asleep in the backseat before I left the gas station and didn't wake up until I stopped at a gas station in western Colorado. I told him I couldn't drive anymore and returned his keys. He looked angry but did not argue. I was wary and weary and napped uncomfortably until we popped out from behind the last mountain to view Denver against its backdrop of the exploding dawn sky.

In the suburbs, he ignored my requests to let me out anywhere. I could see that he intended to circle Denver on its north side. I then understood that he had picked me up for help driving east, wherever that was. I told him I told him firmly that I would not get behind the wheel again. A few minutes later he jerked his car into a vacant lot. I was glad I kept my bag on the front floor. I grabbed it and jumped out slamming the door. Not a good experience.

However,  I did get a through-ride from Winnemucca to Denver. By a hitchhiker’s standard, that is gold.

I sparingly recall my brief stay in Denver. To prove to my father that he wrongly predicted that I would not reach my goal, I put my savings account book and the APL ticket in front of them. In retrospect, I knew that I was disrespectful. He also took me shopping for a pack, a money belt, and shoes. He had never done that before. I know I spent time with my two sisters and a few friends. My mother fussed over me and helped me pack. I only took one change of clothes. I needed room for my travel notebook, guidebooks, and Japanese language book with space for food, drink, and souvenirs. Packing reveals priorities. She probably stuck in extra underwear and a hanky. On the morning I left my mother slipped me a $100 bill and cried.

My dad dropped me at a good spot on I-25 South. I watched him leave. Now, as a parent, I recognize how emotional it would be to leave your only son at the side of the highway with no assurance that you would ever see him again. It would have been much more akin to watching your child in the 1800s board a ship to sail across the Atlantic for America than watching a child today board a plane to go almost anywhere. 

Yet another astounding difference made by the cell and the internet.

EPISODE 12 On the Road Again

I stood on the shoulder, staring into the westbound traffic, my pack between my feet. My perfect

gray-brown pack with pockets and buckles. My sturdy pack with all my forever clothes, a Japanese language book, a travel book for Japan with street maps of Tokyo, Osaka, and other major cities, a $100 bill from my mother, and a tan-covered, paperbacked book-sized notebook with narrow-lined pages for my travel journal. 

I felt levitated by conflicting emotions. Some guilt about leaving my parents and some pride in accomplishing my goal. And I'll admit to a few flutters of doubt. I mean, hell, no one was waiting for me on the other side of the Pacific. But a feeling of excitement dominated I wanted to get underway. I did not wait long. A sedan shifted lanes and slid to a stop about 100 yards down the road. “Get in,” she said. 

I considered her words to be the starter’s gun for my trip that I had been working toward for months. The ship sailed in six days. I had cut my ties and felt fully committed. I was all eyes forward with no regrets.

I had never been given a ride by a woman before nor had I been given a ride by anyone with two small children in the back seat. She was on the gas as soon as I closed the door as if she was running from someone. She was. She had left her husband in Louisiana and was headed for her parents’ place in Salinas, California, with her children. She offered no details about why she was running but expressed her concern by repeatedly checking the review. Lucky me. One ride to Salinas, 100 miles south of San Francisco. What a superior way to begin the trip. I took this as a thumbs-up blessing from all concerned.

She asked me to drive after about an hour and promptly fell asleep. I had zero experience caring for small children or for evading an angry husband. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road occasionally checking the rear view for anything strange.

She took the southern route to avoid the mountains. Colorado. New Mexico, Arizona. North at Bakerfield up through California to Salinas. At pitstops I watched the children while she used the restroom and brought them snacks. I have no memory of the children misbehaving. Nowadays I can't imagine a woman with two small children picking up a strange man and leaving him in the car with her kids and the car keys. But apparently for her, desperation plus trust overcame fear. Late that night we confessed exhaustion. We pulled into a wayside and fell asleep on the front seat flopped over each other in a platonic pile like best friends. Mid-day she dropped me on the outskirts of Salinas with no more than a “good luck” and a wave.

That's the way of hitchhiking. The driver and rider ride like box cars coupled together, then quickly separate for all time. During my hitchhiking years, no one asked for my name, address, or phone number.

I don't remember whether I took a bus or hitchhiked to San Francisco.

Over the next few days, I checked the pier to be sure my ship was in port, took last looks at my favorite sites, got my traveling money, and arranged for the champagne.

EPISODE 13 An Ending and a Beginning

I was electric with excitement. At any moment a member of the ship’s crew would unclip the rope gate across the gangplank, allowing us to board the President Wilson. Huge and magnificent, she stretched the length of the pier. I had to turn my head to see all of her. With my first step on the gangplank, I would detach from the continental United States. Hitchhiking out of Colorado began the trip, but my first step onto the gangplank would begin my adventure into the unknown. 

After I arrived in San Francisco from Salinas, I went to buy American Express checks, the currency for international travel before credit cards and online banking. Amex distributed a sturdy booklet of address and phone numbers of its many international brick and mortar locations. I often stopped first at the local Amex office when I entered a country to cash a check for the local currency and, get this, to pick up my mail. That's right. American Express provided a free mail service for those using its services on the road. 

After visiting the Amex office, I sought out a liquor store near the docks because I figured correctly that it had experience providing liquor to ships. I bought a case of champagne to be delivered to the ship for my bon voyage party. I naively believed a bon voyage was de rigueur.

While I was standing there, the crew member opened the rope for a man from the liquor store pushing a hand truck with a case of champagne. I watched anxiously as he crested the gangplank and disappeared into the collection of crew members on the deck. Shortly thereafter, the crew man left the gate unlocked. Hustling up the gangplank to the deck, I did not see my champagne. I was concerned about the case of bubbly, but I was more concerned about stowing my pack before my guests arrived. I hoped my good luck would continue and I followed the steerage signs down a series of metal staircases to a hollow area with many tiers of numbered bunkbeds along the walls. I located the top bunk and its locker with the number that matched my ticket. I had no time to explore further. I stored ,y pack and jammed the locker key deep into my pocket. On the deck I found a smiling crewman watching over the case of champagne. I invited him back for a drink.

I looked in vain for other parties. Apparently bon voyage parties were far from de rigueur. Perhaps I watched too many old movies with my parents. 

John and his girlfriend arrived first followed by my boss from Weyerhauser and several friends from the bank who brought side dishes of snacks. Kindly crew members kindly set up a 

small table and brought out some chairs. When I realized we would not finish the champagne, I opened the party to others standing nearby on the deck. I met several people my age who became good shipmates. At the party’s end, I believed that I had honorably concluded my stay in San Francisco by celebrating on board with my friends. I also hoped that the party would be memorable for them. The PA announcement told visitors to go to shore where they could wave farewell. The ship's big horn gave one long blast, the universal, ageless, nautical signal of departure. I stood at the rail near the bow. I wanted to savor the moment. Hefty men ashore released the fat lines from the cleats on the piers. Freed, slow as a snail, the big ship slid from her slip. at week speed. At wake speed, she worked her way dramatically and romantically  through the San Francisco Bay toward the Pacific Ocean.   This was not a subtle departure. The whiff of diesel smoke. Soft slap of waves on her hull. Sun-highlighted shoreline colors reflected in the water. Passenger murmurs quivering with emotion.

I watched my landmarks slowly come and go. Coit Tower. The colorful hears hills where I delivered newspapers. Alcatraz. Fisherman's Wharf. Sausalito. I was leaving a part of my heart here. The City by the Bay had treated me right. It helped me grow up and prepared me for this trip. We were approaching the Golden Gate as we enter as we passed underneath, the passengers cheered and the ship did whatever it did, if anything as we passed under the Golden Gate. 

I felt the speed I felt and heard the ship speed increase. The water color changed. We were in the Pacific Ocean bound for Japan.

I was one of millions who had used San Francisco as the platform for their  dreams.. Miners , immigrants, the rich, and the desperate   And I.  I gave  beautiful, cosmopolitan San Francisco a nod of thanks as it disappeared into my past.

EPISODE 14 Mission Accomplished

With a sense of irreversibility, I watched the Pacific’s mist absorb the Golden Gate. From the height of my sensation of accomplishment and the departure I momentarily plunged to the depths of a fear of the unknown and loneliness. The slap of the ocean on the ship’s hull and the smell of the sea quickly vanquished that nonsense. I had work to do. Pumped up with curiosity, I followed the signage in stairs to the steerage class at the bottom of the ship.

When I had asked the American President Line agent for the cost for the least expensive ticket to Japan. I was simply buying transportation. I didn't really care about or consider sleeping accommodations although she said the third-class ticket price included room and board. She also told me that we'd stop for a day in Hawaii and that I could use the ticket to go from Japan on to Hong Kong at a later date on another APL ship. Really? I must have thought. Her words came from a travel brochure.   

Hawaii, Japan and  Hong Kong, the city of Nancy Kwan? How exotic! 

Before I left for Colorado. I heard that third-class equaled steerage which prompted my investigation into the meaning of the word “steerage”. Its  sorrowful history began as the innocent description of the dark, breathless space below the deck where the steering cables ran to the rudder on ancient ships. The space was initially used as storage for cargo needing little care and attention at sea. The slave trade changed this. Between the 16th and 19th centuries, slave traders converted cargo ships by installing chains in steerage to secure their new cargo. Men, women, and children lay shackled side-by-side in abominable living conditions. Diseases ran rampant. As many as 15 % of the slaves died, their bodies tossed overboard. Slave traders established a triangular trade route to maximize profit:

Triangular Trade

The trans-Atlantic slave trade was one leg of a three-part system known as the triangular trade. The forming of the triangle began when European ships, carrying firearms and manufactured goods, sailed to Africa, where the commodities were traded for enslaved men, women and children. Next, the same ships transported the human cargo across the Atlantic Ocean to the Americas. 

This horrific journey was called the Middle Passage. Completing the triangle, the ships—having disembarked the enslaved Africans—were reloaded with cotton, sugar, tobacco and other cash crops produced by slave labor, and returned to Europe.

https://www.history.com/news/african-diaspora-trans-atlantic-slave-trade

Steerage conditions improved somewhat in the 1800’s for the millions of European and Asian immigrants, including an estimated two million starving Irish, who paid as little as $10 per person for passage to the New World. Some of my ancestors on my father's Scotch-Irish side may have crossed the Atlantic in steerage. Conditions in steerage slowly improved under new laws.

The term “third class” replaced “steerage” as passengers sailed upon ocean liners rather than converted cargo vessels. However, third class passengers remained strictly separated from those traveling in first or second class. For example, the Titanic had steel gates which confined third class passengers in their place which may have contributed to the deaths of 532 men, women, and children when the ship sunk. 

The President Wilson’s steerage still filled bottom of the ship without outside windows. The sounds and space vibrated. The space was basically communal with sections for men and women and a family section, each with their own community bathrooms and shower facilities. The food was more than adequate in the communal dining area, but less than exquisite. We each had a separate bunk and locker with a lock for personal belongings. The berth was comfortable. And I met I met some interesting people. One of my bunkmates was older Filipino who was returning to Manila with his family. There was not room in the family area for him. His children visited him in on occasion into the men's area, but I never met his wife.

Most of the other people in steerage were around my age. At first it surprised me, but it made sense after I thought about it because I was on the first sailing in June. Many were students were either returning to the Far East after a year in school in the United States or Americans going abroad for a year of study in Japan or elsewhere in Asia. We shared a sense of excitement and good humor and energy and quickly banded together and gained access to the second-class bar where I met Stefan who studied engineering at MIT.

The evening before we docked in Hawaii, he suggested that we rent a motor scooter to tour the Island rather than go on the scheduled guided tour.

“Why not”, I said. 

EPISODE 15 - HAWAII

The next morning, I woke up confused by the strange noise and motion of the ship slicing through the ocean at 20 knots, the strange voices of my steerage mates, and the artificial lights glare in this large windowless area, I wandered up to the deck and found a chair. A steward appeared with coffee and the location of breakfast. 

I found it difficult to believe A few weeks ago, I was working three jobs while arranging the details of my trip. Now I'm on a ship steaming toward Hawaii and Japan. Surreal. I felt full of fatigue and excitement and awe of my accomplishment.  

Evenings, I gravitated to the second-class bar to join my partying shipmates, mostly students. I don't recall many names. Eric and Rachel posing as California hippies, unabashedly seeking to experience the exotic drugs of the Far East. Gwen on her way to Tokyo University. She immediately coupled up with a steward and could be seen entering and exiting his cabin. Two civil engineers employed by a large US engineering firm on their way to Saigon.. Midori, a lovely Japanese woman returning home after a year studying at one of the Eastern women’s schools. I had not met a person from Japan before. She terminated our nascent relationship shortly after we arrived in Tokyo by telling me that her father would only approve of a relationship with a Japanese man. However, onboard she planted the seed for the strong affinity I still feel for the Japanese people. And finally, Stefan, an MIT student from Culver City, California. We just hit it off and became travel buddies in Japan.

I confess that I feel about writing about my visit to Hawaii today about the same as I felt about visiting it 60 years ago. I feel obligated for the sake of continuity, Then, Japan was my destination. Now, I am more interested in reliving my time in Japan than struggling to describe the stop in Hawaii that I did not want and foggily recall. 

Nothing against Hawaii. It is a beautiful place. My wife and I visited about 20 years ago under circumstances so unusual that I feel must digress and tell the story. The trip years ago began with a piece of junk mail that that I normally would have discarded unopened. But something about this envelope gave me pause. Maybe it was the weight or the typeface. I shuffled through the multiple pieces of paper inside until I saw the letter congratulating us on winning second prize in a contest sponsored by a tofu manufacturer whose name I have forgotten. We were told to make plans for a five-day trip to Hawaii with Waikiki beachfront accommodations, a car, and a $500 spending allowance. Believe me, I cross checked and double checked the documents. My wife still could not believe it and called the company's president for verification. It all seemed legit, but we were baffled. Neither of us recalled entering a contest. Remaining wary and mystified, we chose dates signed and returned the papers. The next week, during a return call, I told my daughter Lara about our mysterious good fortune. I recall her first words as something that meant “No way”. She explained that she had entered a contest to win a new car. Craftily, she completed entries for her father, mother, sister, and anyone else who she knew would give her the car if they won. Unfortunately for her, the trip was non-refundable. 

I can attest that Hawaii deserves to be regarded as a top island vacation spot with an interesting culture, wonderful people, beautiful scenery, and good food. 

But on that morning in 1964, as the Wilson docked in Honolulu, I would have preferred to be sailing on to Japan. Stefan and I rode our rented motorbikes around the city, along Waikiki Beach, up to the top of Diamond Head, and toured nearby parts of the island including a drive-by of Pearl Harbor. I recall eating some pineapple and possibly some spam. Unfortunately, except for the lei we received when we disembarked and wore all day, that's all I recall. 

Most of the passengers took an organized tour to Pearl Harbor. We traded stories of the day over dinner before going on deck to watch our ship pull away from the dock.

Next stop, Japan. 

Episode 16

                                                                                                                     At Sea

How do you prepare for the unnamed dimension otherwise described as the unknown? How could I prepare for life on a steamship when my boating experience consisted of a few hours on a rowboat on a very small lake? I entered that unknown dimension when I boarded the SS President Wilson in San Francisco. After five days at sea, I could have hated it and planned to jump ship in Hawaii or resign myself to toughing it out, counting down each day, hour, and minute before we landed in Japan. 

Instead,  going back on board in Hawaii, I felt like I was returning to a place that I had come to know. I had embraced the nautical world with all its different terms and phrases such as two knots and two ports, furlongs, a stern, keel and prow, starboard and port, and  galley and head. And don't forget the grog. I knew I would be comfortable for nine remaining days on the President Wilson. 

Don't confuse the steamship with the cruise ship. The Wilson had a small pool, modest evening entertainment, active bars and lines of deck chairs, and stewards ready to bring you a beverage. It lacked the cruise ships crying children, layers of cabins, extravagant entertainment, and the general clog of too many people in a small place. Like the plane, the steamship transported passengers to a specific destination. But the ship’s slower speed allows you to mentally blend into your destination before arrival and to study your destination’s place in the world.

People settle into routines in strange places, especially when the place becomes your home. I mean, you're at sea period. The boat is your home. You don't have the options to, you know, go visit friends or run errands. You're on the boat. So, when I climbed aboard in Hawaii, I settled into what became my routine, coffee on the deck chair in the morning, lunch, an evening meal, whatever the kitchen was doing that day. And maybe a couple of beers with my new friends in the evening. I had needed the first five days and an intense amount of effort to embrace my new environment, to accept the experience of someone in a uniform with a tray serve me while I was lounging on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Bizarre, right, bizarre compared to anything I had ever experienced before.

I remember that I often took a break from my studies and walked around the decks. The weather was always good, and the boat was big and heavy and generally steamed in a straight line minimizing the movement of the floor under your feet. I would do a 360 to check the horizon. Nothing. I did not see as much as a speck until we neared Yokohama on the ninth day. 

The size of the ocean and the dominating sky made me feel the size of a drop of water. But simultaneously, I felt like the master of my own universe standing in a ship in the middle of the Pacific comforted by its throbbing engines, sucking in the salt air, rubbing my tongue across my salty lips, and squinting to protect my eyes from sunlight and light winds.  I held the railing tight when I stuck my head over the side to watch the prow cut through the surface leaving a white, foamy “V” that steadily dissolved. For the first time, I observed that a short section t of the skyline appears as a straight line. However, the complete skyline is a circle. I am sure a simple explanation exists, but I have yet to learn it. 

At night, the more immense sky swallowed the sea and sprinkled stars seemingly close enough to grasp. The frothy “V” became phosphorescent and the only earthly assurance that we were not riding on a spaceship.

. I found the voyage beautiful, unbelievably beautiful, and peaceful. And I could fully understand why, for millennia, men have chosen to go to sea, and why they often found life at sea, preferable to any life they could lead on land. Yeah, I liked it a lot. And each day that went by, we were closer to Japan.