In 1944, after completing my second year at Cal Tech, I was invited by the President of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt, to assist in making the world safe for democracy by serving in the armed forces of our country. In exchange for my cooperation I was taught basic soldiering, how to operate and repair radios, and the techniques of weather observation and reporting. I also got a free trip to Europe.
Building on this background of experience, after the war (WWII), I joined the U. S. Weather Bureau, then part of the Department of Commerce. I was assigned to the weather station at the Oakland airport. After a few months of duty there, mostly on the night and graveyard shifts--honors reserved for new employees--a call came down for volunteers for the Pacific Weather Patrol. Sensing adventure, I offered myself for consideration, was accepted, and was then transferred to Seattle.
At that time, the U. S. Coast Guard maintained two mid-ocean stations in the Pacific. One was about 1,000 miles West of Seattle at 50° N , 150° W, the other, half way between San Francisco and Honolulu. The purpose was to be a navigational beacon for aircraft, to provide air/sea rescue if needed, to gather oceanographic data, and to make regular surface and upper atmosphere weather observations for use in synoptic mapping. There were also stations in the Atlantic with the same missions.
I was assigned to the USCG cutter Chautauqua, a 250-foot ocean going vessel whose home base was Seattle. In addition to its normal crew, when on patrol it carried four civilians as the weather observers. My first trip proved to have more adventure than I had expected. A few minutes after leaving the dock, while I was admiring the Seattle skyline from the deck, a frightening chorus of klaxons and bells broke my reverie. A fire drill--I thought. Well, in a way, it was. But a real one. There was an electrical fire somewhere in the ship's main propulsion switchboard. This class of ship had a turbo-electric propulsion system. Steam powered an electric generator which powered the electric motor which turned the propeller.
The fire was quickly handled, and, I guess, deemed of no consequence to the voyage. So, we sailed through Puget Sound, the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and out into the open sea. Generally, it took about seven days round trip to the station, and we were scheduled to be on station for 21 days. Four weeks at sea, then four weeks off was the normal duty cycle.
After a few days on station, a crewman became ill. He was in urgent need of medical attention. The closest hospital was at the naval base in Kodiak, Alaska, toward which we turned and ran at flank speed. We arrived mid-day, transferred the patient to the hospital, and spent the night docked in the harbor. The place reminded me of something out of a movie of the old West--complete with false-front buildings, unpaved streets, and wooden sidewalks.
The next morning, two navy harbor tugs were standing by to assist in our undocking and passage out to sea. The Chautauqua's executive officer, who was in charge of the proceedings, waved off the proffered help and went about things in his usual officious way. The tugs remained on the scene, however, their crews staring at us intently. After a few backings and turnings, the Chautuaqua began to make way toward the harbor entrance. Then, a shushing sound from the bottom of the ship. Our forward motion slowed, and then stopped. We were fast aground. And the tide was going out. Hoots and laughter from the crews of the tugs. The exec of the Chautauqua shouted indignantly through his bullhorn to one of the tugs "That sandbar is not on the chart. Why didn't you warn me about it?" More laughter from the tugs. And the tide continued to go out. The exec tried the usual maneuvers of reversing and then attempting to go forward. But they were no more effective than the same process when your car is stuck in the mud. The tide continued to go out, and now the ship began to list noticeably.
Having sated their need to rejoice in our difficulties, the tugs relented and began to do their duty. After several hours of struggle we were finally released, and afloat, but only after a third, and much larger tug, had added its horsepower to the rescue.
After our return to station, the weather began to get heavy. We were, afterall, in what is known as "the roaring forties." Whatever the weather, the mission obliged us to maintain our position within a five by five mile square. This, at times, restricted the available maneuvers. Consequently, at times, we did a lot of rock and roll (well before its time, I might point out). One evening while this was going on I was sitting (actually sitting, and holding on) in the weather shack, which was on an upper deck directly above the propulsion motor. The ship was pointed into the wind and sea, and our speed was the least which would maintain that orientation. After an especially exhilarating pitch of the ship there came a low growl and loud chattering from below. The sound was what you might hear if an electric motor, running a slow speed, were suddenly thrown into reverse. And then--silence from below. In a manner of speaking, we up that well known creek, without a paddle.
Happily, everything else aboard worked. But without way, we were entirely at the mercy of the laws of physics, as they apply to a long slender object floating in a medium disturbed by wind and waves. So, the ship quickly became oriented along the troughs. This is not where a mariner wants to be in heavy weather as the danger of capsizing is ever present. But there was nothing we could do. So we wallowed. And we rolled. The only comfort came from the assurance of the captain that the ship was designed to right itself, even if it took a 90 degree roll.
Later that night, I noticed that one of the lifeboats was on deck being worked over by some of the crew, under very trying conditions. Well, I thought--this is it. But what they were doing was rigging a "sea anchor." Later, the lifeboat, with lines properly attached, was hoisted overboard with the other end of the lines tied to the stern of the ship. The theory being that this sea anchor will keep the ship pointed into the wind and sea. The only result, however, was that we now had one less lifeboat.
We wallowed and rolled for two more days until help arrived. It was an ocean-going navy tug which had been tugging something through the Alaskan inland waterway. It was the vessel closest to us. It was nighttime and the weather was nasty. It took eight hours to get a tow line across and secured. And, then, after half a day of towing, the storm subsided.
Things having calmed down, I was allowed to look at the propulsion motor. It was about ten feet in diameter, and three or four feet wide. Portions of the stator coils had melted. There were gobs of copper, fist size and larger, solidified together in the bilge.
In another day or so, in clam seas, the tug boat was relieved by the Coast Guard icebreaker, Northwind. Later that day, yet another Coast Guard vessel, the Winona, as I remember, arrived, short handed, on its way to replace us on station. There was a transfer at sea of crews and supplies, usually an unusual event, but it all seemed rather prosaic after what we had been through. Then the tow continued to Seattle.
And that was the voyage of the Chautauqua.
April 1998
Written by Don Farmer
e-mail: djfarmer@sonic.net