Join me as another Great Lakes sailor takes us back to 1959 when he began his sailing career aboard the Robert Hobson. Readers will be sure to chuckle over this sailor's unfortunate incident while he was painting the side of the ship.

The year was 1959, and while the steel strike was still underway, this 18-year-old farm boy from Minden City was looking toward the future. With two older brothers already sailing on the Great Lakes and younger brothers available to help his parents on the family farm, the young man contemplated what line of work he wanted to pursue in the years ahead. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to put some distance between himself and farming and try his hand at sailing.

After the steel strike was over, the ships once again filled the lakes, traveling from port to port. With all the boats out, some found they needed additional help. The young man from Minden City, accompanied by his father, traveled to Detroit where he was given a physical and completed a short test in order to obtain his sailor's card.

Not long after, the lad received word he needed to report to the Robert Hobson, a ship built in 1926 by the American Ship Building Company. On November 9, 1959, a beautiful, sunny fall day, he and his parents set out for Detroit. Once there, he would need to catch a bus to transport him to Sandusky, Ohio, where the Hobson was docked.

Never having been away from home before and not knowing anyone else aboard the Hobson, it was understandable the young man had a few reservations, but mixed with his anxiety was excitement about tackling this new experience. It also helped knowing that his first season would be short-lived, since it was already November.

Upon arriving at the dock in Ohio, the Minden native reported directly to his ship where the mate signed him up as a deckhand. He would learn firsthand the duties of a deckhand included painting, chipping and more painting. He would also be handling cables, tying the ship up, shifting it back and forth during the loading process and walking it through the Soo Locks, a place he had yet to see.

After they fit the ship out, the Robert Hobson and her crew were bound for the waters of Lake Superior. On the 12th of November, the sailor woke up to a temperature of ten below zero. It was cold and windy, a cold so frigid it crept under his skin and penetrated deep down into his bones. Everything around him was all so new to him; instinctively he knew this first sailing excursion would be engrained in his mind for a lifetime. Because it was Sunday and they were not yet arriving into port, the sailor had the day off. After a hearty breakfast, he decided to do a bit of exploring, and before long he found his way into the pilothouse. The wheelsman gave him a "nickel tour", and the novice sailor took the helm. After navigating this 600-foot vessel for a bit, he proudly turned the wheel over to the sailor trained for the task.

The destination of the sailor's first trip was Superior, Wisconsin, and the young man was only beginning to get his education on the lakes. At the dock, the heaving line fell into the water. Wearing gloves for protection and warmth, the sailor began to pull the heaving line out of the water. When the part of the line that had been saturated was pulled up and hit the air, it immediately turned to ice. The sailor couldn't help but shiver at the sight. But a few weeks later, the weather was nice once again as the Hobson traveled back and forth from Superior, Wisconsin, to Buffalo, New York.

The Hobson also visited Indiana Harbor frequently, and it was there the sailor ran into a bit of good luck. Another sailor had just been drafted into the United States Army, and the position of deckwatch suddenly became available. With only four weeks of sailing experience under his belt, the young man was offered the job. He happened to be in the right place at the right time, as the position needed to be filled right away. He eagerly accepted this unexpected promotion and marveled at his good luck.

While the Hobson crew was unloading ore at Indiana Harbor, two sailors from another ship came over for a visit. These two men had been on the lakes all summer and had heard their brother was now sailing as well. They took advantage of the opportunity to see him in action. The young man wasted no time in telling his brothers about his position as a deckwatch. One of his brothers had worked all summer as a deckhand, and the young man couldn't help but rub his good fortune in a bit. With the added responsibility came a little more pay, and instead of working all day, the deckwatch worked on a shift from 10 AM - 2 PM and 10 PM - 2 AM. In two more week's time, the sailor had his first season in, and he had learned just enough to get his feet wet.

Just a few months later in March of 1960, the young man from Minden City received word he needed to report to Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, where he and his crewmates would be fitting out the Walter E. Watson. (The Watson was built in 1920 by the American Ship Building Company. Her original name was the H.H. Porter. In 1925 her name was changed to the Youngstown, and in 1957, she assumed the name of the Walter E. Watson.) He had returned to his duties as a deckhand, and the young man marveled at the ice, which seemed to be everywhere. It was Good Friday afternoon of Holy Week, and by Easter Sunday morning, the Watson was in the St. Mary's River. He saw freighters in each direction he looked and easily counted 150 boats.

There were ice floes between all the ships, and the sailor was surprised to find it took them almost three days to get from the mouth of the St. Mary's River to the Soo Locks due to the ice and the traffic. The ship would be delayed a bit at the Soo as well. Sometimes there was so much ice in the locks that water had to be forced through, which in turn pushed the ice out of the locks. In the spring when traveling through the locks, the deckhands would have to hook a cable on every spool, 25 feet apart. The sailors had to put both cables with winches on each of the spools, because the ice between the ship and the dock would otherwise force the boat away from the side of the dock.

The sailor was used to dealing with the Hobson's 18 hatch covers the previous year. The Hobson's hatch covers were about 12 feet wide with 12 feet of deck between them, with the leaves on the hatches opening from the center. It took no time at all for the sailor to realize the Watson was a workhorse with 32 hatches to cover. When they loaded coal or when the sailors encountered rough seas, tarps had to be secured over every hatch. In the spring and fall, it was customary to tarp them down every time after loading and unloading. The tarps were approximately 55 feet wide, almost the full width of the ship. The canvas went over the end, and a piece of wood was placed behind the clamp. Every little way there was a clamp, and when the deckhand drew the clamp down, it drew the wood down as well, tightening it and keeping out the water.

The Watson hauled iron ore most of the time as well as occasional loads of limestone and coal. The deckhand was almost overwhelmed when he thought about all the work to be done on the Watson. With all those hatches to batten down, a hatch farm as it was termed, and all those tarps to fasten, the deckhands always worked hard. The sailor looked on the bright side, though. Since there were so many hatches to maintain, there was significantly less time to scrub and paint!

All that hard work and fresh air tended to make the sailors hungry, which wasn't a problem if the ship had a good cook - and most of them, did. Such was not the case on the Walter E. Watson, though, as the ship's cook lacked a few culinary skills. It wasn't long before the sailors named this red-headed chef, 'Fried Tater Red'. He served fried potatoes more often than not - almost as if it were a punishment - and if this sailor didn't care for fried potatoes before, he certainly didn't like them when those potatoes were at the mercy of 'Fried Tater Red'!

The Captain of the ship was also a bit ornery, the sailor thought. If the Captain was walking on deck and a deckhand was approaching, the deckhand had to cross over to the other side, because he was not worthy to be on the same side as the Captain. His dislike for the Captain originated early on in the season when the crew was fitting out the Watson in the spring of 1960. It seemed the Captain had left a poor taste in the sailor's mouth, literally.

The deckhands faced the monumental task of painting both sides of the ship, using rollers and brushes. Working on a scaffold approximately eight feet in length, the sailors would paint three or four feet, and then a fellow sailor on deck would lower them down as needed. The painters began their task right up by the bow. There were as many as four or five toilets inside the front end of the ship: One designated solely for the Captain's use, one for the Mates, one for the crew and so on. Keep in mind; the plumbing in the older ships would never pass today's environmental standards. When a toilet was flushed, the waste exited the side of the ship through approximately a three inch hole, and down it splashed into the water. A sign was put on every toilet informing commode users not to flush, since the deckhands were painting the side of the ship under those holes. No sign was put on the Captain's toilet, however, because no one was allowed in his private bathroom.

The deckhand was painting to his heart's content in temperatures hovering around the 15-degree mark when all of a sudden there was a 'whooshing' sound. The Captain, who was aware the men were painting, apparently needed to use the facilities, and…he flushed. The toilet water exploded out the side of the ship and directly into the deckhand's face. Soaking wet in frigid temperatures and spitting and sputtering in the process, it's fair to say a few choice words escaped this sailor's mouth. The other deckhands could not suppress their laughter or their amusement at this most unfortunate incident, and as the saturated deckhand went to his room to wash his face and change his wet clothes, their howls of glee followed him.

After he was dried off and spent a little time fuming, the sailor returned to work. After all, there was little else he could do. Since the ship was empty, the boat was practically sitting on top of the ice. When the deckhands reached the bottom of the boat, they retired the scaffolding and simply stood on the ice below to complete their painting.

Look for the continuation of this sailor's adventure in next month's issue and chuckle some more as one poor seagull gets more than he bargained for.