Dad, Ships and Me
By Gordon R. Ghareeb

Fathers are very special people. Super-heroes to their preschoolers, legislators to their adolescents, and sages to their young adults, fathers are among the most profound molders of their offspring's impressionable mind. Little girls imagine him as the type of man to marry while little boys see him as the man they want to become. A father's interests, hobbies and fascinations all find themselves emulated in the personality of their sons. Not only emulated but perpetuated as well.

As fathers go mine was a fairly average American one. Born of emigrant parents in the days before the great depression and later a survivor of the naval war in the Pacific, he graduated into the postwar world not unlike the others of his generation. Dutifully honor-bound he worked hard and provided the example for his three sons to follow. But the most cherished of that which he managed to instill in me was his love for ships and the sea.

Living as we did in the burgeoning Los Angeles Harbor complex it seems now in retrospect that most of our spare time together was spent either aboard ships or the docks they were tethered to. To the very small youth who was continually brought onboard by his father, the old ISLANDER - an actually quite ordinary and unimaginative ferry plying the main channel of the harbor between San Pedro and Terminal Island - seemed to be a grand transoceanic steamer majestically carrying us away. Listening to his sea stories from the passenger deck while standing at his side or wrapped in his arms, the five minute crossing had all the wonder and security this four-year-old required. I was hooked. His spirit and that of the sea were indelibly imprinted upon my soul.

The progression of ensuing years followed this regime. Speaking the common language of sailors from his perspective as a former bosun's mate, virtually no ship in port was ever off-limits to us. A well oiled war story or two combined with a couple of fresh cigars produced from his shirt pocket were the only credentials we ever needed to be piped aboard. Matson liners and the ships of the American President Lines became very familiar. Together we ventured aboard a brand new MATSONIA and witnessed the maiden sailing of the MONTEREY. The first time the CANBERRA and ORIANA arrived in port I was with him watching these then avant-garde giants glide past the breakwater before tying up at their old Long Beach pier. Excursions aboard the ACAPULCO, ARCADIA, AUSTRALIS, BERGENSFJORD, GRIPSHOLM, PRINCESS CARLA, SAVANNAH and STATENDAM were all conducted under his expert guidance and tutelage. Our pilgrimage to the docks together became a ritual whenever an ocean liner arrived at the port that was virtually in our own backyard.

Then there was the CARONIA, or as Dad referred to her, "that damn green limey ship." Many stories have been put forth over the years as to why the "Green Goddess" was decked out in her distinctive livery of five shades of eau-de-nil but I always liked his explanation the best: "Hell, son, she's painted the color of money!" And standing with him amid the spit-and-polish of her vast glass enclosed promenade it was my sneaking suspicion that this oh-so-English liner was his favorite of all the ships we had trooped aboard together.

National patriotic holidays would find Dad at his finest, for on these dates the Long Beach Naval Base and Shipyard were thrown open to public inspection and it was a foregone conclusion that this would be our destination of the day. With upwards of twenty fighting ships to choose from we usually wound up on the destroyers and cruisers. The transformation that would come over Dad was almost mystical. Whether the ship's crew were clad in dungarees or crackerjacks, Dad melded into the throng and became one of the gang. Vernacular became decidedly salty while narratives spun like the yarns they were around the gun deck. In the twinkling of an eye, Dad was no longer a civilian visitor but had virtually become a long lost shipmate.A volunteer guide would then invariably step forward and we were on our way. Other visitors stayed on the tour route set up for the event, but not us. Engine rooms, crew quarters, magazines and even "classified" weapon storage areas (comparing notes on one visit in particular, my brother and I are now positive that we were viewing missiles with nuclear warheads) were surreptitiously made available for the perusal of the old bosun's mate and his boys. Always the master of any situation he found himself in, Dad made sure that his sons not only had a good time but that they learned something new as well. The heritage and camaraderie of the sea is all encompassing aboard a navy cruiser and viewed from an educational standpoint these sojourns were priceless in many ways.

As I grew into manhood Dad saw to it the spectre of the sea became a part of my being. Whether it be movies, models or books - if they involved ships we shared them. Unable to finance a crossing on the QUEEN ELIZABETH before her demise from service he was amazed at my conviction to clean out my savings account and ditch part of my senior year in high school just long enough to catch the beginning of the LURLINE's final voyage to Hawaii - my last chance to sail aboard a legend. As he reluctantly marched toward the gangway to go ashore and leave me to my grand adventure I knew he wanted to go with me. And I knew how proud of me he was for managing it as well. Like father, like son.

Our time together was all too brief. As with any experience worth having in life one fails to realize its meaning until it is taken away from you. Even then ships and the harbor were not far away. As we carried his casket to its final resting place in the hills above San Pedro I remember looking off to the southeast through uncomprehendingly blurry eyes. In the distance I managed to recognize the ISLAND PRINCESS preparing to cast off before my vision clouded over with tears. Dad, ships and me - even at that bittersweet moment in time.

I have been purposely vague in the description of this man who meant so much to me. Not in an effort to be circumspect but rather to make this story a tribute to all father and son relationships. The accompanying illustration came from a 1959 Orient Line advertisement and at the time of its original release the two fellows depicted strolling down the ORSOVA's boat deck were about the same ages as my father and myself. I have always found it tough to look at it without a lump forming in my throat. Quite frankly, this picture says it all. He was the brightest star on the horizon of my life. On behalf of all sons to their fathers everywhere allow me to say, "Thanks for everything Dad, and remember always that I love you."

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