The din inside the function room on the second floor of the World Trade Center was thick with lounge music crooned by an unenthusiastic Diana Krall wannabe whose renditions were drowned by the colorful banter from inebriated merchant mariners. Occasionally these salty tars would momentarily pipe down as a matter of courtesy to some brave souls who would venture into the riser to address the alumni with what seems like valedictory speeches that no one would bother to hear. It seems these speakers were unaware of what usually transpires during these annual events when the suggested attire, being semi-formal, would set the demeanor. Apparently, they're just predisposed, as always, to discourse on some trivial matters only they would care to deliver on such rambunctious occasions.
Above the babel of ports of call, sundry of cargoes, gross tonnages, latest regs, and thingamagigs, some would crossover into maintenance medicines, wonder hair growers, urine therapy, the blue pill, and umbrella girls. At intervals, these buoyant exchanges on such profound subjects were disrupted by dance numbers presented by scantily clad chorus girls, whose sinuous undulations never fail to attract the undivided attention of the now rowdy masters mariners and chief engineers, all suddenly rushing toward the dance floor to get a better worm's eyeview. Surely, some things never change, and boys will always be boys, even in their graying years.
The best part of the evening was to meet old familiar faces last seen more than a score and ten years ago. The difficult part was to recall the names that would match the faces; a nagging reminder that senior moments have caught up with me, that no amount of mnemonics or mind mapping can deal with. But thanks to the ubiquitous calling cards that would materialize to save the day. I had to apologize that I didn't have any, which is to say, "I'm unemployed and currently not engaged in any economic activity."
The ribbing and camaraderie lasted well into Cinderella time, with some senior citizens still on the dance floor executing their salad days' boogie and cha-cha numbers that used to make them instant hits during their Ship Wreck Parties. Next year they'll be whirling again on the dance floor, maybe with more bones clicking, but who cares. Homecomings will almost always be the same, as it will most likely be next year. But I intend to be there, the Good Lord willing, and for as long as I can, with the fervent hope that it'll be, "all present, all accounted for" during that imagined formation on the quarter deck.
We attended that December 4 Homecoming and Fellowship Party for many reasons. I came just to relive the days when we could be ourselves again, jesting here, spinning yarns there, and dreaming of sailing into some exotic places. Ah, what we'd give away just to be young and to be in those dungarees once more.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Note In A Bottle
I had the good fortune the other day of receiving a letter from a long lost bunkmate and friend from way back in the seventies. It was like getting a note from a bottle, awashed into the shores of my computer from the land of the Deutsche, famous for Beethoven, for Nietzsche, for the BMW and Mercedes Benz, and other precision engineered machines.
Leo John Quiachon was a newly recognized Fourthclassman when I graduated from the academy. He was reed-thin but a smart midshipman, quiet but academically proficient, and of average height but a dead shot on the basketball court. I knew then that he would amount to something, given his attitude and aptitude for seagoing. And I was right. He is now a retired captain, having served most of his seagoing years on board German ships.
Considering his humble beginnings, he has reached the pinnacle of his career, and is now enjoying the fruits of his labor with his lovely family. Many young men like Leo who have gone through the portals of the academy have made their respective niches in the local maritime industry and in other countries as well. The names Joe Gallego '69, Eddie Berueda '70, Tony Espiritu '71 (deceased), Odie Santos '78, and the list goes on, are graduates who have distinguished themselves overseas in their chosen career. These are some of the men who have trail-blazed the road to European shipping companies in the '80s for other Filipino seafarers to follow, now by the thousands and counting.
Its unsettling how the alumni association has been niggardly in giving recognition to these graduates. Hopefully, the newly elected officers of the PMMAAAI will undertake a special project to gather the names of outstanding graduates already living abroad, and to herald their achievements.
Enough said. Time to toss back the bottle into the waters of cyberspace with this note, in the hope that some familiar tars will fish it out and respond to this old pmmariner.
Leo John Quiachon was a newly recognized Fourthclassman when I graduated from the academy. He was reed-thin but a smart midshipman, quiet but academically proficient, and of average height but a dead shot on the basketball court. I knew then that he would amount to something, given his attitude and aptitude for seagoing. And I was right. He is now a retired captain, having served most of his seagoing years on board German ships.
Considering his humble beginnings, he has reached the pinnacle of his career, and is now enjoying the fruits of his labor with his lovely family. Many young men like Leo who have gone through the portals of the academy have made their respective niches in the local maritime industry and in other countries as well. The names Joe Gallego '69, Eddie Berueda '70, Tony Espiritu '71 (deceased), Odie Santos '78, and the list goes on, are graduates who have distinguished themselves overseas in their chosen career. These are some of the men who have trail-blazed the road to European shipping companies in the '80s for other Filipino seafarers to follow, now by the thousands and counting.
Its unsettling how the alumni association has been niggardly in giving recognition to these graduates. Hopefully, the newly elected officers of the PMMAAAI will undertake a special project to gather the names of outstanding graduates already living abroad, and to herald their achievements.
Enough said. Time to toss back the bottle into the waters of cyberspace with this note, in the hope that some familiar tars will fish it out and respond to this old pmmariner.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Still Nursing a Sea Fever
Perhaps the biggest influence in my career choice was that first ride on an outrigger in Manila Bay my father brought me to in those balmy days when steam ships of Madrigal shipping and Compana Maritima proudly sailed these waters. Next would be my high school teacher in literature who made us paraphrase poems; serendipitously assigning me to do Sea Fever by John Masefield. I was immediately smitten by the poet's spirit and passion for adventure on the high seas, and begun dreaming of seafaring with only 'a star to steer her by'.
Some of the boys in class were equally lured by that poem and joined the US Navy. I had a more romantic take of Masefield's verses and decided that I'm cut for the less rigid merchant marine until I entered PMMA. I've been nursing a sea fever since then, and now in my post meridian years still wish I could 'go down to the seas again, to lonely sea and the sky....'
Today's young men are apparently more into the financial rewards of seagoing than for the love of sailing. Sadly, most of them, if not all, missed the opportunity to appreciate those elegant poems brimming with the beauty of the sea and the sky. I am told these poems are no longer the staple in today's high school prose and poetry.
If I had my druthers, I'd require our first year midshipmen to memorize by heart (in addition to boxing the compass) the works of John Masefield and Alfred Lord Tennyson about the sea and seagoing. That way, they might consider the sea not just an avenue over which to move trade and commerce, but a beautiful part of God's Creation that must be preserved and protected for succeeding generations. Maybe there'll be less oil spills and dumping of toxic wastes over the side when a healthy respect and love of the sea become part of a seafarer's set of values.
This set of values if ever, may keep the temperature of that sea fever ever burning for some captains and chief engineers on whom it has lost its appeal, what with the mountain of paper works and strict IMO and marine environmental laws being implemented in some countries. I'm told some have lost their shirts in U.S. ports, not to mention bringing their ship owners to bankruptcy.
I could only sympathize with these fellow seamen whose sea fever has turned into a dreadful malaise. Maybe the eloquence of John Masefield and the other poets of the sea had their appeal only on those who are truly mariners at heart.
Some of the boys in class were equally lured by that poem and joined the US Navy. I had a more romantic take of Masefield's verses and decided that I'm cut for the less rigid merchant marine until I entered PMMA. I've been nursing a sea fever since then, and now in my post meridian years still wish I could 'go down to the seas again, to lonely sea and the sky....'
Today's young men are apparently more into the financial rewards of seagoing than for the love of sailing. Sadly, most of them, if not all, missed the opportunity to appreciate those elegant poems brimming with the beauty of the sea and the sky. I am told these poems are no longer the staple in today's high school prose and poetry.
If I had my druthers, I'd require our first year midshipmen to memorize by heart (in addition to boxing the compass) the works of John Masefield and Alfred Lord Tennyson about the sea and seagoing. That way, they might consider the sea not just an avenue over which to move trade and commerce, but a beautiful part of God's Creation that must be preserved and protected for succeeding generations. Maybe there'll be less oil spills and dumping of toxic wastes over the side when a healthy respect and love of the sea become part of a seafarer's set of values.
This set of values if ever, may keep the temperature of that sea fever ever burning for some captains and chief engineers on whom it has lost its appeal, what with the mountain of paper works and strict IMO and marine environmental laws being implemented in some countries. I'm told some have lost their shirts in U.S. ports, not to mention bringing their ship owners to bankruptcy.
I could only sympathize with these fellow seamen whose sea fever has turned into a dreadful malaise. Maybe the eloquence of John Masefield and the other poets of the sea had their appeal only on those who are truly mariners at heart.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Academy Days On Dewey Blvd
At times when I get to pass by the busy environs of the Department of Foreign Affairs along Roxas Blvd will images of the past rush in. The old Thomasite model building of the academy would materialize, serenely secured from the outside world by a white picket fence behind trimmed bushes broken only by a narrow gate punctuated by a guard post and a brief wall that serves as a marquee for the academy's brass logo, which has consumed gallons of Glo and Kiwi metal polish, being the bright works for the Fourthclassmen.
Two relic 40mm navy gun mounts adorn the entrance, giving the academy an impression of having a military structure. Sweaty forthclassmen in dungarees would be running across the grassy yard from the classrooms to their quarters, to the quarterdeck, carrying out arduous orders with no other purpose but to cram and make miserable their already regimented training.
A Friday afternoon in 1965 would normally feature these events until taps when the 'Probies' would just drop into their bunks out of utter exhaustion, all in preparation for the dreaded spit and polish Saturday morning inspection.
If I hung around much longer, I'd see these midshipmen in their smart Liberty Blues marching with their seabags on a 'liberty boat' heading for Williams street for the much awaited weekend liberty. I would then see myself still aboard on account of excess demerits, now perspiring while counting push-ups. "....47, 48, 49, 50, orders complied with, Sir!", would I be shouting those familiar academy jargon as I stood at attention while gasping for breath before an indifferent upperclassman. I remember the strains of the once popular song, Down Town by Petula Clark providing a momentary escape from the torments of what seems an eternity.
Nostalgia has a way with details that makes me painfully miss the cool breeze from the sea by the old Dewey Boulevard with its postcard picture-perfect "Sunset of Manila Bay", before it was reclaimed and turned into a circus of a commercial area. Nothing remains the same as you might say. Only the graying images in our minds are the moorings that link us to that far and distant past called academy days on Dewey Blvd.
But connection to the past also connects with people with the same narratives to tell. Nothing could be more moving than remembering these vignettes of our yesteryears in the academy, which this entry log (if it didn't bore you yet) would initially attempt to do - connect with fellow PMMAriners. I say, initially, as I'll try to connect with other seafarers with whom we have much in common.
I pray to our eternal Father in Heaven who compasseth the seas that all may be well with the elder PMMAriners as this blogger, who are still up and about, even as we dimly remember those who have sailed away ahead of us into that great sea yonder.
Two relic 40mm navy gun mounts adorn the entrance, giving the academy an impression of having a military structure. Sweaty forthclassmen in dungarees would be running across the grassy yard from the classrooms to their quarters, to the quarterdeck, carrying out arduous orders with no other purpose but to cram and make miserable their already regimented training.
A Friday afternoon in 1965 would normally feature these events until taps when the 'Probies' would just drop into their bunks out of utter exhaustion, all in preparation for the dreaded spit and polish Saturday morning inspection.
If I hung around much longer, I'd see these midshipmen in their smart Liberty Blues marching with their seabags on a 'liberty boat' heading for Williams street for the much awaited weekend liberty. I would then see myself still aboard on account of excess demerits, now perspiring while counting push-ups. "....47, 48, 49, 50, orders complied with, Sir!", would I be shouting those familiar academy jargon as I stood at attention while gasping for breath before an indifferent upperclassman. I remember the strains of the once popular song, Down Town by Petula Clark providing a momentary escape from the torments of what seems an eternity.
Nostalgia has a way with details that makes me painfully miss the cool breeze from the sea by the old Dewey Boulevard with its postcard picture-perfect "Sunset of Manila Bay", before it was reclaimed and turned into a circus of a commercial area. Nothing remains the same as you might say. Only the graying images in our minds are the moorings that link us to that far and distant past called academy days on Dewey Blvd.
But connection to the past also connects with people with the same narratives to tell. Nothing could be more moving than remembering these vignettes of our yesteryears in the academy, which this entry log (if it didn't bore you yet) would initially attempt to do - connect with fellow PMMAriners. I say, initially, as I'll try to connect with other seafarers with whom we have much in common.
I pray to our eternal Father in Heaven who compasseth the seas that all may be well with the elder PMMAriners as this blogger, who are still up and about, even as we dimly remember those who have sailed away ahead of us into that great sea yonder.
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