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magazine / jf08
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January/February 2008 issue |
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Night at the museum ship (page 2)
I am bunking in the chief engineer’s
room, which is above the main deck with
the other officers’ quarters. The chief
engineer was one of the most important
men on board. His job was to ensure that
the machinery and systems of the vessel operated safely. The room is outfitted
with a desk and filing cabinet, metal storage
locker and comfortable double bed
set in a high wooden frame (note to self:
no falling out of bed tonight). There are
other signs that I am in the Alexander
Henry’s version of a penthouse suite:
carpeting, wide windows and, a rarity
on the ship, ensuite bathroom.
I clamber one level up to check out
the captain’s quarters, and admire the
anteroom and quartersawn oak, birch
and mahogany finishings. A couple of
decks below are the crew’s nests — just
big enough for a metal bunk bed, locker
and sink. As you would expect, the rates
reflect the pecking order: the captain’s
room is $125 a night, the chief engineer’s
room is $100, and the cadet’s cabin is
$75. There are 28 rooms in all.
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Ships ahoy
Early in the morning of Aug. 8, 1917,
the crew of the coal-laden George A.
Marsh fought frantically to keep afloat
as gale-force winds and giant waves
buffeted their ship from all sides. But
the storm packed too much fury, and
at about 5 a.m., the Kingston-bound
schooner sank into the dark, murky
waters, within sight of its destination,
dragging 12 of its 14 passengers to a
watery grave.
Such were the perils of commercial
shipping in eastern Lake Ontario
throughout the 19th and early 20th
centuries, when powerful westward
gales spawned numerous freshwater
graveyards around Kingston, an important
Great Lakes shipping centre until
the completion of the St. Lawrence
Seaway, in 1959.
Today, the rusting hulls of sunken
ships have turned the city into a choice
destination for historically minded
scuba divers, many of whom stay on
the Alexander Henry.
Divers come to explore wrecks such
as the Comet, a Toronto-bound steamboat
that smashed into the American
schooner Exchange on May 14, 1861,
southwest of Simcoe Island, then sank,
claiming the lives of two crew members.
Or they might set off for the iron
hull of the Cornwall, an aging steamer
that was scuttled in the early 1930s
south of Amherst Island after 75 years
of service.
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I visit the bridge and admire the ship’s
wheel and navigation equipment, then
head to the winch room, where the derrick
is controlled, and finally down to the
steering flat, where hydraulic rams are
activated and the mighty rudder moved.
When the ship was at sea, this room was
bone-rattlingly noisy. Before heading out,
I pass through the galley and notice a
poster that is a perfect relic from the Cold
War yet eerily appropriate today. It reads:
NUCLEAR ATTACK INSTRUCTIONS FOR MERCHANT SHIPS IN PORT.
Looking to join the crowds, I disembark
the Alexander Henry and walk east
down Ontario Street. Nearing City Hall,
I see the makings of a traffic jam. The
street has been closed to cars and is being
taken over by powerboats, with names
like Dominator, Black Thunder, Relentless
and Thunderstruck, all sitting on trailers.
They are the star attractions of the
1000 Islands Poker Run, an unselfconscious
celebration of power and fuel consumption,
where drivers in “performance
boats” race from one designated spot to
another collecting playing cards. At the
end of the race, the one with the best
poker hand wins.
With the detached eye of an anthropologist
studying an unknown culture,
I join the teeming crowd. Necks crane to
catch a glimpse of the boats. People survey
the scene from the rooftops of neighbouring
hotels; in front of me, two men
get a good view by standing on top of a
dumpster that is only partially covered.
The smell is overwhelming, the noise
deafening. I am starting to feel my age.
I head back to the Alexander Henry
and walk to the stern of the ship, where
the spooled mooring lines are illuminated
by a three-quarter moon. I climb the
metal stairs to the wing deck, almost level
with the helicopter pad, and look out
across Lake Ontario to Wolfe Island, just
four kilometres away. In its heyday, the
ship would never be this peaceful, no
matter the time of day or night. On this evening, the Alex is going nowhere,
secure in its berth.
I return to my room, swivel my body
onto the soft mattress and say good night
to the ghost of the chief engineer. I hope
he doesn’t snore.
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