My father, Darwin “Gerry” Samuel, sailed across the Atlantic in an Atlantic convoy in December 1941; a harrowing crossing he was fortunate to survive:
He wrote to his father, on the back of a postcard showing the Empire State Building: “Sailed into New York Harbor this morning, past the Statue of Liberty, docking at the Hudson River Terminal in Manhattan’s Lower West Side. Empire State Building looming. Unforgettable!!”
The ship stayed in New York just a few days, enough time for the Caribbean contingent, travelling in groups for safety, to taste the pleasures of the greatest city in the world. He told us of going to the world famous Apollo Theater in Harlem, and not understanding a word of what the Harlem “hep cats” were saying!
Back on the boat, trouble started the day the ship was to set sail for England. All the way from Grenada, my father and four of his Grenadian mates had occupied one of the best cabins on the ship. It wasn’t below decks, in the hot humid body of the ship, but was bolted onto the deck of the ship, with breezy portholes on all four sides. Unfortunately for my father and his friends, a group of British naval officers joined the ship at New York, and immediately decided to appropriate for themselves our father’s cabin. One couldn’t have His Majesty’s officers scrunched up with the hoi polloi below decks, while a bunch of coloured chaps enjoyed the best berth on the boat; now could one?
The Grenadians were told in no uncertain terms: sling your hook! They protested, but of course to no avail; they were bundled out and had to go down to the crowded accommodations below decks, and seek out whatever rough berths they could find. But Papa God have a funny way with revenge.
Three days sailing out of New York, the convoy ran into one of the feared Atlantic storms. For one terrifying night howling, icy winds tore through the ship’s rigging, slicing through those crew members unlucky enough to be on deck duty. Worse than the wind were the waves, towering walls of water crashing onto the decks, shaking the very bones of the old ship. Throughout the night, the petrified passengers remained firmly battened down below decks, tied to their bunks, praying to their own gods. With each roll of the ship, the old girl would slowly right herself, shuddering from stem to stern, then go ploughing head on into the next monster wave.
The following morning the storm eased and our shell-shocked, sea-sick sailors gingerly emerged from below decks to survey the damage. Where, they found to their horror, that the sea had ripped away everything not firmly affixed to the ship – including their ex-cabin! The cabin, and all its British occupants, were never seen again.
The meek shall indeed, inherit the berth!
briansamuelgrenada 