The Father, The Sons and Unholy Ghosts

"Tuesday, May 8, 1956, two o'clock in the morning." John S. recalls the precise moment a telegram brought news of his father's death. "I was eleven years old."

The elder Charles S. succumbed to a two-year bout of emphysema and died alone at age 47 in a New York seaman's hospital. He had been a Merchant Marine, risking his life to transport freight during peacetime and war. In World War II, the father was torpedoed three times while supplying forces in Europe.

On layover in Scotland before the war, his heart was won by a young lass, Mary M. They had their first child, Charles Jr. -- called Charlesy by the family --  in 1939 while living in Scotland. Charles and Mary moved to Baltimore in 1943, settling on the east side of town. John was born the next year, followed by Frank 15 months later.

After the father died, the mother took work out of the home. She cleaned floors at a bank, and by virtue of a mastery of numbers that was doubtlessly inherited by her children, earned a position as teller. She worked as a cashier, then did sales at the Hecht Co., before joining the Social Security Administration at the GS-3 level.

Mary was a strong woman, deeply traditional and sustained by powerful faith, accepting with quiet resolution the burdens God chose -- the loss of a young husband; suffering economic hardship while still adjusting to a foreign country; raising three boys, including one who is peculiar. "She believed in keeping a stiff upper lip," says John. "I don't think I saw her cry five times in my life."

As the sons came of age they enlisted in the Merchant Marine. Father -- rest his soul -- would have begged them to change their minds. "The only time my father got angry was when I said I wanted to go to sea," John recalls. "He said, 'I'll kill all of you first.'"

John followed Charlesy into the Merchant Marine, serving on 13 vessels over a 10-year period, traveling to ports throughout the world. He sailed throughout the Pacific and Europe, "hit every port around Africa," he says. 

During the Vietnam conflict, John served on supply ships bringing weapons, ammunition and military vehicles into war zones, earning a rich bonus for hazardous duty. He tells a good story, regaling with tales of adventures in exotic ports -- like the time near-starvation forced the crew to slaughter a water buffalo on deck while idled in Singapore, or the time he encountered the bunion-suckers of Karachi, Pakistan. "They suck your bunions," he says with impeccable timing. "What kind of job description is that?"

Frank's experience in the Merchant Marine was quite different than John's. In his 18th year, 1964, Frank enlisted as an Ordinary Seaman and shipped out to Puerto Rico. Working four-hour shifts around the clock, Frank took turns working the deck, standing watch, and cleaning the living quarters.

When not on duty, there was little to do on ship except play chess or cards. "There's always a poker game going on somewhere," Frank says. An amateur magician who nimbly palms cards with his beefy hands, he relished the opportunity to polish his skills in the company of hale fellows. 

"I thought I was a know-it-all," he says. "I read How to Win at Poker and knew about systems and all of that. I was slaughtered. I was the most naive person to ever sit in a poker game."

Sometimes losing $20-40 in a game, Frank was down $1,100 by the time he was finished with shipping. On the rare occasions Frank won a hand, the fear of handling the money caused pangs of irrational panic.

What impressed Frank most was the boundless space of the open sea, how the night sky seemed to swallow you into nothingness. "There's nothing for thousands of miles," he says. No points of reference, a limitless line of sight bleeding into an inky sea and the vast diamond-speckled blackness of space.

Crew members take turns keeping watch, spending 80 minutes alone on deck scanning the horizon for ships or other hazards. During those hours immersed in the infinity of the night sky, Frank kept his panic in check by singing R&B favorites such as Ben E. King's Stand By Me, or a tune with a quicker tempo like the Ronettes' Be My Baby or Heat Wave by Martha and the Vandellas. Music, Frank says, "takes the fear away."

By the time he was 22, anxiety was getting the better of him. At times the fear gas was so bad Frank could not leave the house. In 1968 he stayed home until the fear gas was gone and it was safe to venture outside, six months later. It happened a second time for five months. The fear gas went away until April of 1971, when it kept him inside for 11 months.

The fear gas came back in 1974, and this time it remained for 23 years.