I have just finished a fine book called 'A Man and His Ship', by Steve Ujifusa. It is a history of the liner United States and William Francis Gibbs, the man who conceived of her in 1916 and saw her launched in 1950. She captured the Atlantic speed record in her first voyage, averaging an astonishing 35.82 knots through an Atlantic gale. The United States holds that record today; no ship has crossed the ocean faster.
The ship went out of service in 1969, grossly unprofitable in an age of aircraft. It sits today at a pier in Philadelphia, the city where Gibbs was born. She is compeltely stripped- all interior fittings removed, hull rusting, a filthy, guano-draped home to pigeons, her red, white and blue smokestacks rusting.
Gibbs' design firm designed 70% of all ship tonnage built by the US in WW2- landing craft, destroyers and Liberty Ships mainly. Of those, only 2 out of 2762 Liberty Ships remain, and perhaps a couple of destroyers. and this rusting hulk in Philly. Gibbs was the most famous and successful ship designer of the 20th century, but unless you are a real ship fan I suspect you have never heard of him. And his enormous output, which had a major part in winning WW2, is gone, turned into artificial reefs and scrap metal.
Many passersby note the old liner and mourn its state, but that ship is only a giant reflection of ourselves, and our lives. Everywhere around us there is decay, and death, and birth, and growth. some are children, some young and falling in love, some parents, some aging, some hovering near death. Who of us will be remembered? Whose works recalled? Who will have a monument or a statue? The enormous majority of us will have none of these things.
The liner United States is a giant metal metaphor for our longings, and our anonymity. That rusted, filthy, forgotten hulk once raced across the Atlantic, the most desired and stylish ship of her day. She STILL holds that speed record. Almost no one comes to see her, only noting the stacks while driving by on I-95. How much that sounds like an older person! Body broken, wrinkled, gray, gnarled, wispy hair, forgetful mind, dim eyes, paunch. And we forget within that aged body is the soul of what was the virile, of the fecund, of sex, of lust, of love, birth, parenting, work, productivity. And I think we look at the rusted hulk and subliminally see ourselves, and it is that which we mourn, for we know we will go just like the ship.
Some are trying to make a memorial out of that ship. What of those who build cars, to see them piled into crushers? What about great buildings, forgotten and torn down? They have no memorial.
Remember, we will lose everything we have- goods, life, everything. What is permanent is that which is most ephemeral, our relations with others, as fragile and invisible as the moss that flourishes on rocks. Those relations leave us children, and stories to tell, for a while, until we are united at last with God, and our desire for things, and our spiritual searching, are complete at last, and forever.
The ship went out of service in 1969, grossly unprofitable in an age of aircraft. It sits today at a pier in Philadelphia, the city where Gibbs was born. She is compeltely stripped- all interior fittings removed, hull rusting, a filthy, guano-draped home to pigeons, her red, white and blue smokestacks rusting.
Gibbs' design firm designed 70% of all ship tonnage built by the US in WW2- landing craft, destroyers and Liberty Ships mainly. Of those, only 2 out of 2762 Liberty Ships remain, and perhaps a couple of destroyers. and this rusting hulk in Philly. Gibbs was the most famous and successful ship designer of the 20th century, but unless you are a real ship fan I suspect you have never heard of him. And his enormous output, which had a major part in winning WW2, is gone, turned into artificial reefs and scrap metal.
Many passersby note the old liner and mourn its state, but that ship is only a giant reflection of ourselves, and our lives. Everywhere around us there is decay, and death, and birth, and growth. some are children, some young and falling in love, some parents, some aging, some hovering near death. Who of us will be remembered? Whose works recalled? Who will have a monument or a statue? The enormous majority of us will have none of these things.
The liner United States is a giant metal metaphor for our longings, and our anonymity. That rusted, filthy, forgotten hulk once raced across the Atlantic, the most desired and stylish ship of her day. She STILL holds that speed record. Almost no one comes to see her, only noting the stacks while driving by on I-95. How much that sounds like an older person! Body broken, wrinkled, gray, gnarled, wispy hair, forgetful mind, dim eyes, paunch. And we forget within that aged body is the soul of what was the virile, of the fecund, of sex, of lust, of love, birth, parenting, work, productivity. And I think we look at the rusted hulk and subliminally see ourselves, and it is that which we mourn, for we know we will go just like the ship.
Some are trying to make a memorial out of that ship. What of those who build cars, to see them piled into crushers? What about great buildings, forgotten and torn down? They have no memorial.
Remember, we will lose everything we have- goods, life, everything. What is permanent is that which is most ephemeral, our relations with others, as fragile and invisible as the moss that flourishes on rocks. Those relations leave us children, and stories to tell, for a while, until we are united at last with God, and our desire for things, and our spiritual searching, are complete at last, and forever.
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