Captain Paul Hurlston: “The good Lord’s been merciful to me for some odd reason.”

This is the first in a series of profiles on old-time Caymanians, whose lives are intimately linked to the rugged soil and the azure seas of these Cayman Islands. Rarely have these men and women had an opportunity to speak about the absorbing adventures of their youth. But each has a fascinating story to tell, which Pam DaCosta has been eagerly discovering, as she travels the length of Grand Cayman in search of these unique intriguing human treasures.

As I parked in front of Captain Paul Hurlston’s South Sound home, it was clear that he is a meticulous man. Hearing the gentle hum of a lawnmower coming from his backyard, I decided to wait a moment and take in my surroundings.

Both his home and yard were meticulous. I counted 18 semi-exposed hurricane straps on the front wall of his home alone. Everything from this dwelling announced a sense of personal pride and deliberate precision. His carport’s metal roofing was fastened with calculated care. I pondered how it faired during Hurricane Ivan. I’d wager it moved not an inch.

Then, as the sound of the riding mower increased, Captain Hurlstone rounded the corner of his house suddenly appearing in front of me. I hastily step out of my car to explain why I was parked on his drive. A glimmer creeps across his steely eyes, and a measured smile appears.

I know that he’s a avid fan of a daily radio talk show, which is about to start; so I promised to come back later.

He chuckles…“Yeah sure! I’ve a story for you I’ve not shared in 19 years.”

When I later return, he offers me a chair as he sits, straddling his porch hammock with his feet on the floor. The captain is well prepared, complete with notes and even an atlas.

He begins his tale carefully: “I was employed by the Suwannee Steamship Company of Jacksonville, Florida for three years, from 1953-1955. The Suwannee Company had bought US Navy landing ships and had then welded their flaps/ramps to make them closed-in vessels. We hauled both bauxite (for aluminum) and gypsum (for sheetrock). I was assigned to the Daytona. It was 325 feet long by 50 feet wide. For the first two and half years, we hauled bauxite from Guyana and Dutch Guyana to transfer to bigger ships off Trinidad.

“Then for the last nine months, we’d hauled gypsum from ‘Little Narrows’ —a mining town on Eastern Canada’s Cape Breton Island, and also from Hantsport, Nova Scotia. We’d then offload at Staten Island, New York, before going back for another load, which would then be offloaded at Philadelphia, before returning for another load, which would them be transported to Jacksonville, Florida. Then, we’d repeat that same route all over again.”

“It was now 1955, I was then 24-years-old—my ninth year at sea. I traveled as Second Officer in charge of navigation. My duties were to update our distance traveled on the charts, keep abreast of weather reports via radio—which were passed on to me by the radio operator. And I was also continually charting our course by sextant. In those days we only had a compass, barometer, sextant, and radio weather reports. There was no radar, no GPS [Global Positioning Satellite].

“Above me, next in line to the captain, was our chief officer and fellow-Caymanian Sherlock Farrington. Sherlock was a great guy, well liked. His job was to ensure our work was delegated, to dole out discipline, sort out disputes, and oversee the loading and offloading of cargo.

The captain was Dutch, also well liked. He was knowledgeable, careful and I greatly respected him. Most times off Nova Scotia, cold fog got so thick that I couldn’t use my sextant to find our position as the stars couldn’t be seen. I’d have to sound the horn every two minutes, listen for a response and if another horn responded, try to get its bearing and direction by judging how far off the sound came from, then pass on the course in degrees to the steering seaman at the wheel—to avoid a collision. In these type of situations, we’d set the ship on ‘dead reckoning’, that is, set the course by compass, and hope you’re on track. And that in “x” amount of hours you’d arrive…whilst taking into account ocean’s currents’ direction and strength. It was continual calculation and experience.”

“Down into November 1955, whilst I was aboard the Daytona, I’d developed a bad case of nerves with severe chest pains. I don’t know why. Nothing was weighing heavy on my mind. The Daytona had just loaded gypsum, we went to offload in Staten Island, and so I got off there to see a doctor at the Marine Hospital. The doctor insisted I stay on for more tests, but the boat was ready to leave and I jumped aboard to do my job.

“After all, there’s like 25 or 30 people at any given time waiting on you to get fired. We loaded again in Nova Scotia and radioed ahead to set up another Second Officer to fill my position temporarily.

“As we docked in Philly, my replacement came aboard and I got off to catch a train back up to Staten Island—to my appointment at the Marine Hospital. An odd feeling overwhelmed me as I stood at the dockside waiving.

“I began crying until I was embarrassed. We were all close-knit. I’d sailed many times with Sherlock on other vessels and the Third Officer, Caymanian Fletcher Seymour. Fletcher was tall and strapping, and was as fun loving as Sherlock. Fletcher had just gotten a new job aboard one of the National Bulk Carriers. So this trip was to have been his last Daytona voyage. My other comrades on the ship were from Germany, Mexico, Honduras, Belize and Trinidad.

“At the Marine Hospital, my tests were inconclusive. But my doctor stated I should ‘steer clear of cheap whisky and wild women.’ Being single, I replied: ‘The whiskey I can do without, not the other.’

“I left the doctor’s office lighthearted, since my tests were favorable and then caught a train to Tampa, Florida for US$24.00.

“Some days later my good friend, Emerson Powery, looked me up and informed me that a Tampa newspaper had just reported that the Daytona had sunk off Nova Scotia in a bad storm, with all 24 souls on board. I wept for my comrades, pondering over how it may’ve happened.

“I remembered a newcomer aboard had constantly complained that our captain was ‘too careful’ and ‘took too many days’, (because he’d anchor around Nantucket Island when it got too rough and waited it out. And he had also tightly hug the US coastline, as close as five miles off, so we could see the shore lights, and have a quick port to run to, in case of bad weather).

“The day I got off the ship, the newcomer was bitterly complaining to management that he was the better man for the job, and management quickly dismissed my captain. In fact, my captain had stood alongside me waving to the Daytona, as well.

“Before pulling out of the Philly port, the new captain had bragged that, from now on, he’d be taking the Daytona via direct routes to and from Nova Scotia—without hugging the US Eastern seaboard. This meant that he could shave days off each trip, thus saving the company money. I’m figuring this had a lot to do with it…having not been close to any port when the storm struck.

“On its last trip, the Daytona was loaded going to Jacksonville. That meant he’d hung a direct southerly direction, and so the ship would have been far out at sea. Fully loaded also meant it was only a mere three feet above water level. Its five huge hatches—each 40 feet by 20 feet wide, were covered only by boards and canvass; these would have quickly floated off in the waves, and the seawater would have poured in, causing the ship to sink quickly. They never had a chance…

“I flew to Cayman to explain to their families, what I think may’ve happened, and found that neither family had known about their loved one’s deaths. The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life was breaking that news to them. Worse, later on the company only paid US$250 to each family as compensation.”

The captain turns pensive. “We’d great times. We were a team. In Staten Island we’d go to a pub owned by an older ex-Navy officer and they lived it up. Sherlock, the captain, myself, Fletcher and the other crew members of the Daytona, would buy everyone else at the bar beer for .25 cents a pint.

“We’d swap stories with seamen the world over. That couple who owned the pub adored us. She’d insist that she’d marry me off to her daughter. Sherlock was a handsome one—blond hair and blue eyes; the magnet, and girls would soon swarm. He was sociable and everyone loved him. He’d keep you laughing with stories. He could tell you off diplomatically too—if he had to. Other seamen would insist he was from Denmark.”

Captain Hurlston chuckles softly. “You know…the good Lord’s been merciful to me for some odd reason. Every night, before I went to my bunk, I’d read my Bible and pray. I’ve been on board a vessel that collided in Houston’s ship channel. And once I was on a ship which caught fire heading to Ecuador, and we had to jump into lifeboats. Another ship ran aground in the Mississippi River. I’m 78 on 11 January. Yeah…those were the days.”

For a moment, the captain’s still steely eyes grow misty, and wistful, as he stares at his porch wall only a few feet in front of him, as if he were on a ship’s bridge gazing at some faraway horizon.

I take my leave, promising to come back again, to hear more stories another day.

Later, I remember that I’d forgotten to ask Captain Hurlston how his roof had faired during Ivan. And so called to ask him.

“That never budged”, he replies.