This is Why I Ride the Bike

Bikes on top of the van

Preface:  After another memorable bike trip in Italy, I've realized the tour company, Ciclismo Classico, is a big reason for the successful trips.  They've continually exceeded our expectations, with top-notch guides and unique accomodations, as well as their selections of restaurants and entertainment - so a special thanks to all of them for another collection of wonderful memories.

This is Why I Ride the Bike
non-fiction travel
by Greg Larson

“How was your trip to Sicily?” was the question our friends and family asked once we returned home from abroad.  My wife, Gretta, and I have been on many bike trips to Europe, and I always struggle to answer the question adequately.  It’s like going to summer camp, but the food and accommodations are much cushier than the old scouting days.  Unless you actually get on the bike, day after day, and experience the countryside firsthand, I can only share a hint of what it’s like to travel through sun-drenched Sicily during the summer solstice.  Our group of sixteen cyclists and two guides rolled along each day on a kinetic adventure, gobbling up the Sicilian food and scenic landscape.

Typical Sicilian countryside

On the bike, we were able to reach out and touch the countryside, stop in the towns and interact with the people, and learn of their historic past.  Sicily, a cultural melting pot in the Mediterranean, is an island of fascination on all counts.

There is no substitute for touching the wild capers and fennel growing along the highways, or feeling the temperature change when passing a field or riding towards the sea coast.  We passed vineyards, as well as olive, lemon, and carob groves while rolling through a patchwork quilt with a background of grain fields, forests and sea coast.  The blooming cactus, roadside guava and swaying palm trees, as well as my profuse sweat, made me realize just how far south we were in the Mediterranean climate.

Our veteran guides, Paolo and Enrico, cared for us like true shepherds.  One of them rode his bike with us, and the other drove the support van.  They alternated the riding and driving responsibilities from day to day. 

Greg, Enrico, and Gretta

Gretta and Paolo

To me, cycling is similar to skiing, but it is done in warmer weather on public roads.  The tour company provided a quality bike, and we personalized the fit with our own seats, pedals and bike shoes, which clamp onto the pedals like a ski boot system.  The colorful clothing made it easy for motorists to spot us, and the fabric wicked the perspiration to keep the skin cool. 

Our morning ritual began with applying liberal amounts of sunscreen.  The nervous excitement mounted as we pulled on our helmets and gloves after breakfast, and then searched for the water jug to fill our bottles.  Just before we climbed on the bikes, Enrico reviewed the day’s route map and instructions, giving us the good news first, “We will have a few little climbs this morning,” and the bad news second, “There is a big climb in the afternoon, and it will be very hot.”

Paolo is a native Sicilian, and he was a super support guide.  His loud voice penetrated the countryside, sounding like a vendor at an Italian soccer match. “Aqua, vini, Coca-Coli, Fanti!” he jokingly rattled off a list of multiple refreshments, but water was our only choice.  He poured the water into our bike bottles with all the fervor of a drink vendor, and it looked like he’d had plenty of experience. Once the bottles were full he brought around a box of fresh Sicilian peaches, cherry tomatoes, figs, or any other fruit that looked good at the market that day.

Cycling in Italy is not for the faint of heart.  You have to ride safely, but with authority.  One observation I’ve made from cycling in Sicily is that traffic is much more chaotic the further south one travels, especially in the cities.  When riding through the streets of Siracusa at rush hour, my brain kicked to overload mode with multiple decisions while pedaling and bouncing on the ancient pavers, dodging and pointing out potholes and cracks, shifting gears and flowing in the traffic with Vespas, Fiats, tour busses and delivery vans.  Our guides bravely rode into the large roundabouts, stopped and extended their arms into the air to block the traffic, and then yelled for us to proceed to our exit.

The Italians seem to think that traffic laws are mere suggestions. The hair on my neck stood on end while the cars on the side streets nudged out a few inches at a time onto the thoroughfare, essentially playing a game of chicken and ignoring our right-of-way.  The best way to combat these drivers was to growl at them while holding an outstretched palm as if to push them back. 

One hot afternoon I looked up at the curve ahead and saw a small car traveling at about 60 miles an hour, skidding sideways towards us.  Fortunately, his over-steer forced him back to his side of the road, but then he slid into a stone wall, with the car smacking and scraping the stones before skidding to a stop.  He staggered out of the car, took a quick look at the damage, then got back in the car and drove off.

There are no flat areas in Italy.  The climbs were slow and arduous, but the descents were free-falls of excitement bordering on terror.  During the climbs, Gretta began to recite the Gettysburg Address to keep her mind off the steep roads that loomed ahead.  I usually remembered a favorite song, looked at the trees and plants that were different, or cursed the engineer who designed the road.  On the descents, a feeling of sheer freedom overcame me, similar to skiing a big slope.  Every time I crouched down on the accelerating bike and the wind roared in my ears it made me feel like a kid again.  But freedom brings responsibility.  I didn’t want to become a hood ornament for an oncoming tour bus.  I focused on controlling the speed and picked my line around the hairpin turn while hugging the guardrail or stone wall.  On the long descents, I’d pulse the brakes when slowing down, to prevent overheating of the wheel rims.

Gretta climbing a hill into Ragusa

The small town bars were a good place to try the local food and drink.  At one of our stops, a workman on a roof yelled in Italian to get our attention.  Fortunately, Gretta is well-versed in Italian, so she responded and they spoke a few moments.  Then she turned to me, “He wants us to try the Gassosa at the bar.  He said it tastes really good on a hot day.”  We discovered Gassosa is a brand of carbonated water, and at the bar they added a scoop of lemon granita – sort of the Italian’s version of a root beer float.  Most of the bar fare was Italian workingman food, like calzone, stromboli, arancini or pizza.  On a particularly long day, I loaded up with carbs at a local bar and ate a huge slice of pizza with french fries as one of the toppings.

Bikes parked at a local bar

The benefit of riding the bike in Sicily was the anticipation of dinner, which was a major event from 8:00 P.M. to 10:30 P.M. each evening.  After burning thousands of calories on the bike, my taste buds were ready for the savory sauces and multiple flavors of the Sicilian cuisine.  The food seemed to appear and disappear at our table as fast as the Sicilian countryside passed us by on the bike.  Most of the time we had five course meals consisting of appetizers, salad, pasta, main course, and dessert, along with two or three types of local wine to sample.  One of the restaurants opened a double magnum bottle (three liters) of vintage wine, and our group polished it off in quick order.  Seafood appetizers, salads full of mozzarella cheese and Sicilian tomatoes, pasta seasoned with garlic and olive oil; it was all a gastronomic blur across the table.


Seafood appetizers

During one of our evening foodfests, an accordian player filled our restaurant with his voice and instrument as we celebrated the birthday of one of the riders in the group.  On another memorable evening, an entire troupe of folksingers and musicians serenaded our dinner with authentic Sicilian folksongs.  The history of the island came alive before us with colorful costumes, choreography, and singing.

For a change of pace, we spent one day hiking on the slopes of Mount Etna, the tallest active volcano in Europe. After a ride on a ski gondola and a special bus that drove us across a huge slope of cinders, we stepped out into the cool, thin air and stood within a kilometer of the four-cone peak.  Two of the cones constantly emitted steam, and one of them built up to a crescendo every few minutes, spitting steam vortices to the wind.  The guides had a geologist accompany our group and explain the complex workings of the volcano.  He showed us which rocks were cinders from explosions, and which were crusts from the lava flows.


Hike day on Mt. Etna (10,922 ft. elevation)

At our closest point to the volcano peak, we noticed a roped barricade.  Just as Enrico announced, “It is forbidden to go any further,” a group of Italian hikers stepped over the rope and continued towards the volcano.

We gave Enrico a puzzled look.  His comment regarding the rogue hikers showed his humor and gave us a peek into the Italian psyche, “You can do what you want.  You can walk into a bank and wave a gun, but it is forbidden.”

“Are they breaking the law?” we asked.

“They won’t get arrested, but if they have to be rescued, they will get a big bill,” Enrico replied. 

Our long climb down the ski slopes included sliding on the cinders of the steepest slopes.  The guides showed us how to grind our heels and lean forward.  It felt like skiing on cinder moguls, and it was fun on the shorter slopes.  After lunch at a lookout point, we began using the boots more often to slide down the slopes.  By the time we hiked to the bottom of the ski runs, my quad muscles were burning. 

The next morning, I rested my screaming quads as we rode a hydrofoil ferry to the Aeolean Island of Lipari, one of seven remote islands with a sleepy, dreamy charm.  Enrico told us that political prisoners were banished to Lipari during the Norman reign of Sicily.  I thought, take me prisoner, I’ll stay as long as necessary.  

Hydrofoil to the Aeolean island of Lipari

On our last two days, we rode the bikes on the islands of Lipari and Salina.  The short lengths of the rides (25 km and 16 km) were deceiving.  Our toughest climb of the trip was a long stretch of 8 km with the beginning 3 km exceeding 10% gradient.  At our rest stop at the top of the steep climb, Gretta gasped for air and then blurted out to the guides, “Assassins,” referencing a 1910 quote by the Tour de France winner who let the organizers know how he felt about the inclusion of the mountains as part of the Tour. 

But with pain comes the joy.  Shortly after the toughest climb, I pedaled along an easier stretch of road and looked out to the sea and the nearby islands.  The luminescent clouds hung on the mountainside, and for a moment it seemed the winding road, the verdant landscape, the sparkling sea and the expansive sky all melded together into a Van Gogh painting. 

So when people ask, “How was your trip to Sicily?” I remember the vista and reply, “This is why I ride the bike.”

This is why I ride the bike

Gretta and Greg at the end of the bike tour

The Newspaper Boy

Evening newspapers ready to be folded

The Newspaper Boy
memoir by
Greg Larson

I wound the straps of the bag around the handlebars of my bike and adjusted the two bulging canvas pouches which were filled with Garden City Telegram newspapers.  In a flash, I flipped up the kickstand and rolled down the driveway and into the street.  I couldn’t believe that I was getting paid to ride my bike and throw newspapers.  I liked being out in the world, on my own for an hour or two each day, free from parents, teachers, and siblings.  It was just me, the bike and the neighborhood.

            As a boy of thirteen, I looked forward to my daily adventure.  I was too old to play with toys and too young to worry about life beyond school.  The route was my personal space, an important job that I learned to do well.  Every afternoon, I was on a mission.  Each of the 110 households expected the paper to be on the driveway or porch before supper time, and I was up to the task. 

            When I came home from junior high school each day, the bundle of papers was always waiting for me at the curb.  I didn’t have the option to ignore them or skip a day on a whim.  I’d carry the stack of papers bound by thick cotton string down to the basement.  While the radio or hi-fi pumped out the tunes, I’d position the stack in front of me and place about twenty rubber bands on my ring finger.  The folding began as I jiggled to rock and roll music.  I was getting paid to listen to the Beach Boys or Simon and Garfunkel!  I couldn’t believe it.

            It was a perfect time to daydream or play mind games during the folding process.  Sometimes I’d think about the future.  Where would I be ten years from now . . . twenty years, thirty years?  I’d also read the front page of the paper, a line or two, fold, then read another line or two, fold.  LBJ or Viet Nam were usually somewhere above the fold.

            Mom had an ongoing battle with me in her efforts to stamp out the black ink that covered everything in my path from the basement to the kitchen and garage. The walls, doorknobs and light switches were some of the places that received the black film.  I was the target of wrath in her attempts to eradicate the evil, black scourge.

About once a week, she would yell from the top of the stairs, “Greg, just look at the black marks all over the house.  Do you realize the mess you make with that ink all over your hands?  You need to wash your hands before you touch anything!”  Then she would add, “If you don’t clean up the smudges, then guess who has to do it?  You know where to find the sponge, and the Spic and Span.”

            With the folding done, I’d haul the bags to the top of the stairs, but there was one crucial stop before going out into the garage . . . the cookie jar.  At least a half-dozen cookies quickly found their way into my newspaper bag.   More valuable than gold doubloons, I’d eat them as a reward at the quarter points on the route.

My route was as close as I could get to a Norman Rockwell existence in the high plains of Kansas.  After riding three blocks south, I followed the highway on a frontage road and stopped at Mr. Walton’s barber shop for my first delivery.  He wanted the paper delivered inside, since customers were waiting to read it.  There were a handful of businesses which also had subscriptions: the Elks club, a hamburger stand, and the Norge Laundromat.

            I was always anxious to get across the highway and into the older residential section of town, mainly because of the cool shade of the giant elm trees, which seemed like endangered species in the desert-like climate.  They were my cover, my umbrella in the late afternoon sun. 

The houses and the names of the families on the route were burned into my subconscious memory.  It was a choreographed journey, with every body movement used to create an efficient delivery system.  The timing of each throw was essential to prevent the wasted energy required to get off the bike and re-throw a paper.  The pedal strokes, the arm leverage on the throw, and the balancing of the swinging bags were all timed to work in harmony.

Parts of the job weren’t so cozy.  Weather was always changing in Western Kansas, and the wind never ceased.  The summer heat felt like a blast furnace, and the winter winds made me think of Antarctica.  The brutally cold days taught me to wear the right clothing, as well as truly appreciate the comforts of home.  During the worst storms, or when the streets were slick with snow and ice, I would walk the route, with mom following me in the car.

Collection time was one of the burdens I had to bear.  Each month for two or three evenings after supper, I began the slog from house to house, with the Garden National Bank pouch, a hole punch, and a ring of subscription cards.

Looking back at the collection process, I can see now that it was a quick way to get exposed to society and learn about the variety of people that live in any given neighborhood.  The worst subscribers pretended they didn’t hear me at the door, or they would ask me to wait until next month.  I didn’t even want to step inside those houses, due to the odor and all the stuff strewn about.  The best subscribers invited me into their living room to sit down.  They chatted with me and asked me about my school and family while they wrote out their check for $1.55 for the month’s subscription.  Sometimes they would pay me another month or two in advance.  I punched their subscription card, along with my duplicate card on the large ring.

My heart began to race whenever I walked up to collect at the Rossi’s house.  Georgette Rossi was one of the most beautiful girls in my school.  Just the sound of her name caused my heart to pound.  Georgette, with curly, jet-black hair, always answered the doorbell, and invited me inside.  Her mom would be in the kitchen, cooking Italian food. I always held out hope that they would ask me to sit down and eat with them, but it never happened.

The county judge who lived on my route had two daughters who were cheerleaders at the high school.  They were always excited when I came to collect, but I wasn’t.  “Mom, Dad, it’s the paper boy to collect!” they’d yell. Then they looked me over like I was a little puppy and say, “Isn’t he such a cute little paperboy?”  It made me feel like Opie or Beaver Cleaver.

Other memorable subscribers were two of my teachers.  I always made sure their papers were right by the door at every delivery.  I thought it might help their thinking process when report cards came due.

And there was Mrs. Gudenhausen, a widow who lived in a tidy bungalow with picturesque flower beds.  She always gave me a five dollar tip at Christmas time.  Every year when spring arrived, she hired the same painter to paint the outside of her house from top to bottom.  He was usually there for two or three months.  I always wondered what kind of relationship she had with the painter, but it really didn’t matter to me.  She was a generous lady, and I just enjoyed the big tip each Christmas.

I always picked a friendly customer to finish collecting for the evening, and then I asked permission to use their phone to call home.  Mom or Dad would come quickly to take me home.  Mom didn’t want me walking alone with a bag full of money hanging from my hand, even in a small town.  She’d draw the curtains in the house, afraid that someone would see me counting the money.  The majority of it went to the newspaper company.  If I had a good month, I’d clear thirty-five to forty dollars for myself . . . slightly better than a dollar a day for my work.  Thirty dollars a month went to a savings account, and the rest I used for pizza and coke money, and some for church. 

Mom kept telling me that I should save the money for college, but I had different motives.  I wanted to buy a car when I turned sixteen.

By the time I started high school, after-school activities began to interfere with my daily routine.  I had to find a substitute to throw the papers.  Usually, it was my younger brother.  He knew the route so well, that he decided to take my place, and the circulation manager at the Telegram agreed.  It was a perfect succession plan, and the subscribers were thrilled to have another Larson paperboy.

I had saved over $900 during the three years of my route, and the job had made me a better person.  It had taken me from childhood to manhood.  Like the papers, I was flung out into the world.  I learned to interact with strangers and manage a business.

I wish every boy could have a paper route.

Sacred Structures

Preface:

            Man’s expression of faith takes many forms, and the physical church structures are no exception.  The following photos of cathedrals, churches, chapels and temples show the variety of this expression, and the different settings in which they were placed.

            Whenever I’m near a church, a magnetic pull compels me to view and photograph the details.  The photos are some of my favorites, and I provide a snippet of what impressed me at the time of the photograph.

Sacred Structures
photos and comments by
Gregory E. Larson, AIA

EVESHAM, ENGLAND

            What could be more special than to attend a summer wedding on the banks of the River Avon in England’s green and pleasant land?  Gretta and I jumped at the invitation, and were awed by the history of the site of ruins of the 8^th century Benedictine abbey, and the 16^th century Abbey bell tower, adjacent to the All Saints Anglican Church in Evesham, England.

Evesham Abbey, 16th century bell tower - Evesham, England

All Saints Church built in 12th century - Evesham, England

ACTON BURNELL, ENGLAND

            Hidden in a corner of Shropshire countryside is the village of Acton Burnell.  The small St. Mary’s Church (built in the 13^th century) is located adjacent to the ruins of Acton Burnell Castle, which was the site of the first Parliament of England.  Gretta and I visited on a cool, gray day, our heels clicking on the stone floor in the dark church.  I noticed a stone plaque which listed the death of a member of the prominent Smythe family in 1776, the same year as U.S. independence from England.

St. Mary's Church with castle ruins beyond - Acton Burnell, England

ST. DAVID’S, WALES

            St. David’s Cathedral, near the west coast of Wales, was constructed during 12th to the 14th century in a low spot of land, adjacent to a creek, so it is not visible from a distance.  When the large cathedral was first used, Pope Calixtus II declared that two pilgrimages to St. David’s were equivalent to one pilgrimage to Rome.

St. David's Cathedral nestled in the hills - St. David's, Wales

Interior ceiling of the central tower - St. David's Cathedral

ST. NON’S, WALES

My favorite places are the smaller, out-of-the-way sites, surrounded by nature.  Such is St. Non’s, on the coast of Wales, just south of the city of St. David’s.

St. Non’s is located at the birth site of St. David.  The official story is that Llanon (now St. Non), while living as a nun at nearby Caerfai, was raped by Prince Sandde of Ceredigion.  She gave birth to a son, David, in approximately 500 A.D.  David founded the town which eventually became St. David's. He is the patron saint of Wales. The chapel seen here is a modern chapel built in 1934.  Adjacent to the chapel are the old chapel foundations and a holy well.

St. Non's Chapel overlooking the Welsh coastline

St. Non's Chapel is a place to contemplate nature and listen to the sea

ST. GOVAN’S, WALES

            One of the more unusual holy sites in Wales is St. Govan’s chapel on the coastal cliffs near the town of Bosherston.

            The chapel was built on the site where a man named Govan hid in a miraculous opening of the rocks in the sixth century to escape pirates from Ireland.  The story is that he lived as a hermit in a cave on the site for the rest of his life.

St. Govan's Chapel set in the seaside cliffs

ST. PETERS – ROME, ITALY

            Everything about St. Peter’s is massive: the square, the sanctuary, the basilica, and the dome.  I felt I was at ground zero for Christendom in Western Civilization. In addition to the sheer size of the place, the details inside and outside are almost too much for the mind to comprehend in one visit.

Morning sunlight filters into St. Peter's Cathedral

St. Peter's Square with view towards Cathedral and dome

SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE – FLORENCE, ITALY

            A Florence View was the name of the bed and breakfast establishment from which I took the photo of the façade of Santa Maria del Fiore. Another highlight was the tour of the dome which is the largest masonry dome in existence.

View of Santa Maria del Fiore from our room

Dome at Santa Maria del Fiore - Florence, Italy

ORVIETO, ITALY

            This Renaissance façade on the Cathedral at Orvieto, Italy is a jaw-dropper.  Gold leaf is included in the entry details, and on the mosaic murals which fill the façade.  We walked into the sanctuary and listened to the organ and choir on a Sunday afternoon.  I thought I’d walked back into the Renaissance period.

Street view towards Orvieto Cathedral

Mosaics fill the spaces on the Renassaince facade

NOTRE DAME  - PARIS, FRANCE

            The Cathedral of Our Lady is located on the Ile de la Cite in the heart of Paris.  The gothic details emerge as gargoyles and grotesques.  A special treat was the exterior tour which allowed us to see the roof and tower details close up.  

The east side of Notre Dame Cathedral - Paris, France

Gargoyles, grotesques and other details - Notre Dame Cathedral

Eagle statue at Notre Dame Cathedral

SAINTE CHAPELLE – PARIS, FRANCE

            Sainte Chapelle is also located on the Ile de la Cite in Paris, but it is lesser known than Notre Dame.  The church was constructed in the middle of the 13th century, and at the time, the stained glass windows were the largest in the world.  The windows depict the story of the bible from beginning to end.

St. Chapelle - Paris, France

Interior side of stained glass window - St. Chapelle

HEINZ CHAPEL – PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

            The vertical exterior of Heinz Chapel on the campus of Pittsburgh University seems to emulate the details of Sainte Chapelle in Paris. The chapel is a popular spot for Pittsburgh weddings.

 

 

 

MORMON TEMPLE - KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

            Although I was able to tour the temple before it was dedicated, interior pictures were not allowed.  I was surprised there is no large sanctuary.  The largest room held fifty-four people.  On the tour, I learned that the temple is used for special religious occasions that are outside the functions of the local Mormon churches.  The interior was full of rich detail, with oak and marble trim, painted murals, sculptured carpets, and gold-leaf tracery on some of the ceilings.

The new Mormon Temple in Kansas City, Missouri

WICHITA, KANSAS

            The First United Methodist Church in Wichita, Kansas, a church of modern design, was completed in 1961.  It is where I attended as a boy.  Much of my faith, as well as my interest in art and architecture began there.

  


CHRISTIAN CHURCH – CHASE COUNTY, KANSAS

            To me, the simple setting for this Christian Church at the cemetery near Elmdale, Kansas, moved my soul as much or more than the ornate churches.  The prairie wind washed over me and I felt God’s power and man’s temporal existence on earth.

Cemetery and church near Elmdale, Kansas

A church in the Flint Hills of Kansas

A Sea Captain's True Test

The west coast of Italy
(photo by Greg Larson)

Preface: 

             At the end of our bicycle tour across Italy in the summer of 2005, my wife, Gretta, and I dipped the front wheels of our bicycles into the Mediterranean waters off the west coast.  We also took the time to visit the postage-stamp-of-a-beach near Porto Ercole.  The patches of sand were scarce, due to the jagged volcanic rocks which hugged the coastline.

After seeing the recent news about the shipwreck of the Italian ocean liner Costa Concordia, we looked on the map of Italy.  To our amazement, the large ship had capsized near the island of Giglio, just ten miles from where we had completed our bike tour.  It didn’t surprise me when I read that a gash in the ship’s hull, 160 feet in length, occurred when the ship came too close to the island’s shore.  I could visualize the sharp rock shelf hidden beneath the water.

A Sea Captain’s True Test

essay

by Greg Larson

            What would you do if your world was literally sinking, and you were responsible for the lives of those on board your ship?  Any captain of a large ocean-going vessel bears the burden that he or she may someday have to answer that question.  It can only be definitively answered when the crisis occurs, and we know that human behavior varies from person to person and circumstance to circumstance.

            The recent incident involving the Costa Concordia has prompted me to compare the actions of two Italian sea captains, and expose the differences in their behavior before, during, and after the sinking of their respective ships. 

Captain Francesco Schettino was at the helm of the cruise ship, Costa Concordia, on January 13, 2012, when it struck the rocky coast of the Italian island of Giglio. 

The other captain, Piero Calamai, was in command of the ocean liner Andrea Doria, which was struck broadside by another passenger ship, the Stockholm, during the foggy night of July 25, 1956, off the U.S. coast, about fifty miles southwest of the island of Nantucket.  The disaster was voted one of the top ten news stories of 1956.

***

            The early news reports about the sinking of the Costa Concordia have highlighted the apparently shameful and negligent behavior of the captain, Francesco Schettino.  And the evidence continues to mount against him as the facts are slowly coming forth from court hearings and from interviews with co-workers regarding captain Schettino’s actions during the disaster.

On the evening of January 13, 2012, Captain Schettino dined on board with a female passenger.  After dinner, he increased the speed of the 114,500 ton ship to sixteen knots, and he manually steered the giant vessel close to the coastline of Giglio, to pay homage to a former captain and co-worker.  At 9:42 P.M., the ship’s port (left) side came in contact with a rocky shelf along the coastline, creating a gash 160 feet long, piercing numerous compartments in the hull.  The engine room began to flood, and the ship lost its main power.

The ship was adrift, with 4,200 passengers on board.  Miraculously, the ship turned and drifted back towards the island.  Some speculate the captain attempted to steer the ship, while others speculate the wind caused the ship to turn and drift towards the island shore.  Schettino conversed by phone with the executives of the ship’s company, Costa Cruises, while the ship began to list from its normal vertical position.

At 10:06 P.M., the Italian Coast Guard contacted Schettino, but he denied the ship was in distress, and he stated that he was having electrical problems but the situation was under control.  The coast guard contacted the captain again at 10:16 P.M., and he admitted that water was coming into the hull.  At 10:30 P.M., with the ship listing at twenty degrees, he sent out a Mayday signal.  With many of the passengers and crew already commencing evacuation procedures, Schettino reluctantly gave orders to abandon ship at 10:50 P.M.

The ship ran aground and began to list at an extreme angle. Eventually it capsized.

At 11:40 P.M., the captain reportedly entered a lifeboat with the second-in-command.  The captain claims he fell into the lifeboat, due to the extreme listing of the ship.  Many passengers were still on board.

At 12:42 A.M., a captain with the Italian Coast Guard, Gregorio De Falco, contacted Schettino via cell phone.  Here is a portion of the transcript:

·         De Falco: "You go aboard [the Costa Concordia]. It is an order. Don't make any more excuses. You have declared 'abandon ship.' Now I am in charge. You go on board! Is that clear? Do you hear me? Go, and call me when you are aboard. My air rescue crew is there."

·         Schettino: "Where are your rescuers?"

·         De Falco: "My air rescue is on the prow. Go. There are already bodies, Schettino."

·         Schettino: "How many bodies are there?"

·         De Falco: "I don't know. I have heard of one. You are the one who has to tell me how many there are. Christ."

·         Schettino: "But do you realize it is dark and here we can't see anything…"

·         De Falco: "And so what? You want to go home, Schettino? It is dark and you want to go home? Get on that prow of the boat using the pilot ladder and tell me what can be done, how many people there are and what their needs are. Now!"

Schettino never returned to the ship. He was arrested on charges of manslaughter, causing a shipwreck, and abandoning ship.  After a court hearing, Schettino was placed under house arrest at his home near Naples, Italy.  Executives for the company which owns the $450 million ship (Costa Cruises, a subsidiary of Carnival Cruises) are also under scrutiny by the authorities.

Roberto Bosio, an off-duty captain, was on board the Costa Concordia.  Once it was apparent that the ship was sinking, he helped with the evacuation operation, and is considered one of the heroes of the night.

“It was the most horrible experience of my life,” said Bosio, “A tragedy, a heartache that I will carry with me forever.  Don’t call me a hero.  I just did my duty, the duty of a sea captain – actually the duty of a normal man.  I and the others with me just did our duty.  We looked each other in the eyes for a second and then we just got on with it.”

One of the ship’s officers, Martino Pellegrino was quoted in one of the Italian newspapers with the following comment:  “If I had to make a comparison, we got the impression that he [Schettino] would drive a bus like a Ferrari.”

The Costa Concordia off the island of Giglio
(internet photo)

 At the time of this writing, thirty persons who were on board the Costa Concordia have been confirmed dead, and two persons are still missing.  Based on the available information, it appears that the tragedy could have easily been avoided.

***

Captain Piero Calamai was the commander of Italy’s passenger flagship, the Andrea Doria, on July 25, 1956.

With 1,706 passengers and crew on board, the Andrea Doria was near the end of its voyage from Italy to New York.  During the afternoon, with concern about fog which was forecast for the remainder of the day, Captain Calamai stayed on the bridge.  He left twice to go to his cabin, and quickly returned each time.  He ordered a light supper to be delivered to him on the bridge. The meal consisted of soup, a small piece of meat, and an apple. 

The fog began in the afternoon and continued to worsen as the ship approached the U.S. coast.  Calamai’s foremost worry was the sea traffic around the Nantucket lightship, which was located about fifty miles off the coast of Nantucket Island.  The lightship was a barge with a warning light strategically positioned to warn ships of the shallow ocean depth near the island.  At 10:20 P.M. the Andrea Doria passed the lightship.

As darkness fell, the passsenger ship, Stockholm, approached the Nantucket lightship from New York, having embarked from the city in the afternoon.  The Stockholm and the Andrea Doria were traveling towards each other at a combined rate of forty knots per hour. Within twenty nautical miles of each other, both ships were able to determine their respective locations through the use of basic radar.  The ships were manned with competent crews, but errors were made in determining each other’s position as they continued to approach.

At 11:07 P.M., members of each crew made visual sightings from a distance of 1.9 nautical miles as the Andrea Doria came out of a thick patch of fog.  They each made changes in their direction, in an attempt to pass.  Unfortunately, these changes put them on a collision path.  In a slow motion drama, the Andrea Doria crossed in front of the Stockholm, which reversed its engines in an attempt to brake before impact.

At 11:10 P.M., The Stockholm’s bow struck hard on the starboard (right) side of the Andrea Doria.  Both ships quickly closed all compartment doors to prevent flooding to other compartments.

The ships were supposedly designed to remain seaworthy with two compartments flooded.  The front two compartments of the Stockholm were damaged, but it remained upright.  Captain Calamai in the Andrea Doria, was confident that his ship would remain seaworthy, since only two of the ship’s compartments had been breached.  To his surprise, the ship quickly listed eighteen degrees to starboard.  It was supposed to list only fifteen degrees in the worst conditions.  As the listing worsened, Captain Calamai quickly sent out a Mayday signal.

Unknown to Captain Calamai, there was a flaw in the ship’s design.  During the investigation, weeks after the crash, it was determined the ship’s fuel tanks were required to be full to properly ballast the ship from listing during compartment breaches.  But the Andrea Doria was near the completion of its voyage, and its fuel tanks were almost empty when it was struck by the Stockholm.

Several freighters in the vicinity quickly responded and brought a small number of lifeboats to assist in the evacuation of the Andrea Doria.  The captain of the Stockholm was concerned about his ship’s safety, but agreed to allow half of the Stockholm’s lifeboats to assist in the rescue. The first few hours of the evacuation were chaotic, and many of the restaurant and housekeeping staff of the Andrea Doria were rescued before the passengers were assisted down ropes and put into lifeboats on the low side of the sinking ship.

The savior of the night was the French flagship, the Ile de France, located fifty miles east of the disaster and on its way to Le Havre, France, with 1,766 passengers and crew on board.  Although he was under no obligation to assist, the captain of the Ile de France, Baron Raoul de Beaudien, quickly understood the urgency of the situation.  Even though he knew a delay would cost his company dearly, he made the proper and ethical decision to turn around.

At 2:00 A.M. on July 26th, he slowly situated his ship parallel to the Andrea Doria, creating a lagoon which allowed for a smooth rescue operation.  Captain Beaudien’s decisions made him the hero of the night.

Captain Calamai and his closest crew members remained on board the empty Andrea Doria.  As the sun rose in the clear morning air, the ship was listing more than thirty degrees, and there was concern the damaged behemoth would tip and sink at any moment.

The empty Andrea Doria on the morning of July 26, 1956
(internet photo)

 Those closest to Captain Calamai said he looked as if he had aged more than ten years in six hours.  Although 1,662 passengers and crew were evacuated from the ship (the Ile de France rescued 753 people), forty-six persons from the Andrea Doria perished, due to the collision, or from injuries sustained in the rescue operation.

Captain Calamai’s subordinates tried to convince him to join them in a lifeboat, but he remained on the Andrea Doria.  His second in command, Staff Captain Magagnini, climbed back up the rope and implored the captain to abandon ship.  He told Piero Calamai that if he remained onboard, all of the immediate crew would come back up the rope and stay with him.  Finally, against the centuries-old code of the sea which requires a captain to remain with his ship in distress, he acquiesced to his crewman’s plea, and climbed down the rope and into the lifeboat.

In the peaceful morning light of July 26, 1956, the Andrea Doria began to sink under the surface.  At 10:09 in the morning, the stern of the ship tilted upward.  With the large rudder and propellers briefly visible, it then disappeared and settled to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, at a depth of approximately 225 feet.

Captain Calamai’s spirit for the sea died when he saw the ship go down.  After the tragedy, he was quoted as saying, “When I was a boy, and all my life, I loved the sea; now I hate it.”

Human behavior is a strange thing.  It is impossible for us to know how each of us would react if we were put in the situations of Captain Schettino and Captain Calamai.  Sometimes our inner being and our integrity aren’t revealed until we are put under extreme stress. We can each wonder if we would direct all of our energy and assistance to save the lives of the helpless from the depths of the sea.

The Mediterranean Sea
(photo by Greg Larson)

Note: The facts regarding the recent Costa Concordia incident were from reliable internet news sources.  The facts regarding the sinking of the Andrea Doria were from the book Collision Course, by Alvin Moscow, copyright 1959, Grosset & Dunlap, New York, New York.