In the summer of 1949, largely on my behind, I took my first trip to France.   

Our ship, the S.S. DeGrasse, was caught in a hurricane while crossing the Atlantic from New York to Le Havre.  Almost all the adults, my parents included, were wretched with seasickness and refused to leave their cabins.  Stewards and other crew members got around the ship by holding on to the thick ropes that spanned the decks from bow to stern. All the furniture was bolted to the deck by metal fixtures.  Even the silverware in the dining room was secured by intricate steel fittings, although hardly anyone showed up for meals.  The PA system blared constant warnings that free-standing objects or persons could be swept overboard. The storm was one of the worst in history.        

I was six years old, too young to understand the danger, but old enough to be thrilled by the adventure and the mayhem that broke out around me.  At home in New York, every moment of every day was programmed and supervised, but here on the DeGrasse, caught in this wondrous storm, I was cast adrift.  My parents and brother lay limp on their bunks with buckets at their sides.  They were far too ill to care about me.            

I could maneuver my way around the ship, so long as I stayed on my bottom and slithered down stairwells and along corridors.    

Water sloshed over the wooden decks sending chaise longues, serving carts, cups, saucers and napkins flying off in all directions.  The howl of the gale force winds competed with the noise of the rain as it slammed against the door and decks.  I screamed, trying to outshout the wind, but I couldn’t even hear my own voice.  

For three days, I ate what I found.  Food seemed to appear when I needed it.  There was no one to stop me from hanging around the First Class lounge or the Cabin Class bar.  I lived on cherry coke, mixed nuts, chocolate miniatures and butter cookies.   

Wherever possible, the ship’s crew manned their usual stations and I became friends with Francis, the First Class bartender, a short bow-legged man with an enormous handlebar mustache and a sickle-shaped scar on his left cheek.  He had nothing to do, so he made me exotic drinks--syrupy concoctions of milk and grenadine topped with multicolored umbrellas and wedges of fruit or deep cups of hot chocolate with maraschino cherries balanced on dollops of whipped cream.  Despite the lurching of the ship, my stomach was lead-lined.  Francis told me I had the sea legs of a seasoned sailor.  

I slept where I liked, huddled under piles of heavy blankets that carried the insignia of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique embroidered in red thread cut on plaid wool.  

Gone were the usual rules of conduct, the rigorously enforced class system.  I was too young to understand that I was privileged, that the impeccable manners and service of the merchant marine had been honed to perfection simply for the comfort and convenience of passengers like my family and me.  From my six-year-old perspective, the “privilege” my parents referred to didn’t carry much weight.  I had come to understand the word to mean there would be no one my own age to play with.                   

In the midst of the hurricane, however, while most crew members in rumpled uniforms scurried off in all directions to see to the needs of seasick travelers, many of the ship’s hands, most of whom were little more than kids themselves, were able to sneak off and take liberties that under normal circumstances could have cost them their jobs.  I made friends with bus boys in white aprons and junior stewards in heavy woolen pea jackets.  I ran into two machinists, Gaston and Félix, as they stood smoking outside the door to A deck directly behind the First Class lounge.  They wore complicated-looking tool belts over oily bib overalls. I was riveted by the sight of them.  

“Hi,” I said looking up at them from my crouching position.  

“Hi, yourself.  How come you’re all alone?  Where are your parents?”   

This from Félix who had very blue eyes and blunt cut blond hair that he kept pushing off his forehead and back under his greasy black cap. Even a six-year-old could see he was very handsome.  

“They’re vomiting,” I said.  

“Ah oui, like everyone else. How about you?  Are you alright?” Gaston asked.  He had a face full of pimples topped his short, stocky frame, but his smile was charming.  

I nodded.  “I’m fine. I love this storm!”  

“Yes, well, most passengers don’t, but we’ll be alright in the end.  Captain said so.”  

“He did?” I asked disappointed.  

“You could stand up, you know.  Here, I’ll show you.  All you have to do is hold on to the ropes and you can get around pretty easily. Tiens, Félix, hold this.” Gaston passed his cigarette over to his friend so he could show me how to keep my balance.  The trick was to walk flat-footed like a duck and never to let go of the ropes or the metal grips strategically placed all over the open areas of the ship. The boys were very nice to me, even offering me drags of their cigarettes, but I had already figured out that it was best to keep moving rather than to stand for long in one place being tossed around by the wind. 

On the third day of the storm, the sky brightened and the bucking of the ship grew less violent.  An occasional adult, green and wan, looked out through the high wooden doors that separated the interior of the ship from the outer decks.  I waddled around and down the corridors using my new duck walk.  I wanted to check on my parents and my brother.  

Inside our cabin, it smelled awful.   

My mother lay on her bunk, limp and pale, her red hair plastered to her forehead, her skin tinged with yellow.  

“Tessa, where have you been?” she asked in a small voice, although it was clear to me she didn’t really care about my answer.  My father, curled into a ball, was fast asleep on his narrow upper bunk. From the tiny bathroom, I heard the sound of retching.  

“Is that Lee?”  

“Yes.  He can’t keep anything down yet.”  

I was dying to launch into a detailed description of my adventures, but my mother turned her head to the wall and I quickly waddled out again and up to A deck where the air was sharp,  fresh and fragrant with ocean and coated my skin with a thick layer of salt.   

The lurching of the ship quieted down even more.  I could let go of the ropes for a few moments at a time between the gusts of wind that sent the ship flailing about again. Little by little, people emerged from below and shuffled cautiously along the wooden decks.  Everyone looked ashen or pasty or just very frightened.   

I sat on the edge of a deck chair licking the salt off my fingers. Suddenly, the sound of music wafted through open portholes and I was off to investigate.  Just inside was the Cabin Class lounge.  An elegant man in a tuxedo was playing a grand piano bolted to sturdy metal hooks in the carpeted floor.  Next to the pianist, a violinist was tethered at the waist by the straps of a harness.   

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was my mother, pale but all dressed up as usual, shaking me by the shoulder.  As I awoke, I felt the ship’s powerful engine whirring beneath me.  The S.S. DeGrasse  plowed forward, steady and calm, over a  now-still ocean.   

Previously published in Phantasmagoria.

Author's Biography

Dratt’s fiction, essays and memoir have been published in over forty literary journals, anthologies and magazines. 

She has received three Pushcart Prize nominations, and in 1999, she won an honorable mention for a Pushcart for her essay, "After the War." 

She lives and writes in Chicago, Illinois.

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