Our Seas of Fear and Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Books by Richard Shain Cohen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter I: Italy, Chelsea Naval Hospital, Gregory and Brigit

  Chapter II: Brigit

  Chapter III: Love’s Awareness

  Chapter IV: Toward Tomorrow

  Chapter V: Tomorrow is Now

  Chapter VI: Deirdre and Shadows

  Chapter VII: Reality

  Chapter VIII: Meeting – Memories – Departing

  Chapter IX: Sea’s Vicissitudes

  Chapter X: Buffeted

  Chapter XI: The Maine Coast and Home

  Chapter XII: The Sea’s Nether Region

  Chapter XIII: Sea’s Angry and Soothing Tides

  Étienne – Angry Seas

  Tide Pool

  About the Author

  Back cover

  Our Seas of

  Fear and Love

  by

  Richard Shain Cohen

  CCB Publishing

  British Columbia, Canada

  Our Seas of Fear and Love

  Copyright ©2013 by Richard Shain Cohen

  ISBN-13 978-1-77143-080-7

  First Edition

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Cohen, Richard Shain, 1928-, author

  Our seas of fear and love / by Richard Shain Cohen – First edition.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77143-078-4 (hbk.).--ISBN 978-1-77143-079-1 (pbk.).--

  ISBN 978-1-77143-080-7 (pdf)

  Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

  United States Copyright Office Registration # TXu 1-846-843

  Richard Shain Cohen may be contacted through: www.richardshaincohen.com

  Cover artwork by Rose Kennealy.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Extreme care has been taken by the author to ensure that all information presented in this book is accurate and up to date at the time of publishing. Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible for any errors or omissions. Additionally, neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Publisher:

  CCB Publishing

  British Columbia, Canada

  www.ccbpublishing.com

  DEDICATION

  I dedicate this book to my World War II brothers with my love and very fond remembrances of their continuous support through my growing up trials and adult life:

  Manley Benjamin Cohen, M.D., thoracic surgeon (U.S. Army Medical Corps – Bronze Star, two Purple Hearts);

  Alfred – Bob-Robert Cohen (U.S. Army Air Corps, England), poet, artist, advertising director and designer of movie advertisements such as “Space Odyssey: 2001”;

  George Matthew Cohen, O.D., (U.S. Navy, North Africa, Sicily, Italy, achieved rank of Commander)

  They not only served their country in war but also in their given professions in which they excelled during peace time.

  Books by Richard Shain Cohen

  Be Still, My Soul

  Monday: End of the Week

  Petal on a Black Bough

  Only God Can Make a Tree

  (Poetry co-authored with Alfred R. Cohen)

  The Forgotten Longfellow: Man in the Shadows

  Healing After Dark:

  Pioneering Compassionate Medicine

  at the Boston Evening Clinic

  (Co-authored with Morris A. Cohen, M.D.)

  Our Seas of Fear and Love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank for reading this book when in manuscript form:

  Rosemary Coleman, artist and Professor Emerita of Literature, Illinois Benedictine University who has always been supportive of my work and whose criticisms and proof reading have been so helpful.

  J. Arthur Faber, writer and Professor Emeritus of Literature, Wittenburg University, who also supported my work and whose reading of and comments regarding the manuscript was also so helpful.

  Carol Felberbaum, an avid supporter who has continuously and willingly given her time for my writing and commentary.

  I thank Bonnie Kaye for her utmost interest in this novel and her important suggestions.

  The following two nurses gave me information regarding the RN when this story takes place. I thank them for their unhesitant help and guidance:

  Janet Geanoulis, R.N., Lowell (Mass.) General Hospital and her sister Karen Martell, R.N., M.S.N., University of Southern Maine School of Nursing who referred me to her sister Janet.

  The following are source materials or places that I consulted:

  Digital Journal with special thanks to David Silverberg

  Dixon-Kennedy, Mike, Celtic Myth & Legend: An A-Z of People and Places

  Green, Miranda, Celtic Godesses: Warriors, Virgins and Mothers

  Lawrence, Frieda and Kiowa Ranch: This imagined conversation of a female character is only in part an actual one I had in a lengthy meeting with Frieda Lawrence in Taos, New Mexico. I also did meet Ravalgi, and also had a long talk with Lady Brett who drew a map for me to Kiowa Ranch that now hangs in my office. She met me with a large ancient phonograph sounder held to her ear for hearing better. The talk at the ranch and visit are actual, These meetings were the result of research for my Master’s thesis: The Rananim of D.H. Lawrence: His Pursuit of Utopia in the New World.

  Life Magazine from 1950s – use of fashion ads and some information considering the McCarthy Hearings and the Korean and Viet Nam Wars.

  McIntosh, Elizabeth P., Women of the OSS: Sisterhood of Spies

  Mayo (The) Clinic gave me permission to use from their website the article by Mayo staff on the Placenta previa birth problem. I sincerely thank them for granting use for the idea in a scene in this book.

  Portland (The) Press Herald, Portland, Maine for information from the 1950s and 1960s.

  Portland (Maine) Public Library where I had help from very cooperative librarians when it came to newspaper readings.

  I would be remiss if I did not thank my wife, Arla who has constantly supported and encouraged me and who also read, commented upon, and recommended changes.

  Chapter I

  Italy, Chelsea Naval Hospital

  Gregory and Brigit

  I used to be somewhat adventurous. When you live in Maine and along the coast, the ocean does that to you. You walk the beach or sit on the rocks or ledges and watch the ocean in its varying moods, its magnificent but dangerous anger when the waves roll in white caps and crash against the rocks, or in its days of peace when in a tide pool you may see sea gulls floating or gliding above you and the calm blue sea. There are times when you want to see the anger, for it is beauty that hides the dangers, something like in my life when I grew older. There had been a wreck of a schooner that beached in the frosty wind of a winter storm. It enchanted me.

  This day I remember was sunny. The wreck of the Nancy – I called her the Yancy – perhaps too young to pronounce it correctly no matter how many times my mother or aunt or a brother told me N – Nancy – not Y – Yancy. Well, still not old enough to be left alone, I managed to wander away from my mother, Jocelyn, and an aunt. I was determined I was goi
ng to see that hulk I’d seen before and that bewitched me. What did I think it would tell me? I left them sitting on their blanket and finally came to her. The wood was gray and rough and splintery. At first, I looked back and couldn’t see my mother. That scared me, but the magnetism of the Nancy swept fright away. Waves wound about the listing hulk. I touched the side, the rough wood, looked up, somewhat apprehensively, then smiled, because she was there for me. But what was she telling me? There were secrets to uncover. That’s why I had to see her, talk to her.

  I looked back. I didn’t see the family. I was scared and ran along the shore, yelling for my mother. I had lost my direction. I cried, walked, called. The Nancy was no longer there. I yelled at her, blamed her. “I’ll never come see you again.” Because of the secrets, though, I knew I was lying. Then a Park Ranger found me, then my mother. But I was still afraid and crying. You see, the Nancy did that to me. She churned my life. Looming, invulnerable, she withheld the secrets – the future to come – the ships – the women.

  She kept them until I found the answers, or thought I did. For some years later it was another ship. Why is it that ships and women are thought to be in communion? Because they are both female, according to Roman prayers to a sea goddess?

  _______________

  But I have never told you about my town. My mind wanders. You see, you do not know the state of my mind or of my body. It’s a lovely town, three traffic lights that you can never pass through without a stop. There’s no such thing as synchronization. Perhaps it’s because Main Street is somewhat long with its grocery, jewelry, clothing stores, and a bank. Oh, and there’s an Indian shop that sells woven baskets and blankets. We call them American Indians; perhaps we don’t want to confuse them with India Indians. They like to be called Indians, so they told me. Well, this is the town of Cape Astraea, Maine. Mostly everyone knows one another or about them, at least so people think. We lived in a Victorian house, two blocks off of the main street. A stream flows between the main part of town and where we, my family and I, lived. Later I inherited the house. For a few years it was vacant, oh, occasionally rented with trepidation. Here’s why the worry. There is a portico in front held by two Doric columns. The front doors have the original engraved glass. The entrance hall separates the dining room and the living room, and beyond that is a pantry through which you cross to the large kitchen. A curving banister rises along the rather high stairway, and there along the upper hall are the bedrooms, and beyond these is a sitting room that looks out on the street. Well, at least you may get the idea. We loved that house, my family and I. My mother, the singer, my father, Aaron, a doctor, my brothers and sister, Mary, who would go to medical school. She’s a lesbian. Yes. We’ve come to accept it. Intelligent people must. That’s what we call ourselves. But, you see, they knew nothing about my secret with ships and the sea and wouldn’t for years.

  ~

  Oh, the other ships. That was supposed to be a holiday. My mother took Mary and me, thinking it would be fine for us to see other places. We were just out to sea. Our Captain did not see in the fog the large freighter headed toward us. There was a sudden shudder. The lights went out, the door fell; I could hear water loudly flowing in not far from us. I heard screaming. It was so fearful. My mother had fallen to the deck but pushed herself up quickly, grabbed my arm, pulling Mary and me along the passageway. I heard the music but was too scared to look. People rushed along, pushing one another. My mother stopped for a moment, seeing a closet with life jackets, grabbed two to put on us. I protested. “You don’t have one.” She just pulled us along. Suddenly a ship’s officer was there directing people to a long gangplank down along the ship’s side. As we went down, I looked up. The hull of the huge freighter seemed as though it would fall and bury us. It was gigantic, fearsome. We stepped in water while I kept looking at the looming hull of that freighter that made me shake. I felt my mother pulling at me as she gripped Mary. She swam, pulling us somehow toward a tug boat that had turned back when the crew heard the cries and perhaps the crash. A crewman dragged us aboard and took us to a cabin. We lay on a bare mattress with one bare pillow. I listened to my mother breathing so hard trying to catch her breath while sobbing, “Why no life boat, why no life boat?” as I listened to my heart pounding against my chest. I don’t even remember how they got us to the hospital.

  When we returned home, I was the hero to my schoolmates. And I bragged, hiding from everyone the fear that would embed itself, only I didn’t know it then. And my mother. There was this large photo of her on the front page of the paper. The phone kept ringing at home until finally my mother wished she could tear the phone lines out of the house. There being more than one, I would imagine her going from one room to room, ripping out phone cords. “But, mama, we’re heroes.” “Gregory. We aren’t heroes. We’re three fortunate people who lived to come home. You remember that. Sometimes everything works out well and other times not so well.” That was one of the rare instances I remember my mother going to church, taking me with her. I still see her lighting a candle, kneeling, crossing herself. She was brought up Catholic, but my father was Jewish. Religion in our house was barely ever mentioned. But when I think back, I see how brave my mother was. She was a woman who often kept things to herself, unless my father and she argued or tried to talk alone without one of the children hearing. Sometimes she would go to her room and ask not to be bothered, that she needed time to think. She was beautiful, such an ordinary word. But she was. Her hair was light brown and her eyes blue, her nose small and straight, her small lips, full and red, though I liked her without her lipstick. The redness faded but only to a degree. She was tall and later I realized how sexually appealing she was with her shapely legs and a fairly thin waist broadening to her hips, her breasts that seemed so slightly low but straight out. I admit there were times I wondered what she looked like naked. But what went on in her mind? Did she think about love, my father, of other men? When she put on her cosmetics, was she thinking of a seductive look, of her lithe body’s appearance, of the men and women who fawned about her after a performance? Well, she could be seductive with her smile, her soft voice, and soothing hands. I used to think that probably most of the time she was concentrating on her music. But growing up, what I do know is that she spent as much time as she could with her children, kissing us, smiling, and she could make us laugh. Other times she would sing to us, a lone personal performance. Sometimes when she sang to us like that, so intimately, I thought that the shipwreck bound her to Mary and me more than to my brothers. The mind of a young boy – he dreams of glory on a battlefield or as fast-draw sheriff in the Old West. But how that fancy changes when the sea is cold and about to drag you down into its unknown world.

  Years later, 1942, there was another ship, a frightening sight taking me back to the Nancy. It was the burned hulk of the Normandie lying on her side, some frantically, incorrectly, crying it was sabotage, the former majestic liner that fled the German invasion, a symbol of fallen France. “Why,” I asked myself, “always wrecks?” How ironic. It was just before I entered, of all the services, the Navy.

  ~

  Now I lie here. The doctors allowed me to come home, because the town is near a large hospital. And I can always get to Portland, perhaps Boston, rather fast. Sometimes I walk around town with Pamela, one of my daughters. My wife wanted her to leave Wellesley in her last year and attend a college near us, then wait for graduate school so she could look after me when my wife was away on one of her mysterious trips to look with some older guy – what the hell is his name – oh, Étienne, a very important guy she always reminded me, she just has to work with – searching for art or archeological items for that antiquities museum. Sometimes I wonder. But there’s still Melinda, my oldest daughter, a M.D., not so far away. So it’s obvious the war and the oceans I sailed couldn’t kill me. But . . .

  _______________

  We had swept the minefields at Anzio, and now our wooden YMS – yard minesweeper – lay at anchor. On board,
we could hear the shellfire and small arms weapons. Part of the horror was watching as men fell near the shore. Soon German bombers were coming over every hour on the hour while German Messerschmitts flew low across the water machine-gunning ships and men.

  A lieutenant junior grade, I was standing on the bridge. Suddenly another German fighter came at us and at a destroyer anchored nearby. I dived for cover, listening to bullets strike the boat. As I dived I felt a sharp pain. A bullet had grazed my arm that I had raised in an effort to protect my head. I grabbed the arm, yelled at the plane, “You fucking son of a bitch.” Grimacing, I called a corpsman who gave me a shot of morphine. I began to relax, even smiled despite the havoc around us. “Now the bombers,” I thought. “Typical German bastards, everything by the clock.” I looked at my watch.

  Soon I heard the engines. My heart pounded. My head felt warm. The bombs always fell too close. So far we had been lucky. One hit on us and there would just be splinters. Others in my squadron just disappeared, had been sunk either by mines or blown apart, shredded, by the bombs. Our sweeper was one of the last of the squadron left, eventually the only one. How kind the waters that protected us. Perhaps Neptune was weary of the shattered hulks cluttering his sea bottom.