Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 190, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 August 1914 — A DAY WITE THE PILOT [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A DAY WITE THE PILOT

FIFTEEN or twenty minutes prior to the sailiiig hour of a huge transatlantic liner an unassuming man carrying a traveling bag joins the stream of passengers going up the gangplank. There is nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of other male travelers, and you suspect he is-an American business man going abroad for recreation. And yet for the space of two hours (sometimes 20) this individual guides the destiny of the ship and its human cargo through the tortuous waters of the bay until it reaches the open sea. He is a pilot for the port of New York and there are 119 of him in active service at the present time, writes Thornton Fisher In the New York Tribune.

I was privileged recently to spend a work day with the pilots. It began at pier 62, North rivet, where the steamship New York was waiting for the signal that sends her on the voyage across the sea. The final blare of the bugle warning visitors ashore was sounded promptly at the hour of 10 and gangplanks were released and, with an almost Imperceptible movement, accompanied by a prolonged blast of the siren, the big liner left the dock and pointed her prow to the eastward. All Very Simple. On the bridge before the wheelhouse stoop Captain Roberts, a navigator, and Pilot Sayles, who had apparently been one of the throng of passengers a few brief moments before. One of the deluslons of humankind is the mental association of authority at sea with gllttdringly uniformed men who with ceaseless vigil pace the ship’s deck. However, this keen-eyed, ruddycomplexioned man standing at the captain’s side, attired in civilian apparel, does not bear a visible mark Indicative of his calling, unless It be the alert manner with which he scans the water or searches Intently for landmarks on the shore. Out past Governor’s island, the statue of Liberty, slowly by Staten Island and you are In the open. Qn one side of the Jersey Highlands lofty shores rise, only to recede and disappear from view. In the distance Long Island is lost where the ocean meets the sky. The ship plows cautiously through the waters, obeying the slightest command of the pilot on the bridge, since it would be a comparatively easy matter to run her nose Into the mud. The navigator, however, knows his course as an officer knows his beat. It may be explained that the pilot does not operate the steering apparatus of the vessel under his charge. He communicates by a word or gesture of the hand to the man at the helm all directions for the course, which are repeated by the helmsman In 'acknowledgment of the order. “Steady! Steady!” says the pilot. "Steady, sir," responds the man at the wheel. "Port,” directs the pilot, and again comes the echo, “Port” In the meantime, while the navigator is engaged on the bridge, the passengers are busy writing farewell letters or telegrams to be dispatched with the pilot Sandy Hook has now been left behind and the open sea is ahead. The pilot’s work Is finished, at least temporarily, and the captain grips him by the hand, wishes him good luck and orders the speed of the ship reduced as the navigator prepares to depart x A yawl manned by two sturdy lads draws alongside the huge vessel. “Can you swim?” inquires the kindly pilot Being assured by me tn the affirmative, he swings over the side and descends “Jacob’s lad' , ~,” as the rope ladder has come to be known among the seamen. Fact and Imagination. The uninitiated instinctively • shudder as they gaze down the perpendicular depth at the tiny yawl bobbing up and down with every wave that strikes the ship. From the lower deck to the waterline Is perhaps twenty-five feet, varying with the proportions of the vessel, but I venture the assertion from personal experience that the distance negotiated between the deck and the yawl was no less than twentyfive hundred feet. The crew, having lowered the pilot's traveling bag and mail pack, gently

urge me to follow down the ladder. I cautiously lift myself over the side and, gripping the ladder until the nails, meeting the palm, dig into the flesh, attempt to place my foot on the first rope rung. Slowly, calculating each step and tenaciously clinging to thq ladder, which sway%wlth each motion of my body, I gradually reach the bottom rung. A false movement might precipitated the novice into the water below. Timing myself, I drop into the yawl as it rises on a wave, and in a twinkling the boys are pulling with long sweep oars for the pilot boat, two hundred yards away. There is a peculiar sense of relief in feeling a solid deck beneath one’s feet again. The yawl Is hoisted to the boat’s deck, ready to put a pilot aboard an incoming ship or receive one from an outging craft. The pilot fleet has four of these boats patroling the entrance to the port of New York and one held in reserve. They are the Ambrose Snow No. 2, the Trenton No. 4 and the Washington No. 5, sailing vessels, and the steamers New York and New Jersey. This fleet is on, duty 24 hours a day for 365 days a year. A total complement of 15 pilots is maintained on each of the steamers ready /or instant duty at any hour. Through the long days and nights these men sweep the horizon for ships requiring their services. ‘ Twenty years ago there were two companies of pilots, the Sandy Hook Pilots ahd the New Jersey Pilots’ association, each operating independently. In those days only sailing vessels were used and competition was keen between the two companies. Each was eager to put its pilot aboard an incoming craft and receive the pilotage fee. Frequently these pilot ships cruised 500 miles to sea to beat their rlvals.lt is not to be wondered that the men have developed vigilance, overlooking nothing within range of vision.