‘The night train to New York is arriving at platform four,’ announced a harsh metallic voice. The boy had waited impatiently for its arrival. It was good of his elderly relatives to see him off on his first trip, but he was tired of making small talk and was anxious to be on his way. ‘Now you write to us from your first port of call,’ reminded Aunt Bessie. ‘And steer clear of them foreign gals,’ she added, giving a knowing wink.
Uncle Fred, straight from the Miners’ Tavern, grinned at him affectionately through a drunken haze. ‘Good Luck, sailor!’ The boy embraced his aunt and then swung a heavy kit bag over his shoulder. As he turned to shake his uncle’s hand, the old man whispered ‘Here’s some advice my pa gave me when I was leaving home. When winter’s twilight troubles you, steer to where the sky is blue. You remember that boy and you’ll be just fine.’ Aunt Bessie lifted an imaginary glass to her lips, ‘Don’t mind old Fred, he’s had one too many.’ The boy smiled, ‘I won’t forget it, sir, and I won’t forget you both. You’ve been like a real ma and pa to me.’ He jumped aboard and waved farewell through the grime of the carriage windows. As the train departed, he collapsed with relief on an empty seat. When winter’s twilight troubles you, steer to where the sky is blue. Even when sober, Uncle Fred could say some mighty strange things. The train gathered speed and hurtled through the night to New York.
Several years passed and the boy matured into a young man. Having passed his exams, he signed on as a navigator aboard a small freighter bound for the Caribbean. She was a rust bucket held together by one hundred layers of paint and ready for the breakers. Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, she got caught by the tail of a typhoon. Many larger ships and their crews were lost. Swamped by mountainous seas, things looked bleak and the crew huddled together in the wheelhouse waiting for the final order. If they abandoned ship they knew they would probably abandon their lives. In the midst of this mayhem, the young man remembered his uncle’s profound advice. He walked out on to the bridge and in a wild fury screamed at the elements.
‘When winter’s twilight troubles you, steer to where the sky is blue!’
Mistaking his outburst for an order, the helmsman altered course in the direction of a small break in the clouds. Almost immediately, the wind eased. Within an hour, the seas subsided, the skies cleared and the ship continued peacefully on its voyage. Standing in the wheelhouse, the captain eyed his young navigator with suspicion. ‘Now what the hell was all that about ?’ he asked.’ ‘It’s something my uncle told me,’ replied the young man, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his behaviour. ‘Oh yeah? This uncle of yours, is he some kind of witch doctor?’ ‘No sir,’ replied the young man. ‘He’s just a miner from Pittsburgh.’ The captain gestured toward the chart table. ‘Well you better get it down in the log book. You never know when we might need it again.’
In the fall, the young man returned home. He heard that his uncle was dying and went to visit him for the last time. Lying in a hospital bed, the old man awoke from a drugged sleep. He recognised his visitor and whispered, ‘When winter’s twilight troubles you...’ His voice faltered and the young man continued, ‘Steer to where the sky is blue.’ Uncle Fred smiled, ‘So you never forgot what my pa taught me.’ ‘No sir,’ replied the young man, holding back a tear. ‘It may even have saved my life.’
For several minutes, he sat silently holding the old man’s withered hand and then he spoke. ‘I never forgot it, but I never understood it. What did your pa mean by it?’ The old man stared bleakly from his bed; his breathing was shallow and he was very tired. It had been a long life and now it was time to leave. He beckoned for the young man to draw nearer until their faces were almost touching. ‘The truth is...’ he whispered. There was a long pause for breath. ‘The truth is..’ Yet another long pause. A trolley trundled noisily along the corridor and somewhere in the building a clock chimed the hour. The old man made a final supreme effort, ‘...I never had a goddam clue.’
Tony Crowley (c) 2003
