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"A Medium in Which I Seek Relief": Manuscripts of American Sailors 1919-1940

Marion "Betty" Gilmore

Marion "Betty" Gilmore was an early member of the American Ballet Theater, founded in 1939 and considered one of the greatest dance companies in the world. She and Van Horn Morris were high school sweethearts. They separated when he went away to sea and she went on tour with the Ballet Theater, but later married in early 1942.

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VH Morris Letter Describing Typhoon Letter from Van Horne Morris to Marion Betty Gilmore, who he married in early 1942.
October 28th, 1940
Honolulu

Dear Betty,

Singapore to Honolulu, a long momentous voyage, and one I shall not forget for years to come. Why it did not terminate in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is what we are still wondering. In a moment you will understand why our puzzlement is fully justified.

Storm - a typhoon. I had once before experienced a cyclonic storm of considerable violence (doubtless you remember me speaking of it), but without excessive hyperbole I can safely say it was child's play. This typhoon occurred the night of October 20th, and it was our misfortune to pass directly through its center. Twelve hours it lasted, from 4 p.m. the 20th to 4 a.m. the 21st, and those few hours are ones I never hope to see equaled. The atmospheric pressure by barometer reading (if that means anything to you) dropped to 27:62 inches - just about as low as has been recorded since the time of Noah's Ark.

From 8:42 p.m. to 9:38 p.m. we were in the center of the typhoon. Hurricanes and typhoons are cyclonic disturbances; in other words, they are circular storms revolving at a terrific spread about a vortex, the whole affair covering diameters up to 350 miles, and they travel slowly in a more or less regular direction. The center of the storm ranges from 7 to 20 miles in diameter and is almost devoid of wind. It does have, however, tremendous seas which, due to the wind revolving around it with such velocity, travel in all directions in indescribable confusion. When two such seas meet they make a magnificent attempt to go straight up - then usually drop down aboard the ship with devastating effect.

After hours of fighting to keep afloat through the outer fringes of this cauldron of violence; with the unutterable shriek of the wind in your ears and watching it blow half the bridge away, tear off heavy wooden awnings like paper and fling them into space; feeling the shock of heavy seas crashing against the ship and even over it completely, tearing ladders from their moorings, booms from their sockets, even catching men and throwing them gasping against the rail (tho’ we were lucky in not losing a man); after hours of such hell, the silence and deathly stillness of the center area was enough to instill awe in anyone. Fifty-six minutes this respite lasted, and horrible though it was, we were thankful for the chance to take a few deep breaths before surging into the fray again to battle our way out.

To help matters in this second shorter but fiercer battle, the steering gear jammed. Not very heartening! The wind resumed its 120 m.p.h. speed without any warning - like opening a door in a gale. The ship healed over until no one thought it would ever right, the skies opened and torrents of rain fell, and the ship was smothered and seas. Visibility was zero, yet I could see the water, boiling white foam - right beside me at the wing of the bridge. Right then I decided that I had missed a lot of things in life. For two hours it was beyond description. All hands, with the exception of those of us on the bridge, were in the fire room, unable to come out even if they dared. Time was forgotten, movement about the bridge was done by half crawling half dragging oneself from one hand hold to another. Seas knocked us down, smashed in the pilot house windows, carried away both life boats and changed them into a mass of twisted and ripped metal. Booms carried away completely, and the steel bulwarks (part of the ship hull mind you) were bent in on the port side of the after well deck, and bent out on the starboard. Most of this we didn't know about until the storm ceased for we couldn't even see the masts in front of us most of the while.

Around midnight the 3rd mate succeeded in reaching the bridge, and I went below knowing that, at least, it couldn't get any worse. Every room on the ship was washed out. Every single thing I owned was slapping about in seawater. I flopped on the sodden settee and tried to assimilate sleep, but the thunder of the seas and scream of the wind, coupled with the frank expectation of never seeing daybreak again were difficult to overcome. However about three a.m. the storm began to moderate and I dozed off.

At 7:00 I awoke, stiff, cramped, and cold, and stepped out on deck to see the sun! - oh, blessed sun. The wind had gone, the sea a mere swell, and we - a miserable wreck but still afloat. More than one man held mumbled never before spoken words from their lips in prayer, but in the morning they raised their haggard and bloodshot eyes and stared at the blue sky and warming sun. After the horrors of the night before the peace of the day with like a balm, and they soaked in it almost with reverence.

Just a week later we limped into Honolulu, the old Girl seemingly proud of herself for being a worthy ship, and almost scorning her well-earned rest and necessary repairs. Many heads turned to gape at us, and newspaper men came aboard the gangway to hear the story.

We will be here until the end of the month repairing, and then on to Balboa C.Z. to arrive Nov. 20th, and Boston seven days later.

I just heard about your job with a ballet company touring. I believe that is the story from what mother wrote, though she didn't name the company. Congratulations and all that. If you are touring then I suppose the A.W.A. is out as an address, hence, the 20 Lake Avenue.

I may make Pensacola this time, at least I'm going to try again. Whatever happens, I hope we (I) will be luckier at connecting with you than the time you went to Bermuda. I'd hate to be shoved off somewhere again with only a few nights of wishful thinking to wish and think about.

I hope this elongated account of the “Tempest” proves more interesting to you than I expected. I sometimes am carried away by my accounts, especially this one. However, I'll pick a more mutually interesting subject henceforth.

Cheerio now - happy to see you shortly

As ever ---
Van

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Marion "Betty" Morris