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

Marion "Betty" Morris (nee 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. In 1941 she toured South America with her dance troupe, departing on June 6 on the Moore-McCormick line's SS Argentina, and returning on November 6 on the Grace Line's SS Santa Paula. She and Van Horne Morris were high school sweethearts. They separated when he went away to sea, but later married in early 1942, and had three children together - Peter, Patricia, and Gene.

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Van Horne Morris Letter Home, circa 1940
In this remarkable letter, circa 1940, presumably written from sea, my grandfather explains why he decided to give up his career as a merchant mariner. A complete transcription (with some annotations) follows. You can also click on the video to see Annie read the letter at a "Barchives" event (#4: "Mariners, Floating Churches & Grog Shops") which took place at the Ear Inn, September 2019.
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Dear Folks,

Five years have passed now since I made up my mind about a career, packed my back [bag?], and went away to sea. Five years of education that no man ashore would ever get, an education that was by no means confined to seafaring subjects. Five years of the same rolling ocean, the same distant horizon, the same clouds and stars of the sky. The romance, the adventure, the strange and distant countries. Ah yes, the romance and adventure. More words that originated not from the man who supposedly realizes them, but by the youth who stares out of the window of the trolley, the bus, or the car in which he rides homeward from his daily work. He sees the ships at dusk, their red and green lights twinkling as they sail steadily and majestically down the harbor to the open sea. “The open sea!” The words themselves just teem with adventure. “Outward bound,” “Over the horizon,” “Strange and far away.” Just phrases, but everyone a trap for the unfortunate whose imagination is strong and whose feet are itching to trod new places. All he can see is a picture in his mind of himself, bracing his legs on the deck of a sturdy vessel facing into a gale with a smile on his lips, a smile- for isn’t he conquering nature? Battling down the tremendous seas and surging steadily onward. He can see himself coming home with tanned and weathered face in the middle of January when the snows are deep and everyone else’s face is white. He has come from the tropics where the sun shines all the time. Yes, just as I do. My face is tanned and my hands are weathered, but I know it from experience. I know how the winter weather feels after a trip through the tropics. My blood is thinned from the heat I’ve been through and winter seems twice as cold. Do you remember how I piled on coats and sweaters, whenever I went out? That was the reason – I was cold! And home! To me it’s not a place to stay over just to glory in the excitement of my coming. Home is home, a place a sailor seldom has. It will be hard for you to believe this but many [of?] the times that I’ve longed to be at home. The back yard with its grass and flowers neatly trimmed and pruned. The cellar door with the crack down the full length of the right side. The picture of it often comes before my eyes as I study our position on a chart, and inconceivably note the thousands of miles that lie between me and the place called home. Making you realize what a fool you were to go to sea. A man without a home fully describes my own position. That probably shocks you, but try to remember just how much of the last five years I have spent at home. Three days every three months! Quite a home life isn’t it. My schoolmates don’t know me anymore. They may recognize me walking down the street, but they cannot be classified as friends. Former friends is how I think of them, and even so, they are the only friends I have. Friends are not made at sea. Shipmates – brother officers yes, but not friends. Some are senior to me and some are juniors, but there’s only one of me. We cannot fraternize- we must keep our position. At least that’s what we are told.

I know a few girls, but not very well. I dare not know them too well for fear I’ll fall in love, and have that haunting me every night watch I stand. It would be foolish to marry. Can a person live a married life in three days every three months? That was the reason I stopped seeing Marion. You remember the girl I used to go with so much during the last year I was home. Love isn’t built up by never seeing each other we decided, and parted. I know that to be true. The Chief Officer is married and his wife is just so much a stranger to him as are the women he knows in foreign parts. No – he’s not a cad, he’s just human. A man can stand just so much of his own sex, then he wants to see a woman, and ninety days is a long while to wait.

I’ve come to one conclusion. I’ll never be happy at sea. There is too much time on the ocean to think and realize what you're missing. Perhaps it is just a complex of the grass being greener on the other side of the fence. Perhaps, but I want to be able to sleep in a bed that doesn’t roll, to hear the wind rustling through the trees, each night to come to that little house, the house that took a heap of living in to make it home, and know it for what it is. And even more there is that I want – friends.
Van Horne Morris Letter Describing Typhoon, 1940 The following is a transcription of a 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