Sierra City and Suez Canal

Just thinking: How many of us have said,  “I wish that I had spent more time listening to the stories that my parents were always eager to relate,” but for some reason or another we didn’t seem to have time for.

My father came to the California town of Sierra City with his family in the late 1880s. They left Cornwall England after the tin mines ran out of tin.  My father was nine years old.  I have no idea what the trip was like, but I’ll wager it must have been exciting.

The placer mining in California was winding down and people were beginning to wonder where that gold had come from that was found so readily in foothill streams and stream banks.  When they isolated it to some gold bearing quartz, the hard rock mining era began.  But,  first they had to figure out how to get it out of the ground.

And that’s what brought the hard rock tin miners from Cornwall to California. They knew how to get the ore out, they were out of work, a perfect solution.  Although several Perryman’s worked down in the mines, The New America and the Kentucky for example, (There are pictures of some of my relatives on display in the Kentucky Mine museum in Sierra City) ,  my father, when he came of an age, managed to stay ” top side.”

He worked sharpening tool bits and maintaining the gear used down in the mine.

He told me a story on one occasion that really got my attention. Sierra City did not have a bank and the nearest Wells Fargo was nine miles away down in Downieville. The custom at the time was to transport the bullion gained over the past week to the bank on Saturday.  However; there had been a rash of holdups by highway men and as the routine for delivery was no secret, the mine superintendent was concerned.  A plan was hatched:  my father and the mine superintendent’s daughter would go on a “date” to Downeyville in a horse and buggy with the gold under the seat.

Sure enough, a few miles out of Sierra City, two masked men, holding shotguns stepped out of the brush and hollered the command, ” stand and deliver.”   My father explained that they were just two young people on a date and had nothing of worth. They told them to go on their way with a stern warning to keep their mouth shut or there would be dire consequences. So, the gold was delivered and my dad had a highlight experience and story to tell. I don’t know if they ever tried it again.

I think that one of the reasons I started this Blog is to get some of my experiences and stories down in writing so they won’t get lost in that careless flow of time as my dad’s did.

So; we left Alexandria chuck full of Egyptian rice bound for Kobe Japan. The Marshal Plan in action.  We arrived at Port Said and anchored with a large number of ships waiting to transit the canal. In those days you could only transit the Suez canal during daylight hours.   Ships went in one direction on one day, and in the other direction on the next day.  The canal was only wide enough for one ship at a time and really was just a large ditch through the desert from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea.

Just watching the ships exiting the canal was well worth the wait. In the canal ships would travel at ten knots or less.  As they came out they would go to full ahead and that was fun to watch.  Some English ships were still burning coal so that the smoke stacks really smoked.  I watched the old liner, Empress of India,  go to full ahead with smoke billowing out of all four stacks.  I could just see those stokers shoveling coal into those hungry boilers.

The next day it was our turn and as I stood the 12 to 4 watch I could be a tourist until noon. There was not much to see, mostly the ship in front of you and the ship following.  Aside from that, just desert.  And it was really hot.  An ordinary seaman was assigned the job of keeping the on deck ventilators trimmed to catch as much breeze as possible for delivery to the engine room.  I was not in a hurry for my turn to go on watch.  As I recall, the trip through took around ten hours, and at that speed you do not create much of a breeze.  It was a relief to enter the Red Sea and pick up speed.

Next: A very short visit to Colombo Ceylon.

Postscript and More Egypt

Before getting back to Egypt: finally got the decision on the unwarranted traffic ticket from the Lodi court.  No explanation, no indication that any human even read our declaration; just a curt and blunt statement: Guilty. Fine one hundred and seventy three dollars.  I am tempted to write the head of the CHP and complain about the entire situation.  I feel preyed upon by officer Lowery. We were not speeding and this should not be ignored.  Maybe I’ll CC the Gov.

I remember one time In Ensenada Mexico. We, the whole family, were staying at the Marina Motel.  We were sitting on the back patio with a view of the street.  Two Mexican policemen, driving an unmarked pick-up truck, stopped, got out, set up a stop sign on the corner and proceeded to pull people over for running the stop sign.  The fine of course, was to be paid in cash.  After nailing perhaps a dozen “offenders” they put the stop sign back in the truck and drove away.  We laughed at the time, but now I think I know how they felt.  Wrong is wrong.

Back to Egypt:

I returned to Alexandria in the same Buick with the same driver.  I had noted on a map that there was a road that bypassed the villages and went more out into the Sahara, away from the Nile.  I thought that I would like to see the desert as I would probably never get another chance. The driver just shrugged his shoulders and away we went.

Mistake; instead of the excitement, the hustle and bustle of village life, just monotony and sameness. Often you could not even see the road due to blowing sand.  After an hour of this I asked him to cut over to the other road. He did, and though it made the trip longer, it was much more enjoyable.

Back in Alexandria, the ship had begin loading rice. The loading process was like none I had ever seen or even imagined.  They had set up four gangways. Two forward and two aft.  Dump trucks had discharged a large pile of rice on the dock. Several dozen laborers in long grey robes, each carrying a basket capable of holding approximately fifteen to twenty pounds of rice would, one by one, fill his basket, put it on his shoulder and march up the gangway.  He would dump his basker into the open hold and return down the exit gangway for another basket full.  Imagine, if you will, these two long circles of men, one on the forward section and the other circle aft loading approximately fifteen thousand tons of rice.  I kept thinking,  “and these are the people that built the splendor that was ancient Egypt. What happened?”

Loading in this manner took just over two weeks. This was OK as the dock was right in town and there was much to see and do with no flag pilfering on the menu.  Egypt at the time, although Muslim was tolerant of others views to an extent and it was possible to locate a pleasant pub and enjoy a beer or two.  I say to an extent as I was soon to experience another side.

Often,  when we were in what we call third world countries, we would hire, unofficially, a young man, late teens or early twenties, to do odd jobs around the ship. Maybe run errands ashore or minor tasks around the ship. He would be paid about two bucks a day from a fund we all contributed to. This was probably more than the loaders were making. Any way, one evening I was standing on the stern after dinner smoking a cigarette and he came back to take down the flag.  When he had finished we got into a conversation.  I asked him about his family and he asked about mine.  He asked me my religion.  When I told him that I was a Baptist he went into a prolonged and increasingly angry rant describing what was wrong with America and why we would never be a great country like Egypt.

Primarily:  we had two formidable problems.   We let two many foreign peoples into our country, especially Jews and blacks. Our second major problem was that we were not Muslim and that we were doomed. Here was this young firebrand standing in front of me, barefoot, with his ass hanging out of his raggedy pants,  telling me why he was so much better than me.  I was so surprised, so non-plussed that I just said,   “everyone to his own opinion” and walked away.  I could not help but wonder after that when talking to other Egyptians; do they all feel that way? Even in other more current trips to Egypt I some times would have the same thoughts.

One other after thought to that story. That young man spoke my language very well.  I spoke his not at all.

Erby was a Navy gunner on the Gayhead; we became fast friends.

Next: Port Said and the Suez Canal.