The Severed Cortex

All towboaters really know how to do is tell stories, or lies (depends on your viewpoint), so I'm going to bore you with a little background and tell you a couple of stories. And contrary to what I just said, none of this is a lie.

Now, growing up in Caruthersville, Al Hicks was always this mysterious fellow to me. Most of you know that I attended school with his daughter Jennifer and although Jennifer and I were in the same grade and were friends, we didn't necessarily hang out a whole lot. I was an immature boy and she was a girl way out of my league. But, growing up in a small town means you aren't truly separated from each other. There were the occasional birthday parties, swimming parties at the Neptune or the Country Club, and of course the obligatory school related plays, band events, assemblies, and sporting events. Occasionally you would see Jennifer's dad Al attend. He was always one of those guys that stood in the back and watched you with a piercing glare. It was one of those glares that made you turn away quickly in fear that he'd yell at you. In truth, I don't ever remember him saying a single word to the rest of us kids. Which, of course, just made him that much more scary and that much more mysterious. I always wondered why you would only see him sporadically, and since kids have no compunction about being intrusive and tact has never been my forte (still isn't), I just flat out asked Jennifer one day. "How come your dad isn't around much"?
She answered me with confidence and pride. "My dad works on the river and is gone a lot".
I was satisfied with the answer, but I do have to admit that it told me nothing. Even though I grew up in a town situated on the banks of the largest river in North America, I really had no idea what working on the river meant.

And then, on January 4th, 1987, I would find out exactly what that meant. Boy oh boy would I find out.

By the end of 1986 I had moved from being a pretty good student and graduating 4th in my class, to being another of the directionless youth of America. College was really not working out for me. Well, let me rephrase that. College life was working out extremely well for me. College classes were another story, and not really a story where everyone lives happily ever after. Eventually the powers that be at Mississippi State University figured out that having me take up space in a classroom far outweighed the money I was paying them for that privilege and they sent me a letter stating so. Come on back if you decide you want to actually attend class and study. Shockingly, much to my chagrin, there were not a lot of industries willing to hire college kids well versed in beer drinking and carousing. But there were a couple like the Army or perhaps Pemiscot County Jail. There was one more industry willing to give me a shot and that was the river industry. Through some connections I got lucky and landed a job with Southern Towing Company right before Christmas 1986. Right after the new year they told me to catch the M/V Frank Stegbauer at the Caruthersville boat club chute and report to Captain Al Hicks.
By that time I was happy to have a job, but somewhat frightened about what that job really entailed. I thought I had caught a break that I was fortunate to be catching a boat with someone I knew. Well, sort of knew. I knew it was Jennifer's dad and he had a tough stare. In addition to his stare, I had some trepidation that he might remember that I was the one who forgot to pick up his daughter one time because we carpooled for a class down in Blytheville at MCCC. I prayed to God that he either wouldn't remember that incident or that he didn't know. Mostly I just hoped he would cut me some slack for being a friend of his daughter and a hometown boy.

He did not.

And five minutes after setting foot on the boat, Al's regular crew told me that Al was not one to fool around with either. You worked hard or you got your luggage and 'hit the hill'. At this point I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into and figured my days working on towboats were numbered.

I did not impress early on. The Frank Stegbauer had been tied up for a couple of weeks, and prior to sending everyone home the barges were stripped of everything that was not nailed down. And by everything I mean pretty much the equivalent of 50 train cars worth of stuff. That list of items included several 300 foot coils of lock line, at least two dozen winch wires, what seemed to me to be an endless supply of pipe fittings, and what must have been somewhere around 12,000 5 gallon buckets of oil. OK, I jest. There couldn't have been more than 10,000 buckets. My dad always taught me to be a hard worker so I didn't have a problem jumping in and starting the work. I should tell you that all this gear was on the head deck of the boat and it needed to be placed on the deck of the empty barges, a height of roughly 10 feet above the head deck of the boat. That first bucket of oil was a breeze. I picked it up, hoisted it above my head, and the bargeman grabbed the handle and placed it on the barge deck. That second bucket of oil was slightly less of a breeze. Let's just say I struggled a little bit. It made my arms a little shaky. Only 9,998 more buckets to go. The third bucket of oil took me two tries to hoist it high enough for the bargeman to grab. By this time, the bargeman was laying on his stomach in order to grab the handle from me so I didn't have to lift it so high. The fourth bucket ... well, the fourth bucket never made it high enough for anyone to grab it. My arms were shaking from the pain and as you can imagine, the crew was shaking with laughter. Even Al came out of the wheelhouse to give me the business. He didn't laugh at me or call me names or anything like that. Well, he may have laughed a little. It was at this point I wondered why I couldn't be bothered to do simple things like attend class or study or perhaps both of those things in tandem. I'm sure it was at this point that Al wondered what kind of deckhand the home office had sent him.

To his credit, Al didn't just laugh and dismiss me. He actually came down to the head deck and pointed out that lifting oil buckets over my head wasn't exactly the best way to get them on the barges. He showed me there was a better way than just trying to lift them straight over my head. Swinging the bucket and getting some momentum behind it before lifting it helped. And of course there were also the steps up to the barges. By this time I could barely get the buckets swinging so the momentum method was out of the question. If it meant I had to walk up the steps carrying every single piece of gear, then so be it. That's what I would do. And that's what I did. I that day I showed Al and the crew that I may not have had the physical strength to do the job, but it was going to take more than laughter and the glaring stare of the captain to make me back down. Honestly, the easy thing would have been to quit right there and I could have, but it was a very simple reason why I didn't and it wasn't just pride. I really wasn't much for authority figures at that point in my life and to this day I'm still not a fan. But there was something about Al Hicks that made me want to impress him that day. He ribbed me good naturedly, but he also taught me. I look back at that now and realize that it's a quality called leadership. It's a quality that few people possess. And in that short span of of instruction I went from laughing stock weakling to determined worker and I like to think Al saw something in that.

I rode with Al that year for a couple of trips, then wound up being transferred to the M/V Paulina, a 6500 HP Lower Mississippi line boat. I don't know who I pissed off to deserve that assignment, but I don't think it was Al. I worked hard for him and over that span I got stronger. Good thing too because working the Lower Mississippi river and averaging 30 barges at a time was infinitely tougher than a three barge ammonia tow. During that period Al went moved on to work the new 3800 HP Upper Mississippi boats the Southern Towing was running for the Peavey Corporation. We never did ride the same boat again that year and by the end of 1987, I had decided that maybe attending class and studying might be a better course of action for me.

Some of you may already know I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. I don't always learn things the first time. By the end of 1989 I was fed up with school and I needed money. I foolishly thought I was going to get married at the time. That's what I like to think the reality was, but I do have to admit that deep down inside I knew I had already passed a critical towboat test. I had worn out a pair of boots on the river and it was like a sickness in my blood. I needed to go back out there again. I called Bobby Jones and a couple of days later I was catching the M/V Frank Peavey, an Upper Mississippi line boat, in St. Louis. Now I had never worked an Upper Mississippi line boat and I have to tell you I was real nervous about doing so. The rumor was that there was a constant barrage of work. On the Lower Mississippi there might be times where a deckhand would be caught up on all his work. On the Upper Mississippi that almost never happened. There was a lock to make almost every watch, sometimes two of them. But, after a trip or two I realized that the Upper Mississippi was much better than the Lower Mississippi and quite frankly it suited me perfect. You were always busy and because of that, the days went by quickly. I made a couple trips on the M/V Frank Peavey and I guess Al must have gotten wind that I was back on the river. Most likely Captain Robert Yount told Al on the radio he had a Caruthersville boy on his boat. So, by the summer of 1990 I was told to catch the M/V Frederick B. Wells, the boat run by Captain Al Hicks. During the rest of 1990, unbeknownst to me, Al watched me real close.
In the Spring of 1991 I caught the M/V Frederick B. Wells unaware that Al's plan was to promote me to be his 3rd mate. By the end of 1992, through a series of really bad mates he had, he tapped me to run 1st mate for him and run his crew. I kept a clean boat. I ran a solid crew. To this day I will argue me leading the charge, Keith (Fish) running 2nd mate, and John Esser running 3rd mate, we were the fastest tow builders and lock makers of all the Southern Towing crews. While most crews took 2 hours to make a lock, we could do it in an hour and fifteen minutes. But let's not fool ourselves either. We were good because Al Hicks was a hell of a towboat pilot and the confidence that he had spilled over to us. I like to think that we reached that level of efficiency because we constantly learned. I learned how to put tows together and work a line. Al learned how the water beneath him reacted every time he made a lock. It became ritual for both of us. And I like to think that he also saw that in me.

Let me give you an example. Lock 17 southbound with 15 loads is a bear. Most pilots nose the head of the tow against the long wall, catch a line, then work the stern in slowly against the line. I've seen some pilots draw that inch and a half lock line down to the diameter of a quarter. It smokes and pops and quite honestly makes a deckhand real nervous. Let's call it pucker factor nine. Deckhands walking out to the head of the tow to make Lock 17 southbound are prepared for the catch a line contingency. My deckhands were always prepared for that. But, I can't really remember a time where we had to catch a line with Al. He understood the river. He watched. And learned. He figured out that you could flank in slowly, bump the stern of the barges against the rock revetment, and it would start the whole tow swinging to the wall. As soon as the tow got to about 40 feet wide off the long wall, Al would start moving the tow down in to the chamber. We'd clear the short bullnose, then clear the lock gates, and as my deckhands headed back to set up the break coupling for the two lock process, Al would come over the speaker and say, "thought you were going to have to catch a line there didn't you". "Nah", I'd holler back. "Not with you. Those lazy deckhands were kicked back on that coil of lock line smoking cigarettes the whole time", I'd add. He knew darn good and well I was prepared to catch a line and I knew darn good and well he was prepared to use one if he really needed it. He liked the challenge of being able to not use one and I liked being able to sit back and watch him work those magic sticks without having to worry about the safety of my deckhands.
To some, that whole encounter may have looked like we were just making a lock. It was more than that to me. Every time it was a learning experience and the fact that Al was confident and up for any challenge was not lost on me. These are simple things that I carry with me today in my job. I have learned that confidence, and challenges, and learning are the things that separate you from the rest of the crowd. They are the things that all good leaders have.

By 1993 Al was letting me get more involved in the process. Orders would come in from Peavey on barge pick ups and drops and he'd just give them to me. I'd figure out the best possible spot to slot them in the tow so that we had a minimum of tow work. I'd try my best to make sure he didn't have to push a square end barge anywhere. Occasionally we'd have no choice, but he knew that wasn't always my fault. "Don't let me have to back on a square", he'd say, and I'd make sure that didn't happen. After awhile he stopped checking the grocery lists and would just let me call them in. I will say this for Al. He was never one to let his men go hungry and he made sure I understood that. It's just another trait I learned from him and it's a mantra that I tell my supervisors and leads at work. There is no manual for managing people, but there is one truism: treat everyone with respect and everything else will fall in line nicely for you.

Later on Al started encouraging me to get in some hours steering. It was something I always wanted to try, however once the company realized they could cut a deckhand and still get by, steering became harder to do. Instead of three men per watch there were now two and the mate, who could usually delegate the mundane chores to the other deckhands, found himself picking up that slack. Well, the good ones on my Al's boat did. I can't say that was true for all the other boats in the fleet. But, that meant there was less time for steering. By the time you made a lock, or completed some tow work, your shift was pretty much over. I'd pick up thirty minutes here and thirty minutes there, and mostly when we ran northbound. Running southbound with loads was a little more dicey. I'd sit there between the sticks, fire up a Marlboro red, watch my radar, refer to my charts (because I didn't have all the daymarkers and lights memorized like the old timers), and listen to Al tell stories. Or lies, depends on how you want to look at it. He'd give me advice here and there in the beginning. "Watch the set in this crossing. Don't square off your turn here. Don't get too close. There's a missing black buoy here marking that dike". I took it all in, hoping to learn from the master. As time went by he'd say fewer and fewer things to me. He let me absorb them on my own. At times, I may even ahve become lazy with it. He would have nothing to do with that though and he'd let me get into my own trouble. Sometimes I would catch it myself, but one day I didn't.

Pushing out of Smith Bay and heading over to Dark Slough Foot is a simple crossing just above Lock 13. Simple for most pilots that is. The wind was blowing pretty good that day but we were fortunate that we had a couple of loads to go along with our empties. They help weigh down the empties from the effects of the wind so I wasn't overly worried about wrestling mother nature's breath that day. I was on the lookout for it though and because I know that Mother Nature is much more powerful than anything man can come up with, out of respect I kept the head pointed into it as much as I could. I did so at the expense of all the other things I'm supposed to watch though. Halfway up through the crossing he let me get in just about as bad a shape as he could stand. Finally he just said as calmly as you please, "You plan on wrecking this thing"? "What do you mean old man? I'm pointed up in the wind like I'm supposed to and I've got the head of the tow up there hugging the reds", I said, confident that I was right and he was wrong. "Where's the stern", he said? I turned around and sure enough, the stern of the boat was nipping along the black buoy line. I had completely forgotten about the set in the crossing and it was pushing on those loads that I thought were my saviour from the wind. What I thought would be the one thing to help me in the wind, turned out to be my thing that nearly burned my bacon. I kicked the engines up and burned a little more fuel than I was probably supposed to. I imagine the engineer was sitting in his room wondering why we needed the extra power. I was able to recover, but only through the strength of the boat, not through my own skill.

That day changed me. I knew I would never be the same kind of pilot that Al was. I think Al knew that day changed me too. Sure I still walked up there and steered, but I did so to pass the time, not because I had the fire in me to be a pilot. I did get better over time. I even got to the point where I'd turn around and find out Al wasn't even in the pilot house with me. I like to think he was downstairs reading a book or catching deckhands goofing off, but I knew better. He was most likely standing on the deck below me watching, and learning, and waiting for me to make another mistake so he could come save me from my own stupidity. Something that he may have never realized that he had been doing as far back as that very first day I worked with him.

On the day Southern Towing sold the Peavey contract to SCF and they turned the boats over to them, we dropped our tow in St. Louis. From that point we headed light boat back upstream to tie off at Economy Boat Store in Wood River, a town that strangely enough I live 5 miles from today. As soon as we shoved out of Lock 27 and headed into the Chain of Rocks Canal he called me upstairs. "Drive this squirrely thing for me", he said. I was more than happy to oblige. It struck me as odd that he was willing to let me be the last one to steer a boat that was so near and dear to him. I don't remember him saying a single word to me all the way there. He just sat on the couch in the back and watched. When we got close to the boat store, I realized I had to walk the boat sideways to get it in where they wanted me to tie it off. I looked back at him with a look that pleaded with him to take over from there. He just looked at me and said, "Go on". I bumped the empty barge in front and I could hear the deckhands laughing over the speaker on the head deck. I did get it tied off. He called down to the engine room. "Shut 'em down Marvin".

Not a single one of us wanted to ever catch a boat when it came time to go back to work, but not Al Hicks. Al Hicks relished that day. I never saw him complain once about going to work. Sure he'd miss his family and spending time watching his grandson Arthur grow up. But he had a family on the river too.
He was the best pilot I ever worked with. Byron 'Trash' Stevens was a good pilot who seldom took chances. Pat Buchler was another good pilot who liked to take a chance here and there. He'd get burned every once in awhile. Mike Pope was another good one, who despite his nervousness, seldom made mistakes. I learned from them all, but Al just seemed to be able to look at it different than the others. Call it God, or Zen, or whatever you want. He understood it on a completely different level than the rest of us. Sure he could have piloted that tow right down the center every single time if he wanted to. He just didn't want to. He wanted to learn the river on a completely different level. He wanted to become one with the river.

It was common practice to dress up on the day you were getting off a boat. Pressed jeans, nice shirt, good boots. I owned a pair of snake skin ones; back cut python and I loved them. Al owned a pair of snake skin boots too and Trash Stevens noticed that mine were similar to Al's. He got into the habit of calling me little Al, probably because he thought it would bother me. Not in the least. It was a compliment to me. Al Hicks was a man that valued family. Al Hicks was a man who valued hard work. Al Hicks was a man who was passionate about his work. Al Hicks was a man who was not afraid to stand up and be confident and he didn't care if you mistook that for cockiness. I paid attention to all these things. In my youth, my father taught me to work hard. During that same youth, Dr. Currie taught me to be a good person. But when it was time for me to be on my own, Al Hicks taught me life.