Queen of the Inland Seas

Standing on the dock at the end of Woodward, I watched the Georgian Bay Line’s SS South American steam down the Detroit River. Her twin smokestacks blazed under the sun while the ship’s band music floated in the breeze. It was the last week in May and the beginning of the 1964 Great Lakes cruising season. In my hand, I held the ship’s pamphlet displaying pictures of smiling adults promoting fun-packed cruising with excellent food served graciously. Described as a floating palace, the South American encouraged her passengers to leave their everyday woes at the Woodward dock and invited them into her carefree world of shipboard luxury while exploring ports of call from Chicago, Mackinac Island, Buffalo, and beyond to the St. Lawrence Seaway.

I needed a summer job to pay next year’s college tuition. 

“Wait tables on the South American,” my roommate suggested. “The ship is staffed with college students working as bellhops, busboys, waitresses, and other assorted positions. You’ll earn enough in tips to cover a year’s tuition. Be on the dock when the ship moors and ask the chief steward, Mr. Colley, for employment as a waitress. You have a better chance of being hired if you can play the guitar. He wants college students who can also perform in the crew show. It will be fun.” 

I could strum a guitar, but my waitress experience consisted of working behind Kresge’s lunch counter the summer after high school graduation. I’d never worked in a restaurant or dining room.

“All you need is a Z-number,” she said.

“Huh?” 

“Listen, roomy, you’ve got to become a member of the Merchant Marine if you want to work on a Great Lakes passenger ship. Take the train to Detroit during Christmas break and apply for your Z-card at the Coast Guard office.” 

I grew up on a Plymouth, Michigan farm, and finding my way alone through Detroit was a nerve-wracking experience. The application process forced me to run a gauntlet of whistling and catcalling seamen.

“Hey, pretty baby, where you going?” said a burly guy beside the office door. “Shipping on the Great Lakes ain’t for little girls.”

Shoulders squared and eyes down, I ignored the line of whistling men, walked into the Coast Guard office, and applied. Two months later, the Z-card arrived, and I became an official merchant mariner in the steward’s department.

The deafening moan of the South American’s whistle startled me out of my reverie. I watched the ship align parallel to the dock and the crew secure mooring lines. In an instant, the area became awash with humanity; vendors’ produce disappeared into the ship’s hull, busboys unloaded suitcases, and guests disembarked in noisy batches while the band played. 

As the crowd thinned, I spied a short, uniformed man with three sleeve stripes. “Mr. Colley?”

He scowled and looked in my direction.

“I want to apply for a waitress job.”

“Any experience?”

“Yes, behind the Kresge lunch counter.”

“You’ve never waited on tables?”

“No.”

Glancing at my guitar, he grumped, “You’ll learn. Follow me.”

After signing several forms, Mr. Colley introduced me to the dining room hostess, who handed me a uniform and took me to the “Harem,” a living quarter for female staff. I was given a lower bunk bed in a tiny room with six bunks for twelve waitresses. At the front of the Harem were shower stalls, toilets, and one old-fashioned wringer washing machine. 

In the dining room, located forward on the ship’s lowest deck, the hostess assigned a workstation consisting of two tables accommodating ten diners. “Dinner’s first of two sittings is five,” she said. “Be in the dining hall by four, and I’ll review the formalities. You’ve worked in a restaurant, right?

I gave her a vague nod.

“Good. Then, the protocols will be familiar. Today’s weekend cruise goes to Mackinac Island. Our passengers are high school kids on their senior trip.”

The learning curve was steep and unrelenting. Students were loud and rambunctious in the dining room. Good manners were lost in the pursuit of fun. A waitress without a sense of humor was doomed. 

Perhaps because I was new or maybe because I was lucky Calvin, an accomplished busboy, was assigned to my station. Busboys were not a part of Kresge’s lunch counter’s culture. Having no idea about their duties, I ignored him. 

“Miss, could I have more water?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, grabbing the water pitcher before Calvin reached for it.

At the end of both dinner sittings, I cleared my tables, hefted a tray of dirty dishes onto my shoulder, and headed for the pantry. On my way through the dining room, I nodded at the wide-eyed Maître D’. 

See, I don’t need a lot of experience to be an excellent waitress.

I was too busy being efficient to understand that my attitude interfered with establishing a working relationship with Calvin, who also depended on tips to pay for college. The value of teamwork escaped my notice. 

At Saturday’s Captain’s Dinner, involved in my private world of self-importance, I failed to notice the expectant undertone of the dining room staff. When the first sitting opened, noisy students wearing colorful paper party hats, ready to have a good time, quickly filled my tables. They waved and called out to friends across the room. Boys crumpled their party hats into balls and tossed them across the table while the girls ducked and pretended to be afraid. 

None of the dining room passengers noticed Calvin carrying a pitcher of ice-cold water until he collided head-on with me. I gasped as water and bits of ice poured down the front of my uniform and seeped into my underwear. As if they had been expecting it, every busboy and waitress in the dining room paused to watch the spectacle. Using the back of my hand, I brushed away water droplets from my chin while the entire dining room collectively held its breath. Dripping wet and feeling foolish, laughter rose from my belly and exploded into the room. In a moment of magic, the dining room joined in and laughed with me. Once I could control my giggles, I turned to Calvin and said, “I deserved that.”  He gave me a nod and went about the business of mopping the floor. 

That summer, I learned how to communicate and work as a team member with Calvin to ensure that the guests at our tables had an excellent dining experience. Staying calm, multi-tasking, and being willing to hustle were necessary additions to my skill set. I became proficient in balancing a tray with eight meals while managing the ship’s rolling cadence and at grabbing silverware for the second sitting as it came steaming out of the dishwasher. When the real world of serving diners collided with the carefree off-duty world, we explored ports of call or gathered on the ship’s poop deck and made lifetime friends. 

At the conclusion of the 1967 cruising season, the South American left Detroit for the last time and headed to Montreal and Expo 67. She was decommissioned that October. Eventually, the Georgian Bay line was liquidated, and the South American was left to rot in Camden, New Jersey. In 1992, she was scrapped. 

I, too, am retired. Old age has moved in and slowed me down, but I’m not ready to be scrapped. The memory of that summer on the South American remains strong and vibrant. With all who walked her decks, I share a pang of sadness at losing the undisputed Queen of the Inland Seas.

Photo by Emily Studer on Unsplash.