The Moving Pen, Having Writ

The S.S. Empire State is 500 feet or yards long, depending on your perspective. I was never spatially gifted - ironic considering I design newspapers for a living.
In the two weeks I lived on it in dock, there was a lot of running around on my part: A lot of "Put this here" and "take this there." Meal times were quite the event, as everyone descended on free food the way many Pittsfordites I've come to know pounce on the retail clerks "beneath" them. ("You boy - behind the counter. Get this for me chop-chop!")
It was a tradition my mid-pubescent metabolism could appreciate. It helped make for one of the smoother transitions for when we were really out to sea, and I could dwell on the fact that for the first time in my life I was utterly alone. And the meals forced me to sup with a ragtag bunch I never would have met - the 40-year-old cook who looked like he was 20 always prayed to Muhammed. The chaplain prayed in a different way, though probably to the same God.
Those early-May days before we shoved off left me plenty of time to write. My priorities were screwy - why did I write letters when I could still place a collect call from anywhere there underneath the Throggs Neck Bridge and still catch the fam before dinnertime?
I hadn't much to say. Gee, mom, send me more stuff. Yes, I'm getting the hang of the washing machine. No, I'm not seasick - it's only docked in the East River, for God's sake.
When the mess hall food wasn't cutting it, I went to the earth's greatest deli, located just up the street. It was a block from the world's greatest tee-ball field, scraped together on the backs of every neighborhood kid from the past 50 years with the Great Bambino's name tatooed on his lips. The smell of hot dogs took up permanent residence, and for me, summer there will never end.
Upon these constitutionals I'd reflect on the Bronx trees and sunshine. Never in the next months on the ship did I ever encounter any malcontentious weather of note. Choppy seas, yes. She pitched at 32 degrees one day - at 40 she capsizes. I looked like a goalie, garbage can in hand as I caught the papers and objects falling from the walls.
But the walks will stick with me. Every year since, in the ast week of April, the memories come back. She'll be shipping off soon, meals at a premium.
And the moving pen, having writ, chugs on.