How quiet the boat is. The only sounds are the
rhythmic splash of water off the paddleboards, as hypnotic as the surge and
sough of waves along the shore. We pass by the town of Gallipolis
(pronounced galley-police). It got its name from French immigrants in 1790.
A Victorian river town, a panorama of Americana, it's neat and clean, like a
miniature village around the holidays.
Over two dozen docks interrupt the flow of the Ohio River. The river above most Ohio dams run from 18 feet to 34 feet
higher than below. Locks raise or lower the boat as much as 37 feet. At the
Gallipolis Lock water fills the lock chamber as in a huge bathtub. The
calliope plays--a tradition whenever a steamboat passes through a
lock--"Let me Call You Sweetheart." A tow waits patiently in the
river below. The huge iron gates of the lock close behind us.
It's lunchtime. Time to join in an old-time family picnic,
with fried chicken, catfish, ribs, potato salad, corn bread, baked beans and
pecan pie. The afternoon drifts by. We fly kites off the stern.
Before dinner, I stroll the main deck at sundown. Even at
that late hour a couple of sailors are buffing the brasswork to get that
luster which comes from endless polishing by tireless young muscles. Green
velvet, gleaming wood fixtures, crystal etched glass, a staircase fit for a
duke's wedding procession-- the whole interior is a survival of a palatial
past, the kind of opulent decor replaced elsewhere by concrete. I pause to
look at the hypnotic turning of the great paddlewheel and the boat's wake,
in the orange sun path like a dolphin's course, turn lavender and pink. As
dusk deepens the captain turns on the running lights, a panel of instruments
glows in the dark pilothouse.
A full moon lights the sky casting a soft glow over the
landscape. The boat's searchlight beam pierces the night casting a round
glow over the levy. We dock at Blennerhassett Island, across from
Parkersburg, West Virginia.
Dawn comes the following day as silence engulfs the Delta
Queen. The sky is awash with pale blue and yellow. A tow slowly makes its
way downriver. The landscape is soft and diffused. I stop to look at old
pictures through a stereopticon in the Betty Blake Lounge on the main deck.
After breakfast, I take a leisurely stroll around the island. The remainder
of the day is spent exploring Marietta, Ohio.
The next morning I wake up to dense fog, a total whiteout.
The Delta Queen glides through it in dead silence like a ghostly apparition,
a full 60 feet tall.
Many famous people have sailed aboard the Delta Queen.
Commemorative brass plaques, engraved with the names of the famous, grace
the doors of the cabins they occupied. Princess Margaret, Van Johnson, Lady
Bird Johnson, Roberta Peters, President Jimmy Carter--the list goes on.
Writers of steamy romances also recognized the Delta
Queen's sex appeal. Two books are set on her decks–a Harlequin romance
called the Bride of the Delta Queen and a fantasy written as a diary kept by
a chap who claimed to have been Marilyn Monroe's lover during a two-week
cruise. No such record of her visit exists. The Delta Queen seems to inspire
the imagination.
Outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, we moor in still
waters. The landscape looks soft and feathery as in a Turner painting. A
blue heron hovers just above the treetops. The river turns a deep green.
Orange flecks decorate its surface. It moves faster now. The land becomes
flatter. Farms dotted with an occasional house line the Ohio side. The
reflections of the shore have elongated into long black fingers reaching
down to the center of the earth. The river's surface takes on a silver
sheen. It takes on the appearance of melted pewter. Up ahead it's still as a
mirror.
After dinner, the pre-ragtime music of Gottshalk fills the
elegant dining salon, bringing an air of refinement, a reflection back to
New Orleans madams and quadroon balls. I can almost imagine ladies swishing
around in their bell-bottom skirts and hoops. Gentlemen, in their silk
cravats, bow politely.
We steal along silently in the fine mist towards the
twinkling lights of Pittsburgh. All is quiet, except for an occasional tow
chugging through the darkness. How silent we are. How mysterious.
The spires of Pittsburgh—great steel city and industrial
metropolis--are veiled in the mist. Lights are everywhere. The Delta Queen
seems so out of place here. A monument of steel and glass towers high above
her. It's the 20th century again.
Someone once said, "A man can never have too many
loves." I love my life, my work, and now the Queen—the Delta Queen,
that is. Next:
The Misadventures of the
Delta Queen's Calliope
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