Becalmed

Last week in San Francisco's harbor lay the Kwang Yuan, a 28 year-old tramp three-master. Her deck machinery was rusted tight by rain, barnacles were four inches deep on her rusty hull. In the captain's quarters lounged "Captain" Chan Tze-ming; in the engine room "Chief Engineer" Wang Chi-fu reigned over nosy harbor rats and cold, dry engines. It was the Kwang Yuan's third year at anchor.

Three years ago Chan Tze-ming and Wang Chi-fu signed on in Chefoo, China, with 18 other Chinese, to sail the Kwang Yuan. The crew discovered that the "Chinese" company which had bought the craft had placed aboard three Japanese officers, learned in San Francisco the Kwang Yuan was to carry 2,100 tons of scrap iron to an Osaka (Japanese) munitions factory.

Straightway trouble broke; heads were cracked, noses bloodied in a miniature Sino-Japanese war; the Japanese captain skipped. The "Chinese" owners tried to have the crew arrested for mutiny; courts held that the Chinese consul general had jurisdiction over boats flying the Chinese flag. Messrs. Chan and Wang were promoted to captain and chief engineer respectively; the other hands sailed on other ships.

Last week, as he has every week since 1938, "Captain" Chan climbed over the side, rowed solemnly ashore, asked with impassive Oriental punctilio for sailing orders. As always, there were none. For the Kwang Yuan there may never be any. "Captain" Chan bowed politely, bent his oars back to his command.

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