In Unpath'd Waters

None could deny that the S.S. Independence was a capital ship for an ocean trip. Adding to the normal opulence of the liner's staterooms and saloons were ballroom and calypso bands, an assortment of fandango dancers, cabaret singers and social directors, and enough rich food and free Virgin Islands rum (for those who tired of the domestic champagne) for a well-sated cruise of indefinite duration--and all at the bargain price of $250 a head. The nation's Governors, after 58 national conferences ashore, had decided to try the unpath'd waters for No. 59. If last week's excursion between Manhattan and the Virgin Islands was devoid of accomplishment, it provided at least some echoes of the myriad laughter of the ocean waves that Aeschylus once heard.

There was robust George Romney, up with the dawn and jogging about the sun deck in his sneakers, later chiding asthenic reporters: "I was up while you fellows were still asleep." At safety drill, Romney and Ronald Reagan found themselves in the same lifeboat. Their fellow potential survivors showed up in the prescribed orange life jackets, but the putative rivals, jacketless, were plainly determined to either sink or swim on the strength of their own buoyancy.

Kismet Kid. When they serve any public purpose at all, Governors' conferences occasionally allow presidential candidates to win adherents. This time there was no movement. Rhode Island's John Chafee warned fellow Republican moderates to "get hustling" for Romney. "Now," said Chafee, "is the time to speak up." If any new Romney fans did, their words were lost in the cha-cha beat. Lenore Romney pronounced Chafee "brilliant." The resolutions committee, meanwhile, was deliberating in a chamber aptly named the "children's playroom." The more controversial resolutions were either watered down or defeated.

Nelson Rockefeller took Bonamine pills to ward off seasickness, but was otherwise chipper. He lectured on the political dividends of promoting culture, huddled a number of times with Romney, and insisted: "I don't want to be President." When questioned on this score, Reagan first answered wittily enough: "I have a carry-over from my previous occupation. I never take the other fellow's lines." Then Ronnie lapsed into supersincerity by saying that "the convention, the party and the people of the U.S. will make that decision. It is not relevant what someone's personal desires might be." Translation for first voters: "Can I help it if I'm the kismet kid?"

One of the few bits of significant news to develop was Romney's bulletin that he was buying half an hour of CBS's prime time on Nov. 15, when he will substitute for Dundee and the Culhane. Did he intend to announce his candidacy? That, teased Romney, was a "possibility."

Mysterious Sea Breeze. Pending that decision, Romney leaped at an opportunity to peck at Lyndon Johnson about Viet Nam. Ironically, the chance came via Reagan, into whose hands a friendly but mysterious sea breeze wafted a radiogram from White House Aide Marvin Watson to Price Daniel, L.B.J.'s liaison man on board. Watson was advising Daniel on tactics for getting the Republican Governors to approve a pro-Administration resolution on Viet Nam. The advice was routine enough: remind the Republicans, especially Rockefeller and Ohio's James Rhodes, of their support at previous Governors' meetings. Reagan showed the message to Romney, and then had it copied for reporters. Romney used it as an argument against approval of any Viet Nam resolution.

Columnist Art Buchwald predicted that a second White House message would arrive, saying: "Disregard earlier wire. President following." Buchwald was wrong. Johnson, who had been considering a flight to St. Croix to rendezvous with the Governors, decided to stay in Washington for the antiwar demonstrations. At least he knew where the demonstrators stood.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.