The Fate of the SS United States, Bill Clinton, and Me

We were 22 when we sailed across the Atlantic. Now we’re 78, and the SS United States is being evicted from its pier and sunk off the coast of Florida.

Friends,

It’s an ignominious end to a glorious run. The SS United States — arguably America’s greatest maritime achievement, whose maiden voyage was in 1952 and which came to be called “America’s Flagship” and still holds the record for the fastest crossing of the Atlantic — is set to be sunk off northeast Florida’s coast to become the world’s largest artificial reef.

Facing an eviction order from the operator of a Philadelphia pier where she’s been docked since the 1990s, the grand old liner has been sold to Florida’s Okaloosa County in hopes that her sunken hull will bring divers and tourism.

I met Bill Clinton on that ship in October 1968, sailing from New York City to Southampton, England. We were 22 years old. He and I, along with 30 other young American men, had won Rhodes Scholarships to study at Oxford. (Women were not allowed to compete then.)

We were heading to England by ship because that had been the tradition for newly selected Rhodes Scholars. Several days at sea were supposed to give us time to get to know one another. We selected the SS United States because she was venerable and majestic.

But the crossing was so stormy that most of us spent a good part of our time alone in our cabins, seasick.

I retired to my bunk and tried not to think about food.

Several hours later I heard a loud knock on my cabin door. I staggered over to open it and found a tall, curly-haired fellow with a big grin holding a bowl of chicken soup.

“Hi, my name is Bill,” he said in a syrupy southern accent as the ship rolled and the soup sloshed. “I heard you weren’t feeling well. Thought this might help.”

He handed me the bowl. (He didn’t say “I feel your pain.” That came years later in his presidential campaign.)

“Well, that’s awfully kind of you,” I said, taking the bowl in both my hands while trying to steady myself and not barf all over the young man.

“I’m Bob,” I stammered. “I’d invite you in, Bill, but …”

“Oh, that’s okay. We’ll have time later … I’m from Arkansas.”

“Well, that’s really great. I’m from a little town in New York state.”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he grinned. The soup was sloshing over the sides of the bowl, and I desperately needed to use the john.

“Er, what’s amazing?”

“Small-town boys. Did you ever think you and I would be here?”

“No. But sorry, I’ve got to …”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gettin’ on.” He turned and walked off, his hand on the wall of the corridor as the ship rolled.

“Thanks, again,” I called after him. “Very nice of you.” I was genuinely touched. He waved as he walked away.

Despite the rough seas, the journey felt restorative — an escape from a nation that seemed to be losing its moral compass. Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated in June; Martin Luther King Jr. in April. The Vietnam War was taking a horrific toll. During the Democratic convention, recently ended, police had clubbed protesters.

My other recollection from that voyage occurred in the ship’s stateroom, on one of my few outings from my cabin. It was almost empty except for a pale, thin, gray-haired man sitting at a far table, smoking a cigarette.

I sat down and introduced myself. He told me his name was Bobby Baker. Of all the people to be on this ship, he was the last I expected — or wanted to talk with.

If you don’t remember, Baker had been a crony of Lyndon Johnson’s. He was secretary to the Democratic Party when LBJ was Senate majority leader — until Robert Kennedy, as attorney general, exposed Baker’s alleged deals with organized crime and Baker was forced to resign. Kennedy’s investigation led to allegations that Johnson himself received kickbacks from military contractors. It was rotten stuff, even worse when several newspapers found evidence that Baker had also been procuring women for JFK.

Baker and I exchanged a few polite words and then I excused myself, pointing to my stomach. He said he understood. I headed back to my cabin.

That Bobby Baker had chosen to travel to England on this particular ship, on this particular crossing, seemed a cruel joke — as if to say there was no real escape from the vile of America.

Days later, after landing in Southampton and taking a bus to Oxford, Bill and I were assigned “digs” at University College.

Legend had it that the college was founded in 866 by King Alfred. The faculty almost came apart over whether to celebrate its 1,100th anniversary in 1966 — detractors grousing that once they began celebrating every hundred years there’d be no end to it.

Bill and I spent much of the next two years talking about Vietnam, American politics (he already had his eye on becoming governor of Arkansas), food (he liked British hamburgers, which I found revolting), and British girls.

He had an endless stream of stories about people he knew from Arkansas, including politicians, and odd and funny bits of American history he’d picked up along the way.

Oh, and we did not inhale together.

To say that Bill Clinton at the age of 22 enjoyed people and conversation is to understate the voraciousness of his appetite. I was struck by his affability, his desire to connect, his empathy. I mean, when I was seasick, why should he come down to give me chicken soup? I was also struck by his delight in telling stories. He loved an audience, even if it was an audience of one.

I was also impressed by his ambition. He knew where he was going.

We were so young then, and we were out of America for the first time in our lives. It was glorious.

The SS United States, facing an eviction order, is now headed to Florida to be sunk.

Bill and I, both now 78 years old, will be facing our own eviction orders, although it’s impossible to know when. I can’t speak for him, but I’d rather not end up an artificial reef.