“The largest, fastest and the grandest [ships] were built and launched exclusively for the Atlantic service. As a result, perfection of hulls and propulsion was accelerated. The paddle wheel disappeared, superseded by the screw propeller. Dubious [British] Admiralty officials were convinced of its advantage only after witnessing a tug of war between two vessels, one equipped with the new device, the other with conventional paddles. Almost simultaneously, their Lordships refused to endorse an iron ship; they had it on no less an authority than the Duke of Wellington that an iron hull would not float…But having agreed to the propeller, they were ultimately forced to accept it in an iron hull, for wood could not withstand the underwater thrust of screws. By the turn of the century, the world’s greatest merchant ships sailed the Atlantic, flying the colors of half a dozen energetic companies. Whether these companies chose to acknowledge it or not, each class of vessel they built was designed in specific response to a rival’s challenge. This was the hallmark of Atlantic competition and the vigor with which it was pursued compressed a quite remarkable evolution within the span of six decades…”
- John Maxtone-Graham, The Only Way to Cross: The Golden Era of the Great Atlantic Express Liners – from the Mauretania to the France and the Queen Elizabeth 2
There is no denying that travel today has never been more accessible. Once a privilege reserved to the upper classes, there are now more opportunities than ever before to leave home. I am not a rich man by any means – my wealth being tied up in used books – but I’ve still been able to see far-flung parts of the world by the judicious use of airline miles and a willingness to stay in hostels.
There are, of course, consequences to the rise in travel, which can be seen in environmental impacts, clogged tourist destinations, and the erosion of cultural sites. More pertinent to our purposes, though, is the fact that while visiting new places is great, the act of travel is not. To the contrary, it often resembles a hell devised by Sartre, if Sartre had been a cost-cutting corporate executive: packed airports; long lines; rude employees; ruder passengers.
Travel in the 21st century can be described thusly: treated like animals; acting like animals.
As John Maxtone-Graham makes clear in The Only Way to Cross, it was different back in the old days. At least if you could afford the proper ticket.
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The Only Way to Cross is a hybrid. For the most part, it is a history, covering the heyday of the great Transatlantic ocean liners during the 20th century. But it is also a warm, exceedingly nostalgic remembrance from a guy who used to travel on those ships.
This brings us to a salient point, but one I don’t want to endlessly belabor: Maxtone-Graham did not travel like most people on Transatlantic steamers traveled. As he notes on the first page of his introduction, he is descended from a Scottish lord, and began traveling with his family back-and-forth across the Atlantic at the age of ten. The vast majority of folks during this time only made the trip once, in steerage, for the purpose of immigration. While Maxtone-Graham’s descriptions of the luxurious saloons, staterooms, and dining rooms represent the stately heart of The Only Way to Cross, they were not available to everyone.
That said, Maxtone-Graham – who died in 2015 – seemed like a wonderful gentleman. He looks exactly how you’d expect a man with such a hyphenated surname to look; he loved the sea, and ships, and talking about both; served in the Marines during the Korean War; and fathered Ian, a writer on The Simpsons.
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According to Maxtone-Graham, travel during the Golden Age of Steam – from the Mauretania in 1906 to the Queen Elizabeth 2 in 1969 – was a different, more civilized kind of beast.
Unlike the sardine-seating of modern jetliners, the ships of yore were huge floating palaces languidly crisscrossing the busiest sea-lanes in the world. Travelers did not have to worry about baggage fees; they showed up with mountains of luggage. There were fights over seating, but these involved tipping stewards to get the best deckchairs. There were divertissements aplenty: gymnasiums, swimming pools, Turkish baths, reading rooms, smoking rooms, gambling, and silly hat contests. Dinner was a formal affair, announced by bugle and requiring a tuxedo and black tie.
Oh sure, every once in a while your ship would sink, and you’d be required by breeding and social custom to either meekly enter a lifeboat or cheerfully plunge into an ice-cold sea, there to drown or freeze. Most of the time, though, it was just caviar and champagne and attentive stewards and putting a fiver into the daily distance pool.
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The historical sections of The Only Way to Cross proceed in chronological fashion, describing the design and launching of the most famous and opulent liners. Unsurprisingly, there is a chapter on the Titanic, but despite the book’s opening line – “The North Atlantic is the most dangerous ocean in the world” – this is not a compendium of shipwrecks and disasters. A lot of time is spent on more mundane matters, such as the international competition between shipping lines. For example, Maxtone-Graham devotes an entire chapter to Germany’s super-German behemoths, such as the Imperator, which would have dwarfed the Titanic, had the Titanic managed to get across the ocean even once.
Though the Atlantic is ravaged by storms and studded with icebergs, the most dangerous thing upon the seas is man. Thus, much of The Only Way to Cross concerns the two World Wars.
In each of these terrible conflicts, these beautiful ships – with their raked lines, lavish appointments, and stylistic flourishes – were turned into mundane auxiliary cruisers, troopships, or hospital ships. Many turned into casualties. Titanic’s sister ship, the Britannic, struck a mine. Both the Carpathia – which rescued Titanic’s passengers – and the Californian – which ignored them – were torpedoed and sank. Most infamously, the sinking of the Lusitania by a German U-boat in 1915 – dumping hundreds of women, children, and infants into the waters off the Old Head of Kinsale – helped to propel America into the First World War.
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The Only Way to Cross is also part travelogue, interspersed with Maxtone-Graham’s own experiences as a traveler.
For obvious reasons – I am not 100 years old; I am not from old money; I am not from new money – I have never taken a transatlantic steamer. My interest in the sea really begins and ends in the study of shipwrecks. However, I found it quite appealing – and mentally refreshing – to actually learn about a normal voyage, rather than a doomed one. I enjoyed the sections on the quotidian rites of daily life on a passenger liner, whether that be the formalities of dinner seating, or the tactics used by professional gamblers to make their marks.
Maxtone-Graham mostly writes about this in the past tense, a time already gone, as it mostly was when this came out in 1972. However, there are times he slips almost unconsciously into the present tense, writing about tipping your steward and getting through customs in a way that sounds like useful advice for your next trip. Strange as it sounds, it gave me a pleasant wistfulness to discover the sacraments of a dead tradition, a nostalgia for things unexperienced. There were moments when I felt like I could book a ticket, show up at the dock with a carload of baggage, board the ship with confidence, and comport myself properly at dinner. Also, I’d know right away about all the professional gamblers, because they’d let me win a bunch of games first.
Alas, that time is gone and those ships are gone. The lucky ones were turned into scrap and recycled into other things, a slow, undignified erasure. The unlucky ones rest on the ocean floor, picked apart by treasure seekers, rusting into dust, and haunted by ghosts. This Golden Age feels both recent and a million years ago.
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As I said up top, I don’t intend to beat the dead horse of class. It’s no secret that the fancy, stylized, dreamlike crossings described by Maxtone-Graham amounts to only a fraction of the experience.
To his credit, Maxtone-Graham makes a couple of feints toward the broader reality. Indeed, he starts with Charles Dickens’s miserable 1842 voyage on the Britannia, to show that things were not always so genteel. He also includes a solitary chapter on steerage passengers. This is a rather short and lonely passage, especially considering the fact that shipping lines – not unlike today’s airlines – made their margins by emphasizing quantity over quality.
Clearly, Maxtone-Graham wrestled with this very concept. Within the span of two pages, he grapples with the conditions in Third Class (“vaguely prisonlike,” but “clean, honest and reasonably priced”), muses about the reactions of steerage passengers to their quarters (“My own suspicion is that…these grateful people would have settled for anything”), announces that steerage-class women would time their pregnancies to give birth during the voyage (for the ostensibly higher level of medical care), and finishes his thoughts with an admonishment to the upper classes not to go “slumming” in third-class. Apparently, visiting steerage was – for some elites – part of a voyage’s adventure.
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Planes have supplanted ships as the chief mode of international travel. This is both a miracle and a nightmare, a paradox at 35,000 feet. On the one hand, you have the cramped seats, the lack of legroom, and the asshole in front of you who put the seat all the way down; you have crying babies, screaming kids, and slurring drunks; you have the death-by-a-thousand-surcharges, along with the vague suspicion that your luggage is going to Vienna, while you’re heading to Vermillion; and you have the ever-present feeling of being bulk freight shipped by a faceless corporate entity, because you are.
On the other hand, you’re in the sky, flying faster, higher, and longer than any bird in it’s wildest, most hallucinatory bird-dreams.
The upshot is that despite its ritual degradations, air travel can safely get you from one end of the earth to the next in a matter of hours. With all due respect to those motivational posters: the destination is the destination.
Maxtone-Graham takes us back to a time when the journey meant so much more. I don’t care if his vision is a bit sepia toned. Sometimes – just sometimes – the past can be a pleasant place to visit. And all of this without having to pay for your carry-on, go through security, or develop deep vein thrombosis in your comically-small middle seat.