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If I'd only known how to swim, I'd have jumped overboard. But I lay there, cuddling my little daughter, Bonnie, to keep her from being thrown to the floor, sorely aware of where I was each time I was rolled against the bunk railing as our ship tossed and turned.
It was November 24, 1954. We were aboard the U.S.N.S. General M.M. Patrick, a military transport ship converted for conveying about 700 servicemen's dependents and 300 Army GIs across the Pacific Ocean. I hadn't been so naive as to expect a government-sponsored voyage to be as glamorous as those touted in travel folders. But neither had I expected the first day at sea to be so physically cruel.
The day had started at dawn. After a sleepless night of worrying about how to survive aboard ship for two weeks without any underwear of other essential clothing, I got an early start to try to find someone who would help me locate and return our missing laundry. About thirty minutes before we were to check out, the laundry arrived. There was more than I could pack in my remaining empty luggage, so I had to make a quick trip to the PX and buy another bag.


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