A Letter in the Mail — Ben Lyons’ Tribute to Ted Scull

Ben Lyons' Tribute to Ted Scull

By Ben Lyons

Ted Scull was a singular character.

An avid reader of Cruise Travel since I was at least ten years old, I had often seen his byline in print and knew of him as a maritime authority. And when a friend at boarding school spied on my desk an article on the QE2 written by Ted, he said casually, “Oh, I know the author — he is my dad's best friend.” I was stunned, not expecting such an esteemed maritime connection to be almost literally dropped on my desk. Seizing the moment, I soon penned a letter to Ted, introducing myself and explaining my lifelong love of ships.

It wasn't long before a reply arrived in Ted's distinctive, refined handwriting. Its exact contents are lost to time, but I am sure it held some mix of ship gossip and New York City lure, and an invitation to continue the conversation. Letters and phone calls followed for years until I enrolled at the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy at Kings Point, whose shoreline offers a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. It wasn't long after I was first granted liberty from campus that Ted invited me for the first of many dinners with him (and the indispensable and wonderful Suellyn) at their apartment.

East 72nd Street

Naturally, his invitation also came with instructions; I was told which train to take and when, and, critically, which subway car to ride for the quickest exit at 68th Street. (The 2nd Avenue subway was still decades away.)

For a ship lover, dinner at Ted's was always a treat. The vintage posters and beautiful models decorated the walls and every available space. (Notably, Ted's collection was far more diverse than well-known Atlantic liners; his interests included the lesser-known liners, linking countries and cultures across the Pacific and Indian oceans.) Dinner was served on shipboard china and matching silverware. Half the fun was selecting which ship placemat I would use, and which ships the other guests would receive. (More often than not, I ended up with a QE2 placemat, but for more casual lunches, I often selected the Delta Queen.)

Dinner would be on the roof if the weather was warm enough (and often when it wasn't — Ted kept scrupulous track of the earliest and latest dinners on the roof, wanting to push the envelope wherever possible). Anyone lucky enough to attend remembers how fun those evenings were. We would carry the whole meal up from the apartment, tray by tray, and Ted would hold court, surrounded by local friends and the endless parade of acquaintances staying with him as they passed through the City. Ship talk abounded as the sun faded and Manhattan lit up.

It was during one such dinner that he told me I simply had to sail on the SS Independence and experience this last bit of American maritime heritage. I took his advice, and the next year secured a position as cadet onboard. My path to being an officer on passenger ships was secured with that decision.

The friendship grew quickly. When I graduated from the Academy, my party was held on his roof, and the spare bedroom in 10D would often be where I parked myself for weeks on end when first tentatively moving to New York.

Growler

I admit to being proud that I found a way to offer something unique and new to Ted, who had, it seemed, explored the City through every means possible. While at the Academy, I had access to a former Coast Guard icebreaker, the Growler. Many times in my first-class year I would bring her in from Kings Point and ever so briefly ease up alongside the East River seawall at 72nd Street. Ted, Suellyn, and whoever else was along that day would quickly hop over the railing in a move that would never have been allowed post-9/11, and we'd set off exploring the harbor's waterways.

One day we went as far up the Gowanus Canal as we could, past drawbridge after drawbridge. At each point, Ted chatted with the drawbridge operator, eager to learn as much as possible about this slice of NYC life. (The drawbridge operators were equally curious as to what we were doing — the Gowanus then was not exactly a tourist destination.) Another visit brought us up Newtown Creek, ever so slowly edging deeper into this industrial waterway that few people then ever thought about. Another night, we hosted a harbor birthday party for friends-to-this-day Emilie, Alex, Jon and Janine.

One April morning stands above the rest, however. That day, I left the Academy on Growler around 3 a.m. We collected Ted from the seawall at 72nd Street around 5 a.m. and waited off the Statue of Liberty. Soon, the QE2 appeared, returning to New York from her three-month-plus world cruise. Growler had a water cannon on her bow, part of her former double duties as a fire-fighting vessel. Ted, covered in yellow oilskins and doused in harbor water spray, manned the cannon as we gave a water salute to the passing liner, lit by the rising sun.

That enthusiasm and childlike wonder, I think, remained with Ted until the very end.

Ship to Ship to Ship

Ted's generosity went beyond just NYC. During my time at the Academy, Suellyn's own work setting up charter schools was keeping her from joining Ted on his many travel-writing assignments. I was lucky enough to be invited along as his guest when she could not free her own schedule.

I sailed onboard the two-night press cruise on Voyager of the Seas, my first taste of a true megaship. In typical Ted fashion, he introduced me to scores of future colleagues and friends — and it is where I first met Heidi! A few months later, I attended the Zaandam's christening, where journalists now knew me — and began offering me my first assignments, based on Ted's good word.

And as a graduation present from the Academy, he invited me along on a three-week Mediterranean odyssey, hopping from ship to ship to ship in a carefully constructed itinerary. Aboard Olympic Voyager, we touched three continents in a week. We visited Egypt and Israel, a country I have never been back to, before sailing for the first of two times on that trip into Istanbul, a city I would years later live in. Ted introduced me to its cross-continental ferry system, pointedly telling me which ferries were worth riding, and which of the modern ones were ugly and out of place. Later, we sailed out of Venice on the Costa Atlantica, towering over St. Mark's Square at sunset; Ted was less impressed by the service, however, particularly the waiter who dribbled wine across the table. Lastly, we enjoyed a week of shipwatching through Italy and Greece on Crown Odyssey.

The next year brought another epic invitation — a sailing up the west coast of South America on Marco Polo, through my first Panama Canal crossing, and then connecting on to Seven Seas Mariner to Bermuda, my first taste of ultra-luxury cruising.

Even as my own travel writing began to pick up, Ted always advocated for me and included me whenever possible. Perhaps the ultimate invitation was a joint assignment to visit the Queen Mary 2, still only half complete under construction in France. I had no idea that a little more than a year later I would be working onboard her and visiting her on that rainy day in France remains a cherished memory.

Ted's New York

Equally eye-opening, however, were the expeditions Ted led in his beloved New York City. On many Saturdays and Sundays he led us traipsing through the City's streets — the more obscure or quirky the neighborhood, the better. We walked the Grand Concourse through the heart of the Bronx, strolled the Russian community in Brighton Beach, or traversed the entire length of Broadway. Every outing was by public transport; taxis were strictly off-limits. From the architecture to the social history, Ted was, almost literally, a walking encyclopedia, and there were always enthusiastic takers when he would organize a walk. One such outing took us out to Staten Island, and a visit to the Alice Austen House — and my then-girlfriend Kathryn joined us for her first Ted walk. Years later, we returned there (via the Staten Island Ferry, of course), but this time as the site of our wedding.

Still in the City

Without a doubt, Ted had his idiosyncrasies and quirks, as we all do. Most of them were charming, and I carry some of them to this day. For instance, the ritual of evening shipboard walks or promenade deck excursions, no matter the weather, remains.

But now, as I return to New York from Bozeman, Montana, my new hometown — a choice that Ted surely never understood — the City feels different. There will be no more dinners on the roof. There will be no more guided urban adventures, camera always at the ready. There will certainly be no more dawn runs on Growler to welcome a Cunard liner.

And yet, every time I step onto the subway, intent on a particular car positioned next to the stairs at my exit, or every time I hear the history of a NYC building or pier, I know a part of Ted lives on. Every time I cross a New York street without altering my stride, no matter what the oncoming traffic suggests — because pedestrians, unfailingly, always have the right of way — I know Ted is still very much a part of the City for so many people.

Ted connected me with so many friends that remain a core part of my life today. Whether ship friends from around the world or NYC enthusiasts, they all share his welcoming personality and generosity, and a natural curiosity. With anyone willing to walk alongside him, he shared with all of us a unique way to look at the world, and it is that network of friends and a passionate community that may be his greatest legacy.

READ MORE: Here is Heidi's and other tributes to Ted Scull.

SEE MORE: Click here to see a tribute to Ted by his friends at the Steamship Historical Society of America.