Sail of the century
A Jersey teenager ran away four times in 1928 until he finally got on board the voyage that made him famous
Afew minutes past 4 a.m. on Aug. 25, 1928, 17-year-old Billy Gawronski dove into the Hudson River and swam out to board a ship called the City of New York, which was sailing to Antarctica the next day.
Gawronski had no experience at sea or as an adventurer. But he had a desire to live a more exciting life than the one he was born into.
As Laurie Gwen Shapiro writes in her new book, “The Stowaway: A Young Man’s Extraordinary Adventure to Antarctica,” (Simon & Schuster), out now, Gawronski would go on to achieve it.
He was born on Sept. 10, 1910, to recent Polish immigrants. His father, Rudy, had a one-man upholstery business and looked forward to his son joining him. But with adventurers like Richard Byrd, who reached the North Pole, and Charles Lindbergh, who flew around the world, making headlines, Gawronski’s dreams went way beyond furniture maintenance.
So when Byrd announced an expedition to Antarctica that received nonstop media coverage, Gawronski hatched a plan.
Ten days before the expedition’s start, several thousand New Yorkers paid $1 each to walk the deck of the City of New York. Gawronski used the time to stake out a hiding place, which he found under a small, dark shelf near the boat’s prow.
His plan set, Gawronski swam from New York Harbor to the docked ship, several hours before the expedition’s launch.
He pulled himself onto the deck using a rope that hung off the ship, and crammed himself under the shelf. He planned to reveal himself when the boat was too far out to turn back and appeal to Byrd to let him join the crew.
He caught some sleep until he heard something creak, and was stunned to see another stowaway, a 16-year-old named Jack. They argued for an hour about who had more right to be there — Gawronski arrived first, so he believed he did — until a voice in the darkness said, “Keep quiet! They’ll find all of us!”
Bob Lanier, a 20-year-old black man, had been hiding on the ship for two days.
The boat took off shortly before 1 p.m., and the loud argument between the three gave them away. The ship’s second mate discovered Gawronski first, and he was brought to Byrd.
Despite the commander’s gentle approach — he said he “understood the tearful kid was an adventurer like him and told him not to be scared” — Gawronski was dropped off in New Jersey and sent home.
The next day, a picture of a wet and scowling Gawronski graced the cover of The New York Times.
BUT his goal was Antarctica, not fame, and when it was announced that a Byrd supply ship called the Chelsea would embark in mid-September, en route to a first stop in Norfolk, Va., Gawronski hatched his second attempt.
On Sept. 15, he swam out to the ship while it was docked in the Gowanus and hid in a supply closet. He was caught again and removed to the pier.
Then, several hours later, he tried again. And again he was caught and removed.
But when the ship pulled into Norfolk on Sept. 19, there was Gawronski, waiting for the crew on the dock in Virginia. After his parents had chewed him out on his return home several days earlier, he had snuck out the window and hitchhiked to the southern city.
By this point, the ship’s chief cook, George Tennant, was amused by Gawronski’s persistence and offered him a job as an assistant. But Commander Byrd would need to give final approval.
Byrd spoke to Gawronski and was about to approve his position when police arrived and arrested Gawronski for truancy. His parents, terrified by his latest disappearance, had called the cops.
The arrest was illegal, as Gawronski had turned 18 several days before. But this proved moot when his father showed up in Virginia and, after an angry, tearful back and forth between the two, finally gave his permission. At last, Gawronski’s dream of seeing Antarctica would become a reality.
ABOARD the ship, Gawronski was just another green crew member, shoveling coal and handling any odd job that needed doing. Once in Antarctica, he was assigned to catch penguins, which Byrd planned to donate to American zoos. He also continued getting national press for his antics, as the expedition’s publicist sent constant updates on him to The New York Times and others, making him a household name.
The expedition lasted a year and nine months. Some of the crew were aboard throughout, while others were sent home for a time. To his dismay, Gawronski was in this latter group, as Byrd sent him back after five months on the ship, to represent the expedition to the press.
He became a New York media darling almost immediately upon his return, giving an interview on WOR, then one of the most powerful radio stations in New York, and becoming the subject of a two-page feature in the Times.
During his radio interview, Gawronski displayed none of his disappointment over his shortened trip and praised his fellow seamen: “The motto of this expedition is one for all, and all for Commander Byrd. The commander is a man to inspire youthful imagination, and the gods of fate have enabled me to serve him.”
The expedition also hosted several cameramen for a documentary called “With Byrd at the South Pole.” Released on June 20, 1930, and premiering at the Rialto Theater on the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street, the film did decent business at the box office and won an Academy Award for Best Cinematography, the only documentary ever to win it.
While Gawronski was not credited, he could be seen briefly in the film, “unloading supplies on ice and building an igloo.”
Gawronski’s newfound fame however did not translate to employment, and he struggled, especially since the nation was on the verge of the Great Depression, leaving Gawronski scrambling for work throughout the 1930s.
At decade’s end, when he was 29, he joined the Merchant Marines and became one of the youngest sea captains in World War II.
The Merchant Marines would become his lifelong career. He married twice, had two sons and died in 1981.
Ultimately, his decision to stow away with Byrd set a course for a life far more adventurous than one spent upholstering chairs.
“His [time] with Byrd . . . introduced him to a world of danger and discovery that had existed only in his scrapbooks,” Shapiro writes, “and gave him the basic seaman’s training with which he made a career.”