There were rumblings of mutiny below decks, and up on the bridge the skipper heard them. Joe Curran, strapping (6 ft. 2) president of the salty, swashbuckling National Maritime Union, wanted to keelhaul a few of the hands who had first boosted him up from the fo'c'sle.
Until he took N.M.U.'s helm nine years ago, tattooed Joe Curran was an ordinary seaman with a more-than-ordinarily militant resentment of slim pay, mealy food and crummy quarters aboard U.S. ships. When disgruntled East Coast sailors cast off from the corrupt and ineffective A. F. of...
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