Master and apprentice

By Rochelle

I have a nail from the HMS Bounty (you know, the ship from “Mutiny on the…”).

Getting that nail was part of a long process that, for me, was the equivalent of attending a great J(ournalism) school. I suspect I had the better education. That’s because I learned my craft the old-fashioned way: as an apprentice . In my case, I was apprentice to two extraordinary masters who, together, provided the perfect model of the perfect journalist.

One was the late Luis Marden, a modern-day Renaissance man famous for his encyclopedic knowledge of topics A to Z, fluency in seven languages, photographic skill and graceful prose. Bald, and with a small, trimmed mustache, Luis carried about him an air of civility that seemed almost anachronistic in a modern age, yet he wore it like a well-tailored suit.

The other was Peter T. White, who brought eccentricity, brilliance and discipline to every assignment he ever tackled. Peter — who still spoke with slight Austrian accent (from where he’d escaped as a boy in World War II) — somehow managed to combine a soft-spoken and considerate personal manner with a no-nonsense professionalism. Both were legends within the halls of National Geographic, and I basked in their reflected glow as their editorial assistant.

I admit, though, that I had trouble reconciling their diametrically opposite work habits and management styles. Luis was an easy taskmaster who enjoyed acting as teacher to my eager student. During one assignment on bamboo, for instance, he made it his mission to also teach me the finer points of fly rods, the under-the-table maneuverings he engaged in for entry to Maoist China, and the subtle hallmarks of fine calligraphy. That’s just one assignment, which produced “Bamboo, The Giant Grass,” published in 1980. Regardless of topic, Luis would top off his efforts by producing prose so finely honed it bordered on poetry.

With his photographic memory and enthusiasm for knowledge, Luis collected information with an indiscriminate passion. He had a knack for organizing these discrete bits of knowledge into context and meaning, and then shared it in fully drawn narrative. He was a raconteur par excellence, and I was his enthralled student.

But I, an undisciplined 23-year-old, also learned to play Luis’s story-telling gifts to my own advantage. A well-timed question on, say, celestial navigation, the perils of early undersea photography, or the maligned reputation of Capt. William Bligh would, as often as not, result in a pleasant break from the daily routine. If I achieved my aim, Luis would smile and unlock the cognac (Martell grand fine champagne) from the liquor cabinet beneath the cherry-veneered bookshelves overflowing with dictionaries and reference books. We would then take up a chair on either side of the old brass diving helmet on the corner table, and I’d spend the next hour or so listening to the master. This was civilized living.

Like Luis, Peter also had a passion for information. His office seemed perpetually atilt from too many books and papers cantilevered out from bookshelves, chairs, desks, and window sills. Crammed to bursting with the detritus from assignments past, his office was renowned for its clutter. One day I saw that a National Geographic photographer had set up a tripod outside Peter’s office to capture the image of an office about to implode. Another day a wall collapsed on me when I added the book that broke the bookshelf’s back.

Peter’s quest for details pushed article research to high art, and pushed me to near-exhaustion as Peter strove to learn everything about a topic. Consider this scene in Peter’s office:

Peter: “I’ve just been assigned Spain. To start, I want you to photocopy everything written on Spain in the past 20 years.”
Me: (Laughing). “That’s pretty funny. “
Peter: “I don’t know why you’re laughing. I’m serious.”
Me: “Oh.”

Over the next few weeks, the magazine’s entire editorial department asked me if the rumor was true, and Peter really had assigned me that little task. I sadly told them that, yes, it was. This was Peter’s modus operandi — research taken to extremes. And I learned that he brooked no slacking as he delved into each new topic.

Peter relied on me to do much of the early legwork in gathering information. My survival skills made sure I learned the art of the interview, so I could satisfy his high standards. Frankly, I couldn’t stand the embarrassment.

That’s because Peter would instruct me to find out something specific, say the dimensions of Angkor Wat. I would then dutifully track down the person I needed to talk to, call, ask my question, and give Peter the answer. Without fail, my answer would trigger another question.

Peter: “OK. How does that compare with the other temples in Angkor?”
Me: “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. ”
Peter: "Then call back again, and ask. "

Which I did, returning with the answer that other temples might be larger, but few were as grand. Peter would come up another question. And so on. This became a pattern that I dreaded. I still remember my mortification the afternoon Peter commanded me to make five follow-up questions. To the same person.

I vowed “never again.” As a survival mechanism I began to truly listen to the answers given, then think about the logical follow-on to what I’d heard. I learned to think the way Peter did. Essentially, I’d learned how to interview, and I’d learned how to report.

And that nail from Capt. Bligh’s ship? It came from Luis, who’d discovered the Bounty’s remains in 1951, and gifted me the nail for my 29th birthday. But Luis gave me a much greater gift than that nail: He also gave me an appreciation of the English language — both written and oral — and an enthusiasm for knowledge.

In the years since leaving National Geographic, I’ve plied my craft in trade magazines and the mainstream business press. And everyday I use the gifts imparted to me by Luis Marden and Peter T. White. I know how to get information from people who might not always want to share it. I can spot patterns in mountains of data, and turn facts and figures into readable prose. And I learned these skills in time-honored fashion: as an apprentice.

Luis Marden died this March, at 90 years of age.

August 8, 2003