Only his family and his few friends ever knew about the emotional and physical turmoil that enveloped Mahan each time he took command of a ship. On one occasion he confessed to his wife Ellen that he sometimes feared ‘breaking down under the uncongenial load’ of the captain’s labor. ‘You have no idea,’ he said, ‘how hard it is to keep these ships straight.’ Mahan well knew, and often admitted later in life, that he had chosen the wrong career. Nonetheless, he persevered.

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Soon after Mahan took command of the USS Wachusett in 1883, he added to his unfortunate record, according to a young officer aboard named Hugh Rodman, by colliding ‘with a bark under sail, which without question had the right of way. It was our duty to keep clear.’ The astonishing accident, Rodman later remembered, occurred on a smooth sea in broad daylight. ‘The greatest naval strategist the world has ever known,’ he wrote, ‘was not a good seaman.’ The other vessel ‘was sighted broad off our starboard bow, distant several miles. Yet we collided with her and were badly damaged . . . .’ Rodman also recalled that when another of the Wachusett’s officers was questioned about the unnecessary collision, he sarcastically replied, ‘Why, the Pacific Ocean wasn’t big enough for us to keep out of the other fellow’s way.’

Commander Mahan remained with the Wachusett until the old warship was mercifully decommissioned in September 1885, after which he began a stint lecturing on naval tactics and history at the newly-established Naval War College in Newport. By the time Mahan took charge of his last command, the USS Chicago, in 1893, he had been regularly shifted back and forth between sea duty and classroom assignments. Although he much preferred life on land, this situation helped neither his self-confidence nor his skills in navigating a ship.

With each mishap at sea, Mahan felt greater stress. He often asked his wife to pray for him that he ‘may be upheld through the remnant of the cruise.’ Aboard the Chicago, Captain Mahan seldom left the bridge when in the vicinity of other vessels, and his self-induced anxiety caused him constant stomach irritation. His powerful fear of the sea and possible collisions with other ships left him close to a nervous breakdown and caused him to begin to consider seriously an early retirement.

On May 27, 1893, Mahan’s fears were once again realized. In a minor accident, the Chicago, with Mahan on the bridge, had a brush with the USS Bancroft, a Naval Academy training ship, at the New York Naval Shipyard in Brooklyn. Neither vessel was seriously damaged, but this latest mishap unnerved Mahan and kept intact his record of having ‘grounded, collided, or otherwise embarrassed every ship (save the Iroquois) he ever commanded.’

Shortly after the Chicago-Bancroft collision, Mahan injured his knee and lower leg, causing him to be placed on the restricted-duty list. It was a welcome respite for the commander, who had grown weary of the ‘active pursuit of the sea and its new naval monsters.’ His recuperation also kept him out of trouble. He reported with some relief to his daughter, Ellen, on July 9, 1893: ‘The doctor says I must go on the sick list for a fortnight and keep my leg perfectly quiet, so if the Chicago does anything amiss in that time I shall not be the culprit.’

While the injured captain was on leave, the Chicago was involved in another collision. The captain of the British tanker Azov crashed his ship into the Chicago as it was anchored in the Scheldt Estuary in the Netherlands. Mahan’s crew–obviously well drilled in emergency procedures–prevented major damage to their unlucky ship by quickly plugging the gashes left by the tanker.

By early December 1894, Mahan had had enough. For several years he had been writing with much success, when time permitted. He knew that his greatest accomplishments would come not as a naval officer, but as a writer and historian. Few of the men who had actively served with him could argue with the logic of this conclusion. By the time of his death in 1914, Mahan’s reputation had long transcended the limited circles of the U.S. Navy. His true talents as a naval strategist and historian were borne out in the 137 scholarly articles and 20 books he had written, and his The Influence of Sea Power had altered modern naval planning.

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