Call me Ishmael!

Today’s blog is going to get me a deal of criticism from the usual suspects. No doubt because I all my blogs are just what they appear, My Blogs, on My Website. I have highlighted on my website, that I understand I have right wing leanings, I’ve been around for a long while and have a seen a lot of life all over the world and have formed strong opinions. I would even agree with some of my Trolls that I am a self-opinionated beggar with extreme views. To repeat my manta, this is my website, my blog. You don’t have to read it, you certainly don’t have to agree with it and I listen to all criticism. I am also a country boy who hunted for food, during WWII, snaring and shooting rabbits and game, I no longer do so! I eat meat and I love eating fish, so it would seem sensible to manage stocks so that they don’t become endangered. It might also seem a perverse remark on my behalf, but I ate Whale meat on a couple of occasion during the war, it was awful. I also ate something called Snoek, a strange fish from South Africa and that tasted even worse.

At the very end of 2018 Japan announced that it was to restart commercial whaling in July this year, in a move that is likely to draw international criticism. It said that it is to withdraw from the International Whaling Commission (IWC), the body tasked with whale conservation. Commercial Whaling was banned by the IWC in 1986 after some species were driven almost to extinction. Japan, Norway and Iceland have been urging the IWC to lift the blanket ban and a coalition of anti-whaling nations has offered a compromise plan that would allow these countries to continue with smaller catches under close supervision. This, to me would seem a more sensible idea. Perhaps they were dragging their feet to long for Japan and their pre-emptive strike might uncork the bottle as it were.

During my rock-climbing days, spending regular weekends hanging from a rock face in the Llanberis Pass and our evenings taste testing the ales in a pub in Capel Curig, I remember one of my chums teasing our barmaid who was the spitting image of Dylan Thomas’s Gossamer Beynon, by telling her in a pseudo Welsh accent ” I really love Wales” and when she agreed with a big smile he went on “Yes, honestly, I’ve watched Moby Dick at least ten times”. It gave us all a laugh, probably helped by the local bitter.
Even longer ago, when Nelson was a boy, I was on a cargo boat chugging through the Indian Ocean, miles from anywhere when we came to a shuddering halt when we collided with an enormous Hump-backed whale that had like us been cruising along minding its own business. The collision was hard enough to result in a lot of broken crockery and a cabin boy with a broken arm. The damage to the whale was more serious, probably fatal. We stopped to examine our damage and were treated to a remarkable display as we watched the injured whale which was by then spouting blood and making heart rending bleating noises, as its partner appeared alongside it and appeared to be trying to keep it afloat.
We watched the display for ten minutes or so before it was full ahead both and we continued our way. The incident did not a lot more than give the crew a talking point on a long and boring journey. I was young enough to be upset by the fate of such a stunning beast.

A couple of years later I was aboard a large passenger liner and made a regular stopover in Capetown and on a run ashore, met up with some of the crew of a Norwegian Whale Factory Ship and over a glass of Tikki Hock ( a local brew), I related my own whaling tale. In the way of shipmates who would otherwise pass in the night I accepted their hospitality and returned with them to their ship for a tot or two. . . . . ..

Talk about the little ship of horrors, it was more like Dante’s Inferno as I was treated to a guided tour of the factory ship in full flow. A flow complete with blood, snot and horror that no-one had prepared this delicate seventeen-year-old for. The floating abattoir was as busy and noisy as any factory as workmen dealt with the huge carcase of a sperm whale with nothing wasted. Men were slicing huge lumps of flesh and blubber with long fletching knives and tossing lumps of it into huge steaming vats. They were slipping and sliding on bloody slime as they carried out their gruesome tasks. The sight and smell and noise of this steaming hell I will not carry on describing but I am sure that you get the picture.

I didn’t quite run away screaming, I just ran for the guardrail where I leant over for a ‘kit inspection’ of everything that I had eaten and drunk that day. I made my excuses and left.

Memory locked away in a filing cabinet in a folder marked not required on voyage through life.

Until that was when I read reports in the news that commercial whaling looks set to start up once more after the world had appeared to come to its senses in 1986 and said goodbye to the bloody slaughter.

I thought that we had become more civilised and had outlawed the hunting of great whales for good and allowed these marvellous and complex creatures to roam our ocean depths in peace. It now appears that the Japanese, Norwegians and Icelanders are about to convince the world’s politicians that they should be allowed to return to their barbarous ways in the of the innocents. I’m not sure that I want to still be around if they get their way. Perhaps I will hang around long enough to add my voice in opposition to try to stop this greedy and unnecessary trade.

Today, January 4th, 2019, headlines in the New Statesman reads Japan’s plan to resume commercial whaling could actually help whales. (not of course if you are a whale). The cynic in me says the Japan has never really stopped whaling, they just called it scientific whaling. The cynic on my other shoulder says if you want to know the outcome of this story FOLLOW THE MONEY.

My God! I’m beginning to sound like a tree hugger, but I assure you that I am not. I just love whales and Wales. Call me Ishmael. “There she blows! – there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is Moby Dick!”

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Dear God  – Help Me!

It has been known among my friends and family, the odd one or two.  No make that more than that;  to question that a big hairy arse like me, should have such a strong Christian faith.

My reply is usually along the lines of either it’s a personal thing, or more often “There aren’t many heathens in a lifeboat”, ain’t that the truth?  Three days in a tsunami riding out a tidal wave in a cargo boat, off Japan, having smashed both our lifeboats.  My goodness, did I pray?  The 1979 Fastnet Race which turned into the worst disaster in 100 years of ocean racing, when a freak storm hit us, leaving 15 crew members dead.  Force 10 gales whipped up 50-foot waves with 300 yachts fighting for our lives.  Our 42-foot yacht lost its rudder, which was last seen heading towards Finistere leaving a bit of a leak in the stern – rudderless, leaking like a sieve and slowly sinking as we limped towards Milford Haven, as busy as we all were, we were praying like mad and then thanked God for our survival as we walked away from the harbour, leaving the yacht to sink.  I’ve have lost count of the times I have clawed a yacht away from certain death among unforgiving rocks and have prayed and thanked God every time.

Another of my adrenaline seeking occupations over the years has been rock climbing even chalking up a few firsts on some classified as Very Severe.  In my early day I was privileged to climb with the likes of Joe Brown, Don Whillans and Chris Bonington!  And yes, many times I thought I was about to peel off and fall when I didn’t just talk to my God I pleaded with him!

At one time I was an instructor at an Outward Bound School at Burghead on the Moray Firth in Scotland and on one day we had a dozen pupils on release from a Borstal in Liverpool having the Outward-Bound experience.  One of the lads was a very likeable, very quick witted Scouse lad named Alex. We were on some sheer sea cliffs and Alex was well roped up and I was taking the strain when I saw that he was ‘gripped up’ and his legs were shaking with fright.  I shouted up at him “Alex, deep breaths, slow your breathing and lean away from the cliff.  Get off your knees and lean back.  Your knees are for praying”.  The little Scouse shouted back “That’s what I’m doing sir!  So, it’s not just me – Alex completed his climb and walked away looking several inches taller.

I’ve sounded off frequently about how the two previous Archbishops of Canterbury have damaged my church, but they haven’t damaged my faith in my God.  I have discovered a small Saxon church a few miles from where I live, it’s a walk across a field to get to it but it’s always open, peaceful and very welcoming.  When I want to have a quiet word with the boss in calm surroundings, that’s where I go.  You see I don’t only pray when I fear for my life, I pray because my God has always been there for me, and I’m still here.  Thank God.

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My Maiden Voyage Goes On and around again – A Sailor’s Yarn (part four)

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Our next instruction directed us to the Welsh port of Milford Haven to re-fuel and where we would meet up with another ship belonging to our owners that had put in for major repairs and we would take on several volunteers to replace our depleted crew.  (Our owners have only our interests at heart)!  I was involved with the refuelling and the Skipper left to confer with the other ships captain.  My innocent mind was thinking, ‘What an opportunity to clear out the dead wood’.  The Skipper returned with five deck crew and six engine room crew.

A short while later Gilbert Buttery came running up to tell me that one of the new volunteers was a cabin boy, so he wouldn’t be The Peggy any longer and the Skipper had put him in charge of sorting out the sleeping arrangements of the new men.

I disappeared to the chart room to be ready to head for the Suez Canal and we set sail a couple of hours later.  Everyone was so busy getting settled in, that it was as though we were an all new crew and when I took over my watch I found that I had a new helmsman, a very experienced able seaman of about 40 named Roger Woolf a Scouser, hereto known as Wolfie.  When we took over the morning watch at 0600 hrs we had turned in to the Gulf of Oman.  I set our course for the Persian Gulf and onwards to our destination Abadan in Persia, which now is known as Iran.  I finished my watch and after a get to know chat with the two quartermasters, the newbie, Wolfie and the old hand, Glaswegian Jonno, who also explained our ship jumpers that we abandoned in Australia while I made a pot of tea.  I could see us bonding into a good team.  Our watch had been relieved by the 2nd Mate and after I’d had my lunch, a shower and a change of clothing I returned to the bridge to watch us passing Qatar and Bahrain on our Port side.  I was wearing my white uniform and a white cap to keep the sun off as I leaned on the Flying bridge.  –  I was watching the sun sparkling on the white wave tops and it seemed to get whiter.  I seemed to have nodded off and when I awoke everything was still pristine white.  I was lying on a white bed with white sheets and a white counterpane.  The room walls were white, the furniture was white and once my eyes focused I saw a beautiful girls face with gleaming white teeth smiling at me and I closed my eyes.  I was woken by a grumpy but very familiar voice of Hamish the 2nd Mate saying “Have ye no has enough kip you crafty bastard?”.  I learned that I had collapsed with severe sunstroke and was now residing as a guest of the Shah, in his showpiece Hospital in Abadan.

Our ship was being unloaded and cleaned and would then be taking on a full load of porcelain bathroom pieces and we would be leaving for Shanghai in China in five days time.  The message from the Skipper was that my stay was all expenses paid by our host His Highness Mohamed Reza Pahlavi, Shah of Persia and it would be rude of me to look a gift horse in the mouth.  He looked forward to my presence back on board in four days time to prepare for the next leg.  That was the gist of the message but with the addition of a few Scot’s witticisms and threats from Hamish.  Oddly enough he spent a lot of time with the pretty nurses eating, drinking and otherwise partaking of the Shah’s luxury. He visited me every day but spent little time with me other than to enquire after my health.  –  I dutifully followed orders to the letter and returned to the ship wearing my neatly washed and pressed uniform, clutching a ‘goodie’ bag that contained a new bright blue silk dressing gown, matching blue silk pyjamas, silk covered slippers and a monogrammed toilet bag full of top quality shaving gear including an ivory handled cutthroat razor.  I also left with lots of hugs and kisses from several nurses.  I have no idea why sailors call sunstroke ‘the Abadan Blues’ but it was very luxurious’.  As the Skipper reminded me it is a chargeable offence in the Royal Navy.  I managed to stop my smart mouth from saying that mine was free of charge.

Back to earth with a bump as the Pilot guided us out past the biggest oil refinery in the world and out into the Gulf.  I had already spent the previous day preparing our charts and I took over the Conn from the Skipper and the Pilot.  Yesterday I had also had a stroll around the holds to look at this wondrous cargo.  –  Various assorted bath tubs that looked very regal with roll tops and Victorian legs, toilets, hand basins and even bidets.  I was picturing hordes of Chinese peasants, scratching their heads, wondering at the purpose of this unfamiliar gear.  The phrase ‘China to China’ stuck in my head like an earworm and I started to giggle.  It became an oft repeated phrase on that voyage.

I took us through the Straits of Hormuz and was relieved by the 3rd Mate, still as bellicose and antagonistic as ever.  Surely he can’t still be pissed at me over not getting a Korean medal.  I asked if he were feeling OK because he did look really rough and he muttered about having a pain in his gut.  Me being me just had to say that he should have gone sick in Abadan when I did and mentioned the luxury of the hospital and the lovely nurses and the fantastic goody bag that they sent me home with.  Well that went down well! I don’t think I’ll tell him my joke about ‘China to China’.  Fuck him! When I next came on watch, I took over from the 1st Mate and he told me that the 3rd Mate’s bellyache had worsened and he had been in touch with the British Embassy in Ceylon to arrange for an ambulance to meet us in Colombo.  I was to set the fastest course.  Hadn’t I said he should have gone sick in Abadan?  The engine room and the old ship did us proud,  Together with my brilliant navigation, we steamed into Colombo Harbour and were met by the Pilot boat together with the Pilot, a Doctor and what today we call Paramedics.  The Quack diagnosed the 3rd’s ulcer as a severe burst appendix.  The Embassy had arranged for the patient to go into the local Royal Air force Base, hospital.

The Skipper and Hamish accompanied the sick man to hospital and returned late in the evening to tell us that we were lucky that he hadn’t died on us and that he wouldn’t be returning  –  The Embassy would be arranging his repatriation once he was well!  Hamish opined that he bet it would be on an R.A.F. plane as that would be the cheapest.  This smart mouth just had to say “I bet he doesn’t get a Goody bag”.  The Skipper then said “Hamish and I have been talking things over and he has nearly convinced me to make you up to 3rd Mate.  I say nearly because I’m going to put down a proviso on your promotion.  I’ll go along with it if you promise to button your lip, you are nowhere near as clever as you think you are, keep your opinions to yourself.  You don’t always have to have the last word – Promise?”  When he left Hamish said “ You do come across as a bit arrogant sometime but I convinced the old man that you were covering up nervousness.  Don’t let me down”.

The next morning I went to clear the Third’s cabin and packed all his belongings into two cases, with the help of Gilbert Buttery and dispatched him in a taxi to deliver them to the British Embassy, I told his that if he didn’t come straight back we might sail without him and he would probably be repatriated with the ex 3rd Mate.  (Note to self – Also I must stop teasing Gilbert)    Having cleaned out my predecessor’s belongings I proceeded to make it my cabin.  Gilbert returned post haste and had obviously been giving things a lot of thought.  –  The first thing he asked was could he join my watch as a runner because he wanted to learn how to steer the ship.  I told him that we would be returning to a three watch system and my watch would be permanently nights, 2200 hrs to 0600 hrs.  The crafty little devil said “I don’t mind that at all Third!” The 1st Mate and Hamish were more than happy to leave most of the chart work to me. – My two helmsmen were more than happy to let Gilbert take the lion’s share of their work and make the tea.  He was keen to also learn how to use a sextant, name the stars etc. So all in all we were a happy ship.

In fact the fey little boy Gilbert Buttery from Plumstead no longer existed.  During the chatter I suggested that my predecessor hadn’t liked me because I got the Korean medals and he didn’t, Gilbert put me straight.  He told me that a long while before that when you were robbed in Georgetown he heard that you had robbed of a nearly new Rolex watch that had been a gift for when you joined your first ship. He went off on one and was ranting about only a posh twat like you would have a daddy to give him a Rolex. Don’t hold back Gilbert!  He went on “Then when you got those medals and he didn’t he went apeshit.  He reckoned your daddy had bribed the Skipper to get you aboard” I didn’t enlighten him, in fact I made a vow that I would never pass on any of my personal information, ever.  Gilbert was then earmarked as my personal informant ad as he had named himself as my runner I re-named him Gunga Din.  I’ll also make certain that he’s not a better man than I am!  A few days later Gunga Din told me that a lot of the crew reckoned that the ex 3rd had cleared immigration in San Pedro in front of me and he had set me up for special questioning by one HERR HOSTETTER.  That bastard I hope that the RAF makes him parachute back into Wales and forget to show him where the ripcord is.  Not that I don’t wish him a full recovery!  Anyway I got his medals, was treated like a king in the finest hospital in the world and a Goody bag.  I also got his job and his cabin so sod him!

Our course took us between the Malaysian Peninsular and Sumatra and I received a visit from the jovial 2nd Engineer who appeared to run the engine room.  I knew it was serious because he had donned a shirt for his visit.  He told me that the Skipper had said that I was the man to see. – God I must get myself a bigger cap!  Apparently on our ‘blues and twos’ run to save the life of my predecessor (SPIT) we had put a lot of strain on both boilers and we were a long way from home.  If I could reduce speed by a few knots and plot a course accordingly the old girl would appreciate it and he would stand me a large drink on our next shore run.  I told him that we were stopping over in Hong Kong for a couple of days – He blew me a kiss and left for his underground lair, removing his shirt as he went.  I carried out the necessary course adjustments and unbelievably it added nearly 5 days to our journey.  We all felt that we had nearly stopped and going through the South China Sea the wind had also dropped to a sea of glass.

Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion.  As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

We arrived at Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong and were berthed for refuelling.  Even in the 1950s it was a stunning place and I’ve returned a few times since.  Only a few 100 yards away from the ship I found a tailor who instead of taking my ‘Snotty tabs off my lapels and fitting my 3rd Mate gold rings, he would make me a complete new uniform complete with two pairs of trousers and deliver it to the ship in less than 24 hours.  He convinced me that he was the world’s best tailor and was a fantastic salesman because I also order two civilian suits in the finest material a mixture of wool and cashmere, one in fawn and the other in navy blue.  I picked the style from that current year’s Gieves and Hawkes of 1 Savile Row, Mayfair, catalogue.  I had no real idea of the currency rate of exchange was but when I offered to pay in US Dollars I learned how the Chinese Kow Tow was performed.  My total bill was $32 US or £24 GBP.  If my predecessor had known that my sponsor, not my daddy, had also given me an envelope with $50 US in it before I left he would have had a relapse!  I believe that the tailor put his workforce on all three floors of his building to work and I took delivery of my 32 bucks worth of tailoring the next afternoon.  It was in three separate suit bags on hangers each bearing a Gieves and Hawkes of 1 Savile Row London label and when I opened up the uniform, not only were there two pairs of trousers but they had included a Mess Undress (evening dress uniform) jacket plus a black silk cummerbund.  I would wager that you only thought that fashion house copying became rife when the Millennials were born.  Well this Ancient Mariner was in at the beginning. Moreover I believe that Gieves and Hawkes could not have identified mine as being moody.  Would it be remiss of me to suggest that we both used the same tailors, hence the catalogues and official labels.

Another discussion with the 2nd Engineer over dinner regarding our speed for the next leg to Shanghai.  We decided to increase our maximum speed to 10 knots and I altered our course and speed accordingly – the distance was something like 900 nautical miles so a nice smooth cruise of around 10 hours.  It took us nearer to 12 so I was able to sleep on in my bunk that night safely berthed in the beautiful city of Shanghai with its lovely British Georgian style architecture – suddenly ‘China to China’ made complete sense.  The beautiful Persian porcelain including the bidets were made with those lovely buildings in mind.  I wonder what Chairman Mao Zedong would have made of them?

We left Shanghai with a general cargo bound for the port of Yokkaichi in Japan, as I was studying the chart I saw that the nearby port was called Fukui, now that could have been interesting!  We docked alongside in Yokkaichi, a large, very busy harbour.  We were quite astonished at these Dockers who worked at a great pace and we discovered that their average pay was less than a £1 per day.  The exchange rate was 100 Yen to £1 and the hourly rate for a dock worker 90 Yen for a 10 hour day.  (Perhaps I should  have waited to get some new clothes here.)  One of my lasting memories was buying a fine porcelain tea set, the sort that when you held a cup up to the light a picture of a geisha girl could be seen.  The set was boxed up and shipped to my mother in England.  The cost including packing and shipping was the equivalent of 15 shillings.  It arrived in perfect condition.

At that time I really had a chip on my shoulder about the ‘Japs’. – My Uncle Jack had been taken prisoner in Singapore when it fell.  At that time he had been an Army champion boxer at some 14 stone. – He had been put to work by the Japanese on the Death Railway in Burma.  I was 11 years old when he was repatriated and he was a skeleton weighing just over 5 stone.  He never did recover his health or fitness.  The country 1954 was still occupied by the Australian army and they had no love for the native population either.  Unloading the ship by hand was very slow and after some 3 or 4 days we received a severe weather warning of a tidal wave centring on our very location.  This is what is now commonly known as a Tsunami, a term that I had never heard of.  I felt thankful that we were safe in harbour!  The Skipper called a Chinese parliament (in Japan?) and then over ruled all opposition and we took the ship out of the cosy harbour to ride out the storm.  Oh my God did we take a pasting.  There were a lot of moans and groans from the crew and I must say that I thought the Skipper had lost the plot.  Within five hours we found that we were keeping just enough headway to keep our bow, head on to the cyclone and the approaching tidal wave.  Everything was battened down and our little ship met the first of the waves which appeared to be travelling some 40 or 59 feet above us as we climbed up it and as we went over the top the screws came out of the water and nearly shook the fillings out of our teeth.  Thank God the old girl had a welded hull because rivets would have shaken loose.   We had a pendulum, the piece of kit that was known as an inclinometer that recorded the roll of the ship.  As we screamed down the back of the wave like a toboggan down a ski slope, we had two helmsmen plus Gilbert (Gunga Din) fighting with the wheel to keep on course.  As we hit the bottom of the slope we crashed down and our port lifeboat was knocked out of its davits and was hanging by its forward falls.  I saw the Bosun and a number of men lashing the boat in to the ship’s side.  All were wearing lifelines and May West’s.  The 2nd Mate pointed out another wave approaching from the horizon about 5 miles away.  I rang down to the engine room to warn them, while the Skipper was telling the Boson that another wave was on its way and to make his men secure inside.  It seemed like an hour before the Mother of all Seismic Waves hit us and it was higher than the first. – This time we seemed to climb it in slow motion.  Hamish shook my hand hugged me and said “Well it’s been nice knowing you Lofty”  I knew then what those poor guys fighting in the trenches in WWI felt like when they went over the top!  I’ve repeated this story many times and no-one believes that I wasn’t scared but honestly we had so much to do and were all so busy that we didn’t have time to be frightened.  I was thankful that I wasn’t in the engine room.  The same performance as the first wave saw us over the top and hurtling down, as we hit bottom the crash seemed even louder and this time the starboard lifeboat was stove in with more of the deck crew trying to lash in to the side.  We had reached the centre of the cyclone and the sea settled down and there was SILENCE!  We lowered our revs and just kept way on.  I checked the Inclinometer and we had registered a 38 degree roll each way, when I showed it to the Skipper he said that we should have rolled right over and thought we were going to be OK now but that was a bit hairy for a minute!  Hamish said “That was some minute, we were going through that shit for nearly four hours!”

We spent the night cruising in the eye of the storm planning to return to Yokkaichi all being well at first light.  We got little information over the radio that was in English, normally the international language of the sea.  We crept back into the harbour, there was no pilot boat to meet us and as we looked around us it was just devastation.  All of the orange dockyard cranes had been knocked over and lay buckled on their sides and partly underwater.  We estimated that 3 or 4 dozen ships had remained in harbour and every single one had sunk.  The water was deep and most of the wrecks only had a bit of superstructure showing and some just some rigging.  At that moment Harold Collins our diminutive little Skipper had so much praise and congratulations heaped upon him that he probably could have walked on water across the harbour we learned that the Tsunami death toll was around 400 souls.  We tied up safely and spent the next couple of days sorting ourselves out.  Our change of plans took us just a short hop to the port of Yokohama the port of Tokyo.  Our cargo was to be unloaded and arrangements were made for Shipwrights to come on board to assess the damage to the lifeboats and they would be repaired or replaced.  It looked as though we could be in for a longish stay in Yokohama.  We had a visit from a Tokyo TV Station, I took the call from our embassy in Tokyo and Hamish and I left our brave captain to explain his brilliant seamanship.  I told Gilbert to make himself available as a runner for the Skipper during the interview and left him bricking it in as he had to speak on TV.  Hamish and I went ashore for the day although he teased me that as I was the only one with a decent uniform I should have jumped at the chance to show it off.  Will I ever live down my posh clothes?  Once ashore we chatted to an Aussie Soldier who told us that he and some fellow soldiers had arranged a coach trip in a few days to visit Hiroshima where the Yanks had dropped the first atom bomb and eventually caused the Japanese to surrender.  We arranged to take 6 spare seats and they would call for us at the ship.  Hamish said “Christ you really know how to live the life.”  I was thinking of my five stone living skeleton, Uncle Jack and the Death Railway when he was a slave prisoner. I jumped at the chance to view the spot where our allies had kicked the butts of the ‘yellow devils’ so I was feeling quite gung ho visiting as a tourist.

As it happened only the two of us plus the skipper took up the offer of the free trip.Our new Aussie buddies arrived on time in a military coach with an Aussie driver.  They were a noisy lot and very anti Jap, they even embarrassed me with some of the abuse they shouted out as we passed some of the native Japanese.  The noisy journey took several hours.  The countryside looked not unlike our green and pleasant land.  We piled off the bus and I saw . . . . . . . . . . .

The sound of silence; I saw a flattened city covered in dirty white dust; I saw the shapes of human shadows burned as a negative flash and left for eternity on one of the few walls left standing; Utter, utter devastation!  

No-one spoke on the bus coming home and the journey seemed to take forever from the spot where some 70,000 souls had been taught a lesson in my name.  Where a further 100,000 died over the following five years from the effects of that terrible bomb.

I awoke the following morning after a troubled sleep to find that I had developed a high temperature and a sore throat compounded by a cold sore on my upper lip.  I was convinced the I had radiation poisoning.  I hadn’t of course but I was just seventeen and I had learned one of life’s lessons Man’s inhumanity to man!

One of the bonuses of the Tsunami was that it delayed us and gave me time to get to know the country.  I managed to climb Mount Fuji and see the snow covered apes bathing in the volcanic heated streams. There is a Japanese proverb about climbing Mount Fuji “He who climbs Mt Fuji is a wise man; He who climbs it twice is a fool.”  Well in my long life I have climbed it three times and it gave me a lifelong love of the mountains.  It also makes me very old!

When I chatted to the Skipper about the sheer cost of the delay and the damage to both lifeboats and the theft of the paint in Cairns I was told not to worry, Lloyd’s have got our backs. The paint has already been replaced, I’ve seen the lifeboats and they’re like new and will be ready and in place by next week.  The Bosun was happy with the layover because his ship was painted scrubbed and the superstructure gleamed – it must be the newest looking Fort Ship in the world.  The engine room had time to change the oil and clean the points and give it a new MOT or whatever needed doing.  I later heard that the deck crew had had professional assistance from a few locals with a lot of the painting – they had a whip round on the mess deck to pay them.  I hope that they paid them more than 90 Yen a day.  The local agent had also been earning his corn and our cargo was diverted to the port of Niigata and we were to be loaded with Phosphate fertiliser bound for Mexico.  Phosphate? And I moaned about Sugar!

Once in Niigata City our loading and unloading took about ten days, can you picture coolies dressed only in loincloths and a conical straw hat that looked like a lamp-shade, carrying wicker baskets from a huge barge moored alongside and the coolies running up a plank from the front of the barge with the basket full of phosphate – it looks like pink gravel, and tipping the basket into one of the holds.  More coolies were in the holds shovelling so that it filled all available spaces.  Meanwhile the coolie that had emptied his basket now running to another plank and running down it into the barge to continue the chain.  This went on non-stop night and day; I called them coolies but they were more like slaves.  Another odd thing I noticed that more than 60% of them wore thick black framed spectacles.  I can picture the scene vividly even today.

Another memory from Niigata City was an evening run ashore.  Hamish and I were joined by Wolfie the new helmsman who had a very entertaining Scouse sense of humour and my shadow Gunga Din.  We visited several bars and night clubs where we experienced the novelty of being served warm Sake the Japanese rice wine by Geisha girls with white painted faces.  I said something like “So that’s where our white paint went to and Gilbert began giggling so much that it became embarrassing and we eventually left.  We weren’t actually staggering on our way back to our ship, perhaps slightly unsteady is a better description.  We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when we were confronted by four lovely ladies of the night, dressed to the nines in very tight silk cheongsam dresses slit to the thigh. We were offered a really good time, try out bath house and happy finish.  Wolfie said “Oh dear ladies we have spent all our money, that’s why we are walking back to the ship.  He then handed them Gilbert’s arm and said “He’s the only one with any money left”.  He then, like a conjurer, palmed a $20 dollar bill and showed them it in Gilbert’s top pocket.  We all walked away giggling, nothing to do with the Sake consumed it was Gilbert shouting “Please don’t leave me boys!” as the girls dragged him away.  –  Oh dear it was so funny!  I wish you could have seen Gilbert’s face when he returned to the ship quite late the next morning and Hamish collared him.  He was red faced but had a huge grin on his chops that had to be seen… Talk about a dog with two dicks!

We had a straightforward and uneventful voyage to our next port of call which was called Mazatlan in Mexico.  (Nothing to do with the clothes shop of a similar name.) The place was just like a scene from early western lots of raised sidewalks, men in sombreros and gaudy shirts in yellow and red colours taking a siesta in the afternoon sun, sitting on the ground with their backs against the walls for what shade there was.  The Mexican food is not really my favourite fare in modern times but then it was really not great.  The tequila was fantastic and the local beer they named Sol was fantastic.  I chatted to an American tourist in a bar, as one does, and he told me not to miss an experience that he’d been on.  A journey in a genuine stage coach that the locals took regularly across the desert towards Durango to a daily market in a town halfway to Durango.  I followed his advice the next day early in the morning I went into town and found the coaching station and with my only Spanish at that time being quanta costa and cerveza I haggled a return ticket to the town whose name I’ve since forgotten, but its half way to Durango.  I got them to write the details on a piece of card.

When this huge stage coach pulled by two scruffy horses, it was just as my American friend had described – the large coach had plenty of room to seat 10 or even 12 people inside and was slung on leather straps fixed to metal springs fore and aft.  I judged the back wheels to be some seven feet in diameter and the front ones five feet,  There was a driver and sitting upfront alongside him was his sidekick, I don’t suppose one would call his the conductor because he was actually carrying a short rifle that looked to me like a Winchester 73 I’ve seen the films I promise you that this wasn’t a film set, it was completely genuine. You couldn’t call up the choking dust and the smells.  I only had four fellow passengers, all women, all dressed from head to toe in black, reminding me of black vultures.  Even the English gentleman I took their luggage consisting of hessian bags and large empty wooden cages and helped to hoist it up to the shotgun conductor who stacked it on the large luggage space on the roof.  I joined the ladies inside.  They were chatting happily among themselves and even tried to include me.  I realised that I had learned even more Spanish from my visits to the cinema as a kid.  One of the women opened a shopping bag and handed out spicy vegetable wraps (tortillas) to everyone including me, it was far better than my restaurant food of yesterday.  Its difficult to describe the experience of my coach ride across the desert.  We were travelling at a fair lick – there was lots of dust, genuine tumbleweed, and cacti.  I think the horses kept farting unless it was the driver and the noise of creaking springs, rumbling wheels, shouts from the driver and his shotgun, – the laughing and chattering of my new found girl friends. You really had to be there.

When we roared into the town and stopped in the square, I helped the two men get down the ladies bags, boxes and bird cages from the roof.  I then discovered the the shotgun guy spoke good American/English and he told me that they were carrying on to Durango and would be back to pick us up at the market square in about 4 hours.  I helped the ladies stack their baggage behind one of the stalls and I insisted they accompany me to a nearby outside cafe for coffee and cakes.  Unbelievably we were entertained by a Mariachi band.  My lady friends were all aged between 30 and 40 and not at all bad looking except that three of them had moustaches.  I assume that the fact they were dressed in black indicated that they were married.  Nonetheless we all enjoyed flirting and I had some difficulty convincing them that I didn’t want their company around town.  I promised to see them later at the same cafe to wait for the stage,  Whip Crack Away!  As I wandered around I was very tempted to buy a big black sombrero with crystal jewels as a gift for the Bosun but somehow I didn’t think he would take it as a peace offering.

When the stage arrived with its usual hustle and bustle there were four guys sitting on the roof rack and one new lady inside.  My girl friends now had 3 chickens in cages and their boxes and bags were full.  The ladies insisted that I accompany them inside together with all their luggage.  Very cosy return journey and I had a hand on both of my knees and they weren’t my hands.  I provided the picnic and when we arrived in Mazatlan we parted good friends.  Two of them were met by husbands in pickup trucks and all of the chickens and luggage were piled into them.  The other two ladies were being collected later from a friend’s house and both gave me a lovely kiss and a hug.

The local agent visited us the next day, the fertiliser had been removed and the holds cleaned.  After having seen the poor local soil I could understand the need for so much fertilizer.  Our cargo was to be our most valuable the old ship had ever carried.  A really large amount of Mexican silver, coffee beans and raw cotton.  The biggest amount taking up four of our holds was in silver items and our destination was London, England.  This leg was going to be a very straightforward trip I’ve heard that before back through the Panama Canal to complete our second circumnavigation of the world.  Then across the Atlantic, Simples!  We were towed through the Panama Canal, yet another mind-blowing experience through the rain forest that was teeming with wild life.  I actually had a Macaw swoop on to the wing of the bridge and settle on my shoulder and I fed a wild boar by tossing potatoes to it.  The 2nd Engineer fixed with the Skipper for us to anchor off Panama City once we cleared the Canal, for them to carry out further repairs.  It appears that our suspect boiler had blown again.  The only good thing was that we were treated to the most amazing electrical storm over Panama City.

I can say no more other than that I had to alter my previous plot, taking into account we would be completing a 5,000 miles journey at an average of 4 to 5 knots – can you imagine 54 that’s fifty four days at sea covering less than 100 miles in 24 hours.  It did not make for a happy ship and I will not bore you with the journey and by the time we turned into the Thames Estuary we weren’t even exited by the fact that we would be paying off shortly,  And then just into the Estuary the bloody radio piped up Portishead Radio to Temple Bar . . . .  no-one gave it a thought that we were in no fettle to go round the world again.  I heard later that one of the Deck Crew picked up his pride and joy a Hallicrafter Worldwide Radio and smashed it against a bulkhead in temper.  Anyway someone in their wisdom decided that we should be diverted even in our sick state to pay off in the lovely city of Kingston upon bloody Hull.  So another two days to try to lift our spirits.  A sad goodbye, all shipmates had been through a lot together.  I later learned the wisdom of our diversion being that the raw cotton was destined for the cotton mills of Lancashire and the fine Mexican Silver to Liberty’s Department Store in Manchester.  Ruddy bean counters, was it ever thus?  Those extra miles could have finished the Temple Bar for good.

Skipper Collins and my good friend Hamish Orr were both going to swallow the anchor and both presented me with brilliant reference for my next ship.  We wished each other “Fair winds and a following sea” the sailor’s farewell, much nicer that a soldier’s farewell of “Goodbye and bugger you” I think you’ll agree!

I checked train times and decided to book in at an Hotel near the railway station and booked a first class seat to London the next day.  I dressed in my finery, my navy blue wool and cashmere suit and carried my Louis Vuitton suitcase.  Quite sad that I had completed my maiden voyage and gone from boy to man without realising.  I had a sudden awakening when I arrived home in my Buckingham shire village of Woburn Sands and my mother’s first words were “Oh hello dear, when are you going back?”  I met my sponsor, Herbert. at least he was pleased to see me.  I regaled him of my stories and he asked for the name and address of my tailor in Hong Kong and he actually did business later with him. I went to meet my friends in my Savile Row peacock clothes and found that they were all dressed in drape suits and brothel creepers with DA haircuts.  I had completely missed the Teddy boy era.  One of the girls in my old gang said “I love your tan but you really look like a Posh Twat!” Now where have I heard that before?

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky.  And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.  But that’s another story!  . . . . .

May I wish you all Fair Winds and a Following Sea!

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My Maiden Voyage Goes On and On – A Sailor’s Yarn (part three)

Watching the deck crew I could sense a lift in the atmosphere.  I swear I often heard Waltzing Matilda sang and whistled.  I was spending 90% of my time studying charts on the bridge as we picked our way through the reefs and islands under the tutelage of the 2nd Mate – I had earlier described him as an archetypal grumpy Scotsman having been twice shipwrecked during WWII, as usual my first impressions were wrong.  –  He had virtually adopted me and I learned more from Hamish Orr in eight or nine months than three years at Naval College.  Practical seamanship and navigation can only be properly learned on the job, and Hamish had set his sights on my passing my 2nd Mates ticket.  In reality I was doing all his work for him but loving it.

We were just passing the land mass of Papua New Guinea when the ships radio called our call sign. . . . Temple Bar from Radio Portishead Call sign GKA – Temple Bar are you receiving?  I dashed over to acknowledge.  –  Change of destination, you are to re-route to Cairns,       North Queensland.  Together with our new longitude and latitude coordinates.  All of the mess decks have personal radios tuned into the ship’s radio so there was nothing secret about our instructions.  Exactly when the cursing and swearing started but I returned to the chart table for some new dead reckoning and keeping my head down.  Perhaps it was my imagination but the happy go lucky atmosphere seemed changed.

Personally I was even more excited by conning our way through the coral reefs of the Great Barrier Reef.  In fact by the time we made landfall the skipper took me aside and I was given my own watch and we were able to split into traditional three sections with dog watches.  I’m not going to explain further but it means less time on shift and longer off-duty.  Mainly shift changes, daily; I took the ship right in to the bay until we met the Pilot and he took the con!  My cap would no longer fit my swollen head.

Cairns in the 1950s was still very much a shanty town, harking back to its gold rush roots – a lot of its streets were of compressed sand and sawdust with only a few tarmacadam surfaces.  The Pilot took us alongside ad gave us the news that the Australian Labour Party had called out the local Wharfies (Aussie Dockers) on strike.  It seemed that no-one was sure what their beef was and when I asked him the Pilot said “Our Labour Party doesn’t need an excuse to strike”.  I heard him cautioning the Skipper not to upset the Unions, just sit back for a few days until they get bored and the Wharfies need to buy food for their family.

I believe that I originally described Harold Collins, the Skipper as a small insignificant man.  Well when we had said farewell to the Pilot, Harold went ballistic, calling the Australian Labour Party a bunch of leaderless commies whose only aim in life was to do as much damage as possible to their own country.  He expanded his wrath to the stupid Wharfies who weren’t getting paid while on strike and daft enough to let their families go hungry whenever the Party and Union blew a whistle like Pavlov’s dogs.  I was tasked to make sure to organise shore leave on a roster but having a strong watch party ensuring no-one other than crew came aboard to discourage thieving of stores and cargo and malicious damage.  Were those words of one HERMAN HOSTETTER of San Pedro ringing in my ears?  I wonder who had put a bug up his bottom about the Aussie Labour Party.  Hindsight is a wondrous thing.

Hamish the 2nd Mate asked me to keep my ear to the ground to get an early warning on who was planning to jump ship.  Ronnie Brown sounded me out as to whether Adelaide was still on the cards.  Obviously Cairns wasn’t his ideal destination.  The next bad news we learned was that licensing laws in Queensland were fairly rigidly policed and all bars and hotels had to stop serving alcohol at 1800 hrs.  I then heard of the famous six o’clock swill.  An Australian and New Zealand slang term for the last minute rush to buy drinks at an hotel or bar before it closed.  For the best part of the 20th century serving alcohol had to stop at 6 pm.  A culture of heavy drinking developed between finishing work at 5 pm and mandatory closing time just one hour later.  I never learned the logic behind this – who knows the mind of politicians.  Within a week our crews had solved the problem of this minor irritation and we had found an hotel on one of the side streets where admission was by climbing through a side window after 8 pm and we were able to drink in a dimly lit room until midnight, together with most of the crew and about 50 locals.  The things we do for excitement!

Another incident that sticks in my mind was being told by the Skipper, to get my uniform dry cleaned as a local English businessman and his family had contacted him and extended an invitation for a meal at the weekend.  He had accepted on my behalf.  He also told me to get them to sew on my new medal ribbons and to polish my shoes. – It turned out that this English family lived in a huge house on the sugar plantation that they owned.  I can’t say that I was happy as a strolled along the sandy street to the dry cleaners. I was wearing ate shirt (latest trend) and shorts with just a pair of flip flops on my feet.  I kicked through the dried leaves when an enormous black scorpion ran over my bare foot with its tail curled over its back.  When I say it was the largest scorpion that I’d ever seen, it was the only one I’d ever seen.  I was far more scared than I had been during the shelling in Korea. – I didn’t stop running until I slammed the door behind me at the dry cleaners.  They kindly allowed me to wait inside until my cleaning was ready and my ribbons sewn on.

When I related my tale to Hamish he didn’t believe me that they had scorpions the size of bantam hens, or that I was able to run a four minute mile.  At the weekend I went to carry out my duty visit first by running the gauntlet of wolf whistling ship’s crew and I was red faced as I climbed into what I thought was a taxi until the liveried chauffeur stepped smartly our to open the door for me – Oh God the things I have to do for my career. – Things could only get better.  And my goodness did they get better.  My hosts Duncan and Elizabeth had married over 20 years previously in Kingston Surrey just before WWII broke out and immigrated basically for their honeymoon.  –  Duncan had a job offer to manage the cane farm and as they say he loved it so much he eventually bought the company.  The news gets even better when I was introduced to their stunningly beautiful daughter also called Liz who was just about a year older than me.  I was head over heels in love.  I allowed myself to be talked into staying for the weekend…  Well it would have been churlish not to especially as Liz was to spend the weekend showing me the beauty of Cairns and the surrounding area.  I prayed that the strike would continue for weeks.

My shipmates had stopped taking the Mickey once the beautiful girl collected me in her little Italian car and took me off to the delights of Cairns and The Great Barrier Reef.  Would you believe it in daddy’s yacht, well more like his power boat and he even fixed me up with one of his wet suits. – Paradise!  This state of affairs (hmm!)  continued for 8 more days when we were instructed to leave quietly during the night and travel down the coast to the next port – Townsville.  – I managed to get a message to Liz as to our plans.  We slipped out and docked in Townsville in the early hours.  It was all to no avail as the strike followed us.  I managed a couple more enthralling days with my lovely girl and it was at her suggestion that repeated our moonlight flit further along the coast to the port of MacKay.  Would you believe it the strike struck again and two days later we slunk back into Cairns with our tails between our legs.  Our local agent did a grand job and three further days of sitting quietly the full crew of Wharfies turned to. – Those three days were put to good use as Liz took me to a fantastic place call Airlie Beach.  I learned from her before the Skipper knew that once our holds were empty we were to be loaded with refined sugar from her father’s factory and we were to be homeward bound.

Both our Agent and Harold , the Skipper credited my diplomacy for getting a really profitable deal for the company.  I took advantage of the situation and swung several further days with Liz and several dinners with her parents.  Duncan was probing as to my intentions even hinting at a job if I wanted it.  Thankfully Liz informed them that we were very good friends, adults but too young to be anything more.  It may have been imagination but I thought her parents were equally relieved.

We had a few more dramas before we sailed. – I had the good fortune to have the alibi of spending the night with Liz in an Hotel owned by her family.  I returned to the ship on Monday morning like a dog with two tails, I was stopped at the gangway by Ronnie Brown and Janek with the news that our paint store had been broken into and many hundreds of gallons of white paint had been stolen. – They were in five gallon drums and would have been impossible to move unnoticed.  Ronnie and Janek both said they had been lax and had slept through most of the night. – Nothing rang true even though I considered them good friends.  I part of a guardrail had been unscrewed seeming to indicate that the paint drums had been lowered into a boat alongside. – Something screamed of an ‘inside job’ where the glass window had been smashed and the glass lay outside.  Police were called and gave Ronnie and Janek the third degree.  Gave the Skipper a Police report suggesting that a lot of Wharfies hadn’t been paid during the strike, they supposed that they had inside help but couldn’t prove anything and one tin of white paint looked like white paint. – End of investigation.

Two days before departure date Ronnie Brown, Janek, Ronnie’s three cousins and four other from the black gang disappeared during the night together with all of their belongings.  I Chinese Parliament held in the Wardroom decided that it was good riddance to bad rubbish, and we wouldn’t report the missing men until the day before we sailed.  I cannot report the language of the Skipper and the Chief Engineer.

After a couple more romantic days with Liz, we bid a fond farewell and set sail on a homeward bounder.  A fairly uneventful trip but I must mention a couple of highlights that bear mention.  We were crossing the Indian Ocean approaching the land mass of Ceylon (It didn’t change its name until the 1970s) on our starboard side.  I was Officer of the Watch taking bearings and using a sextant, plotting our position on the chart.  I noted a large tanker approaching us at a similar speed to us.  I altered course slightly so we would pass port to port within 100 yards. (If both lights you see ahead, starboard wheel and show your red)  As we closed I checked our Radar and it all looked good. – Suddenly with no warning the skies went black and we were hit by a tropical storm and the Radar screen went haywire.  We couldn’t see our own forecastle – It was worse than a pea soup fog.

Panic, Moi?   Well something took over and I shot down below to call Hamish – Thank God he was awake.  He came up to the bridge in his skivvies under his oilskins. I quickly briefed him, told him what I had down.  I recall him saying that I had done everything that I could and when I said that the tanker was riding high and looked to be empty. Quite memorably Hamish said “If we hit that, we won’t need life-jackets, we’ll need parachutes” .Both ships were sounding our sirens but they just sounded near. – Suddenly the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and there on our port side some 30 or 40 yards away was the tanker.  It was a British ship, one of the British Tanker Corporation with its name running the length of its hull.  The name BRITISH MARINER, another name that I shall remember forever more.

My next memory happened in the Red Sea, we stopped to refuel at Port Tufic at the southern end of the Suez canal.  There were three painting stages each with a couple of the deck crew who were painting the black side.  I was busy, leaning over the side of the flying wing of the bridge and I could see a couple of tiger sharks cruising about 100 yards away.  I heard a crash,  a shout and a couple of splashes and saw that two of the paint stages had collided while lowering themselves down to reposition their stages and the four occupant had tumbled into the oggin!  You might even say shark infested oggin!  Their shipmates had quickly thrown them lifebelts and proceeded to haul all four to safety.  I ran down from the bridge to see if I could help when I heard a near apoplectic Dublin voice bellowing “I see you saved your feckin hats, what about my feckin paintbrushes?” He was scarlet faced and actually dancing as he stamped his feet!  Now I don’t remember calling him Paddy but perhaps I did, I know that I suggested he go and sit down and cool off and I would sort it out.  He began shouting “Don’t you call me Paddy you jumped up Snotty Whippersnapper!  Snotty is a nautical term for a Midshipman/Apprentice maybe whippersnapper is a similar nautical expression anyway I was relieved that he stormed off.

The remainder of the trip was again straightforward.  The Suez Canal was interesting and a place I was to get to know more intimately later in my life.  We were steaming up the channel, all excited at docking in King George V docks and then a good break. – We had passed the Isle of Wight, when the ships radio came on – Temple Bar this is Portishead Radio call in GKA.  I answered and gave our position.  – Change on destination our new orders were return through the Suez Canal and to take our lovely cargo of refined sugar through the Persian Gulf.  What is it about bloody sugar and the SS Temple Bar?    Perhaps we will exchange sugar for some beautiful carpets! But that’s another story.

. . . ‘ I’m beginning to think that someone up there believes it was I who shot the Albatross’

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My Maiden Voyage and Onward – A Sailor’s Yarn (part two)

The most notable thing about being on a tramp steamer is that one minute you are bound for South Australia and the next your destination can change faster than you can change your clothes.  We had got as far as Ushant in the Western Approaches when our masters decided that our general cargo, destined for Adelaide would make more money in Tampa in Florida – “Starboard Twenty . . . . . . “

The ‘scuttlebutt in the wardroom was not particularly happy because we had been wrong footed.  However the rest of the crew were furious.  I quickly realised that more than half of the men had only signed on because they had designs on illegally ‘jumping ship’ once we had made landfall in Australia.  When I think back it was totally illogical because at that time for just a £10 fee they would have been welcome immigrants.  Perhaps they needed a sense of adventure.  Just as in the Canterbury Tales one cannot read the Shipman’s mind.

Other memorable members of the ship’s crew that I have not yet mentioned were the Geordie Chef, who turned out some really excellent meals but had a roaring drink problem and on odd occasions we found that the deck boy/cabin boy always known as ‘The Peggy’, was doing the cooking.  Peggy also deserves a mention he was a ‘rather fey’ young lad with the unfortunate name of Gilbert Buttery from Plumstead which summed him up to a T.  More of Gilbert later.

Sharing the amidships cabin to respect their seniority, were the Bosun (boatswain) who was an Irishman of about 40, who seemed  to always in a bad temper.  We never crossed swords but I was often to hear him cursing me below his breath.  I must say that I steered clear of him if I could.  His cabin mate was the Shipwright (Chippie) another ‘Geordie’ well sort of, he was from Middlesbrough, which is in Yorkshire but spoke with a Geordie accent to everyone’s ears, wae’aye man!  He was a happy go lucky 50 years old.  His job appeared to be a Mr Fixit, repairing anything that needs fixing.

He sticks in my memory for his performance when he totally lost his cool.  The Bosun and the Chippie used to eat in their cabin suite and took it in turns to collect their meals from the galley.  One lunchtime as we were approaching Florida landmass, we were being greeted by flocks of noisy seagulls.  The Chippie was carrying two plates as he collected his and the Bosun’s lunch.  He was happily singing as he danced along the deck when a couple of seagulls swooped towards his plates and he shouted to frighten them off, the birds veered skywards and one of them crapped in fright and bird shit splashed right into one of the plates.  That was when Chippie completely lost it!  He hurled his plate of food at the appreciative swooping gulls, and began screaming “You feckng shitehawks, why couldn’t you shit in his dinner instead of mine?”  He was nearly foaming at the mouth.

By this time I was close behind him and was laughing – He promptly threw the Bosun’s dinner plate at me and thankfully missed.  There must have been 50 odd birds swooping at the food splattered all over the deck.  The pair of us were completely overwhelmed by the feathered rats and by this time both could see the funny side and dissolved into fits of laughter and another friendship was formed.

We docked alongside in Tampa and were unloaded overnight, while the crew had our first run ashore. . . . . . The next morning I was involved in a conference among the deck officers and that evening we moved for 30 miles along the Florida coast to a US Naval establishment where we loaded to the gunwales with mixed general cargo, the loading took two days.  We set sail with the crew believing that we were waiting instructions.  In reality we were heading to Korea with general stores for the United Nations troops who were fighting Kim il Sung’s North Korean troops who had overrun South Korea and America together with United Nations troops were pushing them back . . . . . . . and another fine mess you’ve got yourself into Jake hmm!  We were escorted alongside at a port near Inchean and set about unloading out cargo, tout de suite!

Meanwhile the US 7th Fleet lay offshore and were shelling the forest above the docks where we, me in particular were cringing, absolutely terrified, watching shells flying over us, they looked the size of double-decker busses as they hurtled into the jungle – I don’t remember any retaliatory returning fire.  I know that I was a very frightened 16 year old boy doing a man’s job, but I was no more frightened than most of our crew.  In the early hours the sporadic shelling ceased and Jet Fighters began flying from an aircraft carrier, streaking over our little ship as we carried on our business of unloading as we listened to cannon fire in the distance.  That unloading was literally all hands on deck.

By the time all our holds were empty we were into our third day and the shelling had become sporadic.  Oddly enough and I can’t speak for the crew but I no longer felt scared.  The Captain disappeared ashore to confer with our agent by telephone and the powers that be.  The Second Mate told me that we would probably make our way back to the USA to wait for instructions.  I was convinced in my ‘Boys Own’ mind that we had been hi-jacked by the yanks to bring more goods back to the war-zone.  We remained alongside for a fourth day well aware of the fighting going on around us.  I remember going into the seaman’s mess and jokingly asking if anyone fancied a run ashore.  No-one seemed to have a sense of humour any more.

That evening while partaking our evening meal the skipper took out four small boxes and passed me two of them, saying that as was the youngest officer, they would probably be of more use to me than anyone.  That was the ceremony when I was awarded the pair of United Nations Korean War medals.  I was quite pleased to see that the Third Mate was really pissed off that he had been excluded!  Can you imagine later in my life being asked “I see you have the Korean War medals when were you there?”  Me, mumbling “Four days, but I heard a few bangs” My medals remained in their boxes.

We ran back to America to pick up a cargo from a place called San Pedro in California, mightily relieved that we were not to be seconded to the US Navy.  San Pedro is a really exotic location with the entrance some ten miles along a river that appeared to be lined with really large pelicans and flamingos who totally ignored our passage, in fact all passing shipping – They were perched on every single post or withy along our route.  Before docking to take on our cargo, we stopped just offshore at a fuelling jetty to refuel.

It was there I met the most obnoxious and offensive immigration official, one of nature’s bullies.  Remember, we had been cleared some two or three months previously in Tampa and had loaded stores in a US Naval base in Florida and had been with the US Navy in Korea.  This ignorant pig was hell bent on cross examining me as to my politics – Had I ever been a member of the Australian Labour Party? I’d never even been to Australia – It turned out that he’d misread our manifest and had spotted our original destination.  Rather than admit his mistake, the idiot took 45 minutes of third degree before signing my permission to land and go ashore in the land of the free!  I kept his precious immigration clearance piece of paper many years and had many laughs over it for the name of this All-American boy was HERMAN HOSTETTER perhaps he should have said “Ve haf vays of making you talk”  –  Joking apart if you Google the name (and I did) it is in fact a common long established name in the US.

Apart from Herr Herman my first visit to California was great but too short as after only a few days we were loaded and on our way to British Guiana which was then a part of the British West Indies on the North coast of mainland South America.  We docked in the main town which was Georgetown where we were unloaded by a local crew which was to take four days – If I tell you that Georgetown is at the mouth of a large river called Demerara, it will not take much of an imagination to guess what our cargo was to be once our holds had been emptied.  The good news was that we now had at least 6 days to sample the delights of Georgetown which was highlighted with lush rain forests full of exotic wild life and the people are laid back easy going west Indians full of calypsos and happy people.

Now I might have got that a bit wrong but the place was delightful, the exchange rates were very much in our favour and the atmosphere was fun.  We donned our best bib and tucker and myself and the Second and Third mates set of to enjoy, a good time was had by all.  As we made our way back to our ship, replete, happy but not drunk we bumped into our Deck Boy the redoubtable Gilbert Buttery from Plumstead.  He had gone ashore on his lonesome as was his nature.  We continued on our way joking and generally teasing Gilbert, when a large, very black man, appeared in front of us, totally blocking our path.  He was big, not very tall perhaps 5’6” but he was about 5’6” across.  I can’t  remember how he was dress other than a bright red baseball cap, I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone wearing on before – It suddenly dawned on me that the guy was carrying, no wielding an enormous machete/cane knife and threatening us with it and demanding our wallets, watches, cash, in fact empty all of your pockets.

I came out of my blue funk haze when Gilbert began screaming at the top of his voice and he took off shrieking like a girl and doing about 20 knots down the hill.  The robber kept his cool and continued to relieve us three remaining victims of every single valuable that we owned and then turned and walked coolly away.  We acted like zombies, really not knowing what to do other than return to the ship.  Gilbert the Peggy had already alerted the ship’s crew and they met us with about a dozen crew members and they went off in search of the robber, while we waited at the ship for the Police to arrive.

I was particularly upset because I had lost a nearly new Rolex Oyster Air King watch that had been a gift from my sponsor Herbert and was the most valuable thing that I had ever owned.  A couple of cops arrived dressed like the military and took us for a drive round to see if we could identify out assailant.  At the same time giving a lecture on how poor the local population was and that it was no surprise that they were driven to temptation, etc.  Not a lot different to our police today.  They didn’t just give us a crime number; we were each supplied with a copy of a crime report.

All three of us spent hours on the following day at the British Embassy being issued with a Seaman’s identity card the equivalent of a passport.  In those days the country was a British Protectorate, part of the British Empire. It is now an independent country named Guyana, still covered in dense rain forest, English speaking with cricket and calypso music.  I don’t suppose it has changed much in the past 60 years but I have never felt the urge to return.

We departed full to the gunwales with large sacks full of unrefined sugar bound for the Far East.  Sugar to Singapore, where we refuelled.  Some of our crew were unlucky enough to have to spend 2 days with the shore crew, cleaning out the cargo holds where the stinking Demerara had leaked into the bilges and turned into molasses in the tropical heat.  This gave the majority of the crew the opportunity for some time ashore.  My first visit to the lovely city, island and country of Singapore – Over the years I have had the opportunity to return and each visit it seems to get even better.  I always feel that the government has got it right.

I keep saying that a tramp steamer is quite unique as it has a company agent shuffling cargoes between ports.  A ship can be laden with general cargo, say electrical goods and set sail to a buyer in Hong Kong and two days out the buyer in Hong Kong has sold the whole cargo to one or two of the 7,000 islands that make up the Philippines. –  Hence, wrong, footed again!  So its Starboard 30 to an island names Bataan.

My nearly 17 year old mind is thinking “Back to Bataan” – 12 years previously the Japanese marched 76,000 prisoners of war some 80 miles across the Bataan peninsula during WWII, The famous death march with a death toll of at least 10,000 and once they got to the prison camp thousands more perished from starvation and disease over the next few years.  The survivors were rescued by US troops in 1945 when they re-took the Philippines.  My only real knowledge was from films and a few newsreels but I approached the Island of Bataan with a little trepidation.  The truth I learned was a little different – The death march took place on the peninsular of Bataan, we were bound for the Island of Luzon to the city of Bataan in Manila Bay.  Navigation was a real school lesson for me as we plotted through coral reefs littered with shipwrecks – not all from wartime.  Stunning blue seas, white sand beaches, marine turtles and exotic bird life.  I saw a huge towering memorial commemorating the Battle of Bataan in WWII.

Once we docked in the city we were descended upon by the largest number on dock workers imaginable, cheap labour?  We obviously weren’t needed but had no chance to go ashore as we were turning around in less than 24 hours with only two holds for Bataan.  What I could see was beautiful scenery full of colourful bird life.  The housing had a sort of temporary look about it.  We could have had a cheap and interesting run ashore but time is money and the promise of the capital Manila just a short hop across the bay looked promising.  It is still on the same Island of Luzon and there lay more broken dreams of this young mariner!

If you Google Manila, it will tell you that it is one of the most populous cities in the world – I would put money that in my day 1954 it was the world leader.  We still had six holds stacked with miscellaneous electrical goods that were the pride of Singapore.  As we docked we were descended upon by hordes of workers.  In Bataan we had the impression that we had been taken over by thousands of Dockers.  In Manila we were overrun by swarms of black ants who emptied holds, cleaned them and promptly and tidily re-stacked all hols with what else but Manila rope and cordage, coconut products such as coconut oil in 5 gallon drums, dried coconut copra, at least 2 holds packed with soap products that smelled far nicer than Demerara sugar.  Finally all the holds were topped off with layers of green bananas. – That’s what you call a mixed cargo.  I was on duty overseeing the Dockers, what delightful people they were!

On the day before we were due to sail, the 2nd Mate and I grabbed a taxi and headed for the city which had some stunning architecture with really historic buildings, BUT – did I mention its population?  If you think London or New York are busy and then multiply by 100 that was Manila.  We were nearly stationary in our taxi and apparently there aren’t many cars.  Anyway we gave up after a couple of hours and grabbed a rickshaw for our return journey.  That was only slightly quicker than our taxi ride.

We left the Philippines on the following morning with our destination and route fully laid out for us.  We set our compass once again for South Australia – Adelaide here we come and the spirits of the crew had lifted.

But that’s another story. . . . . . . . . . .

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My Maiden Voyage and Before – A Sailor’s Yarn (part one)

A few weeks ago one of my offspring asked me, “is there anything you haven’t done?” I’m not sure if this was meant as an admiring observation, or whether it was the words of someone who was sick of hearing my rambling anecdotes about my exploits in Mexico and the Americas, Japan, South Africa or in Arctic warfare training much later, most probably it was the latter, since I do sometimes tend to reminisce about the past. As you dear reader, will know we always call it swinging the lantern. I’m sure everyone has heard the phrase, “the older I get, the better I was.” Well that’s me!

Sooner or later my mind is going to slow down, some will say the process has already started, and my recall won’t be what it once was. So before these tales disappear forever, I have self-indulgently begun to recount a few of these memories. The funny thing is, as I think about incidents in my past and start to write, a state of amnesia sets in and those obscure memories crystallise and de-pixilate to a point where I can again become that 16 or that 20 year old person – and in a way it is an invigorating and inspiring exercise.

I start with a Blog – and will continue to do so, until my memory finally gives out, or until someone tells me to stop; or I run out of ink (or enthusiasm), I’ll put them here. To begin at the beginning. . . . . . . . . .

After passing my 11 plus and becoming settled attending the nearest Grammar School to my home and having to travel twenty or so miles on a pre-war bus each way, thus adding about 3 hours to my school day. I was able to complete my homework during this tedious journey but did nothing to add to my love for school or my impatience to get on with my life.

My father had a wealthy, very close friend called Herbert, whom had already gifted me a horse that he had originally bought for his locally ensconced mistress, the lovely Iris and it turned out she was terrified of horses. So for three or four years I had the sole ownership of a beautiful roan horse of 14 hands that i spent a lot of my young life on. The deal was that I exercised the horse that had its paddock and stable free and all its tack supplied. The only downside was that my elder sister often refused to eat at the same table with me, because for some reason she said I smelled of horses.

Somehow this same wealthy friend, Herbert, who owned a large shoe factory in Northamptonshire and was chairman of his local council, heard of my wish to adopt a seafarers life and he used his influence to get me any grants available plus his greatly appreciated sponsorship and I found myself giving up my daily three hour commute and moving my life lock, stock and barrel, to become a boarder at Greenwich Naval College. I remember vividly, at the age of 13, being taken to the railway station at Bletchley by my father with a huge trunk and a smaller case and being helped into a railway carriage and being waved off with lots of instructions on how to get from Euston to somewhere called Cannon street and then to Greenwich. Of course it’s now all a blur in my mind but I succeeded in finding my way.

I absolutely loved being at Greenwich, even getting chased by a tutor/boatswain wielding a knotted ropes-end at 0530 hours along the hard to row on the Thames in whalers and cutters before swimming and showering before breakfast. I took to seamanship and navigation like a duck to water. Another memory that stands out was my home leave at the end of the first term. Our uniform was that of a Naval Cadet/Midshipman and we were only allowed to travel in uniform.

I had arranged to meet Ma and Pa on Waterloo station prior to a day in London. We were going to see Vic Oliver at the London Palladium – Gosh that memory has just come back to me. Anyway at that time, not long after the war had ended and there were armed soldiers on guard at the start of each platform. Don’t ask me why, probably there was a surfeit of soldiers. Picture me a jumped up little snob pretending not to be a schoolboy, posing as a Naval Officer and as I walked past to pair of soldiers they stamped their feet to attention, presented arms as I strolled by. Frightened me at first but I realised they had mistaken me for an officer and as I had been taught, I returned their salute.

I am so ashamed to admit it now but I had over an hour to kill before meeting the venerable parents and I deliberately walked along the concourse and imagining myself as Jack Hawkins or some other hero of the Western Approaches and earned myself at least three more salutes from armed guards. You dear reader, should be honoured that I have added that minor confession because it still embarrasses me and I don’t think I’ve told the story before.

I always made sure that whenever I could I kept in touch with Herbert my sponsor; my Ma and Pa were completely out of their depth at Greenwich, seemingly overawed by the pomp and circumstance of artwork, the painted ceilings and the very history of the place. However when I invited Herbert and his model girlfriend, they belonged there. To cut a long story short the following Spring I was contacted by Herbert who it transpired had shares in the Ellerman Lines which also had acquired the Temple Steamship Company. “Was I set on the Royal Navy? or would I be interested in a career in the Merchant Navy” because he could pull a few strings. There was a British ship in port which was short of a couple of hands. If I was interested there was a job for me as a Deck Apprentice with an option of promotion to Third Mate as soon as a position became available. Remember I was 15 years old and immortal.

Herbert pulled his strings, and I left Greenwich quite amicably. I signed on a couple of weeks later as a crew member on the SS Temple Bar as its most junior of junior member of the Upper Deck – my official position – “Deck Apprentice”. The Temple Bar was what is known among seafarers as a ‘Fort Ship’ built in a hurry in wartime, using welded plates instead of traditional riveting, all for speed to keep the allies fed with basics.

The ship was registered in Liverpool. She was 7,130 tons (tons deadweight), built in Canada during World War Two and was one of a fleet of cargo tramp Steamers of welded construction some 424.5 feet long and a 57 feet beam. She was fitted with triple expansion steam engines. A total of 198 of these ships were built with the hope that if they survived at least one voyage with cargo intact they would be in profit, each subsequent voyage, being a bonus.

The ship’s captain was Harold Collins, a small insignificant looking man, who had survived several Murmansk runs and in reality was a more forceful character than he looked. I had a tiny cabin in the fo’c’sle of the ship (where crew were separated from officers) at my young age and having been fully
trained Greenwich I knew it all. Looking back I know exactly why Midshipmen are given the soubriquet ‘Snotty’, I can think of more appropriate names.

Luckily I was taken under the wing of Ronnie Brown an Able Seaman, who may have had Scouse ancestry but was a Londoner through and through. He was a generous, down to earth fellow, who used to wake me every morning with “Come on then Lofty, rise and shine, you’re not on your Daddy’s yacht now, y’know!” Initially I was a day worker – 7.30 to 5 o’clock with a half hour for lunch. I spent the initial few weeks on the bridge, watching and learning but really following the Skippers instructions to get over there and keep out of everybody’s eff’ing way!.

I didn’t have the most auspicious start because we sailed from King George V dock in East London and made our way down the Thames bound for South Australia. As I looked across the wing of the bridge I was violently sick, much to the amusement of officers and crew alike. “Ha-ha! The ‘prentice is having a ‘Kit Inspection’“

I shared the Officers Mess, a little room just across from the galley where we would eat our meals and meet for smoko during the day. It was here that I learned to put condensed milk in my tea, because it wasn’t easy to find fresh milk at sea and of course, this was before Long-Life Milk appeared on the scene. The additional advantage of condensed milk of course was that it also obviated the need for putting sugar in your tea!

There were four deck officers on board, the Skipper, Second Mate, Third Mate and me. – Then there were three engineers, the Chief Engineer, a morose individual who hailed from Stornaway and who seemed to spend most of his time in his cabin. I don’t think we exchanged more than two words the whole time I was on the ship. The second engineer was a genial portly middle-aged fellow, who had been in the merchant service since the war. Always shirtless when he was working, he seemed to know everything that anyone was ever going to need to know about marine engineering. The third engineer was a sharp tongued, sandy-headed Glaswegian whose frequent expression was “och awa’ an’ keek” (which I translated as meaning you are full of ****, go away). This happy band of brothers……..

I can’t finish this little memory without talking about the second mate. He was another interesting character, an archetypal grumpy old Scottish mariner in the twilight of his career. He had been twice shipwrecked during the second war, and was without a doubt the hardest man I ever had the misfortune of trying to wake up when it was my turn to call him. He would be lying on his back on his bunk, making a noise like a bull farting, fully clothed with his smelly feet hanging over the end of his bunk and he would refuse all attempts to wake him. In the end, it was only vigorous shaking, and shouting in his ear which got him to stir at all, and then I had to dive out of the way as this great claw of a hand would come around to swat me away as if I was a fly. I used to dread this job.

The “deck crew” were an interesting lot – mostly Scots plus a few Englishmen, one Romanian A.B. named Janek, who was heavily tanned and possessed a full set of stainless steel teeth. Probably why he smiled a lot, like many of the seamen he took it upon himself to teach me all the things that Greenwich had missed from my education. Janek together with Ronnie Brown, between the two gave me a great training in life at sea as well as seamanship, simply because we were shipmates. Just thrown together by chance, they were the sort that Rudyard Kipling said you’d want beside you East of Suez, proud to call them friends.

Then there were the Stokers/black gang/greasers; now these were a mystery to everyone. They consisted of over twenty men and included morose men from Stornaway whom spoke seldom and then only amongst themselves, several Glaswegians who chatted a lot but I couldn’t understand them, they sang a long especially with a drink or two. There were a couple of West Indians from the Caribbean who were happy go lucky fellows with everybody. Then there were half a dozen Lascars who worked in the black gang and communicated less than the Stornorwegians.

I learned that our lot were Muslims from the Indian continent, they didn’t eat our food so had to be catered for separately. They didn’t use our toilets but used a sort of ‘outhouse’ that had been hung over the stern and lashed with ropes to guardrail. In reality they just pooped directly into the ocean and to complete their ablutions they carried a small tin, like a Colman’s mustard tin, filled with water. This motley crew also were allowed up from the engine room five times a day in order to pray to their deity. The general opinion of the rest of the ship’s crew were that they were a dirty lot of ‘fuzzy wuzzy’s (back to Kipling again) whose biggest failing was that they didn’t drink alcohol. Shocking!

On then to the adventures of this happy breed, this band of brothers. . . . . . . . . to be continued

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Pontiff Continues to Pontificate

The Most Reverend Justin Welby, Archbishop of Canterbury continues to play the windbag, continually failing to practice what he preaches and continuing to embarrass the Church of England instead of doing the job that he was chosen for.  One could say that he spends his time fiddling while Rome burns.  While his church continues to crumble around his ears!

Welby spends his hours playing his own brand of politics from any platform that suits him and where he may find an audience whether it be a television programme with a left wing audience, The House of Lords or one of newspapers such as the Guardian where he finds solace.  The vehicle for his more recent brand of narcissistic superiorism is his latest book.  A book which if he were not the Archbishop he would certainly have difficulty finding a publisher for and even more difficulty finding a buyer.

Here he rails against those who buy a second home accusing them of fuelling a dysfunctional housing market and destroying a sense of local community.  I will give Welby that he is an absolute expert on dysfunctionality and poor performance. He is also a specialist in condescension.  The, don’t do as I do. Do as I say type of condescension.

I am certainly not qualified to defend or attack 2nd home owners. All I can say on the subject is that I have seen at first hand, dozens of villages in North Norfolk being rescued from falling into disrepair by incomers and seeing shops that couldn’t restock until they had sold their last tin of carrots, soup or peas suddenly becoming a mini Fortnum and Masons and the shopkeeper’s kids being sent to private schools.  I have spoken to a lot of ancient Norfolk dumplings, retired crabbers and the like, who told me how glad they were to now be able to move to a little bungalow that was only a dream a few years back.

I remember asking one old retired salt if he wasn’t sad to be moving from his old way of life and his only but telling response was “Well, thar’s windy”.  Rather like the miners of both the North East and South Wales! When they closed the Colliery down, they’re really very, very glad!

I often say that if nothing changes, nothing changes, perhaps Welby thinks that if his congregations fall into the poverty trap and his congregations become peasants living in poverty, they will like the domains of Roman Catholic workers in South America, The Philippines or suchlike, worshiping their priests and plating their altars with gold.  No-one buys second homes and makes an injection of cash there.  The peasants may escape as economic migrants if they are lucky.

I’m no authority on the for’s and against of 2nd homes unlike The Most Reverend Justin Welby who owns a six bedroom stone built, second home in Normandy that he keeps empty for him and his family as a retreat.  Of course Welby states that he only owns one house which is the French Gite, because his main residence is his grace and favour home in Lambeth Palace.  He also neglects to mention that his six bedroom house in France also boasts a two bed roomed cottage.  Um! Isn’t that a second home?.

Of course Welby is also a passionate Francophile and bought the spacious Normandy property which is 30 minutes from the beach and near to Mont St Michel, when he lived in Paris decades ago.  That’s how come he is such an expert on Brexit.  I didn’t say an unbiased expert; in fact all he knows is what suits Justin Welby.  Will no-one rid us of this meddlesome priest? Thomas Becket he ain’t.

 

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A Pollywog loses his virginity

Dipping once again into my memory bank I came across another of my sailor’s yarns.  In these enlightened times of political correctness I am certain that the time honoured ceremony of “Crossing the Equator” has now been watered down to a routine, fairly mundane event mostly a spectacle for passengers on cruise liners. 

 Back in the day, when Nelson was a lad and I was an apprentice deck officer it was a serious event looking back to the days when ships were made of wood and the men were made of steel. It had a more serious purpose designed to test the mettle of novices in the crew and to see if they were made of the right stuff to endure the hardships of the sea.

By the time I first crossed the equator I had actually sailed twice around the world and progressed to the dizzy heights of Third Mate on a ‘dirty British coaster’, well not really it was a Cargo Boat or Tramp Steamer plying its way seeking profitable loads from A to B and in fact not even the Skipper knew our next destination or even our next cargo. My first trip took sixteen months and we actually had circumnavigated the world twice via the USA, and Caribbean, through the Panama Canal and back through the Suez Canal then repeated the other way around via Singapore, Shanghai and Japan all without going near to the Equator. We then left Japan still seeking cargo and sailed to Australia calling at The Marshall Islands and The Philippines.

It became apparent from seeing a cabal consisting of the Boatswain, the Shipwright and the Chief Engineer and ‘all the guys from the band’, that something was afoot. They became King Neptune and his Royal Court, Royal Scribes, Trusty Shellbacks, The Royal Baby, Davy Jones and Her Highness Amphitrite.

My memory fades in the mists of time but I can remember being very nervous when I was summoned, along with all the other Pollywogs (Google it), to appear before the Royal Court of the Realm of Neptune because it had been brought to his attention that the ship was about to enter those waters manned by a crew who had not acknowledged the sovereignty of the Ruler of the Deep and had transgressed on his domain and thereby incurred his displeasure.

I was seized, tethered and stripped of my dignity as I was covered with thick foam – a mixture of ox-blood and salt water normally used to fight fire aboard and then shaved from top to bottom by three of Neptune’s hand maidens using a wooden three foot long cutthroat razor. One of the said maidens had a beard and bore a strong resemblance to the Chief Steward, he might even have been a Bar Steward!

I was then put through a series of harrowing and embarrassing tasks, gigs, obstacles and physical hardships. The entire ceremony took over four hours during which time the ship’s ensign was lowered and replaced with a large Jolly Roger.

At the end of Neptune’s Assizes I was ordered to kneel before the Royal Baby who was the ugliest shellback member of the crew and kiss his navel, which was filled and overflowing with really hot mustard, Ugh! Spit!

Thence duly inducted as a Son of Neptune. . . . . . . . . . .Be it known to all Sailors wherever you may be and to all Mermaids, Whales, Sea Serpents, Porpoises, Dolphins, Eels, Skates, Crab, Lobsters and all living things of the sea . . . . . . . . . . I was that Sailor!

 

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The tale of a rotten Apple.

My Apple iPad 2 32Gb is coming up to its six birthday and has travelled the world with me. Accompanied me up mountains, slept in a tent and sailed on ocean racing yachts. The only time it has put a foot wrong was when the internal battery had to be replaced. It’s not a love story but I have become quite fond of it as an efficient business tool.

Three days ago without warning it decided to upgrade to IOS11 itself, automatically and then rebooted itself. Once the silver Apple logo had finished its business and switched itself off it all looked good.

It then refused to switch on and the was notice saying it was Application locked until I typed in my Apple name and my password. Wrong! Name not recognised, then wrong password half a dozen attempts and am now frozen out until the following day.

Next day On the advice of the AppleSparks shop I switched the tablet on and before trying anything else I hard rebooted it. Same problem.

Apple have an impressive website for customer support and I went on that via my iPhone. To speak to anyone or contact by text or email you are required to prove you are a human being and not a robot by typing in a few letters and numbers. You do that, but the continue button remains greyed out. I tried that performance 16 times over two hours and could get no further. I’m a calm and placid type but my bloody iPhone nearly left my office via the window.

My local Apple technical repair shop had a go but got no further that I had and I was advised that if I couldn’t get on-line support I would have to go to my nearest Apple Store which is in Milton Keynes. A round trip of 30 miles! Have you ever tried parking in Central Milton Keynes?

I found the 🍏 Store in the centre and was fortunate to find a support technician who spent over an hour on the problem after expressing a determination not to let it beat him. I left bearing a working iPad now linked to my iPhone, with somewhat mixed feelings about Steve Jobs and the Apple Corporation.

A little bird in their store let slip that one of their biggest complaints was from customers not being able to access the on-line support website. Not good from the worlds largest Information Technology Company who also send their customers glitches in their updates. No doubt they will soon be sending out updates containing patches to repair the problems.

I wonder if this grumpy old sod can claim for wasting three days of my life and thirty miles worth of petrol in a V8 4.5 litre car for sending a maggot to eat into my Apple?

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It still brings tears to my eyes!

Watching a couple of young bloods in the gym while I was working out on one of the Abs Resistance Machines brought a long forgotten memory back. The lads were doing standing leaps up on to large padded blocks of some 3.6 feet cubes. I remembered some fifty years back I was in our club, prior to setting out for a some serious rock climbing. I carried out nearly the same exercise that the lads in the gym were doing but I was using our full size billiard table instead of gym equipment. One one of my jumps I didn’t quite make it and crashed my shins on the edge of the table. Serious rock climbing? I couldn’t walk to the ambulance. I sat back on the Abs Machine and stroked my shins. I still have a large missing chunk like a pothole out of my shinbone as an aid memoir!

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