27 February 2021
I offer you contributions from David, Anonymous and a new artist who loves cats. Enjoy.
I offer you contributions from David, Anonymous and a new artist who loves cats. Enjoy.
David’s Anecdotes No.8.
Adventures of a Barrow Boy.
Just after my friend Ted and his wife got married they got a London Council mortgage for 100% which enabled them to buy a new house on the outskirts of Strood in Kent. Their side of the road on the small estate on to which they moved had been carved out of a chalk cliff. As a consequence their back garden at house level didn’t go back very far until it reached the chalk cliff which was about 20 feet high. At the top of this cliff their garden then extended for quite some way. Ted had the brilliant idea of digging away the cliff to enlarge the garden at house level.
One Saturday morning, after he had hired a skip, having nothing better to do I offered to give him a hand. Armed with pick axes we duly commenced hacking away at the cliff face. After a while I was delegated with the job of loading the chalk into a wheelbarrow to dump into the skip outside Ted’s house. He had very thoughtfully placed a plank in front of the skip so all I had to do was run up the plank and tip the chalk into the skip. I duly ran up the plank, with the wheelbarrow full of chalk and without letting go tipped it only to find that the wheelbarrow had gone off the end of the plank. The result of this was the wheelbarrow, the chalk and me all ended up in the skip.
Ted’s comment on being told of this sorry state of affairs was, “Crickey be careful that’s my neighbours new wheelbarrow.” Though I do say it myself I think it shows my restraint that I continued to help for the rest of the morning.
The first house that Eileen and I bought together was a new development in an area of woodland on an L shaped plot. Immediately at the back of the house there was an earth bank about 20 feet high, which Eileen eventually turned into a flower garden. Above the bank there was a large flat lawn. From this lawn you went down a bank of about 6 feet through a small valley like area and then up a gently slope into a naturally wooded area. We were told by the builders that we could not fill in this valley area as all the sewer pipes from our 9 houses ran through it.
Needless to say before too long Eileen decided that natural woodland was ok but would be much if it were grassed over and planted with wild flowers. Our next door neighbour had turfed the similar earth bank at the back of his house but very quickly found that mowing it was not easy so he dug it up and dumped it over the back fence. Eileen’s eyes immediately lit up and she decided these turfs could be recycled into our woodland. I duly moved all the turf over the fence onto our back lawn preparatory to moving it to the woodland.
Next I put a load of turfs into my wheelbarrow. I wheeled it across the lawn and down the 6 foot bank at which point the wheel dug into the bottom of the bank and catapulted me over the top. Eileen, who was working elsewhere, asked what all the fuss and noise was about. When I explained she said that she would have loved to have seen that and I could I do it again. Needless to say I said something like “Don’t be silly” or words to that effect.
My second load had even more turf than the first so I needed to get up a bit of speed. I got the speed up alright but of course couldn’t stop the wheel from digging in at the bottom of the bank. The only saving grace was that this time Eileen was watching so she was able to see me go base over apex to once again be surrounded by a load of turf and an upended wheelbarrow. Thankfully the rest of the turf was transplanted without further mishap.
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Adventures of a Barrow Boy.
Just after my friend Ted and his wife got married they got a London Council mortgage for 100% which enabled them to buy a new house on the outskirts of Strood in Kent. Their side of the road on the small estate on to which they moved had been carved out of a chalk cliff. As a consequence their back garden at house level didn’t go back very far until it reached the chalk cliff which was about 20 feet high. At the top of this cliff their garden then extended for quite some way. Ted had the brilliant idea of digging away the cliff to enlarge the garden at house level.
One Saturday morning, after he had hired a skip, having nothing better to do I offered to give him a hand. Armed with pick axes we duly commenced hacking away at the cliff face. After a while I was delegated with the job of loading the chalk into a wheelbarrow to dump into the skip outside Ted’s house. He had very thoughtfully placed a plank in front of the skip so all I had to do was run up the plank and tip the chalk into the skip. I duly ran up the plank, with the wheelbarrow full of chalk and without letting go tipped it only to find that the wheelbarrow had gone off the end of the plank. The result of this was the wheelbarrow, the chalk and me all ended up in the skip.
Ted’s comment on being told of this sorry state of affairs was, “Crickey be careful that’s my neighbours new wheelbarrow.” Though I do say it myself I think it shows my restraint that I continued to help for the rest of the morning.
The first house that Eileen and I bought together was a new development in an area of woodland on an L shaped plot. Immediately at the back of the house there was an earth bank about 20 feet high, which Eileen eventually turned into a flower garden. Above the bank there was a large flat lawn. From this lawn you went down a bank of about 6 feet through a small valley like area and then up a gently slope into a naturally wooded area. We were told by the builders that we could not fill in this valley area as all the sewer pipes from our 9 houses ran through it.
Needless to say before too long Eileen decided that natural woodland was ok but would be much if it were grassed over and planted with wild flowers. Our next door neighbour had turfed the similar earth bank at the back of his house but very quickly found that mowing it was not easy so he dug it up and dumped it over the back fence. Eileen’s eyes immediately lit up and she decided these turfs could be recycled into our woodland. I duly moved all the turf over the fence onto our back lawn preparatory to moving it to the woodland.
Next I put a load of turfs into my wheelbarrow. I wheeled it across the lawn and down the 6 foot bank at which point the wheel dug into the bottom of the bank and catapulted me over the top. Eileen, who was working elsewhere, asked what all the fuss and noise was about. When I explained she said that she would have loved to have seen that and I could I do it again. Needless to say I said something like “Don’t be silly” or words to that effect.
My second load had even more turf than the first so I needed to get up a bit of speed. I got the speed up alright but of course couldn’t stop the wheel from digging in at the bottom of the bank. The only saving grace was that this time Eileen was watching so she was able to see me go base over apex to once again be surrounded by a load of turf and an upended wheelbarrow. Thankfully the rest of the turf was transplanted without further mishap.
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From Anonymous
Hi Folks,
A friend sent us this which we thought was pretty cool.
IT SNOWED SO THEREFORE I AM
8:00 am: I made a snowman.
8:10 - A feminist passed by and asked me why I didn't make a snow woman.
8:15 - So, I made a snow woman.
8:17 - My feminist neighbour complained about the snow woman's voluptuous chest saying it objectified snow women everywhere.
8:20 - The gay couple living nearby threw a hissy fit and moaned it could have been two snow men instead.
8:22 - The transgender man..women...person asked why I didn't just make one snow person with detachable parts.
8:25 - The vegans at the end of the lane complained about the carrot nose, as veggies are food and not to decorate snow figures with.
8:28 - I was being called a racist because the snow couple is white.
8:31 - The Muslim gent across the road demanded the snow woman wear a burqa.
8:40 - The Police arrived saying someone had been offended.
8:42 - The feminist neighbour complained again that the broomstick of the snow woman needed to be removed because it depicted women in a domestic role.
8:43 - The council equality officer arrived and threatened me with eviction.
8:45 - TV news crew from ABC showed up. I was asked if I know the difference between snowmen and snow-women? I replied "Snowballs" and am now called a sexist.
9:00 - I was on the News as a suspected terrorist, racist, homophobe sensibility offender, bent on stirring up trouble during difficult weather.
9:10 - I was asked if I have any accomplices. My children were taken by social services.
9:29 - Far left protesters offended by everything marched down the street demanding for me to be beheaded. Moral: There is no moral to this story. It is what we have become.
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Hi Folks,
A friend sent us this which we thought was pretty cool.
IT SNOWED SO THEREFORE I AM
8:00 am: I made a snowman.
8:10 - A feminist passed by and asked me why I didn't make a snow woman.
8:15 - So, I made a snow woman.
8:17 - My feminist neighbour complained about the snow woman's voluptuous chest saying it objectified snow women everywhere.
8:20 - The gay couple living nearby threw a hissy fit and moaned it could have been two snow men instead.
8:22 - The transgender man..women...person asked why I didn't just make one snow person with detachable parts.
8:25 - The vegans at the end of the lane complained about the carrot nose, as veggies are food and not to decorate snow figures with.
8:28 - I was being called a racist because the snow couple is white.
8:31 - The Muslim gent across the road demanded the snow woman wear a burqa.
8:40 - The Police arrived saying someone had been offended.
8:42 - The feminist neighbour complained again that the broomstick of the snow woman needed to be removed because it depicted women in a domestic role.
8:43 - The council equality officer arrived and threatened me with eviction.
8:45 - TV news crew from ABC showed up. I was asked if I know the difference between snowmen and snow-women? I replied "Snowballs" and am now called a sexist.
9:00 - I was on the News as a suspected terrorist, racist, homophobe sensibility offender, bent on stirring up trouble during difficult weather.
9:10 - I was asked if I have any accomplices. My children were taken by social services.
9:29 - Far left protesters offended by everything marched down the street demanding for me to be beheaded. Moral: There is no moral to this story. It is what we have become.
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
20 December 2020.
It gives me great pleasure to introduce contributions from David Stringer, Jennifer Lewis, Mandy Borelli,
Jenny Morrison and Captain Tim.
It gives me great pleasure to introduce contributions from David Stringer, Jennifer Lewis, Mandy Borelli,
Jenny Morrison and Captain Tim.
David’s Anecdotes No.7
Sling your hook.
Many years ago we were on holiday in Minorca with a family whom we had met on our previous year’s holiday in Majorca. We had two sons D nearly 5 years old and M just turned 2. Our friends had one son S who was 6. Jutting out from the beach was a small peninsula island with a tiny jetty. I think it was S’s father who had the bright idea that perhaps the boys would like to do a spot of fishing. Children’s fishing kits were duly purchased and one afternoon we walked onto the jetty to fish.
The two elder boys were quickly set up with their rods and proceeded to cast their hooks into the water. Young M was also keen to copy the bigger boys and taking a firm grip of his rod, which was over his shoulder, made his cast. The hook went nowhere having got caught in the back of his t-shirt and I spent the rest of the afternoon getting the hook out. That was my first experience of angling and I would have been quite happy for it to have been my last.
Some years later when D was about 12 and M 9 I thought a holiday on the Norfolk Broads would be fun. As we were about to set off their Mother said that in case they got bored she had got each of them a present - a fishing rod. Oh joy.
Chugging up and down the Broads M quickly got into the ritual. Every time we passed someone who was fishing he would ask “Caught anything?” And invariably got the same reply “No, nothing yet.” After a couple of days the boys decided it was time to do their own bit of fishing. D got his rod and line set up and in no time was casting his hook and line. M took a little longer and finally made his cast which did not go too far. When I had a look the line was all caught up in the reel. Eventually I got it sorted and M had another go this time with a bit more success, but when it came to reeling-in the line got into another tangle. Every time M touched the rod his reel and line seemed to turn itself into a bird’s nest and I ended up with very sore fingers sorting it out.
Thankfully M decided that fishing was not for him. D however continued and to our surprise one afternoon actually caught a fish. D tried without success to remove the hook. Luckily for the fish just across the road was a shop that sold disgorgers. Once D had that he was able to free the hook quite quickly. The fish, apparently no worse for having been caught, was released back into the water and swam off. Thankfully the rest of the holiday passed with no further fishing incidents.
D must have enjoyed his fishing experience as in later life he became quite a serious fisherman. He would spend whole weekends sitting by lakes or river banks just fishing and said that he found it most enjoyable and relaxing. During lockdown M came across photos of our Norfolk Broads holiday and his comment when we talked about them was “Hey Dad do you remember the bird’s nests and your sore fingers?” As if I would ever forget!
P.S. - D & M are in long trousers.
P.P.S. - As it is the season, apparently, to be jolly let me wish all of my family and friends a merry Christmas and for all of you may 2021 be an improvement in every way on 2020.
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Sling your hook.
Many years ago we were on holiday in Minorca with a family whom we had met on our previous year’s holiday in Majorca. We had two sons D nearly 5 years old and M just turned 2. Our friends had one son S who was 6. Jutting out from the beach was a small peninsula island with a tiny jetty. I think it was S’s father who had the bright idea that perhaps the boys would like to do a spot of fishing. Children’s fishing kits were duly purchased and one afternoon we walked onto the jetty to fish.
The two elder boys were quickly set up with their rods and proceeded to cast their hooks into the water. Young M was also keen to copy the bigger boys and taking a firm grip of his rod, which was over his shoulder, made his cast. The hook went nowhere having got caught in the back of his t-shirt and I spent the rest of the afternoon getting the hook out. That was my first experience of angling and I would have been quite happy for it to have been my last.
Some years later when D was about 12 and M 9 I thought a holiday on the Norfolk Broads would be fun. As we were about to set off their Mother said that in case they got bored she had got each of them a present - a fishing rod. Oh joy.
Chugging up and down the Broads M quickly got into the ritual. Every time we passed someone who was fishing he would ask “Caught anything?” And invariably got the same reply “No, nothing yet.” After a couple of days the boys decided it was time to do their own bit of fishing. D got his rod and line set up and in no time was casting his hook and line. M took a little longer and finally made his cast which did not go too far. When I had a look the line was all caught up in the reel. Eventually I got it sorted and M had another go this time with a bit more success, but when it came to reeling-in the line got into another tangle. Every time M touched the rod his reel and line seemed to turn itself into a bird’s nest and I ended up with very sore fingers sorting it out.
Thankfully M decided that fishing was not for him. D however continued and to our surprise one afternoon actually caught a fish. D tried without success to remove the hook. Luckily for the fish just across the road was a shop that sold disgorgers. Once D had that he was able to free the hook quite quickly. The fish, apparently no worse for having been caught, was released back into the water and swam off. Thankfully the rest of the holiday passed with no further fishing incidents.
D must have enjoyed his fishing experience as in later life he became quite a serious fisherman. He would spend whole weekends sitting by lakes or river banks just fishing and said that he found it most enjoyable and relaxing. During lockdown M came across photos of our Norfolk Broads holiday and his comment when we talked about them was “Hey Dad do you remember the bird’s nests and your sore fingers?” As if I would ever forget!
P.S. - D & M are in long trousers.
P.P.S. - As it is the season, apparently, to be jolly let me wish all of my family and friends a merry Christmas and for all of you may 2021 be an improvement in every way on 2020.
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Two contributions from Jenny. We first met back in the 1960´s and, by the magic of social media, are back in touch. We hope that Jenny and Pete are able to join us in this beautiful corner of Spain sometime in the future.
Seasons of Change
The golden leaves on the silver birch
Are always the last to fall.
Red skies in the morning
A bad weather warning
Today it will be wet and cool.
Grey clouds race across rain heavy skies
Icy winds from the north sting your face.
England is saying its farewell to Autumn
Winter is taking its place.
Shorter days and long, long nights
Wood smokes sweet smell in the air.
Red skies at night
Bring smiles of delight
Tomorrow will be bright and fair.
Air frost cloaks the trees in magic
And covers the windows with lace.
Soon we shall see the first flakes of snow
Winter has taken its place.
Tiny green shoots push up through the snow
A robin displays his red breast
Today the sky’s blue
A pale washed out hue
Today could be one of the best
Snow slowly melting, icicles dripping
Spring arriving as if in a race
England is looking forward to Summer
Winter is leaving the place.
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NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN:
Please be advised that planning to dash through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh, going over the fields and laughing all the way are required to undergo a Risk Assessment addressing the safety of open sleighs.
This assessment must also consider whether it is appropriate to use only one horse for such a venture, particularly where there are multiple passengers.
Please note that permission must also be obtained in writing from landowners before their fields may be entered.
To avoid offending those not participating in celebrations, we request that laughter is moderate only and not loud enough to be considered a noise nuisance.
Benches, stools and orthopaedic chairs are now available for collection by any shepherds planning or required to watch their flocks at night.
While provision has also been made for remote monitoring of flocks by CCTV cameras from a centrally heated shepherd observation hut, all facility users are reminded that an emergency response plan must be submitted to account for known risks to the flocks.
The angel of the Lord is additionally reminded that prior to shining his/her glory all around s/he must confirm that all shepherds are wearing appropriate Personal Protective Equipment to account for the harmful effects of UVA, UVB and the overwhelming effects of Glory.
Following last year’s well-publicised case, everyone is advised that EU legislation prohibits any comment with regard to the redness of any part of Mr R Reindeer. Further to this, exclusion of Mr R Reindeer from reindeer games will be considered discriminatory and disciplinary action will be taken against those found guilty of this offence.
While it is acknowledged that gift-bearing is commonly practised in various parts of the world, everyone is reminded that the bearing of gifts is subject to Hospitality Guidelines and all gifts must be registered. This applies regardless of the individual, even royal personages.
It is particularly noted that direct gifts of currency or gold are specifically precluded under provisions of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act. Further, caution is advised regarding other common gifts, such as aromatic resins that may initiate allergic reactions.
Finally, in the recent case of the infant found tucked up in a manger without any crib for a bed, Social Services have been advised and will be arriving shortly.
Compliance of these guidelines is advised in order for you to fully participate with the festive spirit.
Cheers
Admin Risk Management Team
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Another great piece of art from Mandy.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
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Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
..................................................................
Greetings and great art from Jenny Morrison.
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Captain Tim Reorts
AN AMAZING COINCIDENCE OR TWO; or ARE THEY?
“Captain Harris, there has been an incident at the entrance to the harbour. It looks as if the Japanese car carrier, the “COSMO ACE” has gone aground”, the Permanent Secretary looked worried, “get over there and find out what has happened and see what can be done about it”.
Our office was within sight of the harbour entrance, and when I got back you could see that the COSMO ACE was sitting stationary in an area of the harbour where it shouldn’t have been.
The Harbour Master found a small motor launch to take me out to the stranded ship and the crew of the ship rigged a pilot ladder from the top deck extending right the way down to the water. It is the longest possible climb in the harbour pilotage profession, and I was an unfit, overweight captain of a bureaucratic desk, 43 years old! It nearly killed me, but I arrived breathless with lungs aching, at the top and practically fell over the ship’s rail onto the deck. Not a very dignified way for the United Republic of Tanzania Maritime Official to arrive on the ship, but who cares? I was just glad that I was still alive. After a few seconds of getting myself together I was escorted to the ship’s bridge.
The ship’s bridge was a hive of activity with a Japanese captain running around like the proverbial chicken. The pilot, a friend of mine named Gilbert Mokiwa was busy discussing the situation with the Harbour Master and I heard patches of VHF radio communication like “two tugs at high water this afternoon” and “should slide off easily, even if it is not all afloat”.
I looked around and saw a young third officer in the chartroom busily writing up the story of what had happened. I introduced myself to him and explained who I was and what I was doing there. He was from the Philippines and spoke excellent English. He explained what had happened to me. A small boat was crossing the harbour mouth when its engine broke down dead ahead right under the flare of the Cosmo Ace’s bow, and it became inevitable that the Cosmo Ace would run the small boat down, so the people in it jumped into the water.
The Pilot ordered “Stop Engines”. He was worried that people would be drawn into the propeller and injured or killed and if they could not swim, drowned.
The way on the ship meant it kept going through the harbour entrance to where the harbour opened out into one of the most beautiful and largest natural harbours on the East coast of Africa. All the local pilots knew that as soon as you got through the entrance there was a cross current that took the ship to the port side which had to be counteracted using the engine and the helm. The people in the water were still close to the propeller and the pilot knew that he could not start the engine. Sure enough the ship slowly drifted int the shallow water and came to a halt.
The Third Officer seemed a nice helpful young man, so I thanked him for the information and waited to chat to the pilot, who was still on the VHF. I struck up a casual conversation with the Third Officer.
Now, dear reader, you may not believe this part of the story, but as God is my witness, this whole story is true. Ships coming into the harbour were not in the habit of going aground, and I had not been on board any ship in Dar es Salaam since my seafaring days more than fifteen years earlier. I had been ordered to go on board the Cosmo Ace and find out what had happened.
COSMO ACE
“My wife is from the Philippines” I said.
“No, I’m not married” he said.
“No, not you, MY wife is a Filipina”
“Oh” he said, politely, but slightly bored “where is she from?”
“Cavite!”
“Oh, I’m from Cavite, what part?”
“Bacoor”
“Really!” more interested now, “I’m from Bacoor”
“Mabolo”
He looked at me as if I had come from the moon, and was now quite suspicious, “But I come from Mabolo”
I named the street, and we were both amazed. His family knew my wife’s family well. If you threw a pebble hard enough from her family home, it would land in his family home.
What is that famous line from Casablanca drawled by Humphrey Bogart “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...
For us it was “Of all the ships in all the ports in all the world …….”
25 years later, in 2002, my in-laws celebrated their Golden Wedding Anniversary. As is customary in the Philippines, and as they had a small amount of wealth, a hall was hired, and all friends and neighbours were invited to join the festivities. As my wife and I walked into the reception venue with our son, Thomas, (both wearing beautiful traditional barong tagalog) a young man got up from one of the tables near the entrance, smiled, proffered his hand and said “Do you remember me?” I knew immediately who it was “Yes, I said. You were Third Officer on the “Cosmos Ace” when it went aground in Dar Es Salaam harbour in 1987.” He was pleased that I remembered and recognised him and said proudly “I am Captain now!”
I don’t believe in coincidences. God has a plan for each of us, and whether we like it or not many of these random chance meetings are not perhaps as random as we think.
It reminded me of a similar story from when I was working as a ship’s captain on Lake Victoria. It was also in Tanzania. I was in Mwanza and went to the Mwanza Yacht Club for lunch and a beer one day. A young man at the bar said to me “Are you from England?”. “Yes”, I said.
“Do you know Charlie Bamford? He lives in Birmingham”
I smiled to myself. One of the lovely things about people from developing countries who have any level of social or political standing, is that they seem to know all the other people of importance from their Province and expect you to be as well aware of the people of standing who live in the area where you come from.
“No”, I said, “I come from Sussex in the South”
“There! I knew we had something in common. I did my studies at the School of Asian and African Studies at Sussex University in Falmer, just outside Brighton, do you know it?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, at the entrance to the original part of the University there is a ‘Climbing Wall’. It is on the outside wall of the Sports Centre, and my mother was involved in the design work and building the parts to set into the wall, in the late 1960’s, at the company she worked for”.
“Well, you must know the Devil’s Dyke on the South Downs”.
Then he told me the following story. I have no reason to believe that it is not true, but I leave you, dear reader, to come to your own conclusion.
“On Sundays in the Spring and early Summer I used to take the bus to the Devil’s Dyke and go for a walk along the path across the top of the Downs. I loved it. A beautiful view in all directions and on a clear day you could see for miles, the sea in one direction, and southern England in the other
One Sunday I was walking along the path when I saw a man and his wife coming the other way with their two Alsatian dogs. Being African I was always a bit wary of wazungu with their dogs. As they approached me, the dogs came running over towards me and their owner could see I was scared. He called them back to him and used Kiswahili words “Simba, Rafiki come here. Heel”. The dogs obeyed and as he drew nearer, he peered at me quite intensely and suddenly said “Halo, wewe ni wa kabila la Wasukuma” “Hello you are from the Sukuma people” (of the Mwanza Region in Tanzania.)
I was dumbfounded. How did he know where I came from?
Ng’wa nani? Now he is asking me my family name in traditional Wasukuma fashion. This man is amazing.
Ng’wa Fumbuka? (My family name is Fumbuka)
The man turned to his wife and said, “We were right”. He then turned back to me and said, “Your father’s English name is David!”
By now I was truly frightened. How did this mzungu know who I was and my father’s name. It must be magic.
“Let me explain. I am Edward Martin. I used to be Provincial Commissioner of the Mwanza Province leading up to Independence in Tanganyika. In my household I had a driver whose name was David Fumbuka, and you look to me exactly the same as him. If I am not mistaken, your name is Peter, and I knew you when you were ten years old!”
This was beyond belief. He was right.
“I told him that my father had died, but that because of his employment as the Provincial Commissioner’s driver he had been able to pay for me to go to a good school and I won a Government scholarship to University. I was in England at the University of Sussex doing research into Agriculture.”
“He and his wife were so friendly and welcoming. They took me home to their house in a rich part of Brighton, and they proudly showed me a picture that was in their lounge room of them as a younger couple, standing with my father next to an old Land Rover.”
“During the rest of my stay in Brighton I was regularly invited to join them, Simba and Rafiki, for a walk on the Downs every fortnight followed by tea, sometimes at the Devil’s Dyke Café, and sometimes back at their house. We would tell stories about our lives in Africa and my father. Sadly, that summer I had to leave to return here, but I still keep in touch with them, and one day I hope they will come back to see how far Tanzania has changed since Independence.
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
AN AMAZING COINCIDENCE OR TWO; or ARE THEY?
“Captain Harris, there has been an incident at the entrance to the harbour. It looks as if the Japanese car carrier, the “COSMO ACE” has gone aground”, the Permanent Secretary looked worried, “get over there and find out what has happened and see what can be done about it”.
Our office was within sight of the harbour entrance, and when I got back you could see that the COSMO ACE was sitting stationary in an area of the harbour where it shouldn’t have been.
The Harbour Master found a small motor launch to take me out to the stranded ship and the crew of the ship rigged a pilot ladder from the top deck extending right the way down to the water. It is the longest possible climb in the harbour pilotage profession, and I was an unfit, overweight captain of a bureaucratic desk, 43 years old! It nearly killed me, but I arrived breathless with lungs aching, at the top and practically fell over the ship’s rail onto the deck. Not a very dignified way for the United Republic of Tanzania Maritime Official to arrive on the ship, but who cares? I was just glad that I was still alive. After a few seconds of getting myself together I was escorted to the ship’s bridge.
The ship’s bridge was a hive of activity with a Japanese captain running around like the proverbial chicken. The pilot, a friend of mine named Gilbert Mokiwa was busy discussing the situation with the Harbour Master and I heard patches of VHF radio communication like “two tugs at high water this afternoon” and “should slide off easily, even if it is not all afloat”.
I looked around and saw a young third officer in the chartroom busily writing up the story of what had happened. I introduced myself to him and explained who I was and what I was doing there. He was from the Philippines and spoke excellent English. He explained what had happened to me. A small boat was crossing the harbour mouth when its engine broke down dead ahead right under the flare of the Cosmo Ace’s bow, and it became inevitable that the Cosmo Ace would run the small boat down, so the people in it jumped into the water.
The Pilot ordered “Stop Engines”. He was worried that people would be drawn into the propeller and injured or killed and if they could not swim, drowned.
The way on the ship meant it kept going through the harbour entrance to where the harbour opened out into one of the most beautiful and largest natural harbours on the East coast of Africa. All the local pilots knew that as soon as you got through the entrance there was a cross current that took the ship to the port side which had to be counteracted using the engine and the helm. The people in the water were still close to the propeller and the pilot knew that he could not start the engine. Sure enough the ship slowly drifted int the shallow water and came to a halt.
The Third Officer seemed a nice helpful young man, so I thanked him for the information and waited to chat to the pilot, who was still on the VHF. I struck up a casual conversation with the Third Officer.
Now, dear reader, you may not believe this part of the story, but as God is my witness, this whole story is true. Ships coming into the harbour were not in the habit of going aground, and I had not been on board any ship in Dar es Salaam since my seafaring days more than fifteen years earlier. I had been ordered to go on board the Cosmo Ace and find out what had happened.
COSMO ACE
“My wife is from the Philippines” I said.
“No, I’m not married” he said.
“No, not you, MY wife is a Filipina”
“Oh” he said, politely, but slightly bored “where is she from?”
“Cavite!”
“Oh, I’m from Cavite, what part?”
“Bacoor”
“Really!” more interested now, “I’m from Bacoor”
“Mabolo”
He looked at me as if I had come from the moon, and was now quite suspicious, “But I come from Mabolo”
I named the street, and we were both amazed. His family knew my wife’s family well. If you threw a pebble hard enough from her family home, it would land in his family home.
What is that famous line from Casablanca drawled by Humphrey Bogart “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...
For us it was “Of all the ships in all the ports in all the world …….”
25 years later, in 2002, my in-laws celebrated their Golden Wedding Anniversary. As is customary in the Philippines, and as they had a small amount of wealth, a hall was hired, and all friends and neighbours were invited to join the festivities. As my wife and I walked into the reception venue with our son, Thomas, (both wearing beautiful traditional barong tagalog) a young man got up from one of the tables near the entrance, smiled, proffered his hand and said “Do you remember me?” I knew immediately who it was “Yes, I said. You were Third Officer on the “Cosmos Ace” when it went aground in Dar Es Salaam harbour in 1987.” He was pleased that I remembered and recognised him and said proudly “I am Captain now!”
I don’t believe in coincidences. God has a plan for each of us, and whether we like it or not many of these random chance meetings are not perhaps as random as we think.
It reminded me of a similar story from when I was working as a ship’s captain on Lake Victoria. It was also in Tanzania. I was in Mwanza and went to the Mwanza Yacht Club for lunch and a beer one day. A young man at the bar said to me “Are you from England?”. “Yes”, I said.
“Do you know Charlie Bamford? He lives in Birmingham”
I smiled to myself. One of the lovely things about people from developing countries who have any level of social or political standing, is that they seem to know all the other people of importance from their Province and expect you to be as well aware of the people of standing who live in the area where you come from.
“No”, I said, “I come from Sussex in the South”
“There! I knew we had something in common. I did my studies at the School of Asian and African Studies at Sussex University in Falmer, just outside Brighton, do you know it?”
“Yes, I do. In fact, at the entrance to the original part of the University there is a ‘Climbing Wall’. It is on the outside wall of the Sports Centre, and my mother was involved in the design work and building the parts to set into the wall, in the late 1960’s, at the company she worked for”.
“Well, you must know the Devil’s Dyke on the South Downs”.
Then he told me the following story. I have no reason to believe that it is not true, but I leave you, dear reader, to come to your own conclusion.
“On Sundays in the Spring and early Summer I used to take the bus to the Devil’s Dyke and go for a walk along the path across the top of the Downs. I loved it. A beautiful view in all directions and on a clear day you could see for miles, the sea in one direction, and southern England in the other
One Sunday I was walking along the path when I saw a man and his wife coming the other way with their two Alsatian dogs. Being African I was always a bit wary of wazungu with their dogs. As they approached me, the dogs came running over towards me and their owner could see I was scared. He called them back to him and used Kiswahili words “Simba, Rafiki come here. Heel”. The dogs obeyed and as he drew nearer, he peered at me quite intensely and suddenly said “Halo, wewe ni wa kabila la Wasukuma” “Hello you are from the Sukuma people” (of the Mwanza Region in Tanzania.)
I was dumbfounded. How did he know where I came from?
Ng’wa nani? Now he is asking me my family name in traditional Wasukuma fashion. This man is amazing.
Ng’wa Fumbuka? (My family name is Fumbuka)
The man turned to his wife and said, “We were right”. He then turned back to me and said, “Your father’s English name is David!”
By now I was truly frightened. How did this mzungu know who I was and my father’s name. It must be magic.
“Let me explain. I am Edward Martin. I used to be Provincial Commissioner of the Mwanza Province leading up to Independence in Tanganyika. In my household I had a driver whose name was David Fumbuka, and you look to me exactly the same as him. If I am not mistaken, your name is Peter, and I knew you when you were ten years old!”
This was beyond belief. He was right.
“I told him that my father had died, but that because of his employment as the Provincial Commissioner’s driver he had been able to pay for me to go to a good school and I won a Government scholarship to University. I was in England at the University of Sussex doing research into Agriculture.”
“He and his wife were so friendly and welcoming. They took me home to their house in a rich part of Brighton, and they proudly showed me a picture that was in their lounge room of them as a younger couple, standing with my father next to an old Land Rover.”
“During the rest of my stay in Brighton I was regularly invited to join them, Simba and Rafiki, for a walk on the Downs every fortnight followed by tea, sometimes at the Devil’s Dyke Café, and sometimes back at their house. We would tell stories about our lives in Africa and my father. Sadly, that summer I had to leave to return here, but I still keep in touch with them, and one day I hope they will come back to see how far Tanzania has changed since Independence.
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19 November 2020
Today we have contributions from David, Mandy and Tim. Enjoy.
Today we have contributions from David, Mandy and Tim. Enjoy.
David’s Anecdotes No.6.
My A30 And A Lucky Escape.
The last Friday night in August I left girl friend Ann’s house looking forward to my holiday. I was going with my mate Ken on a fortnight’s camping holiday, for which we had made virtually no plans. Lovely clear evening, approaching midnight, no traffic on the road and me without any alcohol in my system. That was when I wondered if I could take the down hill left hand bend at 50 mph. All went well until the camber in the road ran the other way where a road joined from the right.
The back of the car swung to the right so I turned the steering wheel to the right to correct it. By now the car was heading at an angle towards the kerb. Car hit the kerb and turned back into the road at the same time rolling onto its roof. This was long before the days of seat belts and there I was upside down in the car, which was careering down the middle of the road on its roof, with the front offside windscreen pillar sparking like fun and fury as it was ground down. I thought to myself I will be really glad when this stops. Before it did stop the car rolled itself back onto all four wheels and came to rest by the kerb a couple of hundred yards down the road.
Having seen all the sparks I was worried in case the car caught fire so an immediate exit what what I wanted. I tried the door which would not budge so I pulled the window down and made a speedy escape. The car didn’t catch fire or explode and unbelievably my only injury was the most minute scratch on my head probably caused by my brushing the broken glass from my hair.
The next day my mate Ken was not best pleased when I ‘phoned him to say I had wrecked the car and so had to cancel our holiday.
My friend Jeff was assistant store man at the garage to which my car was towed. He told the work shop foreman that I was his friend and about the new engine, gearbox, and clutch that had recently been fitted. The insurance company wanted to write the car off but the foreman prevailed upon the insurance company, no doubt not wanting to lose a lucrative repair job and the car was repaired. It was never the same car again and had to have the roof for an A35 as they no longer made body parts for the A30. The back doors were also difficult to close without a very hard slam.
A week or so after my crash another car was brought into the garage which looked to have almost identical damage to mine. I was a told that two lads had been in it when it hit a lamp post. The last I heard was that one lad had been killed and the other was seriously injured. I have never forgotten my first and most serious car crash nor stopped thanking my stars for my incredibly lucky escape. Nor have I ever forgotten what could have been my last thoughts/words - I wonder if I can take this bend at 50 mph.
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My A30 And A Lucky Escape.
The last Friday night in August I left girl friend Ann’s house looking forward to my holiday. I was going with my mate Ken on a fortnight’s camping holiday, for which we had made virtually no plans. Lovely clear evening, approaching midnight, no traffic on the road and me without any alcohol in my system. That was when I wondered if I could take the down hill left hand bend at 50 mph. All went well until the camber in the road ran the other way where a road joined from the right.
The back of the car swung to the right so I turned the steering wheel to the right to correct it. By now the car was heading at an angle towards the kerb. Car hit the kerb and turned back into the road at the same time rolling onto its roof. This was long before the days of seat belts and there I was upside down in the car, which was careering down the middle of the road on its roof, with the front offside windscreen pillar sparking like fun and fury as it was ground down. I thought to myself I will be really glad when this stops. Before it did stop the car rolled itself back onto all four wheels and came to rest by the kerb a couple of hundred yards down the road.
Having seen all the sparks I was worried in case the car caught fire so an immediate exit what what I wanted. I tried the door which would not budge so I pulled the window down and made a speedy escape. The car didn’t catch fire or explode and unbelievably my only injury was the most minute scratch on my head probably caused by my brushing the broken glass from my hair.
The next day my mate Ken was not best pleased when I ‘phoned him to say I had wrecked the car and so had to cancel our holiday.
My friend Jeff was assistant store man at the garage to which my car was towed. He told the work shop foreman that I was his friend and about the new engine, gearbox, and clutch that had recently been fitted. The insurance company wanted to write the car off but the foreman prevailed upon the insurance company, no doubt not wanting to lose a lucrative repair job and the car was repaired. It was never the same car again and had to have the roof for an A35 as they no longer made body parts for the A30. The back doors were also difficult to close without a very hard slam.
A week or so after my crash another car was brought into the garage which looked to have almost identical damage to mine. I was a told that two lads had been in it when it hit a lamp post. The last I heard was that one lad had been killed and the other was seriously injured. I have never forgotten my first and most serious car crash nor stopped thanking my stars for my incredibly lucky escape. Nor have I ever forgotten what could have been my last thoughts/words - I wonder if I can take this bend at 50 mph.
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Another piece of fine art from Mandy Borelli.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Captain Tim Reports
Youngsters Aboard for a Fun Filled Voyage – RMS Kenya Castle
Cadetship was completed in October 1964 and I passed the exam for the 2nd Mate’s Certificate of Competency (now Class 3 CoC) soon after my 20th birthday. In January 1965 I was promoted as 4th Officer of the Royal Mail Ship “Kenya Castle”, a Union Castle Intermediate Service passenger and cargo ship, serving East Africa.
R.M.S Kenya Castle
This was my first appointment to a passenger ship and I looked forward to joining this fine looking ship in the Royal Victoria London Docks. It was a completely different life from my time as a cadet on cargo ships. For a start there were so many more officers. As well as the Captain there was a Chief Officer, a Second Officer, a Junior Second Officer, a Third Officer, and me as Fourth Officer in the Navigation (Deck) Department. In the Engine room a myriad of marine engineers, refrigeration engineers and electricians looked after the machinery, kept the engines going and the lights working. There were numerous other officers looking after passengers that you didn’t see on cargo ships. The senior navigation watchkeepers all held a Master Mariner’s Certificate of Competency and I stood as the junior watchkeeper, with little responsibility, on the 4 – 8 watch. Best of all, as I was now an officer, I had a steward who looked after my cabin, cleaned it, made the bed, and if necessary, ran errands. Alf was a cockney with a strong accent, a heart of gold and a wicked sense of humour. He called me “forf” and whenever he said “ere forf” I knew a question was coming. It could be about anything.
After pre-sea training I applied to join the British & Commonwealth Group as they were, as far as I knew, one of only two British passenger shipping companies that not only expected their officers to mix with the passengers, but actively encouraged them to do so. On this voyage the passengers were mostly octogenarians who were escaping the worst of the European winter by doing the “round Africa” voyage. Outward via Suez and calling at ports on the East African coast, it was all ports from Durban to the Cape and then back to London via Las Palmas to pick up bunker fuel. Voyage departure in early January and arrival back at Royal Victoria Docks in late March.
The routine was a bit strange at first and I tended to stay in my cabin or socialize with the other officers when I wasn’t on watch. After the ship had passed through Suez the Chief Officer called me to his cabin. “Sit down Fourth. I see you are from my hometown.” Not only did he live there, his home was only about a mile away from where I lived with my mother in her flat. What a coincidence! Even more coincidental it turned out that his son had gone to the same school, and been in the same class, as my girlfriend. “When we get back to London my wife will be coming up to London to collect me, why don’t we arrange for her to give your girlfriend a lift to come to meet the ship?” A great idea. He would arrange it.
Having put me at ease, his tone became a bit more serious. “I haven’t seen you on deck talking with the passengers. You must understand that we are the hosts on the ship and our job is to make the passengers feel welcome and help them enjoy their experience”. “I expect to see you at the social entertainments talking to passengers joining in the entertainment and dancing with them when you’re off watch!” It was obviously a directive, not a suggestion. I thought to myself “I’m 20 and the average age of the passengers must be at least 70, what am I going to talk to them about?”
Next day, as we sailed through the Red Sea, I plucked up courage and went for a stroll on the promenade deck. There was a game of deck quoits and another of shuffleboard underway and a few elderly ladies lounging on deck chairs. I chose a wizened old lady who was still awake looking blankly into the distance, watching the sea go by, and approached her. She must have been at least 80.
“Good morning, how are you today?” followed by “Are you enjoying the voyage?” and, “Is this the first time you have done the round Africa trip?” Up until then I was doing well and thought I had the upper hand.
“Oh no,” she said “I’ve done the round Africa many times. My husband and I used to do it regularly before he passed away. This is my eighth trip”. Blimey, she probably knows the ship better than I do. She continued, “I haven’t seen you on deck before, did you join the ship in Port Said or Suez?” A bit embarrassing that my absence on deck must have been noticed now that I had appeared. These old biddies didn’t miss a thing. “Are you a marine engineer?”
Dear reader, you will know that there has always been a bit of standoffishness between the deck and engine room departments aboard ships. It gives rise to a common adage that is heard about ships, “oil and water don’t mix”. I therefore considered this question to be a bit of an insult, so pulling myself up to my full height, and flashing my one thin ring of gold on my epaulettes, I said in my poshest accent “Oh no, madam I am the Fourth Officer in the Navigation Department”.
“What a pity” she said, “it must be so exciting to work in the engine room looking after all that machinery, rather than stand around on the bridge all day doing nothing, especially in the cold weather”. My balloon had been burst at the first effort; I slunk off with my tail between my legs having learned my lesson. But the ice had been broken so I began joining passenger activities from then, singsongs, bingo, horse-racing, etc. as we continued to Aden.
There was an accident on deck while the ship was in Aden when one of the hatch beams was being lifted. The beam chain sling gave way at one end and the horizontal beam suddenly became vertical. It bounced about for a few seconds, suspended by only one chain, from the end of the derrick and then the total weight of the beam coming onto the other standing part of the chain was too much for it. With a loud crack it parted. Luckily, the few seconds delay allowed the labour down in the hold to take cover before this massive spear-like beam came hurtling through the air. It went straight through a Land Rover that was parked immediately below the hatch square, waiting to be discharged, and went through the tank top in the lower hold. Which was fortunate, in a way. The Land Rover slowed the momentum of the beam spear; if it hadn’t been there the beam probably would have gone through the ship’s bottom hull plating. God knows what would have happened then! As it was the tank top was given emergency repairs and there was a Lloyds Agency in Aden able to declare the vessel safe to go to sea. God was also good to me; the accident had nothing to do with me as I wasn’t on cargo watch duty at the time.
Soon after that we reached Mombasa without further incident, where there was cargo discharge to look after and the goings and comings of passengers making trips to the local attractions and the game parks. Tsavo, on the road from Mombasa to Nairobi, was the nearest to Kilindini Harbour.
At the end of 1963 Kenya had become independent, but there were still many British civil servants and their families who were coming to the end of their contracts and moving back to the UK. There were also farmers and their families who were uncertain of their future in Kenya under Jomo Kenyatta and had decided to leave. One such farming family came aboard to settle into their cabins soon after we arrived in port. They were a delightful breath of young fresh air. There were four daughters to the family; the oldest, Pippa, was about my age, or a bit older, and the youngest, Victoria, about 14. They had been brought up on a sheep farm in Molo; had beautiful fair hair, piercing blue eyes and deeply tanned athletic bodies. At last there were some youngsters about my age! What’s more they were full of fun and were great company for me on deck.
When the Second Officer and I came off watch we were allowed to swim in the pool as long as we stuck strictly to the rules, one of which was “ONLY WHEN THE POOL IS NOT OVERCROWDED” and another was “NO HORSEPLAY”. We both enjoyed a swim, especially when it was hot as the ship was not air conditioned. Most of the passengers were old and didn’t swim, so there was seldom a crowd; the “oldies” just sat around the pool watching the few who swam. We were able to swim sedately up and down the relatively small pool, on our best behaviour!
Of course, the Molo lionesses loved to swim and sunbathe, so they were often at the pool. Being fun loving they would try bombing the 2nd Mate and I when we were in the water, but due to “NO HORSEPLAY” we would smile sweetly and continue with our sedate exercise. As they did not get a response from us, they gradually gave up, with just an occasional attack. Later in the voyage, after we had left Cape Town on our way to Las Palmas we had been at sea for many days and life was getting a bit monotonous and boring. Pippa, the oldest of the girls, decided to bomb me and for some unknown reason I decided to retaliate, so as she went down I put my hands on her shoulders and held her down in the water momentarily.
Pippa was not expecting it, so she had not taken a deep breath as she bombed, so she came up with a rush gasping for air. I would have got away with it, but in her haste her bikini top had what these days would be called a “wardrobe malfunction” She rose from the water as if she were the top half of Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” much to the delight of the assembled multitude. I missed this vision as I had pushed myself off her shoulders in the other direction and was now going away as if nothing had happened.
It had not gone un-noticed and the rumour began to circulate that I had, let us say, “aided the wardrobe malfunction”, which was not true. Pippa just readjusted her bikini and the girls laughed it off. But I had committed a dreadful crime of “Horseplay”. In this day and age, I would have also been guilty of sexual assault, but it was totally unintentional. All in plain view of some passengers and in front of the 2nd Mate. The Master-at-Arms was called and the next morning I had to report to the Captain’s cabin, together with Pippa and the Mate and the 2nd Mate. I explained what had happened and Pippa confirmed that I had not contributed to the “wardrobe malfunction” and that it was due to her rushing up and the weight of water rushing down her cleavage. She did not want to make an official complaint and the Captain did not want to make a big issue out of it, as it would be bad publicity for the ship. My punishment: banned from going “on deck” for a week, and no doubt a black mark on my voyage report to head office.
It was traditional that on departure Mombasa the Captain hosted a Cocktail party followed by “the Captain’s Ball”. In some ways it marked the beginning of our trip home. The East African Intermediate Service, as it was called, normally returned to London via Aden and the Suez Canal, but this was the annual “round Africa” voyage, and we were going East about, so although we still had to discharge cargo in Dar es Salaam, and it was the only time we would leave Mombasa on this voyage, the tradition was maintained.
I now had a group of youngsters that I could relax with, so I felt quite resplendent in my white bum-freezer with my 4th Officer’s gold epaulettes, starch fronted white shirt, black trousers, bow tie and cummerbund as I joined them at the youngsters’ table. The lionesses had been joined by a dark-haired girl named Alexandra who was the daughter of a senior British diplomat returning to boarding school in England.
A few minutes after I had joined the group a vision of loveliness made a dramatic entrance to the Ballroom. A striking girl, about 20, in a pale blue ball gown, with long elbow length gloves to match. She posed at the doorway, took a few seconds to survey the room, saw where the youngsters were at our table, walked over, and said, “Do you mind if I join you?” On my feet like a shot and pulled a chair out for her. “I’m Margaret”, she smiled. “I’m Tim, this is Pippa, Rose, Cindy, Victoria and Alexandra. What would you all like to drink?” G & T’s for the over eighteens, lemonade or soda for the others. I always bought the drinks as Officers were charged lower prices compared to passengers.
We sipped our G & T’s and sodas to toast the start of the voyage back to “Blighty”. The band struck up a slow waltz and I asked Margaret “Would you like to dance?” Amongst the pre-sea training at Warsash were dancing lessons with girls from a professional dancing school, and I had learned the waltz, quick-step, foxtrot and did a fairly mean rhumba and cha-cha-cha. I loved dancing.
Margaret looked at me, smiled and said, holding out her gloved arms, “I’d love to”. After a few steps around the dance floor (she was a good dancer) she said, without looking at me or changing her expression, “When we get to Tilbury I want you to forget all about me, as my boyfriend is coming to meet me.” I didn’t look at her either and said “Fine, my girlfriend is coming to meet me”. It was then we looked at each other and smiled. Wow, so this is life on a passenger ship!
Her father was an exceptionally large man who suffered from gout. He was a tobacco planter from upcountry and quite wealthy. Due to his poor health he couldn’t go ashore, so he and his wife stayed onboard in port. Adding bounty to pleasure he was pleased that I was keeping his daughter company and even gave me money to take her ashore for dinner and visits to night clubs. In Durban and Cape Town, he hired a car for us so that I could drive around the Cape and show Margaret the sights.
The Cape Peninsula is dramatic and beautiful. You drive along the Atlantic coast to Clifton, Camps Bay and on to Hout Bay. Spectacular sight-seeing continues around the Chapman’s Peak drive; said to be one of the most beautiful drives in the world. We enjoyed a picnic lunch at Cape Point lighthouse, where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean currents swirl by the rocks below, and then drove back to Cape Town on the False Bay side of the peninsula.
It was time to leave Cape Town and steer for the bulge on the western end of Africa. Two weeks and we would be back in London. Margaret complained that it was extremely hot and crowded with her mum and dad in their cabin, especially as it was not air-conditioned. My cabin was on the port side of the ship at the forward end of the top deck of the accommodation block and there was nearly always a cool breeze coming through the porthole due to the ship making way. One day when I came off watch I found lots of her clothes in my cabin. Alf was busy putting them into my wardrobe. “What the hell are you doing?” “A young lady asked me to put these clothes in your wardrobe as she is moving in with you” “No she’s not. No way”.
I went to find Margaret and explain that there was no way she could move in. “Look,” I said, “I do the 4 – 8 watch. When I come off watch I go to the Dining Saloon for my supper. After that we can get together and join in passenger activities, but there is no way you can be in my cabin if I’m not there. I get called at 3.30 to go on watch and you can stay until then, but at 3.45 I’ll take you back down to your cabin!”
This arrangement worked well as it was not far from my cabin to the cross alleyway where there was a lift that went down to all the passenger decks. At 3.45 a.m. there was nobody about. A few days later I came back to my cabin after the morning watch and Alf turned to me from where he was making the bunkbed, “ere forf, are you fruit?” “No way” I said, a bit non-plussed. “Well, forf do you like getting dressed up in women’s clothes?” By now I was on the verge of admonishing this cheeky steward. He turned to me with a grin and with a flourish produced bra and knickers from amongst the bedclothes, “Well how do you explain this little lot then, forf!!” There was no answer to that!
One morning as I was running Margaret back to her cabin, we turned the corner into the cross alleyway and who should be standing by the lift door but the Chief Officer. With him was a beautiful redhead of about 45 years, who came aboard in Cape Town.
Without batting an eyelid, he said, “Good morning, miss, good morning Fourth” to us. Taken aback by this casual greeting when I had been “caught in the act”, as it were, I managed to stammer out, “Good morning madam, good morning Sir”. Silence. The lift arrived and doors opened. We all got in, still silently. His finger hovered over the lift buttons “What deck?”, “D deck, Sir”, he pushed the D deck button and then pushed the B deck button. As they left the lift at B deck, we all nodded a polite “good day” and the lift doors closed behind them. Oh! Sugar I thought, that’s dropped me right in it.
It happened again, but the second time Chief Officer just smiled and said, “D deck isn’t it?” “Yes Sir”. We smiled back. The next time it happened I pushed B and D Deck buttons and just stood there awkwardly. It happened a few times, but nothing more was said for the rest of the voyage to Las Palmas, where we took on bunkers and then set sail for London.
Every voyage of the Union Castle East African Intermediate Service, whatever time of day or night the ship arrived off Southend, would drop anchor there until just before midnight. Three months leave for the Government officers who had been working in Kenya and Tanzania (or Tanganyika as it was then) did not start until the day they disembarked from the ship in Tilbury. The time from departing Mombasa and Dar es Salaam until arriving in London was “bonus” leave, which was partly why the voyage was just one long party for the younger passengers and the colonial leave-takers.
We weighed anchor and proceeded up the Thames so that the ship entered the lock at Tilbury just after midnight. The ship would then be manoeuvred into a berth at the Passenger Terminal and the Captain would order “Finished with Engines”. It was recorded in the logbook. The “Kenya Castle” was an “arrived ship”. All passengers and their luggage were off-loaded between “FWE” and three or four o’clock. The ship would then continue upriver to the Royal Victoria Dock to prepare for the next voyage.
As we sailed along the English Channel the voyage was coming to an end and due at Southend the next day. I came off watch at 8 that morning and Alf stuck his head around my curtained doorway. “Ere forf, the Mate wants you in his cabin. NOW”. My day of reckoning had arrived.
“Sit down, Fourth. I have been writing your voyage performance report for the Company”. My heart fell; here it comes. “At the beginning of the voyage I was concerned that you were not joining in passenger activity and I had a word with you about it.”
“Well, I’m pleased that in the second half of the voyage you took my words to heart and have been hosting and entertaining the younger group of passengers.” He paused, “It was unfortunate about the incident in the swimming pool, but it was suitably resolved and that will not be held against you. With regard to entertaining passengers, however, the idea is that you don’t spend all your time with just a handful you are meant to be hosting all of them, so you are expected to spread yourself about a bit. You are not supposed to concentrate on only one passenger. Overall, I have been impressed with your performance this voyage and I’m giving you a good report.”
I was pleasantly surprised.
“One more thing, my wife will be arriving with your girlfriend at about 10 a.m.” He looked at me intensely and said slowly and meaningfully, “I would hate your girlfriend to find out what you have been up to this voyage.”
“Well, Sir, I would hate your wife to find out what you’ve been up to”.
“Good”, he smiled warmly, “We know exactly where we stand then, don’t we!”
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Youngsters Aboard for a Fun Filled Voyage – RMS Kenya Castle
Cadetship was completed in October 1964 and I passed the exam for the 2nd Mate’s Certificate of Competency (now Class 3 CoC) soon after my 20th birthday. In January 1965 I was promoted as 4th Officer of the Royal Mail Ship “Kenya Castle”, a Union Castle Intermediate Service passenger and cargo ship, serving East Africa.
R.M.S Kenya Castle
This was my first appointment to a passenger ship and I looked forward to joining this fine looking ship in the Royal Victoria London Docks. It was a completely different life from my time as a cadet on cargo ships. For a start there were so many more officers. As well as the Captain there was a Chief Officer, a Second Officer, a Junior Second Officer, a Third Officer, and me as Fourth Officer in the Navigation (Deck) Department. In the Engine room a myriad of marine engineers, refrigeration engineers and electricians looked after the machinery, kept the engines going and the lights working. There were numerous other officers looking after passengers that you didn’t see on cargo ships. The senior navigation watchkeepers all held a Master Mariner’s Certificate of Competency and I stood as the junior watchkeeper, with little responsibility, on the 4 – 8 watch. Best of all, as I was now an officer, I had a steward who looked after my cabin, cleaned it, made the bed, and if necessary, ran errands. Alf was a cockney with a strong accent, a heart of gold and a wicked sense of humour. He called me “forf” and whenever he said “ere forf” I knew a question was coming. It could be about anything.
After pre-sea training I applied to join the British & Commonwealth Group as they were, as far as I knew, one of only two British passenger shipping companies that not only expected their officers to mix with the passengers, but actively encouraged them to do so. On this voyage the passengers were mostly octogenarians who were escaping the worst of the European winter by doing the “round Africa” voyage. Outward via Suez and calling at ports on the East African coast, it was all ports from Durban to the Cape and then back to London via Las Palmas to pick up bunker fuel. Voyage departure in early January and arrival back at Royal Victoria Docks in late March.
The routine was a bit strange at first and I tended to stay in my cabin or socialize with the other officers when I wasn’t on watch. After the ship had passed through Suez the Chief Officer called me to his cabin. “Sit down Fourth. I see you are from my hometown.” Not only did he live there, his home was only about a mile away from where I lived with my mother in her flat. What a coincidence! Even more coincidental it turned out that his son had gone to the same school, and been in the same class, as my girlfriend. “When we get back to London my wife will be coming up to London to collect me, why don’t we arrange for her to give your girlfriend a lift to come to meet the ship?” A great idea. He would arrange it.
Having put me at ease, his tone became a bit more serious. “I haven’t seen you on deck talking with the passengers. You must understand that we are the hosts on the ship and our job is to make the passengers feel welcome and help them enjoy their experience”. “I expect to see you at the social entertainments talking to passengers joining in the entertainment and dancing with them when you’re off watch!” It was obviously a directive, not a suggestion. I thought to myself “I’m 20 and the average age of the passengers must be at least 70, what am I going to talk to them about?”
Next day, as we sailed through the Red Sea, I plucked up courage and went for a stroll on the promenade deck. There was a game of deck quoits and another of shuffleboard underway and a few elderly ladies lounging on deck chairs. I chose a wizened old lady who was still awake looking blankly into the distance, watching the sea go by, and approached her. She must have been at least 80.
“Good morning, how are you today?” followed by “Are you enjoying the voyage?” and, “Is this the first time you have done the round Africa trip?” Up until then I was doing well and thought I had the upper hand.
“Oh no,” she said “I’ve done the round Africa many times. My husband and I used to do it regularly before he passed away. This is my eighth trip”. Blimey, she probably knows the ship better than I do. She continued, “I haven’t seen you on deck before, did you join the ship in Port Said or Suez?” A bit embarrassing that my absence on deck must have been noticed now that I had appeared. These old biddies didn’t miss a thing. “Are you a marine engineer?”
Dear reader, you will know that there has always been a bit of standoffishness between the deck and engine room departments aboard ships. It gives rise to a common adage that is heard about ships, “oil and water don’t mix”. I therefore considered this question to be a bit of an insult, so pulling myself up to my full height, and flashing my one thin ring of gold on my epaulettes, I said in my poshest accent “Oh no, madam I am the Fourth Officer in the Navigation Department”.
“What a pity” she said, “it must be so exciting to work in the engine room looking after all that machinery, rather than stand around on the bridge all day doing nothing, especially in the cold weather”. My balloon had been burst at the first effort; I slunk off with my tail between my legs having learned my lesson. But the ice had been broken so I began joining passenger activities from then, singsongs, bingo, horse-racing, etc. as we continued to Aden.
There was an accident on deck while the ship was in Aden when one of the hatch beams was being lifted. The beam chain sling gave way at one end and the horizontal beam suddenly became vertical. It bounced about for a few seconds, suspended by only one chain, from the end of the derrick and then the total weight of the beam coming onto the other standing part of the chain was too much for it. With a loud crack it parted. Luckily, the few seconds delay allowed the labour down in the hold to take cover before this massive spear-like beam came hurtling through the air. It went straight through a Land Rover that was parked immediately below the hatch square, waiting to be discharged, and went through the tank top in the lower hold. Which was fortunate, in a way. The Land Rover slowed the momentum of the beam spear; if it hadn’t been there the beam probably would have gone through the ship’s bottom hull plating. God knows what would have happened then! As it was the tank top was given emergency repairs and there was a Lloyds Agency in Aden able to declare the vessel safe to go to sea. God was also good to me; the accident had nothing to do with me as I wasn’t on cargo watch duty at the time.
Soon after that we reached Mombasa without further incident, where there was cargo discharge to look after and the goings and comings of passengers making trips to the local attractions and the game parks. Tsavo, on the road from Mombasa to Nairobi, was the nearest to Kilindini Harbour.
At the end of 1963 Kenya had become independent, but there were still many British civil servants and their families who were coming to the end of their contracts and moving back to the UK. There were also farmers and their families who were uncertain of their future in Kenya under Jomo Kenyatta and had decided to leave. One such farming family came aboard to settle into their cabins soon after we arrived in port. They were a delightful breath of young fresh air. There were four daughters to the family; the oldest, Pippa, was about my age, or a bit older, and the youngest, Victoria, about 14. They had been brought up on a sheep farm in Molo; had beautiful fair hair, piercing blue eyes and deeply tanned athletic bodies. At last there were some youngsters about my age! What’s more they were full of fun and were great company for me on deck.
When the Second Officer and I came off watch we were allowed to swim in the pool as long as we stuck strictly to the rules, one of which was “ONLY WHEN THE POOL IS NOT OVERCROWDED” and another was “NO HORSEPLAY”. We both enjoyed a swim, especially when it was hot as the ship was not air conditioned. Most of the passengers were old and didn’t swim, so there was seldom a crowd; the “oldies” just sat around the pool watching the few who swam. We were able to swim sedately up and down the relatively small pool, on our best behaviour!
Of course, the Molo lionesses loved to swim and sunbathe, so they were often at the pool. Being fun loving they would try bombing the 2nd Mate and I when we were in the water, but due to “NO HORSEPLAY” we would smile sweetly and continue with our sedate exercise. As they did not get a response from us, they gradually gave up, with just an occasional attack. Later in the voyage, after we had left Cape Town on our way to Las Palmas we had been at sea for many days and life was getting a bit monotonous and boring. Pippa, the oldest of the girls, decided to bomb me and for some unknown reason I decided to retaliate, so as she went down I put my hands on her shoulders and held her down in the water momentarily.
Pippa was not expecting it, so she had not taken a deep breath as she bombed, so she came up with a rush gasping for air. I would have got away with it, but in her haste her bikini top had what these days would be called a “wardrobe malfunction” She rose from the water as if she were the top half of Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” much to the delight of the assembled multitude. I missed this vision as I had pushed myself off her shoulders in the other direction and was now going away as if nothing had happened.
It had not gone un-noticed and the rumour began to circulate that I had, let us say, “aided the wardrobe malfunction”, which was not true. Pippa just readjusted her bikini and the girls laughed it off. But I had committed a dreadful crime of “Horseplay”. In this day and age, I would have also been guilty of sexual assault, but it was totally unintentional. All in plain view of some passengers and in front of the 2nd Mate. The Master-at-Arms was called and the next morning I had to report to the Captain’s cabin, together with Pippa and the Mate and the 2nd Mate. I explained what had happened and Pippa confirmed that I had not contributed to the “wardrobe malfunction” and that it was due to her rushing up and the weight of water rushing down her cleavage. She did not want to make an official complaint and the Captain did not want to make a big issue out of it, as it would be bad publicity for the ship. My punishment: banned from going “on deck” for a week, and no doubt a black mark on my voyage report to head office.
It was traditional that on departure Mombasa the Captain hosted a Cocktail party followed by “the Captain’s Ball”. In some ways it marked the beginning of our trip home. The East African Intermediate Service, as it was called, normally returned to London via Aden and the Suez Canal, but this was the annual “round Africa” voyage, and we were going East about, so although we still had to discharge cargo in Dar es Salaam, and it was the only time we would leave Mombasa on this voyage, the tradition was maintained.
I now had a group of youngsters that I could relax with, so I felt quite resplendent in my white bum-freezer with my 4th Officer’s gold epaulettes, starch fronted white shirt, black trousers, bow tie and cummerbund as I joined them at the youngsters’ table. The lionesses had been joined by a dark-haired girl named Alexandra who was the daughter of a senior British diplomat returning to boarding school in England.
A few minutes after I had joined the group a vision of loveliness made a dramatic entrance to the Ballroom. A striking girl, about 20, in a pale blue ball gown, with long elbow length gloves to match. She posed at the doorway, took a few seconds to survey the room, saw where the youngsters were at our table, walked over, and said, “Do you mind if I join you?” On my feet like a shot and pulled a chair out for her. “I’m Margaret”, she smiled. “I’m Tim, this is Pippa, Rose, Cindy, Victoria and Alexandra. What would you all like to drink?” G & T’s for the over eighteens, lemonade or soda for the others. I always bought the drinks as Officers were charged lower prices compared to passengers.
We sipped our G & T’s and sodas to toast the start of the voyage back to “Blighty”. The band struck up a slow waltz and I asked Margaret “Would you like to dance?” Amongst the pre-sea training at Warsash were dancing lessons with girls from a professional dancing school, and I had learned the waltz, quick-step, foxtrot and did a fairly mean rhumba and cha-cha-cha. I loved dancing.
Margaret looked at me, smiled and said, holding out her gloved arms, “I’d love to”. After a few steps around the dance floor (she was a good dancer) she said, without looking at me or changing her expression, “When we get to Tilbury I want you to forget all about me, as my boyfriend is coming to meet me.” I didn’t look at her either and said “Fine, my girlfriend is coming to meet me”. It was then we looked at each other and smiled. Wow, so this is life on a passenger ship!
Her father was an exceptionally large man who suffered from gout. He was a tobacco planter from upcountry and quite wealthy. Due to his poor health he couldn’t go ashore, so he and his wife stayed onboard in port. Adding bounty to pleasure he was pleased that I was keeping his daughter company and even gave me money to take her ashore for dinner and visits to night clubs. In Durban and Cape Town, he hired a car for us so that I could drive around the Cape and show Margaret the sights.
The Cape Peninsula is dramatic and beautiful. You drive along the Atlantic coast to Clifton, Camps Bay and on to Hout Bay. Spectacular sight-seeing continues around the Chapman’s Peak drive; said to be one of the most beautiful drives in the world. We enjoyed a picnic lunch at Cape Point lighthouse, where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean currents swirl by the rocks below, and then drove back to Cape Town on the False Bay side of the peninsula.
It was time to leave Cape Town and steer for the bulge on the western end of Africa. Two weeks and we would be back in London. Margaret complained that it was extremely hot and crowded with her mum and dad in their cabin, especially as it was not air-conditioned. My cabin was on the port side of the ship at the forward end of the top deck of the accommodation block and there was nearly always a cool breeze coming through the porthole due to the ship making way. One day when I came off watch I found lots of her clothes in my cabin. Alf was busy putting them into my wardrobe. “What the hell are you doing?” “A young lady asked me to put these clothes in your wardrobe as she is moving in with you” “No she’s not. No way”.
I went to find Margaret and explain that there was no way she could move in. “Look,” I said, “I do the 4 – 8 watch. When I come off watch I go to the Dining Saloon for my supper. After that we can get together and join in passenger activities, but there is no way you can be in my cabin if I’m not there. I get called at 3.30 to go on watch and you can stay until then, but at 3.45 I’ll take you back down to your cabin!”
This arrangement worked well as it was not far from my cabin to the cross alleyway where there was a lift that went down to all the passenger decks. At 3.45 a.m. there was nobody about. A few days later I came back to my cabin after the morning watch and Alf turned to me from where he was making the bunkbed, “ere forf, are you fruit?” “No way” I said, a bit non-plussed. “Well, forf do you like getting dressed up in women’s clothes?” By now I was on the verge of admonishing this cheeky steward. He turned to me with a grin and with a flourish produced bra and knickers from amongst the bedclothes, “Well how do you explain this little lot then, forf!!” There was no answer to that!
One morning as I was running Margaret back to her cabin, we turned the corner into the cross alleyway and who should be standing by the lift door but the Chief Officer. With him was a beautiful redhead of about 45 years, who came aboard in Cape Town.
Without batting an eyelid, he said, “Good morning, miss, good morning Fourth” to us. Taken aback by this casual greeting when I had been “caught in the act”, as it were, I managed to stammer out, “Good morning madam, good morning Sir”. Silence. The lift arrived and doors opened. We all got in, still silently. His finger hovered over the lift buttons “What deck?”, “D deck, Sir”, he pushed the D deck button and then pushed the B deck button. As they left the lift at B deck, we all nodded a polite “good day” and the lift doors closed behind them. Oh! Sugar I thought, that’s dropped me right in it.
It happened again, but the second time Chief Officer just smiled and said, “D deck isn’t it?” “Yes Sir”. We smiled back. The next time it happened I pushed B and D Deck buttons and just stood there awkwardly. It happened a few times, but nothing more was said for the rest of the voyage to Las Palmas, where we took on bunkers and then set sail for London.
Every voyage of the Union Castle East African Intermediate Service, whatever time of day or night the ship arrived off Southend, would drop anchor there until just before midnight. Three months leave for the Government officers who had been working in Kenya and Tanzania (or Tanganyika as it was then) did not start until the day they disembarked from the ship in Tilbury. The time from departing Mombasa and Dar es Salaam until arriving in London was “bonus” leave, which was partly why the voyage was just one long party for the younger passengers and the colonial leave-takers.
We weighed anchor and proceeded up the Thames so that the ship entered the lock at Tilbury just after midnight. The ship would then be manoeuvred into a berth at the Passenger Terminal and the Captain would order “Finished with Engines”. It was recorded in the logbook. The “Kenya Castle” was an “arrived ship”. All passengers and their luggage were off-loaded between “FWE” and three or four o’clock. The ship would then continue upriver to the Royal Victoria Dock to prepare for the next voyage.
As we sailed along the English Channel the voyage was coming to an end and due at Southend the next day. I came off watch at 8 that morning and Alf stuck his head around my curtained doorway. “Ere forf, the Mate wants you in his cabin. NOW”. My day of reckoning had arrived.
“Sit down, Fourth. I have been writing your voyage performance report for the Company”. My heart fell; here it comes. “At the beginning of the voyage I was concerned that you were not joining in passenger activity and I had a word with you about it.”
“Well, I’m pleased that in the second half of the voyage you took my words to heart and have been hosting and entertaining the younger group of passengers.” He paused, “It was unfortunate about the incident in the swimming pool, but it was suitably resolved and that will not be held against you. With regard to entertaining passengers, however, the idea is that you don’t spend all your time with just a handful you are meant to be hosting all of them, so you are expected to spread yourself about a bit. You are not supposed to concentrate on only one passenger. Overall, I have been impressed with your performance this voyage and I’m giving you a good report.”
I was pleasantly surprised.
“One more thing, my wife will be arriving with your girlfriend at about 10 a.m.” He looked at me intensely and said slowly and meaningfully, “I would hate your girlfriend to find out what you have been up to this voyage.”
“Well, Sir, I would hate your wife to find out what you’ve been up to”.
“Good”, he smiled warmly, “We know exactly where we stand then, don’t we!”
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12 October 2020
Welcome to a new edition of FRIENDS. Today we have contributions from David, Mandy, Eric and Jenny.
Welcome to a new edition of FRIENDS. Today we have contributions from David, Mandy, Eric and Jenny.
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David’s Anecdotes No.5.
More About My A30.
Having bought a 7 year old Austin A30, with an alleged 49,000 miles on the clock, from a second hand car dealer I knew it would need a bit of tlc. Bright and early on a Saturday morning I decided to drain the gear box oil, run flushing oil through it and refill with new oil.
Undid the drain plug and emptied the oil. The work was going like a dream. Inside the car removed the rubber plug in the carpet to reveal the filler plug for the gear box. Rummaged in my limited tools for suitable spanner and eventually found one that should do the job. Oh oh spanner not quite right so tried again. Finally got what seemed like a good grip on the filler plug which did not want to move. Hmm how frustrating was that? No oil in the gear box and unable to get the filler plug undone. After spending the best part of the morning I finally succeeded in getting the offending nut undone. By this time I decided that perhaps it might be more sensible to give the flushing oil a miss and just refill the gear box. Job done.
Some time later I thought to change the engine oil and fit a newly purchased oil filter. I had learnt my lesson with the gear box so set about first changing the oil filter which just screwed into the engine block. Needless to say I could not get the old filter to budge. In the end I had to take the car to garage, from whom I had bought the oil filter, for them to do the job. After that I have to admit I rather lost interest in trying to do my own motor maintenance.
A few months later with car seeming to use more oil than petrol I went the whole hog and had the car fitted with a reconditioned engine, gear box and clutch. It was after this that I had my little adventure to Brighton mentioned in Anecdote No.3. But after that I now had a trouble free car.
Or did I? More next time.
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More About My A30.
Having bought a 7 year old Austin A30, with an alleged 49,000 miles on the clock, from a second hand car dealer I knew it would need a bit of tlc. Bright and early on a Saturday morning I decided to drain the gear box oil, run flushing oil through it and refill with new oil.
Undid the drain plug and emptied the oil. The work was going like a dream. Inside the car removed the rubber plug in the carpet to reveal the filler plug for the gear box. Rummaged in my limited tools for suitable spanner and eventually found one that should do the job. Oh oh spanner not quite right so tried again. Finally got what seemed like a good grip on the filler plug which did not want to move. Hmm how frustrating was that? No oil in the gear box and unable to get the filler plug undone. After spending the best part of the morning I finally succeeded in getting the offending nut undone. By this time I decided that perhaps it might be more sensible to give the flushing oil a miss and just refill the gear box. Job done.
Some time later I thought to change the engine oil and fit a newly purchased oil filter. I had learnt my lesson with the gear box so set about first changing the oil filter which just screwed into the engine block. Needless to say I could not get the old filter to budge. In the end I had to take the car to garage, from whom I had bought the oil filter, for them to do the job. After that I have to admit I rather lost interest in trying to do my own motor maintenance.
A few months later with car seeming to use more oil than petrol I went the whole hog and had the car fitted with a reconditioned engine, gear box and clutch. It was after this that I had my little adventure to Brighton mentioned in Anecdote No.3. But after that I now had a trouble free car.
Or did I? More next time.
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Mandy Borelli
Another example of her art from Mandy plus some wisdom and fun.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Another example of her art from Mandy plus some wisdom and fun.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
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Eric Fuller
Here’s a true story.
Back in the mid seventies I was in a band signed to Polydor Records. Our singer was one Felicity Buirski (pic below).
We were in Polydors studio cutting tracks for an upcoming album. One evening the president of the company came in the studio and invited us to go up to his office. We were elated and he offered champagne to us. He said “this year Polydor is putting its whole backing behind just one act. “ I remember thinking “wow, this is it, we are going to be huge”.
The president went over to the turntable. And placed the needle on the disc. By this time we are all grinning with anticipation.
And he said Pat Travers. Boom boom out went our lights.
Here’s a true story.
Back in the mid seventies I was in a band signed to Polydor Records. Our singer was one Felicity Buirski (pic below).
We were in Polydors studio cutting tracks for an upcoming album. One evening the president of the company came in the studio and invited us to go up to his office. We were elated and he offered champagne to us. He said “this year Polydor is putting its whole backing behind just one act. “ I remember thinking “wow, this is it, we are going to be huge”.
The president went over to the turntable. And placed the needle on the disc. By this time we are all grinning with anticipation.
And he said Pat Travers. Boom boom out went our lights.
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JENNY MORRISON
A work in progress and art displayed by Jenny.
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
A work in progress and art displayed by Jenny.
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
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9 September 2020
Welcome to our FRIENDS page with contributions from Lucinda, David, Mandy and Tim.
Welcome to our FRIENDS page with contributions from Lucinda, David, Mandy and Tim.
News From Lucinda
Firstly I have reduced the price of the 5th Amie book Amie: Savage Safari and it is on special for $/£0.99.
Amie, the world’s most reluctant spy is back.
Amie is assured that her next assignment will be easy and very safe.
How could a safari camp in the African bush along with the President and international representatives from several countries possibly be dangerous?
She has no choice but to do as they say.
Simon, her partner, has flown back to England for a brief meeting and then disappears. Amie has no idea where he is.
But not everyone is pleased about the rare and precious minerals discovered in the north and they are prepared to do whatever it takes to disrupt the safari and stop the auction even if it causes an international incident and people are killed.
Amie now has two lives to save and faces a bleak future on her own.
Fans of Wilbur Smith, Peter Rimmer and Tony Park will love this series by award winning author Lucinda E Clarke set in the modern day in the African bush.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NCDKF8P
I'm also launching the 3rd in my series of psychological thrillers continuing the sage of the Brand family. "A Year in the Life of Deidre Flynn" will be out on Saturday.
Deidre is determined to protect her adopted niece Leah, but despite fleeing the country, the menacing threats continue. They believe their enemies can't reach them now, so who is behind the life-threatening attacks? The incidents escalate, each more horrifying than the last. How can they fight back when they don't know who the enemy is and they have no idea what they want?
A fast-moving, page-turning, psychological thriller that will leave you breathless, as once again, Leah is the victim of a cruel conspiracy that lurks in the shadows. A gripping thriller for fans of Louise Jensen, Avery Bishop and Claire McGowan.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08GZNCVWL
https://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com
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Firstly I have reduced the price of the 5th Amie book Amie: Savage Safari and it is on special for $/£0.99.
Amie, the world’s most reluctant spy is back.
Amie is assured that her next assignment will be easy and very safe.
How could a safari camp in the African bush along with the President and international representatives from several countries possibly be dangerous?
She has no choice but to do as they say.
Simon, her partner, has flown back to England for a brief meeting and then disappears. Amie has no idea where he is.
But not everyone is pleased about the rare and precious minerals discovered in the north and they are prepared to do whatever it takes to disrupt the safari and stop the auction even if it causes an international incident and people are killed.
Amie now has two lives to save and faces a bleak future on her own.
Fans of Wilbur Smith, Peter Rimmer and Tony Park will love this series by award winning author Lucinda E Clarke set in the modern day in the African bush.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NCDKF8P
I'm also launching the 3rd in my series of psychological thrillers continuing the sage of the Brand family. "A Year in the Life of Deidre Flynn" will be out on Saturday.
Deidre is determined to protect her adopted niece Leah, but despite fleeing the country, the menacing threats continue. They believe their enemies can't reach them now, so who is behind the life-threatening attacks? The incidents escalate, each more horrifying than the last. How can they fight back when they don't know who the enemy is and they have no idea what they want?
A fast-moving, page-turning, psychological thriller that will leave you breathless, as once again, Leah is the victim of a cruel conspiracy that lurks in the shadows. A gripping thriller for fans of Louise Jensen, Avery Bishop and Claire McGowan.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08GZNCVWL
https://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com
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David’s Anecdotes No.4.
´I May Be A Dreamer But I´m Not The Only One`
I don’t know about you but I dream a lot, which is not bad going for someone who is an insomniac. Not to get a full night’s unbroken sleep is to say the least not nice. What makes matters worse is that on various occasions I have been dreaming that I am awake.
Sometimes whole dreams get repeated over a period of time. As a small child I had the recurring dream of being bombarded by giant mud balls against which my only defence was to try and pop them with a needle. I would wake up feeling absolutely terrified. I once dreamt that I was laying in bed on my back when a spear fell directly from the ceiling above me into my stomach. It was a long time before I ever went to sleep laying on my back.
I have lost count of the number of dreams in which I am under considerable stress and pressure. These dreams very often involve packing luggage, trying to get to or from a particular flight and of course doing everything in slow motion. I have dreamt numerous times about flying and piloting an aircraft or having flying lessons. I once dreamt I was driving an out of control double decker bus from the upper deck. Driving a car with a dead body in the boot was also a rather unnerving dream especially as I didn’t know whether I was a murderer.
Aged about 8 or 9 I dreamt that I was at the local swimming baths. If I had the dream today I suppose I would be at the local swimming pool but I digress. There I am laying on my stomach on the edge of the pool when I slide myself forward like a crocodile and swim off. In real time a couple of weeks later I was at the baths. My friends, who could all swim, suggested that we have been there long enough and should leave. As I was about to get out of the pool I made one last attempt at trying to swim and promptly swam the width of the pool. Needless to say we all stayed for quite some time.
I applied for a job in the dock office of a small coastal shipping company. My interview was held at their offices in Leadenhall Street in the City of London. A week later, having got the job, I started work in the London Dock. I walked into the office for the first time and had an instant deja vu experience. Every thing about the office was familiar to me and I could not shake off the feeling that I had been there before. With in seconds I decided that this job was not for me and left after two weeks.
I am writing this late at night and feeling rather drowsy so I wonder am I really writing or is it a dream?
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´I May Be A Dreamer But I´m Not The Only One`
I don’t know about you but I dream a lot, which is not bad going for someone who is an insomniac. Not to get a full night’s unbroken sleep is to say the least not nice. What makes matters worse is that on various occasions I have been dreaming that I am awake.
Sometimes whole dreams get repeated over a period of time. As a small child I had the recurring dream of being bombarded by giant mud balls against which my only defence was to try and pop them with a needle. I would wake up feeling absolutely terrified. I once dreamt that I was laying in bed on my back when a spear fell directly from the ceiling above me into my stomach. It was a long time before I ever went to sleep laying on my back.
I have lost count of the number of dreams in which I am under considerable stress and pressure. These dreams very often involve packing luggage, trying to get to or from a particular flight and of course doing everything in slow motion. I have dreamt numerous times about flying and piloting an aircraft or having flying lessons. I once dreamt I was driving an out of control double decker bus from the upper deck. Driving a car with a dead body in the boot was also a rather unnerving dream especially as I didn’t know whether I was a murderer.
Aged about 8 or 9 I dreamt that I was at the local swimming baths. If I had the dream today I suppose I would be at the local swimming pool but I digress. There I am laying on my stomach on the edge of the pool when I slide myself forward like a crocodile and swim off. In real time a couple of weeks later I was at the baths. My friends, who could all swim, suggested that we have been there long enough and should leave. As I was about to get out of the pool I made one last attempt at trying to swim and promptly swam the width of the pool. Needless to say we all stayed for quite some time.
I applied for a job in the dock office of a small coastal shipping company. My interview was held at their offices in Leadenhall Street in the City of London. A week later, having got the job, I started work in the London Dock. I walked into the office for the first time and had an instant deja vu experience. Every thing about the office was familiar to me and I could not shake off the feeling that I had been there before. With in seconds I decided that this job was not for me and left after two weeks.
I am writing this late at night and feeling rather drowsy so I wonder am I really writing or is it a dream?
....................................................................................................................................................................................
Mandy Borelli
More beautiful art by our friend Mandy. She has come along way over the past few years and I believe that her art is destined to be appreciated by a wide audience across the world. These are her contact details, passed them on to your friends.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Also from Mandy are three pearls of wisdom. Enjoy.
More beautiful art by our friend Mandy. She has come along way over the past few years and I believe that her art is destined to be appreciated by a wide audience across the world. These are her contact details, passed them on to your friends.
Contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Also from Mandy are three pearls of wisdom. Enjoy.
.......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Captain Tim Reports
Cuba Missile Crisis
Novel Ship Design
In October 1962, the ship I served on, the “Clan Macnab”, unwittingly became involved in the Cuba Missile Crisis. Clan Line were pioneers in building some of the first British ships to have four hatches forward and one hatch aft of the bridge, accommodation block and engine room. The main benefit was that the distance from the engine to the propeller was shortened, so the prop shaft was much shorter. Also, in the old-fashioned ships with a centre castle bridge, engine room and accommodation block, with three hatches forward and two hatches aft of the engine room, the tail shaft tunnel passed through both No. 4 and No. 5 hatches, which meant loss of cargo carrying space. Also, loss of a flat bottom lower hold due to the prop shaft tunnel meant it was more difficult to stow general cargo in No 4. hold. The new design with four hatches forward and one hatch aft was much easier for loading and had more cargo space, hence greater revenue potential.
It also meant that there was more weight of the ship further aft, so this was compensated with “deep tanks” at the bottom of No. 1 hold, where the bow of the ship came to a point and where the lower hold at the turn of the bow to the keel was very narrow. This was another part of the ship that was difficult to load with general cargo so the four hatches forward and deep tank at No 1 killed two cargo loading problems with one design! The deep tanks had a fore and aft central partition giving a port tank and a starboard tank. This helped to minimise the “free surface effect” that affects ship stability. The tanks were useful for carrying consignments of liquid cargo, or for stowing “wet hides and skins” often carried to Italy from South Africa for the shoe-making trade. The skins were pickled and stank!
If there was no cargo to load in the deep tanks, or if the ship was “in ballast”, the deep tank lid could be secured with a thick rubber gasket to make it water-tight and then filled to the top “pressed up” with fresh water. This extra weight at the bow would help to bring the ship trimmed onto a more level keel if there was no cargo on board, which gave better fuel consumption efficiency.
I had already sailed for one voyage on the “Clan Macnab” to India and this was my second voyage, but with a different captain. After three weeks leave, I re-joined the ship in Liverpool on Monday 12th November 1962. When I arrived back on board I was thrilled to find two friends and colleagues from the Warsash School of Navigation, University of Southampton, pre-sea training were also appointed as cadets for the voyage; Barry Gates, who had been the Junior Leading Cadet in charge of the cabin I was in during my Junior term, and Alan Stewart. The fourth cadet, Bill Boreham was new to me, but turned out to be an exceptionally good artist and cartoonist with a wicked sense of humour.
The other reason I was thrilled was because the ship had been chartered to an American company. We were off to the U.S. of A, which was extremely exciting, especially for a seventeen-year-old with three shipmates of roughly the same age in the early 1960’s. We joined the ship two days before we were due to sail for New York, so we had two nights to enjoy the night-life entertainment of Liverpool. Barry had seen a show on TV in October about a venue called “The Cavern Club” with a group called “The Beatles”. He thought they were great, so we decided to go there. Unfortunately, “The Beatles” were not playing that night, but during “whisky time” for the live band, they played some Beatle’s music recorded at the club, and a recently released record of the group called “Love me Do”!
“What do you think?” asked Barry as we walked back to the ship. The opinion was that the live band were good, but the group called the Beatles sounded great. We determined to follow their fortunes when we got back to the UK.
New York
Two days later we were crossing the North Atlantic in early winter, bound for New York. With only ballast water in No. 1 deep tank, the ship was very “light” and being tossed about like a cork. Luckily for me I don’t get seasick, but the constant rolling and pitching of a big ship in a heavy sea makes me get short-tempered! It took ten days to get to New York, by which time I was not good company. People kept out of my way.
My mood was not improved by the Chief Officer arranging for the deep tanks to be pumped out and giving the cadets the job of opening up the bolted deep tank lid, removing the lid and cleaning out and drying the tanks. After completing that task, and just when I thought things could not get any worse, the Chief Officer decided that as the ship was now completely light and the bow was much further out of the water than usual, it was a great opportunity to chip and paint with red lead the area round the bow, cut in the red “boot topping” of the wind and water plates, and paint the draught marks on the bow. To be fair to him, he had probably never been to New York in late October before, but he should have realised that it was BLOODY COLD and except for the marks we could reach from the work-boat, for the higher (deeper) marks we could not reach, we were dangling on bosun’s chairs and being “bowsed in” by a bowsing line rigged around the bow from one side of the foredeck to the other.
Although we were wrapped up like “Michelin” men, it was fr-ee-ee-ee-ee-zing. To add further insult to injury, when it came time to take “smoko” or break for lunch, the only way off the job was to slacken away on the bowsing line, so that you were hanging directly under the flair of the bow, like a circus trapeze artist; but without a safety net! All there was below was the icy waters of the dock where we were berthed. Then, with frozen fingers and hands, we had to lower ourselves on the bosun’s chair down to the workboat or climb a pilot ladder that was rigged from the deck above. Either direction was fraught with danger as the ropes were as frozen and solid as we were. Once you made it to the workboat you then had to manoeuvre the boat to the ladder up the side of the wharf and climb up the frozen metal ladder. Ugh!!
Clan Line did not normally trade with the USA or visit American ports. We weren’t going to let freezing day-work stop us from enjoying the only USA visit we would get on a Clan Line ship. We convinced the Immigration officials that we, and our immediate family members, were not card-carrying Communists, so were allowed ashore. We managed to get soft drinks at the Waldorf Astoria (as we were all under 21 years old, alcohol was not allowed) and go to the top of the Empire State Building.
Cargo Loading in New York
If valuable cargo was being loaded, we sometimes had to act as “watchmen” in the holds. As Barry and Alan were senior to me, they had the more important jobs like tallying in bullion or cases of liquor. I just had to sit on the cases in the hold and make sure that there was no funny business going on. It was cold work as there was basically nothing worth stealing or interfering with in hatch no. 2. Barry was in No 3. Hatch, Alan in No. 4 and Bill in No. 5. About 11 o’clock A man appeared framed in the hatch opening above us and shouted, “Company Christmas drink coming down!” and a few bottles were lowered down into the hold where the longshoremen were working. The men opened the bottles and helped themselves to a generous swig, then said “Happy Christmas!”, to each other and the world in general. “What’s going on”, I asked. “Well, at this time every year the company supply some bottles of Whiskey for the men to wish them “Merry Christmas”, and to warm them up, since it is very cold”.
“Wow, that’s really good of them!”, I said.
He took a swig, wiped the top of the bottle, wished me “Merry Christmas” and proffered the bottle to me. I had never drunk Whiskey, or even Whisky, before so I accepted this kind gesture took a healthy swig, which nearly started me coughing and my eyes watering, gave him back the bottle and wished him “Merry Christmas”. I felt a lot warmer and sat happily watching what was going on thinking about approaching lunchtime, the stevedoring company’s generosity, and man’s humanity towards his fellow man. Mahatma Ghandi counselled “You should not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops become dirty, the ocean does not become dirty”.
Always the optimist, especially at Christmas time, I sat pondering the wonderful kindly world in which we live. My hunger got the better of me. It was time to stop work for the lunch hour, cover the hatch and see if the bandari in the crew’s galley will make a chapati for me. When I got there, Barry was already waiting for his chapati, the smell of which, mixed with the spices of the galley and the ghee, made me even hungrier. “How’s it been?”, asked Barry. “Oh, alright, bit boring. What about you?”. “OK, I was tallying Bourbon into the locker and they landed a case that broke one of the bottles. When I was taking notes for the Damaged Cargo book, the other eleven bottles somehow disappeared. I don’t know where they went.” Oh, dear, Tim, how naïve you are. It was only my 5th voyage, and I’d never been to the USA before, but I had gained another reminder of the realities of life.
Once or twice we went ashore with the Chief Engineer. He was Irish and about six foot four, built like the side of a barn; nickname “Tiny” (of course). He was a gentle giant and had a very distinctive walk, slightly stooped and leaning to one side. We noted that when we went ashore with him in Brooklyn, where the ship was berthed, we got brilliant service from everybody and deference from waiters and waitresses, taxi drivers and even people in the street.
The ship was bareboat chartered to an American Company (A. H. Bull, the Bull Lines of New York) carrying mainly oil rig equipment and huge American built limousines from Texas to the Arabian Gulf. The ship’s agent and his colleagues that came aboard all looked like gangsters to us, and we could hardly understand a thing they said.
We completed loading in New York and were preparing to sail to the next loading port, Philadelphia, when someone happened to mention to the agent how friendly everybody was when we all went ashore together. “I’m not surprised,” he said, “Your Chief Engineer is a carbon copy of the local Mafia boss. He even walks like him!!” No wonder we received a warm welcome everywhere.
In Philadelphia we went to look at the “Liberty Bell” and wrote something banal in the Visitor’s Book, and then the ship proceeded on its way to Miami and New Orleans.
Cuba Missile Crisis
I found Miami a bit disappointing, but looked forward to our next port, New Orleans. As we navigated round the State of Florida and the Florida Keys one sunny afternoon on the 12 to 4 watch and set course for the mouth of the great Mississippi River, suddenly all hell broke loose around the ship. A large US navy ship on the horizon started signalling with a daylight signalling lamp the single letter “dot dot dash” (U) which means “you are standing into danger” and then “dot dot dot dot, dot dash dash dot” (HP) which meant “submarines are exercising in your area”. We had to rush for the International Code of Signals book to find out what “HP” meant, but we needn’t have bothered as a few minutes later a submarine surfaced on our port side only about half a nautical mile away, on a parallel course in the same direction. A destroyer appeared almost out of nowhere heading for us at full speed and a jet fighter flew low screaming overhead.
The 2nd Officer, with whom I was on duty at the time, was in shock and decided that a fighter aeroplane’s low level “buzzing” action meant it was going to ditch in the sea. He was about to call all hands to emergency stations when the Captain arrived on the bridge and calmly took control.
Clan Macnab Russian Cuban Missile Ship
“Cadet take the biggest red ensign we’ve got and hoist it at the stern; the problem is the Yanks think we’re Russian”.
The new generation of Russian cargo ships had four hatches forward and one aft, like us. The Russians had a black hull with red boot topping, so did we. The Russians had a big heavy lift derrick at the main mast, so did we. The Russian’s funnel had a red band with a yellow hammer and sickle, our funnel had two red bands around it, remarkably similar. Even the ensign that I hoisted at our stern was similar. Theirs was the same red, with a golden coloured hammer and sickle at the top to the mast and ours was the Red Ensign, with the Union flag in the top corner to the mast.
Russian ships carrying missiles on deck had been sailing into the Gulf of Mexico on the same course as we were now taking since mid-1962. They came from the same direction as us. The US Air Force and 6th Fleet operated throughout the area monitoring what was going on. There were frigates and destroyers heading straight for us, planes buzzing us at low altitude and a submarine surfacing close to our ship. After a while, a slower reconnaissance plane buzzed us from right ahead flashing its landing lights and waggling its wings to indicate that it recognised our ship as friendly.
Having been through the 2nd World War the Captain knew that this was a recognition signal. The 2nd Mate relaxed and regained his composure.
On October 22nd, 1962, President John F. Kennedy had ordered a naval “quarantine” of Cuba. By using the word “quarantine” it legally distinguished the action from a blockade, which would have assumed a state of war existed between the USA and the USSR. The situation between the two superpowers was tense until October 28th, when Nikita Khrushchev issued a public statement that Soviet missiles would be dismantled and removed from Cuba.
The crisis was over, but the naval quarantine continued until the Russians agreed to remove their bombers and missiles from Cuba. Towards the end of November 1962, the United States ended its quarantine. The “Clan Macnab” had just sailed into the tail-end of a historical event. Little did I know then that the fate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (or the right place at the right time, whichever way you look at it) would stay with me throughout the rest of my seagoing career.
....................................................................................................................................................................................
Cuba Missile Crisis
Novel Ship Design
In October 1962, the ship I served on, the “Clan Macnab”, unwittingly became involved in the Cuba Missile Crisis. Clan Line were pioneers in building some of the first British ships to have four hatches forward and one hatch aft of the bridge, accommodation block and engine room. The main benefit was that the distance from the engine to the propeller was shortened, so the prop shaft was much shorter. Also, in the old-fashioned ships with a centre castle bridge, engine room and accommodation block, with three hatches forward and two hatches aft of the engine room, the tail shaft tunnel passed through both No. 4 and No. 5 hatches, which meant loss of cargo carrying space. Also, loss of a flat bottom lower hold due to the prop shaft tunnel meant it was more difficult to stow general cargo in No 4. hold. The new design with four hatches forward and one hatch aft was much easier for loading and had more cargo space, hence greater revenue potential.
It also meant that there was more weight of the ship further aft, so this was compensated with “deep tanks” at the bottom of No. 1 hold, where the bow of the ship came to a point and where the lower hold at the turn of the bow to the keel was very narrow. This was another part of the ship that was difficult to load with general cargo so the four hatches forward and deep tank at No 1 killed two cargo loading problems with one design! The deep tanks had a fore and aft central partition giving a port tank and a starboard tank. This helped to minimise the “free surface effect” that affects ship stability. The tanks were useful for carrying consignments of liquid cargo, or for stowing “wet hides and skins” often carried to Italy from South Africa for the shoe-making trade. The skins were pickled and stank!
If there was no cargo to load in the deep tanks, or if the ship was “in ballast”, the deep tank lid could be secured with a thick rubber gasket to make it water-tight and then filled to the top “pressed up” with fresh water. This extra weight at the bow would help to bring the ship trimmed onto a more level keel if there was no cargo on board, which gave better fuel consumption efficiency.
I had already sailed for one voyage on the “Clan Macnab” to India and this was my second voyage, but with a different captain. After three weeks leave, I re-joined the ship in Liverpool on Monday 12th November 1962. When I arrived back on board I was thrilled to find two friends and colleagues from the Warsash School of Navigation, University of Southampton, pre-sea training were also appointed as cadets for the voyage; Barry Gates, who had been the Junior Leading Cadet in charge of the cabin I was in during my Junior term, and Alan Stewart. The fourth cadet, Bill Boreham was new to me, but turned out to be an exceptionally good artist and cartoonist with a wicked sense of humour.
The other reason I was thrilled was because the ship had been chartered to an American company. We were off to the U.S. of A, which was extremely exciting, especially for a seventeen-year-old with three shipmates of roughly the same age in the early 1960’s. We joined the ship two days before we were due to sail for New York, so we had two nights to enjoy the night-life entertainment of Liverpool. Barry had seen a show on TV in October about a venue called “The Cavern Club” with a group called “The Beatles”. He thought they were great, so we decided to go there. Unfortunately, “The Beatles” were not playing that night, but during “whisky time” for the live band, they played some Beatle’s music recorded at the club, and a recently released record of the group called “Love me Do”!
“What do you think?” asked Barry as we walked back to the ship. The opinion was that the live band were good, but the group called the Beatles sounded great. We determined to follow their fortunes when we got back to the UK.
New York
Two days later we were crossing the North Atlantic in early winter, bound for New York. With only ballast water in No. 1 deep tank, the ship was very “light” and being tossed about like a cork. Luckily for me I don’t get seasick, but the constant rolling and pitching of a big ship in a heavy sea makes me get short-tempered! It took ten days to get to New York, by which time I was not good company. People kept out of my way.
My mood was not improved by the Chief Officer arranging for the deep tanks to be pumped out and giving the cadets the job of opening up the bolted deep tank lid, removing the lid and cleaning out and drying the tanks. After completing that task, and just when I thought things could not get any worse, the Chief Officer decided that as the ship was now completely light and the bow was much further out of the water than usual, it was a great opportunity to chip and paint with red lead the area round the bow, cut in the red “boot topping” of the wind and water plates, and paint the draught marks on the bow. To be fair to him, he had probably never been to New York in late October before, but he should have realised that it was BLOODY COLD and except for the marks we could reach from the work-boat, for the higher (deeper) marks we could not reach, we were dangling on bosun’s chairs and being “bowsed in” by a bowsing line rigged around the bow from one side of the foredeck to the other.
Although we were wrapped up like “Michelin” men, it was fr-ee-ee-ee-ee-zing. To add further insult to injury, when it came time to take “smoko” or break for lunch, the only way off the job was to slacken away on the bowsing line, so that you were hanging directly under the flair of the bow, like a circus trapeze artist; but without a safety net! All there was below was the icy waters of the dock where we were berthed. Then, with frozen fingers and hands, we had to lower ourselves on the bosun’s chair down to the workboat or climb a pilot ladder that was rigged from the deck above. Either direction was fraught with danger as the ropes were as frozen and solid as we were. Once you made it to the workboat you then had to manoeuvre the boat to the ladder up the side of the wharf and climb up the frozen metal ladder. Ugh!!
Clan Line did not normally trade with the USA or visit American ports. We weren’t going to let freezing day-work stop us from enjoying the only USA visit we would get on a Clan Line ship. We convinced the Immigration officials that we, and our immediate family members, were not card-carrying Communists, so were allowed ashore. We managed to get soft drinks at the Waldorf Astoria (as we were all under 21 years old, alcohol was not allowed) and go to the top of the Empire State Building.
Cargo Loading in New York
If valuable cargo was being loaded, we sometimes had to act as “watchmen” in the holds. As Barry and Alan were senior to me, they had the more important jobs like tallying in bullion or cases of liquor. I just had to sit on the cases in the hold and make sure that there was no funny business going on. It was cold work as there was basically nothing worth stealing or interfering with in hatch no. 2. Barry was in No 3. Hatch, Alan in No. 4 and Bill in No. 5. About 11 o’clock A man appeared framed in the hatch opening above us and shouted, “Company Christmas drink coming down!” and a few bottles were lowered down into the hold where the longshoremen were working. The men opened the bottles and helped themselves to a generous swig, then said “Happy Christmas!”, to each other and the world in general. “What’s going on”, I asked. “Well, at this time every year the company supply some bottles of Whiskey for the men to wish them “Merry Christmas”, and to warm them up, since it is very cold”.
“Wow, that’s really good of them!”, I said.
He took a swig, wiped the top of the bottle, wished me “Merry Christmas” and proffered the bottle to me. I had never drunk Whiskey, or even Whisky, before so I accepted this kind gesture took a healthy swig, which nearly started me coughing and my eyes watering, gave him back the bottle and wished him “Merry Christmas”. I felt a lot warmer and sat happily watching what was going on thinking about approaching lunchtime, the stevedoring company’s generosity, and man’s humanity towards his fellow man. Mahatma Ghandi counselled “You should not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops become dirty, the ocean does not become dirty”.
Always the optimist, especially at Christmas time, I sat pondering the wonderful kindly world in which we live. My hunger got the better of me. It was time to stop work for the lunch hour, cover the hatch and see if the bandari in the crew’s galley will make a chapati for me. When I got there, Barry was already waiting for his chapati, the smell of which, mixed with the spices of the galley and the ghee, made me even hungrier. “How’s it been?”, asked Barry. “Oh, alright, bit boring. What about you?”. “OK, I was tallying Bourbon into the locker and they landed a case that broke one of the bottles. When I was taking notes for the Damaged Cargo book, the other eleven bottles somehow disappeared. I don’t know where they went.” Oh, dear, Tim, how naïve you are. It was only my 5th voyage, and I’d never been to the USA before, but I had gained another reminder of the realities of life.
Once or twice we went ashore with the Chief Engineer. He was Irish and about six foot four, built like the side of a barn; nickname “Tiny” (of course). He was a gentle giant and had a very distinctive walk, slightly stooped and leaning to one side. We noted that when we went ashore with him in Brooklyn, where the ship was berthed, we got brilliant service from everybody and deference from waiters and waitresses, taxi drivers and even people in the street.
The ship was bareboat chartered to an American Company (A. H. Bull, the Bull Lines of New York) carrying mainly oil rig equipment and huge American built limousines from Texas to the Arabian Gulf. The ship’s agent and his colleagues that came aboard all looked like gangsters to us, and we could hardly understand a thing they said.
We completed loading in New York and were preparing to sail to the next loading port, Philadelphia, when someone happened to mention to the agent how friendly everybody was when we all went ashore together. “I’m not surprised,” he said, “Your Chief Engineer is a carbon copy of the local Mafia boss. He even walks like him!!” No wonder we received a warm welcome everywhere.
In Philadelphia we went to look at the “Liberty Bell” and wrote something banal in the Visitor’s Book, and then the ship proceeded on its way to Miami and New Orleans.
Cuba Missile Crisis
I found Miami a bit disappointing, but looked forward to our next port, New Orleans. As we navigated round the State of Florida and the Florida Keys one sunny afternoon on the 12 to 4 watch and set course for the mouth of the great Mississippi River, suddenly all hell broke loose around the ship. A large US navy ship on the horizon started signalling with a daylight signalling lamp the single letter “dot dot dash” (U) which means “you are standing into danger” and then “dot dot dot dot, dot dash dash dot” (HP) which meant “submarines are exercising in your area”. We had to rush for the International Code of Signals book to find out what “HP” meant, but we needn’t have bothered as a few minutes later a submarine surfaced on our port side only about half a nautical mile away, on a parallel course in the same direction. A destroyer appeared almost out of nowhere heading for us at full speed and a jet fighter flew low screaming overhead.
The 2nd Officer, with whom I was on duty at the time, was in shock and decided that a fighter aeroplane’s low level “buzzing” action meant it was going to ditch in the sea. He was about to call all hands to emergency stations when the Captain arrived on the bridge and calmly took control.
Clan Macnab Russian Cuban Missile Ship
“Cadet take the biggest red ensign we’ve got and hoist it at the stern; the problem is the Yanks think we’re Russian”.
The new generation of Russian cargo ships had four hatches forward and one aft, like us. The Russians had a black hull with red boot topping, so did we. The Russians had a big heavy lift derrick at the main mast, so did we. The Russian’s funnel had a red band with a yellow hammer and sickle, our funnel had two red bands around it, remarkably similar. Even the ensign that I hoisted at our stern was similar. Theirs was the same red, with a golden coloured hammer and sickle at the top to the mast and ours was the Red Ensign, with the Union flag in the top corner to the mast.
Russian ships carrying missiles on deck had been sailing into the Gulf of Mexico on the same course as we were now taking since mid-1962. They came from the same direction as us. The US Air Force and 6th Fleet operated throughout the area monitoring what was going on. There were frigates and destroyers heading straight for us, planes buzzing us at low altitude and a submarine surfacing close to our ship. After a while, a slower reconnaissance plane buzzed us from right ahead flashing its landing lights and waggling its wings to indicate that it recognised our ship as friendly.
Having been through the 2nd World War the Captain knew that this was a recognition signal. The 2nd Mate relaxed and regained his composure.
On October 22nd, 1962, President John F. Kennedy had ordered a naval “quarantine” of Cuba. By using the word “quarantine” it legally distinguished the action from a blockade, which would have assumed a state of war existed between the USA and the USSR. The situation between the two superpowers was tense until October 28th, when Nikita Khrushchev issued a public statement that Soviet missiles would be dismantled and removed from Cuba.
The crisis was over, but the naval quarantine continued until the Russians agreed to remove their bombers and missiles from Cuba. Towards the end of November 1962, the United States ended its quarantine. The “Clan Macnab” had just sailed into the tail-end of a historical event. Little did I know then that the fate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (or the right place at the right time, whichever way you look at it) would stay with me throughout the rest of my seagoing career.
....................................................................................................................................................................................
15 August 2020.
Welcome to the FRIENDS page with contributions from David, Mandy and Tim.
Welcome to the FRIENDS page with contributions from David, Mandy and Tim.
Click here to edit.
David’s Anecdotes No.3.
Afternoon Ride.
Mr & Mrs C reminded me of a typical seaside picture postcard couple. He was quite short and diminutive while she was quite large. They were both very good hearted, treated me well and I was going out with their daughter Ann.
Ann’s parents didn’t own a car, even though her father was an underwriter on Lloyds specialising in motor insurance. I thought it might be a nice idea if we all had a trip in my 1955 Austin A30 to Brighton. They liked the idea so early one Saturday afternoon off we went.
On arriving in Brighton we parked on Marine Drive, this was before all the redevelopment and the marina and backed the car so we would be facing the sea.
As I reversed there was an horrible scrunching sound and I realised that the underneath of the boot had scraped across the kerb stone. To a further scrunching sound I gently drove the car forward to get clear of the said offending kerb.
We got out of the car to see what damage had been caused. It all looked good, no obvious signs of any damage so sighs of relief. Just to make sure I had a look underneath. To my horror I saw that petrol was dripping out from a rather bent drain plug on the bottom of the petrol tank. I seem to remember talking to an AA patrol man who said he couldn’t do anything as his shift was ending and I needed to go to a garage. But of course he didn’t have any ideas.
On the out skirts of Brighton we came across a little service station. I pulled in to be told by the owner that he was on the point of closing for the day but in view of the problem he would have a look. He slid under the car saw the damage and said he might be able to help. I had to go the a nearby sweetshop and buy a couple of packets of chewing gum. After several minutes of frantic chewing he took the gum and pressed it in and around the drain plug. Then laying on his back under the car he put a mole wrench round the drain plug straightened his arms. I’m sure he lifted the car off the ground. The weight of the car bent the plug back into hole and the gum sealed it.
In the circumstances we thought to heck with Brighton there has been more than enough excitement for one day so drove back home. It was several weeks before my local garage were able to weld properly a new drain plug. It cost me considerably more than the man in Brighton and through out the whole of that time there were no leaks at all.
Afternoon Ride.
Mr & Mrs C reminded me of a typical seaside picture postcard couple. He was quite short and diminutive while she was quite large. They were both very good hearted, treated me well and I was going out with their daughter Ann.
Ann’s parents didn’t own a car, even though her father was an underwriter on Lloyds specialising in motor insurance. I thought it might be a nice idea if we all had a trip in my 1955 Austin A30 to Brighton. They liked the idea so early one Saturday afternoon off we went.
On arriving in Brighton we parked on Marine Drive, this was before all the redevelopment and the marina and backed the car so we would be facing the sea.
As I reversed there was an horrible scrunching sound and I realised that the underneath of the boot had scraped across the kerb stone. To a further scrunching sound I gently drove the car forward to get clear of the said offending kerb.
We got out of the car to see what damage had been caused. It all looked good, no obvious signs of any damage so sighs of relief. Just to make sure I had a look underneath. To my horror I saw that petrol was dripping out from a rather bent drain plug on the bottom of the petrol tank. I seem to remember talking to an AA patrol man who said he couldn’t do anything as his shift was ending and I needed to go to a garage. But of course he didn’t have any ideas.
On the out skirts of Brighton we came across a little service station. I pulled in to be told by the owner that he was on the point of closing for the day but in view of the problem he would have a look. He slid under the car saw the damage and said he might be able to help. I had to go the a nearby sweetshop and buy a couple of packets of chewing gum. After several minutes of frantic chewing he took the gum and pressed it in and around the drain plug. Then laying on his back under the car he put a mole wrench round the drain plug straightened his arms. I’m sure he lifted the car off the ground. The weight of the car bent the plug back into hole and the gum sealed it.
In the circumstances we thought to heck with Brighton there has been more than enough excitement for one day so drove back home. It was several weeks before my local garage were able to weld properly a new drain plug. It cost me considerably more than the man in Brighton and through out the whole of that time there were no leaks at all.
This is another example of the beautiful art by our friend Mandy Borelli.
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Captain Tim Reports
A Sailor’s life
Isn’t life amazing!
You’re sailing along on relatively calm seas when suddenly there is a storm warning.
COVID 19 ahead.
As Captain what do you do!
There are those who say, “I have one of the most modern, sophisticated, economically powerful world-beating vessels, so we will just keep going and slow steam for a bit to ride out the waves”.
There are others: “Hard a’ starboard! We’ve no sophistication: we’re economically weak, and the vessel is antiquated. We’ll shelter in the lee of common sense and avoid contact with this disastrous tsunami at all costs”.
Luckily my Captain, Manasseh Sogavare, summoned his senior officers and told them to set a course for common sense. “We will anchor there and see what to do”.
“Do not allow anybody to come aboard”
“Order the whole crew to be COVID 19 aware and take precautions”.
“Prepare the HAZMAT suits”
“Stay in your cabin whenever possible”
“COVID 19 OUTBREAK DRILL every three weeks”
What does it say in the Convention on Preventing Collisions? “Any action taken should be positive, in ample time and with due regard for the observance of good seamanship”.
Good for you, Captain Sogavare! Your action was positive, (total national shut down) in ample time (March 2020), regarding good seamanship (prudent protection).
“But Captain, we will run out of food, fuel and money. Our economy and voyage to development will be halted.”
“There are ships from the People’s Republic of China and Australia on the horizon. Send out “MAYDAY” and ask for assistance.
I find myself confined to my cabin.
I don’t have to be, as the good ship “Solomon Islands” has anchored safely in the lee of common sense and the COVID 19 Pandemic has so far passed us by.
But from my last ship, the “Espana”, the news is grim. The ship has been overrun with the dreaded sickness. They say the companionways are packed with sick crew and many have died.
COVID 19 hit all the ships that just kept going at slow steaming, but not us sheltering in the lee of common sense.
It is not all plain (plane) sailing. My First Mate, who accompanies me, has found it more difficult to keep spirits up in self-imposed isolation.
Isolation apart from our weekly visit to the Purser’s stores for provisions; to the Chief Engineer at Solomon Power for a “Cash Power” payment; the Carpenter, “Chippy”, for a 10 litre bottle of water; and “Sparks” in the Telekom radio room for a mobile “Top-up”. Now we are all set for another week.
I wonder why do I seem to cope with this situation quite well? Then I realise that I started on my voyage long before the First Mate, before the days of electronic communication (apart from the ship’s radio, which was only for “official” use). We would be on a voyage for four, sometimes six, months with only a glimpse of land on the horizon as we rounded the Cape of Good Hope. No communication for months at a time; then letters at the next port that were already three weeks old. No fire brigade, no police force; if you get sick its just the Second Officer with the Ship Master’s Medical Guide in hand desperately trying to work out what is wrong with you. If his diagnosis is correct, another half hour thumbing through the pages of the Guide, wondering what to do about it.
Mind you, when we got to port, we could be there for two weeks discharging and loading cargo. None of this containerised turn-around in eight hours nonsense. When we got to port we let our hair down. And how.
Kilindini Road in Mombasa with its “Day and Night” clubs and exotic girls as eager to make money as the sailors were to enjoy their company. But always with good hearts and a sense of humour. Fun was just as important as business.
The “Hong Kong” restaurant run by a delightful Chinese family, where we put bottles of cheap Champagne in store for the next trip paid for out of our ill-gotten gains of tipping the ship’s husbandry bill. When I returned to Kenya in 1974 (at least ten years later) on my way from Nairobi to Lake Victoria I found a “Hong Kong” restaurant in Nairobi. To my amazement it was run by the same family. To my even greater amazement they insisted that I still had credit of a bottle of Champagne from 1964 and so we opened it. It was a far better vintage than the ones we had in Kilindini Road, and to this day I still do not know if I really did have credit or if the family were just pleased to see an old Mombasa customer back in Nairobi and drank with me for “old time’s sake”.
But I digress.
Being at anchor, locked down and reminiscing, I have had the opportunity to have a good look at myself.
What happened to that bright-eyed, bushy tailed young English middle-class but poor teenager who went for training and a career at sea, for adventure, in 1960.
I have tried to be honest with myself.
I had a great education at a wonderful charitable boarding school where I learned the difference between home life with my family and boarding life with a load of strangers (initially); between right and wrong; and where I was imbued with the protestant work ethic. Unfortunately, it did not rub off on me while I was at school and my record was an annual drop into a lower grade each year.
I managed to scramble together enough “O” levels to enrol in pre-sea training, and it was there, and when I went to sea, that the work ethic kicked in. I found a purpose for all that boring maths, physics, chemistry, English language, English literature, French, History and Geography. Maths for navigation; physics for cargo handling (safe working loads and pulley systems for the derricks); chemistry for dangerous goods in the cargo; English to enable good communication; and literature to enable good reading habits.
Even my school-boy French became useful. On my first sea trip the ship went to Tulear and Morombe in Madagascar. Nobody ashore spoke English, and I was the only person on the ship who had any knowledge of French; History because I was sailing in the same seas and rounding the same Capes as the great seafarers who explored and charted the world; and Geography because, in my school days, Britain still had many Colonies and Protectorates from the British Empire. I had learned a bit about trade with the places we visited, and their colonial past. Our Geography teacher had lived and taught in Africa and his love and enthusiasm for that beautiful and mysterious continent excited me.
On the other side of the coin I was a white Anglo-Saxon protestant (with fair hair and blue eyes to boot), who had spent his early teenage years at a boys only boarding school (I’m very pleased to say that they now have as many girls at the school as boys) with very few physically challenged boys and no children of colour as far as I remember.
If I am truly honest with myself, I must have been an elitist (although the school was basically a charity school), woman fearing (without being misogynistic: they were just a complete mystery to me) religious bigot, unintentionally racist, anti-communist, teenager.
My mother, bless her, who I loved dearly, was a single parent woman as the result of the 2nd World War, who trained as a teacher, retrained as a secretary and draughts-woman, became Office Manager of the company she worked for throughout her working life and ended up as a Director of the company. She never owned or had access to a car and cycled to work and back every day a distance of at least 10 miles or 7 miles, depending on where we lived. Without my realising it, she was a hard act to follow when assessing the women in my life, for the rest of my life.
I was also naïve. Very naïve. Especially where politics were concerned. Example: on my first trip the ship had cargo for Cape Town, so I decided to go up Table Mountain on the Cable car. To get to the Table Mountain Aerial Cableway I had to take a series of buses. The ship’s agent told me where to get the buses from and to, so I left on my adventure.
The first bus to catch was just outside the dock gates. I got on and turned to two spare seats towards the back of the bus and sat down in one of them, as you do. This seemed to cause much comment and amusement amongst my fellow passengers. Initially I did not understand. Then it dawned on me from their gesticulations that I should not be there as the seats were reserved for “Niet blankes”. In my naivety I knew nothing about apartheid or that the whites and the non-whites were separated. Where I was sitting, I was surrounded by smiling African faces. I was obviously not the first young sailor to make this mistake as my fellow passengers noticed where I got on and found the situation amusing. I was conscious that there was no animosity towards me sitting in their section. I wonder what would have happened if it had been the other way round?
I think it was Joseph Conrad who said, “Give me the company of sailors” and of course we know the old adage “Travel broadens the mind”. I now know what Conrad meant and have benefitted from the travel in my life opening my eyes to life’s realities.
My first experience of Russian seafarers was when I was a Cadet. Our ship was berthed in Dar es Salaam and astern was a Russian deep-sea salvage tug. It was the middle of October and the Russian tug was dressed overall celebrating the October Revolution. Our Captain received an invitation from the Russian ship’s Captain to join them for a drink. Being the Cold War our captain did not want to go, but not rudely refuse the invitation, so he ordered me to get spruced up in my cleanest, smartest white uniform, put on my cap and take a message to the Captain of the Russian ship.
I nervously approached the Russian gangway and the watchman showed me to the Captain’s cabin. In the cabin were about six Russian Officers all in their best white tropical uniforms. It turned out that the Chief Officer was a woman. She looked at me and said in a strong rough accent “Come here English. I luuurve English”, patting the couch next to where she was sitting. If she had looked like Sharapova I might have been more at ease, but she didn’t. She was more like one of those Russian Shot Putt champions, built like the proverbial “brick shit-house”, that won Olympic Gold medals in the 1950’s and 60’s. I swear that each of the huge legs that stuck out of her uniform shorts was thicker than my waist.
What to do? I did not want to be rude on behalf of my Captain, on the other hand I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. The other Russian officers, much to their amusement, could see the discomfort in my dilemma, but I plucked up courage and went and sat next to her. She put her hand on my knee and squeezed it a little saying drunkenly “Drink to the glorious Revolution”. Followed by “I reaeaealy luuurve English!”. A shot of what I realised later was vodka was put into my hand and they all said what sounded like “nostrovia” and sank the contents of their glasses in one swig. I did the same, thanked them for their hospitality and made my way back to the gangway, slightly the worse for wear. Behind me I could hear guffaws of raucous laughter. Sailors!!
My second brush with the so-called Communists was on a ship in Mombasa Harbour in 1965 when a Russian ship was berthed alongside our ship on the offshore side. All the other berths were taken, and the Russian ship only needed to take on bunker fuel through a pipe that was led from the wharf across our ship to the Russian ship.
Please remember, that this was Cold War nuclear threat days when we were concerned about the 4 minute warning and had been taught that Russians eat babies for breakfast (well not quite, but you know what I mean!).
After a while, as sailors do, the Russians started chatting to us in their broken English across the bulwark. Somebody from our ship invited some officers to come over and we all congregated in the Officer’s Smoke Room. Drinks were offered and to our amusement they mostly asked for Coca-Cola. “We can’t get it in our country” one of them said with a knowing smile. In those days there was nothing “American” available throughout the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR).
Inevitably we got to chatting about a sailors’ life and somebody started a game of darts. It was decided to have a match of Britain vs Russia and a good time was had by all. I can’t remember who won the darts and soon it was time for them to leave the ship as their bunkering had finished. We all had a pleasant time. But what they did not know was that one of our officers came from a “White Russian” family that came to the UK in 1917 to escape the Russian Revolution, and who spoke fluent Russian. After they left, we started talking about the occasion as we were fascinated. These people who ate babies for breakfast and were going to drop the bomb on us at any minute didn’t seem much different to us.
Maybe they were just putting it on for our benefit we thought.
“No”, said White Russian, “they were talking about the things that we talk about”. He had the least reason to be favourable; “Worried about the children’s education”. “The wife wants the spare bedroom painting when I get home next leave”. “Not a bad looking ship, is it?”, etc., etc.
I began to learn that individuals, and especially seafarers, seem to have similar worries and concerns to me, whatever nationality they are. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs suddenly had a universality that bridged East and West. It starts you thinking about values and attitudes! Jingoism: sorted
Then I met a girl in Liverpool who was of a different religious background to me, but the sweetest, nicest person you could know. Admittedly she no longer followed her religious programming, but I realised that it was not her as a person that I had problems with, but the controlling indoctrination that went on in her early spiritual life.
“Do you know what your greatest asset is?” my tutor asked me many years later when I was studying for my degree. “No”, I really had no idea what he was talking about. “You have no sense of guilt, do you?” I’d never thought about it before, but he was right. “Don’t ever lose that” he said, “it is a huge power to have”. It made me realise that it was not the religious dogma that I disliked so much as the use of guilt as a controlling weapon that irked me. Religious intolerance: sorted.
What about women? Until I was about 18, I did not have a serious girlfriend and then I met Xara. I learned more from her about women, both good and bad, than I have learned from any other relationship with a woman, except perhaps for the good I learned from my mother! Most importantly I learned that a woman has the right to her opinions and must be given the freedom to be herself, however much it might hurt. That real love must be unconditional; “warts and all”, but most importantly a good male/female relationship has to be based on mutual respect. Relationships with women: only partially sorted as the deepest mysteries remain!
I am writing at a time when the racism situation in the USA is boiling over. It makes me examine my own conscience when it comes to racism. It was never a problem when I was a child. Across the road from where I lived was Mr Ebers. His wife was a Sussex girl and they had two boys about the same age as me. We played together and it never crossed my mind until many years later that they were “children of colour”. Boarding school was not a problem, but in common with my peer group I never thought about it very much. Then I went to pre-sea training and joined in the banter that went around, including so called “jokes” that on reflection were blatantly racist. I really didn’t think much about it. I guess I was like very many of my peer group in as much that I was on the “giving” end of racism, not the “receiving” end.
Then at 17 I had the incident on the bus in Cape Town and I was stirred into thinking about apartheid. I was confronted with active, in your face, real racism and I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t do anything about it.
I continued on my life journey trying to ignore it. At about the same time as I became 3rd Officer on the ships, the shipping company introduced a policy of employing East Africans as cadets training them for sea careers and to become the next generation of ships’ pilots and harbour masters in East Africa. Young men from Kenya, Tanzania and even Uganda. This was a bit uncomfortable for me as they were different from me. Then I thought to myself, well so are many of the people I have already sailed with who are Scottish, Irish, Indian, Pakistani or Sinhalese. How did I get on with them? I had learned to find something about my shipmates that I liked and concentrate on that. One from Scotland liked playing darts; one from India read Sci-fi books; one from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) was proud of his heritage and wanted to share it with me.
John Ikoluot from Uganda was interested in African animals, Charles Njuguna from Nairobi wanted me to read the books about Britain’s colonial activities in his country that exposed the corruption of the colonial men of power. Another shipmate introduced me to the writing of Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo’o, Taban lo Liyong and Grace Ogot. These authors made me start thinking about the impact that years of colonial rule had on them. Not least of which was that their education and writing had been conducted mainly in English. Was that a good or bad thing? In my discussions with my African colleagues over the years, opinion has been divided; some say good, some say bad, some say good and bad.
The most influential from a personal point of view was Dave Kioko. He and I sailed together for two years. I was 2nd Officer; he was 3rd Officer. Our friendship started with a mutual like of avocados and grew into a rich “brotherly love”. We had many adventures that in themselves would fill another “Letter from the Pacific”. One day when he was handing over the watch to me, I asked him “How do you say that in (Ki)Swahili?” He said “Habari gani za kazi”. From then on he taught me Kiswahili and I taught him as much as I could about being a good ship’s officer and navigator.
Sadly a few years after we parted company to join other ships, he got into a fight in a Liverpool Night Club and his head hit a wall heavily. Although he appeared to be OK, the next day he complained of a headache that was getting increasingly more unbearable, so he went to hospital where he died that evening of a brain haemorrhage. The fight was not racially motivated; typically of Dave, it was over a woman!
In 1974 I went back to East Africa as Captain of Ships on Lake Victoria and left there in 1976. In 1977 I went to Papua New Guinea and from then until now I have continually worked for or with national officers in the host country. The only white bosses I have had since then in the past 43 years were from Finland and Australia; the first for three months in Timor Leste; the other for two years in Papua New Guinea.
Have I ever experienced any form of discrimination as a white man working in a black man’s country? No. Not only have I never experienced it in their country, but I have always felt welcomed and as well integrated on human qualities as I could be without necessarily understanding, but always respecting, the finer points of their culture. It is so much easier that way round, because the white people always had the upper hand, and racism looked down on the black people.
Despite the terrible things that white colonialists have done over the years, I’ve never consciously experienced hatred or even negativity from black people. The only time I experienced “indifference” was from a black ticket Inspector on my way from Gatwick to London on return from one of my foreign adventures. I greeted him with a cheery grin and something along the lines of “How are you today?”. His response was to look at me as if I was something that the cat had left on the rug, and I had to remind myself that I was back in England.
I have not gone “bush” either. I abhor corruption; not purely from a moralistic perspective, but because it robs the poorer human of his opportunities to be able to further himself. I maintain the work ethic because it is something that I was born with. When I look back on my life I know that part of what I have been doing is my own way of trying to make some small reparation for the wrongs that were perpetrated by my forefathers, that have given me the privileged life that I have been able to lead.
My greatest career achievement has been in Tanzania starting in 1985. I took on a consultancy to examine the feasibility of developing a maritime training college in Dar es Salaam; the Dar es Salaam Maritime Institute (DMI). It was achieved through my work and the dedication of the Norwegian and Tanzanian governments with a Tanzanian champion, my late good friend Abraham Massawe, who tragically died of the HIV virus in 1991.
Our legacy is now the centre of Excellence for Maritime Training in sub-Saharan Africa; it boasts six professors with MSc’s and 5 with PhD’s. All the ports in East Africa now have only African pilots and harbour masters, and there are over 5,000 graduates from DMI working as ship’s officers and marine engineers in the world merchant fleet.
In 2010 I celebrated 50 years in shipping whilst working in Papua New Guinea and received a letter from Thomas Mwayagilo, the Principal of DMI. He reported that the United Nations Programme for Least Developed and Island Developing Nations calculated the remittance of DMI graduates was over US$ 150M annually. I am immensely proud of this contribution to help redress the balance of exploitation by Britain through its colonial control of East Africa, fully acknowledging the benefits that they left behind in transport infrastructure, education and social administration. As Abraham Massawe used to say, “Thank God we were not colonised by the Belgians or the Portuguese!”
When I left Tanzania in 1993, the African Principal of DMI, in his speech at my farewell said, “Captain Tim Harris has the heart of the black man in the body of a white man.” I’m not sure that this is a good epithet either. I look forward to the day when all people have the hearts of common humanity in the bodies of all humans.
Racism: Sorted
....................................................................................................................................................................................
A Sailor’s life
Isn’t life amazing!
You’re sailing along on relatively calm seas when suddenly there is a storm warning.
COVID 19 ahead.
As Captain what do you do!
There are those who say, “I have one of the most modern, sophisticated, economically powerful world-beating vessels, so we will just keep going and slow steam for a bit to ride out the waves”.
There are others: “Hard a’ starboard! We’ve no sophistication: we’re economically weak, and the vessel is antiquated. We’ll shelter in the lee of common sense and avoid contact with this disastrous tsunami at all costs”.
Luckily my Captain, Manasseh Sogavare, summoned his senior officers and told them to set a course for common sense. “We will anchor there and see what to do”.
“Do not allow anybody to come aboard”
“Order the whole crew to be COVID 19 aware and take precautions”.
“Prepare the HAZMAT suits”
“Stay in your cabin whenever possible”
“COVID 19 OUTBREAK DRILL every three weeks”
What does it say in the Convention on Preventing Collisions? “Any action taken should be positive, in ample time and with due regard for the observance of good seamanship”.
Good for you, Captain Sogavare! Your action was positive, (total national shut down) in ample time (March 2020), regarding good seamanship (prudent protection).
“But Captain, we will run out of food, fuel and money. Our economy and voyage to development will be halted.”
“There are ships from the People’s Republic of China and Australia on the horizon. Send out “MAYDAY” and ask for assistance.
I find myself confined to my cabin.
I don’t have to be, as the good ship “Solomon Islands” has anchored safely in the lee of common sense and the COVID 19 Pandemic has so far passed us by.
But from my last ship, the “Espana”, the news is grim. The ship has been overrun with the dreaded sickness. They say the companionways are packed with sick crew and many have died.
COVID 19 hit all the ships that just kept going at slow steaming, but not us sheltering in the lee of common sense.
It is not all plain (plane) sailing. My First Mate, who accompanies me, has found it more difficult to keep spirits up in self-imposed isolation.
Isolation apart from our weekly visit to the Purser’s stores for provisions; to the Chief Engineer at Solomon Power for a “Cash Power” payment; the Carpenter, “Chippy”, for a 10 litre bottle of water; and “Sparks” in the Telekom radio room for a mobile “Top-up”. Now we are all set for another week.
I wonder why do I seem to cope with this situation quite well? Then I realise that I started on my voyage long before the First Mate, before the days of electronic communication (apart from the ship’s radio, which was only for “official” use). We would be on a voyage for four, sometimes six, months with only a glimpse of land on the horizon as we rounded the Cape of Good Hope. No communication for months at a time; then letters at the next port that were already three weeks old. No fire brigade, no police force; if you get sick its just the Second Officer with the Ship Master’s Medical Guide in hand desperately trying to work out what is wrong with you. If his diagnosis is correct, another half hour thumbing through the pages of the Guide, wondering what to do about it.
Mind you, when we got to port, we could be there for two weeks discharging and loading cargo. None of this containerised turn-around in eight hours nonsense. When we got to port we let our hair down. And how.
Kilindini Road in Mombasa with its “Day and Night” clubs and exotic girls as eager to make money as the sailors were to enjoy their company. But always with good hearts and a sense of humour. Fun was just as important as business.
The “Hong Kong” restaurant run by a delightful Chinese family, where we put bottles of cheap Champagne in store for the next trip paid for out of our ill-gotten gains of tipping the ship’s husbandry bill. When I returned to Kenya in 1974 (at least ten years later) on my way from Nairobi to Lake Victoria I found a “Hong Kong” restaurant in Nairobi. To my amazement it was run by the same family. To my even greater amazement they insisted that I still had credit of a bottle of Champagne from 1964 and so we opened it. It was a far better vintage than the ones we had in Kilindini Road, and to this day I still do not know if I really did have credit or if the family were just pleased to see an old Mombasa customer back in Nairobi and drank with me for “old time’s sake”.
But I digress.
Being at anchor, locked down and reminiscing, I have had the opportunity to have a good look at myself.
What happened to that bright-eyed, bushy tailed young English middle-class but poor teenager who went for training and a career at sea, for adventure, in 1960.
I have tried to be honest with myself.
I had a great education at a wonderful charitable boarding school where I learned the difference between home life with my family and boarding life with a load of strangers (initially); between right and wrong; and where I was imbued with the protestant work ethic. Unfortunately, it did not rub off on me while I was at school and my record was an annual drop into a lower grade each year.
I managed to scramble together enough “O” levels to enrol in pre-sea training, and it was there, and when I went to sea, that the work ethic kicked in. I found a purpose for all that boring maths, physics, chemistry, English language, English literature, French, History and Geography. Maths for navigation; physics for cargo handling (safe working loads and pulley systems for the derricks); chemistry for dangerous goods in the cargo; English to enable good communication; and literature to enable good reading habits.
Even my school-boy French became useful. On my first sea trip the ship went to Tulear and Morombe in Madagascar. Nobody ashore spoke English, and I was the only person on the ship who had any knowledge of French; History because I was sailing in the same seas and rounding the same Capes as the great seafarers who explored and charted the world; and Geography because, in my school days, Britain still had many Colonies and Protectorates from the British Empire. I had learned a bit about trade with the places we visited, and their colonial past. Our Geography teacher had lived and taught in Africa and his love and enthusiasm for that beautiful and mysterious continent excited me.
On the other side of the coin I was a white Anglo-Saxon protestant (with fair hair and blue eyes to boot), who had spent his early teenage years at a boys only boarding school (I’m very pleased to say that they now have as many girls at the school as boys) with very few physically challenged boys and no children of colour as far as I remember.
If I am truly honest with myself, I must have been an elitist (although the school was basically a charity school), woman fearing (without being misogynistic: they were just a complete mystery to me) religious bigot, unintentionally racist, anti-communist, teenager.
My mother, bless her, who I loved dearly, was a single parent woman as the result of the 2nd World War, who trained as a teacher, retrained as a secretary and draughts-woman, became Office Manager of the company she worked for throughout her working life and ended up as a Director of the company. She never owned or had access to a car and cycled to work and back every day a distance of at least 10 miles or 7 miles, depending on where we lived. Without my realising it, she was a hard act to follow when assessing the women in my life, for the rest of my life.
I was also naïve. Very naïve. Especially where politics were concerned. Example: on my first trip the ship had cargo for Cape Town, so I decided to go up Table Mountain on the Cable car. To get to the Table Mountain Aerial Cableway I had to take a series of buses. The ship’s agent told me where to get the buses from and to, so I left on my adventure.
The first bus to catch was just outside the dock gates. I got on and turned to two spare seats towards the back of the bus and sat down in one of them, as you do. This seemed to cause much comment and amusement amongst my fellow passengers. Initially I did not understand. Then it dawned on me from their gesticulations that I should not be there as the seats were reserved for “Niet blankes”. In my naivety I knew nothing about apartheid or that the whites and the non-whites were separated. Where I was sitting, I was surrounded by smiling African faces. I was obviously not the first young sailor to make this mistake as my fellow passengers noticed where I got on and found the situation amusing. I was conscious that there was no animosity towards me sitting in their section. I wonder what would have happened if it had been the other way round?
I think it was Joseph Conrad who said, “Give me the company of sailors” and of course we know the old adage “Travel broadens the mind”. I now know what Conrad meant and have benefitted from the travel in my life opening my eyes to life’s realities.
My first experience of Russian seafarers was when I was a Cadet. Our ship was berthed in Dar es Salaam and astern was a Russian deep-sea salvage tug. It was the middle of October and the Russian tug was dressed overall celebrating the October Revolution. Our Captain received an invitation from the Russian ship’s Captain to join them for a drink. Being the Cold War our captain did not want to go, but not rudely refuse the invitation, so he ordered me to get spruced up in my cleanest, smartest white uniform, put on my cap and take a message to the Captain of the Russian ship.
I nervously approached the Russian gangway and the watchman showed me to the Captain’s cabin. In the cabin were about six Russian Officers all in their best white tropical uniforms. It turned out that the Chief Officer was a woman. She looked at me and said in a strong rough accent “Come here English. I luuurve English”, patting the couch next to where she was sitting. If she had looked like Sharapova I might have been more at ease, but she didn’t. She was more like one of those Russian Shot Putt champions, built like the proverbial “brick shit-house”, that won Olympic Gold medals in the 1950’s and 60’s. I swear that each of the huge legs that stuck out of her uniform shorts was thicker than my waist.
What to do? I did not want to be rude on behalf of my Captain, on the other hand I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. The other Russian officers, much to their amusement, could see the discomfort in my dilemma, but I plucked up courage and went and sat next to her. She put her hand on my knee and squeezed it a little saying drunkenly “Drink to the glorious Revolution”. Followed by “I reaeaealy luuurve English!”. A shot of what I realised later was vodka was put into my hand and they all said what sounded like “nostrovia” and sank the contents of their glasses in one swig. I did the same, thanked them for their hospitality and made my way back to the gangway, slightly the worse for wear. Behind me I could hear guffaws of raucous laughter. Sailors!!
My second brush with the so-called Communists was on a ship in Mombasa Harbour in 1965 when a Russian ship was berthed alongside our ship on the offshore side. All the other berths were taken, and the Russian ship only needed to take on bunker fuel through a pipe that was led from the wharf across our ship to the Russian ship.
Please remember, that this was Cold War nuclear threat days when we were concerned about the 4 minute warning and had been taught that Russians eat babies for breakfast (well not quite, but you know what I mean!).
After a while, as sailors do, the Russians started chatting to us in their broken English across the bulwark. Somebody from our ship invited some officers to come over and we all congregated in the Officer’s Smoke Room. Drinks were offered and to our amusement they mostly asked for Coca-Cola. “We can’t get it in our country” one of them said with a knowing smile. In those days there was nothing “American” available throughout the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR).
Inevitably we got to chatting about a sailors’ life and somebody started a game of darts. It was decided to have a match of Britain vs Russia and a good time was had by all. I can’t remember who won the darts and soon it was time for them to leave the ship as their bunkering had finished. We all had a pleasant time. But what they did not know was that one of our officers came from a “White Russian” family that came to the UK in 1917 to escape the Russian Revolution, and who spoke fluent Russian. After they left, we started talking about the occasion as we were fascinated. These people who ate babies for breakfast and were going to drop the bomb on us at any minute didn’t seem much different to us.
Maybe they were just putting it on for our benefit we thought.
“No”, said White Russian, “they were talking about the things that we talk about”. He had the least reason to be favourable; “Worried about the children’s education”. “The wife wants the spare bedroom painting when I get home next leave”. “Not a bad looking ship, is it?”, etc., etc.
I began to learn that individuals, and especially seafarers, seem to have similar worries and concerns to me, whatever nationality they are. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs suddenly had a universality that bridged East and West. It starts you thinking about values and attitudes! Jingoism: sorted
Then I met a girl in Liverpool who was of a different religious background to me, but the sweetest, nicest person you could know. Admittedly she no longer followed her religious programming, but I realised that it was not her as a person that I had problems with, but the controlling indoctrination that went on in her early spiritual life.
“Do you know what your greatest asset is?” my tutor asked me many years later when I was studying for my degree. “No”, I really had no idea what he was talking about. “You have no sense of guilt, do you?” I’d never thought about it before, but he was right. “Don’t ever lose that” he said, “it is a huge power to have”. It made me realise that it was not the religious dogma that I disliked so much as the use of guilt as a controlling weapon that irked me. Religious intolerance: sorted.
What about women? Until I was about 18, I did not have a serious girlfriend and then I met Xara. I learned more from her about women, both good and bad, than I have learned from any other relationship with a woman, except perhaps for the good I learned from my mother! Most importantly I learned that a woman has the right to her opinions and must be given the freedom to be herself, however much it might hurt. That real love must be unconditional; “warts and all”, but most importantly a good male/female relationship has to be based on mutual respect. Relationships with women: only partially sorted as the deepest mysteries remain!
I am writing at a time when the racism situation in the USA is boiling over. It makes me examine my own conscience when it comes to racism. It was never a problem when I was a child. Across the road from where I lived was Mr Ebers. His wife was a Sussex girl and they had two boys about the same age as me. We played together and it never crossed my mind until many years later that they were “children of colour”. Boarding school was not a problem, but in common with my peer group I never thought about it very much. Then I went to pre-sea training and joined in the banter that went around, including so called “jokes” that on reflection were blatantly racist. I really didn’t think much about it. I guess I was like very many of my peer group in as much that I was on the “giving” end of racism, not the “receiving” end.
Then at 17 I had the incident on the bus in Cape Town and I was stirred into thinking about apartheid. I was confronted with active, in your face, real racism and I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t do anything about it.
I continued on my life journey trying to ignore it. At about the same time as I became 3rd Officer on the ships, the shipping company introduced a policy of employing East Africans as cadets training them for sea careers and to become the next generation of ships’ pilots and harbour masters in East Africa. Young men from Kenya, Tanzania and even Uganda. This was a bit uncomfortable for me as they were different from me. Then I thought to myself, well so are many of the people I have already sailed with who are Scottish, Irish, Indian, Pakistani or Sinhalese. How did I get on with them? I had learned to find something about my shipmates that I liked and concentrate on that. One from Scotland liked playing darts; one from India read Sci-fi books; one from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) was proud of his heritage and wanted to share it with me.
John Ikoluot from Uganda was interested in African animals, Charles Njuguna from Nairobi wanted me to read the books about Britain’s colonial activities in his country that exposed the corruption of the colonial men of power. Another shipmate introduced me to the writing of Chinua Achebe, Ngugi wa Thiongo’o, Taban lo Liyong and Grace Ogot. These authors made me start thinking about the impact that years of colonial rule had on them. Not least of which was that their education and writing had been conducted mainly in English. Was that a good or bad thing? In my discussions with my African colleagues over the years, opinion has been divided; some say good, some say bad, some say good and bad.
The most influential from a personal point of view was Dave Kioko. He and I sailed together for two years. I was 2nd Officer; he was 3rd Officer. Our friendship started with a mutual like of avocados and grew into a rich “brotherly love”. We had many adventures that in themselves would fill another “Letter from the Pacific”. One day when he was handing over the watch to me, I asked him “How do you say that in (Ki)Swahili?” He said “Habari gani za kazi”. From then on he taught me Kiswahili and I taught him as much as I could about being a good ship’s officer and navigator.
Sadly a few years after we parted company to join other ships, he got into a fight in a Liverpool Night Club and his head hit a wall heavily. Although he appeared to be OK, the next day he complained of a headache that was getting increasingly more unbearable, so he went to hospital where he died that evening of a brain haemorrhage. The fight was not racially motivated; typically of Dave, it was over a woman!
In 1974 I went back to East Africa as Captain of Ships on Lake Victoria and left there in 1976. In 1977 I went to Papua New Guinea and from then until now I have continually worked for or with national officers in the host country. The only white bosses I have had since then in the past 43 years were from Finland and Australia; the first for three months in Timor Leste; the other for two years in Papua New Guinea.
Have I ever experienced any form of discrimination as a white man working in a black man’s country? No. Not only have I never experienced it in their country, but I have always felt welcomed and as well integrated on human qualities as I could be without necessarily understanding, but always respecting, the finer points of their culture. It is so much easier that way round, because the white people always had the upper hand, and racism looked down on the black people.
Despite the terrible things that white colonialists have done over the years, I’ve never consciously experienced hatred or even negativity from black people. The only time I experienced “indifference” was from a black ticket Inspector on my way from Gatwick to London on return from one of my foreign adventures. I greeted him with a cheery grin and something along the lines of “How are you today?”. His response was to look at me as if I was something that the cat had left on the rug, and I had to remind myself that I was back in England.
I have not gone “bush” either. I abhor corruption; not purely from a moralistic perspective, but because it robs the poorer human of his opportunities to be able to further himself. I maintain the work ethic because it is something that I was born with. When I look back on my life I know that part of what I have been doing is my own way of trying to make some small reparation for the wrongs that were perpetrated by my forefathers, that have given me the privileged life that I have been able to lead.
My greatest career achievement has been in Tanzania starting in 1985. I took on a consultancy to examine the feasibility of developing a maritime training college in Dar es Salaam; the Dar es Salaam Maritime Institute (DMI). It was achieved through my work and the dedication of the Norwegian and Tanzanian governments with a Tanzanian champion, my late good friend Abraham Massawe, who tragically died of the HIV virus in 1991.
Our legacy is now the centre of Excellence for Maritime Training in sub-Saharan Africa; it boasts six professors with MSc’s and 5 with PhD’s. All the ports in East Africa now have only African pilots and harbour masters, and there are over 5,000 graduates from DMI working as ship’s officers and marine engineers in the world merchant fleet.
In 2010 I celebrated 50 years in shipping whilst working in Papua New Guinea and received a letter from Thomas Mwayagilo, the Principal of DMI. He reported that the United Nations Programme for Least Developed and Island Developing Nations calculated the remittance of DMI graduates was over US$ 150M annually. I am immensely proud of this contribution to help redress the balance of exploitation by Britain through its colonial control of East Africa, fully acknowledging the benefits that they left behind in transport infrastructure, education and social administration. As Abraham Massawe used to say, “Thank God we were not colonised by the Belgians or the Portuguese!”
When I left Tanzania in 1993, the African Principal of DMI, in his speech at my farewell said, “Captain Tim Harris has the heart of the black man in the body of a white man.” I’m not sure that this is a good epithet either. I look forward to the day when all people have the hearts of common humanity in the bodies of all humans.
Racism: Sorted
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Click here to edit.
26 July 2020.
Today I present contributions from Mandy, David, Jenny, Lucinda and Tim.
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Today I present contributions from Mandy, David, Jenny, Lucinda and Tim.
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MANDY BORELLI
This is one of Mandy´s latest pieces of art. Superb.
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
This is one of Mandy´s latest pieces of art. Superb.
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
DAVID´S ANECDOTES NO. 2
ENGAGED
My colleague Ted and myself had both been separately visiting various of our business contacts. We agreed to meet up in Scunthorpe, not the most exciting town in Lincolnshire, so that the following day we could together visit a nearby port and storage facility. Accordingly we booked two single rooms with en suite bathrooms in one of the town’s hotels.
I arrived to find that Ted had already checked in. Reception told me that there was a problem with my room and that whilst it had an en suite the toilet was in fact broken. Needless to say Ted’s room was fully functional.There was however a separate toilet next to my room just a couple of yards down the corridor. As we were only staying the one night I accepted it.
The following morning after breakfast I made my final visit to use the adjacent toilet before checking out. Having finished in the toilet I tried to unbolt the door but the bolt sheared off in my hand. I rattled the door to see if I could get any movement but the bolt was well and truly stuck. I banged on the door and shouted out but to no avail. I was well and truly locked in.
There was a small window which looked out onto the surrounding walls of the hotel and down one floor into a sort of court yard at ground level. There was a narrow ledge some two or three inches wide about three feet down and I remembered that I had left my bedroom window open. I had seen this sort of thing done in count less films so I decided it was worth a try. I climbed out of the window, pressed myself against the wall and inched my way along the ledge. I successfully gained entry to my room, gathered my stuff together and went down to check out.
Feeling a bit like James Bond I explained at reception what had happened. I told them that the toilet on the first floor was showing engaged but was in fact vacant as the bolt on the inside of the door had sheared off and that I had crept along the ledge to regain my freedom. The receptionist just said ‘’Oh.” I don’t think she really took on board what I had told her and I sometimes wonder whether that toilet is still engaged.
Perhaps the next time you see an engaged sign you might care to knock and enquire if all is well.
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ENGAGED
My colleague Ted and myself had both been separately visiting various of our business contacts. We agreed to meet up in Scunthorpe, not the most exciting town in Lincolnshire, so that the following day we could together visit a nearby port and storage facility. Accordingly we booked two single rooms with en suite bathrooms in one of the town’s hotels.
I arrived to find that Ted had already checked in. Reception told me that there was a problem with my room and that whilst it had an en suite the toilet was in fact broken. Needless to say Ted’s room was fully functional.There was however a separate toilet next to my room just a couple of yards down the corridor. As we were only staying the one night I accepted it.
The following morning after breakfast I made my final visit to use the adjacent toilet before checking out. Having finished in the toilet I tried to unbolt the door but the bolt sheared off in my hand. I rattled the door to see if I could get any movement but the bolt was well and truly stuck. I banged on the door and shouted out but to no avail. I was well and truly locked in.
There was a small window which looked out onto the surrounding walls of the hotel and down one floor into a sort of court yard at ground level. There was a narrow ledge some two or three inches wide about three feet down and I remembered that I had left my bedroom window open. I had seen this sort of thing done in count less films so I decided it was worth a try. I climbed out of the window, pressed myself against the wall and inched my way along the ledge. I successfully gained entry to my room, gathered my stuff together and went down to check out.
Feeling a bit like James Bond I explained at reception what had happened. I told them that the toilet on the first floor was showing engaged but was in fact vacant as the bolt on the inside of the door had sheared off and that I had crept along the ledge to regain my freedom. The receptionist just said ‘’Oh.” I don’t think she really took on board what I had told her and I sometimes wonder whether that toilet is still engaged.
Perhaps the next time you see an engaged sign you might care to knock and enquire if all is well.
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JENNY MORRISON
Two examples of amazing art by Jenny Morrison.
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
Two examples of amazing art by Jenny Morrison.
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
LUCINDA E CLARKE
News from Lucinda
The third book in my psychological series "A Year in the Life of ..." is with the editor. I am running a competition in my newsletter and on my readers' page Lucinda E Clarke's Readers on Facebook to win a signed paperback copy of the new book - this is the sign up link for the newsletter http://eepurl.com/cz-Mpv
https://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com
News from Lucinda
The third book in my psychological series "A Year in the Life of ..." is with the editor. I am running a competition in my newsletter and on my readers' page Lucinda E Clarke's Readers on Facebook to win a signed paperback copy of the new book - this is the sign up link for the newsletter http://eepurl.com/cz-Mpv
https://lucindaeclarkeauthor.com
CAPTAIN TIM REPORTS
The White Carpet
“I’m John Hull, everybody calls me Noddy”.
“Hi Noddy, I’m Tim”. We shook hands.
It was time to handover at the crew change.
The other cadets introduced themselves to the cadets they were going to relieve.
“What’s the Old Man like?”
“OK, but a bit of a Bible thumper”.
“What about the Mate”.
“He’s a right pain in the arse. Makes you repeat a collision regulation before he lets you go ashore. If you get it wrong, he makes you go back and learn it by heart. If you’re successful, then he lets you go”.
I often found that other cadet opinions did not tally with mine by the end of a voyage, so I tried to keep an open mind.
“Only real problem is he’s deaf in the left ear, but doesn’t like to let on, so be careful to make sure he hears what you say, but don’t make it obvious that you have to raise your voice a bit”.
Good advice from John.
I was Senior Cadet, so after John had let me know about the idiosyncrasies of the ship, and the work load they’d had, he indicated something special he wanted to tell me. Out of earshot of the other two new cadets.
We went out on deck, despite the cold and blustery weather.
“You see that Contactor Room over there”. He pointed. I nodded, “Well, inside is a beautiful white lambswool carpet all rolled up and tied securely. We found it when we had to clean out the hatch and smuggled it up to the Contactor Room one night. It must have been part of the cargo that got left down in the hold as it was hidden by piles of dunnage. We would have sold it ourselves, but we didn’t get the chance, so you and the new cadets might as well benefit from it.”
Wow! Great, it must be worth quite a bit and it would be silly to throw it away. I thought to myself, maybe we can sell it to the “bumboat men” while we’re going through the Canal.
The ship was empty and clean, waiting to start loading. Before loading we always tested the bilge suction from the lower holds. This was quite a performance as it was before the days of mobile phones, or walkie-talkies, so with three cadets it meant there would be one down in the hold, one on deck, usually with the duty officer or the Mate, and one at the engine room entrance.
The proceedings started with a bucket of water being lowered to the bottom of the hold and purposefully tipped into the bilge, near the suction rose. The hold cadet then shouted up to the cadet on deck “No. 1 port”, the cadet on deck then shouted to the cadet at the engine room “tell the engineer to pump out No. 1 port”. The duty engineer then opened the valve for No. 1 port to extract the water by suction. We anticipated hearing a loud slurping sound that meant the suction pump was working and the bilge line was clear. Then a quick look over the ship’s side, where the discharge came out, to make sure that there wasn’t oil in the discharged water. If there was it meant a leak in the fuel tank, where the bilge pipe passed through, and it was going into the bilge line.
The Duty Deck Officer, or the Mate if he had decided to take responsibility, climbed up and down the hold ladder to make sure he could hear the suction. If there was only one cadet on board, he’d climb up and down too, to work with the Mate. He’d also have to go down into the engine room to communicate with the duty engineer. Quite a performance and could be very tiring.
On this ship we had three cadets. One was a first tripper. He would get the worst jobs, so he had to go down to the bottom of the hold. It was him and the duty Mate who had to climb up and down the ladder; the other cadet had to go down the engine room to find the duty Engineer; I had the cushy job; all I had to do was lift the bucket of water out of the dock and lower it down to the new lad at the bottom of the lower hold. Then I relayed the instructions from the Mate.
After testing the port side of the hold, “tell them to suck on No. 2 starboard”. I’d wait at the engine room door for the other cadet to reappear and be told that suction was on, then run back to the top of the hatch and shout down to the Mate “engineer’s sucking on No. 2 starboard now”. Hopefully, the Mate or the cadet would shout back “OK, I can hear suction on No. 2 starboard” and we moved on to the next hatch.
You might imagine that it sometimes got a bit confusing and the relaying of messages got out of sync in a time delay. By the time we had got to No. 5 hatch we were always a bit spaced out, so it was not surprising that as I came back and told the Mate “the engineer is sucking on 5 port”, the Mate emerged on deck from the hold hatchway, sweating profusely, and said “I can’t hear on the port side!”
I remembered what John Hull told me. That he was deaf in the left ear. For some reason I thought “what a very nautical way to tell me that he was a bit hard of hearing on the left side” and forgetting that the Mate was also a bit sensitive about it, I cupped my hand and shouted in his right ear “they’re sucking on 5 port”. He looked at me with utter amazement, anger and disdain. “I’m NOT deaf. I can’t hear bilge suction on 5 port”. Oh dear, we hadn’t even started loading for the voyage and I already had a bad mark. That’s torn it.
It turned out later that the engineer had got the valves mixed up, and that 5 port was working OK. Maybe the Mate never forgave me for my blunder about his deafness that embarrassed him. For the rest of the voyage he always asked me to repeat the more longest and most obscure collision rules before allowing a trip ashore. It was a nuisance, but I have to admit that I learned the “Rule of the Road” for collision avoidance extremely well, which put me in good standing when I went for my Class 3 Certificate of Competency oral examination a few years later.
Cargo loading was finally completed, and we set sail for Port Said. Once we dropped the pilot off at Beachy Head we headed for the Isle of Ushant and the Bay of Biscay. It was time to brief the other two cadets about our good fortune; a beautiful thick white lambswool carpet to sell to the “bumboats” while we were going through the Canal. “How much do you think we should ask for it?” “Whatever we ask it should be divisible by 3 so that we can all get our share”. “Persian lambswool carpets don’t come cheap. What about £60?” We agreed that was about right. The bottom fall-back position was £48 as between us we had £2, so we could give change for £50, however it was paid, and divvy it up when we got home.
Plans were made. It was decided that as Senior Cadet I should find a buyer, carry out negotiations and make the deal. I would be on the 12 to 4 watch and when we found a buyer and finalised negotiation, the carpet exchange would happen during my watch. Best opportunity? In those days the Southbound Convoy anchored in the Lake to let the Northbound Convoy go through. The Great Bitter Lake at anchor was chosen. Excitement and tension mounted as we got nearer to Port Said and individual dreams were formed on what we would do with our windfall.
We got into the next Southbound Convoy and arrived at the Great Bitter Lake.
Once we were anchored, sure enough the “bumboats” arrived like moths around a lantern. “Hey, Johnny, you wanna buy Days of the week knickers for your girl?”, “Doll for your little daughter?”, “Binoculars?”, “Camera?”, “Radio?”, “Record player?”, “Watch”, “Souvenirs?”. Tropical white cotton uniforms and khaki shirts and shorts were the best buy. You name it, they had it, and if not, they knew where to get it.
Some bumboat hawkers always came on board. Presumably they had to pay the ship’s agent for the privilege. “Hey, Johnny, you want feelthy pictures?” This was always a good way to get a few of us off-watch together, sitting in a cabin passing round dog-eared photos of naked bodies doing quite incredible things with each other or even, occasionally, with assorted animals. Sometimes superimposed on the bodies were the heads of senior members of the British Royal family. I guess they must have had the equivalent for royalty and aristocracy of other flag states that passed through the Canal.
After we had ogled them, they were handed back with a polite “No thanks” and the dirty books were brought out. The books always amused me, not because of the content, but because of poor production print and quality. “You want Lady Chatterly’s Lover?” The books were full of spelling mistakes that made me laugh. I can’t remember them all, but one sticks in my mind. It erotically stated “He funked her on the soda”. Sounds like a good advert for Coca-Cola!
I approached a few of the bumboat men until I found one who seemed interested in our carpet and whose English was quite good. I explained what we had for sale and intended to do and asked for his opening offer.
“£10”.
“Forget it, I want £60”
“How big you say?”
“9 foot by 6 foot”
“I give you £30”
“It’s worth at least £1 per square foot; £54”
“OK, I give you £40”
“No way, I’m not going below £48”
“OK, Johnny, done”
We shook.
It was as easy as that!
He didn’t want to wait until the middle of the night and suggested we made the exchange at about 10.00 p.m. With luck the Gilli Gilli man would have attracted a crowd by then that would be a distraction. It was arranged that the Gilli Gilli man would do his tricks and fun entertainment on the aft deck at No. 4 hatch. The bumboat man and I would smuggle the carpet out of the Contactor Room that was between No. 2 and No. 3 hatch, forward of the accommodation block.
He would moor his boat on the side opposite to the Accommodation Ladder, where it was dark. Although the ship was at anchor the fore deck was only dimly lit. The other cadets would somehow distract the officer of the watch on the bridge so that the exchange could proceed smoothly.
The plan was set.
The Gilli Gilli men in the Suez Canal are famous throughout the world fleet. Magicians who work with coins and fluffy yellow baby chicks. The chicks never made a sound but would magically appear from behind an ear, from under a hat or from your clothing. The magicians had nick names like “George Robey”, “Jock Macgregor”, “Thor Waldersen”. I wondered whether they were all the same guy who just changed his name depending on the nationality of the crew. Maybe, because George and Jock were also barbers
Most of the ships that I sailed on through the canal were Clan Line, Scottish Shire Line, or the Union Castle Line. Jock Macgregor’s Scottish accent was very good, but if I was on a Union Castle ship with British crew, George Robey would speak Cockney or Scouse.
Every sailor who transited the Suez Canal has his Gilli Gilli man story to tell. Whether they are true or not I don’t know, but it would not surprise me. Whether they were entertainers or thieves depended on the individual’s experience.
“They were word perfect on every accent out of the UK and pitched their voice to every ship going through the canal. They seemed to know where the crew mainly came from. I have never heard the Scouse accent copied better by anyone, including actors.”
“The Gilli Gilli man was the highlight of the Suez Canal. He could have taught Paul Daniels a trick or two. Who remembers Jock McGregor the Barber? He could be a Geordie, Scouser, Glaswegian, Cockney, Taffy, Paddy. Perfect accents but could not cut hair to save his life. A number of times I nearly ended up like Van Gogh, but his patter was good fun.”
“A Junior Engineer had his haircut by the barber in his cabin. The barber asked him to close his eyes while he cut his fringe, when he opened them again the barber had disappeared and so had his stereo and the wallet off his desk!”
“On a Kuwaiti registered ship the Third Mate had his stereo stolen from his cabin, and a cadet bought a stereo. At dinner the next evening they discovered it was the same machine. No love was shown between them, the Third Mate wanted his stereo back, the cadet wanted his money. Sort that one out!”
In the sixties there was a barber who spoke Norwegian quite well, and I let him do my hair. He cut off a few strands and asked me: "Now, about Anker - is he inside or is he out?" Anker Rogstad was a well-known safe cracker in Norway, who always swore he would turn straight, but was forever getting caught after a big bank job on some tiny detail and was something of a hero to many among the working class. He was hardly a name known outside of Oslo, let alone Norway. The barber’s demonstration of kinship, of empathy with a lonely sailor who was far from home, was heart-warming.
It was also a good marketing tool!
“I bought perfume for my girl and will never forget its name, “Aroma of the Wadi”. When she opened it there was no fragrance, just canal water I assume. Of course, the one he let us test in Port Said had a beautiful aroma. It must have been from another Wadi!
Oh! those Gilli Gilli, men. They were all fakirs.” I think he means “funkers”.
But Gilli Gilli men were a great distraction. As 10.00 p.m. approached the cadets persuaded the Third Officer to stroll down to the aft end of the boat deck, away from the Bridge, and have a quick shufti at what was going on. The crew were mostly from Liverpool, so the Gilli Gilli man was doing his performance in a broad scouse accent. You would have sworn that he came from the Wavertree Road.
Time to do the deal. We met and got the roll of carpet out of the Contactor Room and started carrying it across the deck to the bulwark.
“Hey, Johnny, wait” He pulled a wicked looking knife and started cutting the binding. “What are you doing”, I whispered, “Get it on your boat as quickly as possible”.
“I look before money.”
“OK,” I said, “but get a move on.”
With a practiced twist of his knife he cut the binding and the carpet slowly began to unroll. I was helping him from one end until, with horror, I saw a series of the blackest, oiliest, dirtiest engine room boot prints possible that went right across the beautiful white carpet from one end to the other.
There was a nanosecond’s silence and then Bumboat let out a sort of guttural roar and started towards me brandishing his knife. I turned and ran for the working alleyway as fast as I could, aware that Bumboat was coming fast behind. My cabin was on the next deck up, so I ran round the after end of the accommodation block to the darker side of the ship and climbed, outboard, to the next deck.
The noise of the commotion had disturbed the group watching the Gilli Gilli man. Bumboat ran into the middle of the sailors, looking for me, not realising that I had gone back along the working alleyway on the starboard side. He was momentarily delayed, and I had time to get into the accommodation and find my cabin door. It was locked of course, and although I had my key out of my pocket in a flash, I was shaking so much that I couldn’t get it into the lock. In the distance I could hear Bumboat shouting angrily. Finally, it seemed like a lifetime, my cabin door opened. I was inside. I locked the door behind me. I lay on the floor with the light off. Heart pounding
“John, you bastard” I thought to myself, “you must have known that those boot prints were on the carpet. You might have told me. I could have been killed or at least badly maimed!”
“Tim, you idiot” I said to myself, “why didn’t you check the carpet before you tried to sell it? I know you should not look a gift horse in the mouth, but this became life-threatening”
The next morning as we left the Canal and headed down the Gulf of Suez for the Red Sea, one of the cadets reported to me that Bumboat had stayed on the ship for a while, looking for me. The sailor on night watchman duty reported to the Third Mate that there was a white carpet with dirty oily footprints on the foredeck. The Third Mate called the Bosun, explained the situation, and told him to get the crew to search the ship. They found Bumboat wandering about on the Boat Deck, decided that he was trying to steal the carpet from the cargo and forced him off the ship, back to his boat.
At breakfast the Old Man said to the Mate (to his good right ear) “Are we carrying any carpets out this trip? Some shore fella tried to steal one last night”.
“No,” said the Mate, “that was in the homeward cargo last trip and our outturn was short delivered one carpet. I’ll send a message to head office that we have found it, but that it is severely damaged”.
“Harris, tell the Third Mate to make an entry in the Damaged Cargo Book; the Company should be able to make a claim on the P&I Club.”
“Yes, Sir”
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
The White Carpet
“I’m John Hull, everybody calls me Noddy”.
“Hi Noddy, I’m Tim”. We shook hands.
It was time to handover at the crew change.
The other cadets introduced themselves to the cadets they were going to relieve.
“What’s the Old Man like?”
“OK, but a bit of a Bible thumper”.
“What about the Mate”.
“He’s a right pain in the arse. Makes you repeat a collision regulation before he lets you go ashore. If you get it wrong, he makes you go back and learn it by heart. If you’re successful, then he lets you go”.
I often found that other cadet opinions did not tally with mine by the end of a voyage, so I tried to keep an open mind.
“Only real problem is he’s deaf in the left ear, but doesn’t like to let on, so be careful to make sure he hears what you say, but don’t make it obvious that you have to raise your voice a bit”.
Good advice from John.
I was Senior Cadet, so after John had let me know about the idiosyncrasies of the ship, and the work load they’d had, he indicated something special he wanted to tell me. Out of earshot of the other two new cadets.
We went out on deck, despite the cold and blustery weather.
“You see that Contactor Room over there”. He pointed. I nodded, “Well, inside is a beautiful white lambswool carpet all rolled up and tied securely. We found it when we had to clean out the hatch and smuggled it up to the Contactor Room one night. It must have been part of the cargo that got left down in the hold as it was hidden by piles of dunnage. We would have sold it ourselves, but we didn’t get the chance, so you and the new cadets might as well benefit from it.”
Wow! Great, it must be worth quite a bit and it would be silly to throw it away. I thought to myself, maybe we can sell it to the “bumboat men” while we’re going through the Canal.
The ship was empty and clean, waiting to start loading. Before loading we always tested the bilge suction from the lower holds. This was quite a performance as it was before the days of mobile phones, or walkie-talkies, so with three cadets it meant there would be one down in the hold, one on deck, usually with the duty officer or the Mate, and one at the engine room entrance.
The proceedings started with a bucket of water being lowered to the bottom of the hold and purposefully tipped into the bilge, near the suction rose. The hold cadet then shouted up to the cadet on deck “No. 1 port”, the cadet on deck then shouted to the cadet at the engine room “tell the engineer to pump out No. 1 port”. The duty engineer then opened the valve for No. 1 port to extract the water by suction. We anticipated hearing a loud slurping sound that meant the suction pump was working and the bilge line was clear. Then a quick look over the ship’s side, where the discharge came out, to make sure that there wasn’t oil in the discharged water. If there was it meant a leak in the fuel tank, where the bilge pipe passed through, and it was going into the bilge line.
The Duty Deck Officer, or the Mate if he had decided to take responsibility, climbed up and down the hold ladder to make sure he could hear the suction. If there was only one cadet on board, he’d climb up and down too, to work with the Mate. He’d also have to go down into the engine room to communicate with the duty engineer. Quite a performance and could be very tiring.
On this ship we had three cadets. One was a first tripper. He would get the worst jobs, so he had to go down to the bottom of the hold. It was him and the duty Mate who had to climb up and down the ladder; the other cadet had to go down the engine room to find the duty Engineer; I had the cushy job; all I had to do was lift the bucket of water out of the dock and lower it down to the new lad at the bottom of the lower hold. Then I relayed the instructions from the Mate.
After testing the port side of the hold, “tell them to suck on No. 2 starboard”. I’d wait at the engine room door for the other cadet to reappear and be told that suction was on, then run back to the top of the hatch and shout down to the Mate “engineer’s sucking on No. 2 starboard now”. Hopefully, the Mate or the cadet would shout back “OK, I can hear suction on No. 2 starboard” and we moved on to the next hatch.
You might imagine that it sometimes got a bit confusing and the relaying of messages got out of sync in a time delay. By the time we had got to No. 5 hatch we were always a bit spaced out, so it was not surprising that as I came back and told the Mate “the engineer is sucking on 5 port”, the Mate emerged on deck from the hold hatchway, sweating profusely, and said “I can’t hear on the port side!”
I remembered what John Hull told me. That he was deaf in the left ear. For some reason I thought “what a very nautical way to tell me that he was a bit hard of hearing on the left side” and forgetting that the Mate was also a bit sensitive about it, I cupped my hand and shouted in his right ear “they’re sucking on 5 port”. He looked at me with utter amazement, anger and disdain. “I’m NOT deaf. I can’t hear bilge suction on 5 port”. Oh dear, we hadn’t even started loading for the voyage and I already had a bad mark. That’s torn it.
It turned out later that the engineer had got the valves mixed up, and that 5 port was working OK. Maybe the Mate never forgave me for my blunder about his deafness that embarrassed him. For the rest of the voyage he always asked me to repeat the more longest and most obscure collision rules before allowing a trip ashore. It was a nuisance, but I have to admit that I learned the “Rule of the Road” for collision avoidance extremely well, which put me in good standing when I went for my Class 3 Certificate of Competency oral examination a few years later.
Cargo loading was finally completed, and we set sail for Port Said. Once we dropped the pilot off at Beachy Head we headed for the Isle of Ushant and the Bay of Biscay. It was time to brief the other two cadets about our good fortune; a beautiful thick white lambswool carpet to sell to the “bumboats” while we were going through the Canal. “How much do you think we should ask for it?” “Whatever we ask it should be divisible by 3 so that we can all get our share”. “Persian lambswool carpets don’t come cheap. What about £60?” We agreed that was about right. The bottom fall-back position was £48 as between us we had £2, so we could give change for £50, however it was paid, and divvy it up when we got home.
Plans were made. It was decided that as Senior Cadet I should find a buyer, carry out negotiations and make the deal. I would be on the 12 to 4 watch and when we found a buyer and finalised negotiation, the carpet exchange would happen during my watch. Best opportunity? In those days the Southbound Convoy anchored in the Lake to let the Northbound Convoy go through. The Great Bitter Lake at anchor was chosen. Excitement and tension mounted as we got nearer to Port Said and individual dreams were formed on what we would do with our windfall.
We got into the next Southbound Convoy and arrived at the Great Bitter Lake.
Once we were anchored, sure enough the “bumboats” arrived like moths around a lantern. “Hey, Johnny, you wanna buy Days of the week knickers for your girl?”, “Doll for your little daughter?”, “Binoculars?”, “Camera?”, “Radio?”, “Record player?”, “Watch”, “Souvenirs?”. Tropical white cotton uniforms and khaki shirts and shorts were the best buy. You name it, they had it, and if not, they knew where to get it.
Some bumboat hawkers always came on board. Presumably they had to pay the ship’s agent for the privilege. “Hey, Johnny, you want feelthy pictures?” This was always a good way to get a few of us off-watch together, sitting in a cabin passing round dog-eared photos of naked bodies doing quite incredible things with each other or even, occasionally, with assorted animals. Sometimes superimposed on the bodies were the heads of senior members of the British Royal family. I guess they must have had the equivalent for royalty and aristocracy of other flag states that passed through the Canal.
After we had ogled them, they were handed back with a polite “No thanks” and the dirty books were brought out. The books always amused me, not because of the content, but because of poor production print and quality. “You want Lady Chatterly’s Lover?” The books were full of spelling mistakes that made me laugh. I can’t remember them all, but one sticks in my mind. It erotically stated “He funked her on the soda”. Sounds like a good advert for Coca-Cola!
I approached a few of the bumboat men until I found one who seemed interested in our carpet and whose English was quite good. I explained what we had for sale and intended to do and asked for his opening offer.
“£10”.
“Forget it, I want £60”
“How big you say?”
“9 foot by 6 foot”
“I give you £30”
“It’s worth at least £1 per square foot; £54”
“OK, I give you £40”
“No way, I’m not going below £48”
“OK, Johnny, done”
We shook.
It was as easy as that!
He didn’t want to wait until the middle of the night and suggested we made the exchange at about 10.00 p.m. With luck the Gilli Gilli man would have attracted a crowd by then that would be a distraction. It was arranged that the Gilli Gilli man would do his tricks and fun entertainment on the aft deck at No. 4 hatch. The bumboat man and I would smuggle the carpet out of the Contactor Room that was between No. 2 and No. 3 hatch, forward of the accommodation block.
He would moor his boat on the side opposite to the Accommodation Ladder, where it was dark. Although the ship was at anchor the fore deck was only dimly lit. The other cadets would somehow distract the officer of the watch on the bridge so that the exchange could proceed smoothly.
The plan was set.
The Gilli Gilli men in the Suez Canal are famous throughout the world fleet. Magicians who work with coins and fluffy yellow baby chicks. The chicks never made a sound but would magically appear from behind an ear, from under a hat or from your clothing. The magicians had nick names like “George Robey”, “Jock Macgregor”, “Thor Waldersen”. I wondered whether they were all the same guy who just changed his name depending on the nationality of the crew. Maybe, because George and Jock were also barbers
Most of the ships that I sailed on through the canal were Clan Line, Scottish Shire Line, or the Union Castle Line. Jock Macgregor’s Scottish accent was very good, but if I was on a Union Castle ship with British crew, George Robey would speak Cockney or Scouse.
Every sailor who transited the Suez Canal has his Gilli Gilli man story to tell. Whether they are true or not I don’t know, but it would not surprise me. Whether they were entertainers or thieves depended on the individual’s experience.
“They were word perfect on every accent out of the UK and pitched their voice to every ship going through the canal. They seemed to know where the crew mainly came from. I have never heard the Scouse accent copied better by anyone, including actors.”
“The Gilli Gilli man was the highlight of the Suez Canal. He could have taught Paul Daniels a trick or two. Who remembers Jock McGregor the Barber? He could be a Geordie, Scouser, Glaswegian, Cockney, Taffy, Paddy. Perfect accents but could not cut hair to save his life. A number of times I nearly ended up like Van Gogh, but his patter was good fun.”
“A Junior Engineer had his haircut by the barber in his cabin. The barber asked him to close his eyes while he cut his fringe, when he opened them again the barber had disappeared and so had his stereo and the wallet off his desk!”
“On a Kuwaiti registered ship the Third Mate had his stereo stolen from his cabin, and a cadet bought a stereo. At dinner the next evening they discovered it was the same machine. No love was shown between them, the Third Mate wanted his stereo back, the cadet wanted his money. Sort that one out!”
In the sixties there was a barber who spoke Norwegian quite well, and I let him do my hair. He cut off a few strands and asked me: "Now, about Anker - is he inside or is he out?" Anker Rogstad was a well-known safe cracker in Norway, who always swore he would turn straight, but was forever getting caught after a big bank job on some tiny detail and was something of a hero to many among the working class. He was hardly a name known outside of Oslo, let alone Norway. The barber’s demonstration of kinship, of empathy with a lonely sailor who was far from home, was heart-warming.
It was also a good marketing tool!
“I bought perfume for my girl and will never forget its name, “Aroma of the Wadi”. When she opened it there was no fragrance, just canal water I assume. Of course, the one he let us test in Port Said had a beautiful aroma. It must have been from another Wadi!
Oh! those Gilli Gilli, men. They were all fakirs.” I think he means “funkers”.
But Gilli Gilli men were a great distraction. As 10.00 p.m. approached the cadets persuaded the Third Officer to stroll down to the aft end of the boat deck, away from the Bridge, and have a quick shufti at what was going on. The crew were mostly from Liverpool, so the Gilli Gilli man was doing his performance in a broad scouse accent. You would have sworn that he came from the Wavertree Road.
Time to do the deal. We met and got the roll of carpet out of the Contactor Room and started carrying it across the deck to the bulwark.
“Hey, Johnny, wait” He pulled a wicked looking knife and started cutting the binding. “What are you doing”, I whispered, “Get it on your boat as quickly as possible”.
“I look before money.”
“OK,” I said, “but get a move on.”
With a practiced twist of his knife he cut the binding and the carpet slowly began to unroll. I was helping him from one end until, with horror, I saw a series of the blackest, oiliest, dirtiest engine room boot prints possible that went right across the beautiful white carpet from one end to the other.
There was a nanosecond’s silence and then Bumboat let out a sort of guttural roar and started towards me brandishing his knife. I turned and ran for the working alleyway as fast as I could, aware that Bumboat was coming fast behind. My cabin was on the next deck up, so I ran round the after end of the accommodation block to the darker side of the ship and climbed, outboard, to the next deck.
The noise of the commotion had disturbed the group watching the Gilli Gilli man. Bumboat ran into the middle of the sailors, looking for me, not realising that I had gone back along the working alleyway on the starboard side. He was momentarily delayed, and I had time to get into the accommodation and find my cabin door. It was locked of course, and although I had my key out of my pocket in a flash, I was shaking so much that I couldn’t get it into the lock. In the distance I could hear Bumboat shouting angrily. Finally, it seemed like a lifetime, my cabin door opened. I was inside. I locked the door behind me. I lay on the floor with the light off. Heart pounding
“John, you bastard” I thought to myself, “you must have known that those boot prints were on the carpet. You might have told me. I could have been killed or at least badly maimed!”
“Tim, you idiot” I said to myself, “why didn’t you check the carpet before you tried to sell it? I know you should not look a gift horse in the mouth, but this became life-threatening”
The next morning as we left the Canal and headed down the Gulf of Suez for the Red Sea, one of the cadets reported to me that Bumboat had stayed on the ship for a while, looking for me. The sailor on night watchman duty reported to the Third Mate that there was a white carpet with dirty oily footprints on the foredeck. The Third Mate called the Bosun, explained the situation, and told him to get the crew to search the ship. They found Bumboat wandering about on the Boat Deck, decided that he was trying to steal the carpet from the cargo and forced him off the ship, back to his boat.
At breakfast the Old Man said to the Mate (to his good right ear) “Are we carrying any carpets out this trip? Some shore fella tried to steal one last night”.
“No,” said the Mate, “that was in the homeward cargo last trip and our outturn was short delivered one carpet. I’ll send a message to head office that we have found it, but that it is severely damaged”.
“Harris, tell the Third Mate to make an entry in the Damaged Cargo Book; the Company should be able to make a claim on the P&I Club.”
“Yes, Sir”
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
DAVID´S ANECDOTES No. 1
Having dropped out of sixth form at the first half term at 16 years old I would have to wait until I was 21 before I could apply to be a customs officer. In my third job I was still looking for suitable employment that might stand me in good stead.
My first job was in the city working for a shipping and forwarding company where I learnt about shipping goods overseas. On one occasion I had to instruct about 4 or 5 different factories to mark and crate up a number of crates of components for a large piece of equipment for I think a power station. The crates duly arrived in West Africa where to the power stations horror they had 4 or 5 boxes all numbered one and another 4 or 5 numbered 2 and so on. Instead of them being able to unpack and work with crates in number order like say 1 to 20 they had to unpack each crate to see where it fitted.
My second job of working in a dock office lasted just 2 weeks and I had already decided that job was not for me within minutes of going into the office. Dickensian would have made the office sound modern. Writing up ship’s manifests not the most exciting job. Luckily after a few days the London dockers went on strike so I had nothing to do for my remaining week.
My third job shipping goods by railway wagons to Switzerland. Each morning I would go to Bricklayers Arms goods depot in London’s Old Kent Road to see what goods had been delivered - it was known as a call over. On return to the office my immediate boss would decide how to best load up the wagons and I would type up various forms. Nothing in that to fire my imagination.
One morning having done the call over I again read the advert I had seen in the previous day’s Evening News. Smart, intelligent, reliable young man needed for busy shipping and transport department. Hm I thought you might be thought big headed to apply for that then again nothing to lose. So I decided to give the company a call before returning to my office.
Me: Good morning I am calling in respect of your advert in last night’s Evening News for a smart, intelligent, reliable young man.
Advertiser: Hello, hello.
Me: Good morning I am calling in respect of your advert in last night’s Evening News for a smart, intelligent, reliable young man.
Advertiser: Hello, hello.
Good morning I am calling in respect of your advert in last night’s Evening News for a smart, intelligent, reliable young man.
Advertiser: Hello, hello. Then in a rather pained way ‘’Caller if you are in a public ‘phone box press button A.’’
Me: In a very small voice said ‘’I am calling in respect of your advert in last night’s Evening News for a smart, intelligent, reliable young man.’’
I got an interview and to my even greater surprise got the job. Within a short time of starting, like 30 minutes, I was not sure that this was the job for me. I thought I ought to give it a week or two before handing in my notice.
In fact I stayed with that company for almost 43 years. Perhaps I once was smart, intelligent and a reliable young man and HM Customs and Excise lost out.
....................................................................................................................................................................................
CAPTAIN TIM REPORTS
On 14th October 1966 I passed the examinations for the 1st Mate Foreign Going Certificate of Competency that in modern times is known as a Class 2 Certificate. I was 22 years and a few months old. After a short coastal spell on the Scottish Shire Line’s steamer “Argyllshire” I joined the Clan Macnair in Liverpool on 14th December and sailed for East Africa, Ceylon (Sri Lanka) and Australia.
I often found myself being appointed to a ship just before the Christmas/New Year holiday. The Company must have had a list of names of officers that did not make a fuss about shipping out just before Christmas; in my case it was usually not that I didn’t like to be home at Christmas, it was more a case of financial necessity.
The voyage to Australia was an exciting adventure as I had not been there before, and we did the whole of the Aussie coast discharging between Fremantle then round Cape Leeuwin and West Cape Howe to Albany, across the Great Australian Bight to Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane and Townsville to Cairns. Loading at the same ports on the way back, leaving Fremantle for Colombo, the Suez Canal, through the Mediterranean, the Straits of Gibraltar, across the Bay of Biscay, along the English Channel and back to the London docks. It had been a good voyage, with mostly fair winds and calm seas, together with some pleasant adventures and whale watching episodes. The Officers all got on well together and I looked forward to another voyage on the same ship with the same captain after a few weeks leave.
The ship left the Thames on May 21st bound for East Africa with cargo for Mombasa, Dar es Salaam, Nacala, a beautiful natural unspoiled harbour in the north of the then Portuguese East Africa (now Mozambique) and Beira. On the passage across the Mediterranean I celebrated my 23rd birthday and we arrived in Port Said on Tuesday May 30th. Port Said was always a bit hectic, trying to get on the next available convoy so that we didn’t waste any voyage time. On this occasion there was an unusual atmosphere as we prepared for the transit and I noticed as we went through the Canal that the Egyptians were putting hoods, rather like a cardinal’s hat, but black, on all the channel marker buoys, such that the lights from the buoys could not be seen from above, but could still be seen from the bridge of the ship, shining out from under the wide brim. Bit odd, but I didn’t think any more of it. The transit passed off unremarkably and we passed through the Bitter Lakes, after anchoring to let the northbound convoy through, back into the Canal and on to Suez where the pilot disembarked on 3rd June.
The Captain was pleased to have got the Suez Canal transit under his belt and came on the bridge to sign the Night Order Book and pass the time of night with a cup of cocoa before he turned in after a tiring day. The passage down the Gulf of Suez was uneventful.
The average watch is quiet, gives you time to think and let your imagination soar freely, interspersed by plotting the ship’s position on the chart every fifteen minutes or so and checking that the helmsman (or auto-pilot) is following the correct course.
So when you saw the lights of a ship dead ahead on a collision course and you knew that you were going to pass quite close, it was not uncommon to grab the Aldis lamp that was always plugged in for emergency readiness, point it at the ship approaching and send out • , • , • ,• , (AA, AA) of the Morse Code; a two letter signal used for calling an unknown station or general call. If the other ship’s officer was equally bored, there was a response, and the standard exchange using the lamp “What ship? Where bound?”. Many ships ignored the call up, but ships of European country flags usually responded. If the ship was a British company ship you might have quite a conversation on the lamp, and if it was one of your own company’s ships you would then get on the VHF to exchange crew lists and generally chat about the ship’s company and your respective voyages. Sometimes you got an old shipmate and had a reminiscing chat.
So, I was a bit surprised when the vessel coming the other way, in response to my signal, sent “Scottish Star ……….. Suez ……… VHF Channel 16”. I knew that the Scottish Star was a British ship of the Blue Star shipping company, but thought it was odd for them to want to have a chat on the VHF. Once we had agreed a working VHF Channel the conversation went something like this:
“Scottish Star, Scottish Star this is Clan Macnair, how do you read me, over”.
“Clan Macnair, Clan Macnair, this is Scottish Star, reading you loud and clear, over”. Then the conversation continued “Clan Macnair, what was your transit of the Canal like? Over”
“No problem,” I said, “We arrived on Tuesday 30th, got a convoy on 31st. Anchored in the lakes on June 2nd and passed out of Suez, down the Gulf of Suez on 3rd June”.
“You didn’t experience any problems then?”
“No, everything was fine.”
“Thanks, Clan Macnair, this is Scottish Star signing off, over and out”
By this time the two ships had passed each other safely (port side to port side) and the Scottish Star was rapidly disappearing astern. I’d better put another position on the chart and start writing up the logbook. A quick scan of the horizon and nothing untoward so I go into the dimly lit chartroom. A few moments later the helmsman calls to me that there is a vessel two points on the port bow, so I leave the chartroom to have a look. To my surprise the oncoming ship starts calling on the Aldis. We are busy tonight, I think as I respond and read the usual message. “Clan Macnair ……. Aden, what ship?” I replied.
“Port Invercargill …… Suez …… Channel 16”. Not again. Another British company, Port Line, I thought, it’s getting near to the end of the watch and the 2nd Mate will be coming up to the bridge soon, but never mind.
The VHF crackled “Clan Macnair, Clan Macnair, this is Port Invercargill calling, how do you read please? Over.”
“Loud and Clear, Port Invercargill. Over”.
“Clan Macnair, how was your transit of the Canal? Over”. I retold the message that I had given the Scottish Star only an hour or so before, finishing off with “No problem. Over”.
“Thank you, Clan Macnair, the Old Man will be pleased when I tell him in the morning. Over and out!”.
Our ship continued on its way bound for Aden, past Jeddah to port and Port Sudan to starboard. Another day and I went for breakfast before relieving the Mate at 8 o’clock. The Captain was in full voice as I entered the dining saloon and I just heard “ ….Israelis are having another go at the Arabs, bombing the Canal and ships in the Canal. There are four British ships trapped in the Lakes, two Blue Funnel ships: the Agapenor and the Melampus, a Blue Star ship, the Scottish Star, and a Port Liner, the Port Invercargill”.
Well, how was I to know?!!
....................................................................................................................................................................................
On 14th October 1966 I passed the examinations for the 1st Mate Foreign Going Certificate of Competency that in modern times is known as a Class 2 Certificate. I was 22 years and a few months old. After a short coastal spell on the Scottish Shire Line’s steamer “Argyllshire” I joined the Clan Macnair in Liverpool on 14th December and sailed for East Africa, Ceylon (Sri Lanka) and Australia.
I often found myself being appointed to a ship just before the Christmas/New Year holiday. The Company must have had a list of names of officers that did not make a fuss about shipping out just before Christmas; in my case it was usually not that I didn’t like to be home at Christmas, it was more a case of financial necessity.
The voyage to Australia was an exciting adventure as I had not been there before, and we did the whole of the Aussie coast discharging between Fremantle then round Cape Leeuwin and West Cape Howe to Albany, across the Great Australian Bight to Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane and Townsville to Cairns. Loading at the same ports on the way back, leaving Fremantle for Colombo, the Suez Canal, through the Mediterranean, the Straits of Gibraltar, across the Bay of Biscay, along the English Channel and back to the London docks. It had been a good voyage, with mostly fair winds and calm seas, together with some pleasant adventures and whale watching episodes. The Officers all got on well together and I looked forward to another voyage on the same ship with the same captain after a few weeks leave.
The ship left the Thames on May 21st bound for East Africa with cargo for Mombasa, Dar es Salaam, Nacala, a beautiful natural unspoiled harbour in the north of the then Portuguese East Africa (now Mozambique) and Beira. On the passage across the Mediterranean I celebrated my 23rd birthday and we arrived in Port Said on Tuesday May 30th. Port Said was always a bit hectic, trying to get on the next available convoy so that we didn’t waste any voyage time. On this occasion there was an unusual atmosphere as we prepared for the transit and I noticed as we went through the Canal that the Egyptians were putting hoods, rather like a cardinal’s hat, but black, on all the channel marker buoys, such that the lights from the buoys could not be seen from above, but could still be seen from the bridge of the ship, shining out from under the wide brim. Bit odd, but I didn’t think any more of it. The transit passed off unremarkably and we passed through the Bitter Lakes, after anchoring to let the northbound convoy through, back into the Canal and on to Suez where the pilot disembarked on 3rd June.
The Captain was pleased to have got the Suez Canal transit under his belt and came on the bridge to sign the Night Order Book and pass the time of night with a cup of cocoa before he turned in after a tiring day. The passage down the Gulf of Suez was uneventful.
The average watch is quiet, gives you time to think and let your imagination soar freely, interspersed by plotting the ship’s position on the chart every fifteen minutes or so and checking that the helmsman (or auto-pilot) is following the correct course.
So when you saw the lights of a ship dead ahead on a collision course and you knew that you were going to pass quite close, it was not uncommon to grab the Aldis lamp that was always plugged in for emergency readiness, point it at the ship approaching and send out • , • , • ,• , (AA, AA) of the Morse Code; a two letter signal used for calling an unknown station or general call. If the other ship’s officer was equally bored, there was a response, and the standard exchange using the lamp “What ship? Where bound?”. Many ships ignored the call up, but ships of European country flags usually responded. If the ship was a British company ship you might have quite a conversation on the lamp, and if it was one of your own company’s ships you would then get on the VHF to exchange crew lists and generally chat about the ship’s company and your respective voyages. Sometimes you got an old shipmate and had a reminiscing chat.
So, I was a bit surprised when the vessel coming the other way, in response to my signal, sent “Scottish Star ……….. Suez ……… VHF Channel 16”. I knew that the Scottish Star was a British ship of the Blue Star shipping company, but thought it was odd for them to want to have a chat on the VHF. Once we had agreed a working VHF Channel the conversation went something like this:
“Scottish Star, Scottish Star this is Clan Macnair, how do you read me, over”.
“Clan Macnair, Clan Macnair, this is Scottish Star, reading you loud and clear, over”. Then the conversation continued “Clan Macnair, what was your transit of the Canal like? Over”
“No problem,” I said, “We arrived on Tuesday 30th, got a convoy on 31st. Anchored in the lakes on June 2nd and passed out of Suez, down the Gulf of Suez on 3rd June”.
“You didn’t experience any problems then?”
“No, everything was fine.”
“Thanks, Clan Macnair, this is Scottish Star signing off, over and out”
By this time the two ships had passed each other safely (port side to port side) and the Scottish Star was rapidly disappearing astern. I’d better put another position on the chart and start writing up the logbook. A quick scan of the horizon and nothing untoward so I go into the dimly lit chartroom. A few moments later the helmsman calls to me that there is a vessel two points on the port bow, so I leave the chartroom to have a look. To my surprise the oncoming ship starts calling on the Aldis. We are busy tonight, I think as I respond and read the usual message. “Clan Macnair ……. Aden, what ship?” I replied.
“Port Invercargill …… Suez …… Channel 16”. Not again. Another British company, Port Line, I thought, it’s getting near to the end of the watch and the 2nd Mate will be coming up to the bridge soon, but never mind.
The VHF crackled “Clan Macnair, Clan Macnair, this is Port Invercargill calling, how do you read please? Over.”
“Loud and Clear, Port Invercargill. Over”.
“Clan Macnair, how was your transit of the Canal? Over”. I retold the message that I had given the Scottish Star only an hour or so before, finishing off with “No problem. Over”.
“Thank you, Clan Macnair, the Old Man will be pleased when I tell him in the morning. Over and out!”.
Our ship continued on its way bound for Aden, past Jeddah to port and Port Sudan to starboard. Another day and I went for breakfast before relieving the Mate at 8 o’clock. The Captain was in full voice as I entered the dining saloon and I just heard “ ….Israelis are having another go at the Arabs, bombing the Canal and ships in the Canal. There are four British ships trapped in the Lakes, two Blue Funnel ships: the Agapenor and the Melampus, a Blue Star ship, the Scottish Star, and a Port Liner, the Port Invercargill”.
Well, how was I to know?!!
....................................................................................................................................................................................
Three beautiful painting by Mandy Borelli. Also, another of her thought provoking quotes.
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
This is from Eric Fuller, a friend from the old days in the UK. Eric now lives in the USA.
16 June 2020
For your enjoyment, today, are contributions from Captain Tim, Mandy Borelli, Lucinda E Clarke and Dawn Howlett.
Captain Tim Reports
For your enjoyment, today, are contributions from Captain Tim, Mandy Borelli, Lucinda E Clarke and Dawn Howlett.
Captain Tim Reports
THROUGH THE SUEZ CANAL.
When you traverse the Suez Canal it is eerie. Especially at night. The ship is going at slow speed, so the usual powerful vibrating throb of the huge diesel engine is reduced to the murmur of a mouse’s heartbeat. In certain sections of the Canal there is just desert sand on either side (well there was in the nineteen sixties and seventies, but it is over forty years since I went through there). Down in the engine room it is not much different than when you are on passage in the middle of the ocean, but the engine is just working more slowly, and the propeller shaft is turning lazily. The engineer is alert; monitoring the engine in case there is need to change the ship’s speed if the bridge telegraph rings.
Up on the bridge it is a different atmosphere. As usual at night the bridge wheelhouse is in complete darkness, with just a faint glow from the monitor lights on the various pieces of navigational, communication and steering equipment. The autopilot has been turned off and there is a helmsman at the wheel. Sometimes the Captain will be on the bridge with the ship’s officer of the watch (OOW). In my day there were sufficient cadets to have one on each watch, taking notes of what happens as the transit proceeds. And, of course, there is the Suez Canal pilot who is conning the ship and occasionally giving orders in the dead quiet that are repeated by the OOW and the helmsman to make sure the correct order has been given and received at the helm. It is spooky, especially when it is your first voyage.
The Universal Company of the Maritime Canal of Suez constructed the canal in the decade between 1859 and 1869 and operated it until the 1956 Suez Crisis. The company was formed by the famous Ferdinand de Lesseps in 1858, and it owned and operated the canal for many years. Initially, French private investors were the major shareholders, with Egypt having a significant stake.
When the Wali (a sort of Provincial Governor) of Egypt and Sudan changed in 1863, he refused to abide by some of the concessions to the canal company made by his predecessor. As compensation Napoleon III awarded £3,800,000 (equivalent to about £350 million in 2020) to the company for the losses incurred by the changes that the Wali demanded. During 1875, a financial crisis forced the Wali to sell to the UK for £3,977,000 (equivalent to about £380 million in 2020).
The UK owned company operated the canal until it was nationalised by Nasser in 1956, (which led to the Suez Crisis). In 1962, Egypt made the final payment for the canal to the Universal Suez Ship Canal Company and took complete control of the canal which is now owned and operated by the Suez Canal Authority.
So it was that in 1961, on my first voyage from London to East Africa, on a ship called the M.V. “Riebeeck Castle”, that the Suez Canal pilot who came aboard was German. At the time the Canal Company employed pilots from all over the world, but mainly European. By the end of the sixties, however, they had nearly all retired and been replaced by Egyptian pilots.
In order for the pilot to be able to keep the ship in the middle of the canal channel, a searchlight was rigged on a gimbal on the prow. On the older ships (the Riebeeck Castle was built in 1946) the searchlight was hung from a permanent stanchion post on the focsle deck, right at the point of the prow. An Egyptian electrician was employed who came aboard at Port Said and left in Suez (or vice-versa depending on which way you were going). He set the whole system up and at night focused a split beam giving two separate ribbons of light to shine on the two edges of the canal well ahead of the ship. When properly calibrated the lights shone equidistant on both canal banks when the ship is in the centre of the canal, in the deepest water. If the beam on the port side appears to be nearer to the ship than on the starboard side, it means the ship has drifted to the port side of the channel and a course correction is necessary. The pilot continually made sure that the ship was kept in the middle. The electrician stayed by the light from dusk until dawn. On the company’s newer ships, there was a “Suez Canal Lamp/ Searchlight” permanently in place in the bow, with its own special area and a door in the bow of the ship that was opened to enable the light beam to shine out.
So there I am, just turned 17 years old, full of excitement and romantic thoughts of adventure, pootling through the Suez Canal, at 2 o’clock in the morning, half asleep, with the faint glow of the equipment lights, eerily quiet, leaning on the bridge front trying to keep awake, watching the sandy banks of the canal slip slowly by when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see a disembodied, turbaned head and dark face with blood streaming down one side mysteriously lit by the glow from the ship’s telegraph. It was far more frightening than that moment in “Psycho” and gave me the nearest to a heart attack I have ever had. I let out a muffled scream and a softly spoken Egyptian voice said to me in broken English “help, please!”. It was the electrician from the Canal light. He had slipped on the deck and fallen, splitting a nasty gash in his temple that was bleeding badly and he needed First Aid. I will never forget that moment.
Sorry I must rush; I am guest judge for the “Guadalcanal Under 21 Girls Hula-Hula Dancing Contest”. It is a tough life in the Solomon Islands, but someone’s got to do it!!! (Only joking)
......................................................................................................................................
Donald,
Objectionable
Man,
It’s
Not
A
Terrorist
Entity.
?
Donald,
Objectionable
Character,
Turn
Off
Racism.
Strange
Trump
Rat
Actions
Never
Gain
Egalitarian
Law
Over
Violent
Enforcement
Donald,
Objectionable
Nut’,
Trump
Delivers
Republican
Objectionable
Policies
This
Highly
Explosive
BOMB
DOMINATE?
DOCTOR STRANGELOVE, DON’T DROP THE BOMB!
.......................................................................................................................................
Captain Tim.
....................................................................................................................................................................................
When you traverse the Suez Canal it is eerie. Especially at night. The ship is going at slow speed, so the usual powerful vibrating throb of the huge diesel engine is reduced to the murmur of a mouse’s heartbeat. In certain sections of the Canal there is just desert sand on either side (well there was in the nineteen sixties and seventies, but it is over forty years since I went through there). Down in the engine room it is not much different than when you are on passage in the middle of the ocean, but the engine is just working more slowly, and the propeller shaft is turning lazily. The engineer is alert; monitoring the engine in case there is need to change the ship’s speed if the bridge telegraph rings.
Up on the bridge it is a different atmosphere. As usual at night the bridge wheelhouse is in complete darkness, with just a faint glow from the monitor lights on the various pieces of navigational, communication and steering equipment. The autopilot has been turned off and there is a helmsman at the wheel. Sometimes the Captain will be on the bridge with the ship’s officer of the watch (OOW). In my day there were sufficient cadets to have one on each watch, taking notes of what happens as the transit proceeds. And, of course, there is the Suez Canal pilot who is conning the ship and occasionally giving orders in the dead quiet that are repeated by the OOW and the helmsman to make sure the correct order has been given and received at the helm. It is spooky, especially when it is your first voyage.
The Universal Company of the Maritime Canal of Suez constructed the canal in the decade between 1859 and 1869 and operated it until the 1956 Suez Crisis. The company was formed by the famous Ferdinand de Lesseps in 1858, and it owned and operated the canal for many years. Initially, French private investors were the major shareholders, with Egypt having a significant stake.
When the Wali (a sort of Provincial Governor) of Egypt and Sudan changed in 1863, he refused to abide by some of the concessions to the canal company made by his predecessor. As compensation Napoleon III awarded £3,800,000 (equivalent to about £350 million in 2020) to the company for the losses incurred by the changes that the Wali demanded. During 1875, a financial crisis forced the Wali to sell to the UK for £3,977,000 (equivalent to about £380 million in 2020).
The UK owned company operated the canal until it was nationalised by Nasser in 1956, (which led to the Suez Crisis). In 1962, Egypt made the final payment for the canal to the Universal Suez Ship Canal Company and took complete control of the canal which is now owned and operated by the Suez Canal Authority.
So it was that in 1961, on my first voyage from London to East Africa, on a ship called the M.V. “Riebeeck Castle”, that the Suez Canal pilot who came aboard was German. At the time the Canal Company employed pilots from all over the world, but mainly European. By the end of the sixties, however, they had nearly all retired and been replaced by Egyptian pilots.
In order for the pilot to be able to keep the ship in the middle of the canal channel, a searchlight was rigged on a gimbal on the prow. On the older ships (the Riebeeck Castle was built in 1946) the searchlight was hung from a permanent stanchion post on the focsle deck, right at the point of the prow. An Egyptian electrician was employed who came aboard at Port Said and left in Suez (or vice-versa depending on which way you were going). He set the whole system up and at night focused a split beam giving two separate ribbons of light to shine on the two edges of the canal well ahead of the ship. When properly calibrated the lights shone equidistant on both canal banks when the ship is in the centre of the canal, in the deepest water. If the beam on the port side appears to be nearer to the ship than on the starboard side, it means the ship has drifted to the port side of the channel and a course correction is necessary. The pilot continually made sure that the ship was kept in the middle. The electrician stayed by the light from dusk until dawn. On the company’s newer ships, there was a “Suez Canal Lamp/ Searchlight” permanently in place in the bow, with its own special area and a door in the bow of the ship that was opened to enable the light beam to shine out.
So there I am, just turned 17 years old, full of excitement and romantic thoughts of adventure, pootling through the Suez Canal, at 2 o’clock in the morning, half asleep, with the faint glow of the equipment lights, eerily quiet, leaning on the bridge front trying to keep awake, watching the sandy banks of the canal slip slowly by when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see a disembodied, turbaned head and dark face with blood streaming down one side mysteriously lit by the glow from the ship’s telegraph. It was far more frightening than that moment in “Psycho” and gave me the nearest to a heart attack I have ever had. I let out a muffled scream and a softly spoken Egyptian voice said to me in broken English “help, please!”. It was the electrician from the Canal light. He had slipped on the deck and fallen, splitting a nasty gash in his temple that was bleeding badly and he needed First Aid. I will never forget that moment.
Sorry I must rush; I am guest judge for the “Guadalcanal Under 21 Girls Hula-Hula Dancing Contest”. It is a tough life in the Solomon Islands, but someone’s got to do it!!! (Only joking)
......................................................................................................................................
Donald,
Objectionable
Man,
It’s
Not
A
Terrorist
Entity.
?
Donald,
Objectionable
Character,
Turn
Off
Racism.
Strange
Trump
Rat
Actions
Never
Gain
Egalitarian
Law
Over
Violent
Enforcement
Donald,
Objectionable
Nut’,
Trump
Delivers
Republican
Objectionable
Policies
This
Highly
Explosive
BOMB
DOMINATE?
DOCTOR STRANGELOVE, DON’T DROP THE BOMB!
.......................................................................................................................................
Captain Tim.
....................................................................................................................................................................................
This is another beautiful painting by Mandy Borelli. Also, below, is another of her thought provoking quotes.
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
Her contact details are,
mandygata@hotmail.com
This is a nice pic of Lucinda E Clarke at one of her many book signings. You can contact Lucinda at
lucinda@lucindaeclarke.com
I´ve added the three pics, below, courtesy of Lucinda´s website to raise a smile in these uncertain times.
lucinda@lucindaeclarke.com
I´ve added the three pics, below, courtesy of Lucinda´s website to raise a smile in these uncertain times.
We recently reconnected with Dawn Howlett. I first met Dawn at a book signing a few years ago and she mentioned that she worked in stained glass and tile. The pic on the left is a great example of her talent and the one below is a particular favourite of mine. A truly talented lady.
25 May 2020
Welcome to the second update of my FRIENDS page.
Welcome to the second update of my FRIENDS page.
Here is a picture of my POP UP SHOP selling greetings cards, posters and prints. I also welcome commissions and can produce canvas prints from any of my images on the web site - any size to suit wall space
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
JENNY ANNE MORRISON - ARTIST
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:- LANDLINE : 96 558 7711. MOBILE :- 694 412 409
.....................................................................................................................................................................................
Captain Tim Reports
No Starbucks! No cinemas! No theatres! No live entertainment! No McDonalds! No KFC! 80% unemployment!
You think I’m talking about the “lockdown”.
No, I’m talking about normal life in Honiara in the Solomon Islands. Josie and I came here in 2013 and I worked here until the end of last year. It is a beautiful sleepy Pacific Island nation with beautiful Pacific Island (Melanesian) people.
We had been to the Philippines for Christmas and the New Year in November and came back at the beginning of March to the capital city (one main road, three good hotels and about 50,000 people) Honiara, on Guadalcanal Province island, to pack up our personal effects and sell our cars. My work here had come to an end.
We accomplished all that and were booked to leave on 22nd March by Air Niugini to Manila via Port Moresby when at midnight on 21st March the Papua New Guinea Government closed their border (and the International airport) to all but PNG citizens and permanent residents. So, Air Niugini would not let us board the plane in Honiara on Sunday.
We had visas to go to Australia, but Australia had already closed its borders to non-Australian passport holders and residents, and soon afterwards the Philippines did the same. Then the Solomon Islands closed its airport to all international flights. Being a poor country, the health facilities here are basic with a capital ”B”. The Government knew that if the virus ever arrived here it would practically wipe out the population. When I first arrived here my immediate “boss” a senior Government Civil Servant advised me “Whatever you do, do not get yourself admitted to the “Referral Hospital” (the only one in the Solomon Islands) as you will probably never come out”. And that was years ago before anybody had heard of COVID 19.
So, the Solomon Islands Government (SIG), in its wisdom, closed entry to foreigners; returning residents were immediately placed in quarantine from the airport for fourteen days. The result: there has never been a case of the virus in the Solomon Islands. (Johnson Trump take note).
The SIG Cabinet took it very seriously because they knew they had to and because they listened to scientific advice. A State of Emergency was declared to give the Prime Minister and his Cabinet sweeping powers, many Government offices were reduced to a minimum staff. Everybody unemployed (the wantoks) and who was not “essential” in Honiara in Guadalcanal Province was given a free enforced ferry boat ride. Baack to their original town or village on one of the other eight main Provincial Islands. The net result is that we go about our normal routine lives, which you can see from my opening sentences, is very simple. A beautiful central market with friendly smiling ladies selling luscious tropical fruits and vegetables; the biggest sweetest, tastiest pineapples for less than 50p! Eat your heart out Tesco, Sainsbury’s, Masymas and Lidl!!
In the simplicity is the beauty. The Solomon Islands until Independence in 1978 was a British Protectorate and the people remember a “British” way of life from even before that time. The children play the games that I played as a child 70 years ago; they run around and laugh, squeal and sing the songs we used to sing at primary school. The grown-ups also like to laugh; not a giggle, but a belly laugh.
Solomon Islanders are spiritual; they live within their environment and are close to the sea and the earth. Prayers are said before meetings; but they are not pious, have a great sense of humour and enjoy fun. They believe strongly in the importance of family and “clan” groups; respecting their elders.
So, we could not wish to be “locked down” in a better place. We are safer here than we would be almost anywhere else in the world. See you all when we get back to Pedreguer!
..................................................................................................................................................................
Here is another one from my collection, I am running out of space now. My "style" changes but I try and go with the flow. What is is........
I love these quotes AND this one just gently reminds us that age is only a number.... Appreciate and ENJOY " THE NOW"
If you want to contact me my email is
mandygata@hotmail.com
(and not forgetting a very happy birthday to you from Ray and Margaret.)
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
I love these quotes AND this one just gently reminds us that age is only a number.... Appreciate and ENJOY " THE NOW"
If you want to contact me my email is
mandygata@hotmail.com
(and not forgetting a very happy birthday to you from Ray and Margaret.)
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
8 May 2020
Welcome to the FRIENDS page. As you will have read in the HOME page, this is a forum for YOU to use at zero cost. Three very talented friends have got the ball rolling for me so, see what you think.
Welcome to the FRIENDS page. As you will have read in the HOME page, this is a forum for YOU to use at zero cost. Three very talented friends have got the ball rolling for me so, see what you think.
This is a piece by our friend and local artist
Mandy Borelli
´I had always wanted to learn to paint, having never had any artistic ability at all, so once I retired 3 years ago, I took the bull by the horns and set to. I had various classes with a local artist, but my choice is abstract.
I love all the vibrant mixes of colours, using any tools to hand, balloons, ridged cardboard, bubbly wrap, cling film, anything really , a lot of ideas that have come from youtube.
If you want to contact me my email is mandygata@hotmail.com
Lastly I would like to share a favourite poem, "my bible"
Desiderata... It says it all... Keep safe.`
Mandy Borelli
´I had always wanted to learn to paint, having never had any artistic ability at all, so once I retired 3 years ago, I took the bull by the horns and set to. I had various classes with a local artist, but my choice is abstract.
I love all the vibrant mixes of colours, using any tools to hand, balloons, ridged cardboard, bubbly wrap, cling film, anything really , a lot of ideas that have come from youtube.
If you want to contact me my email is mandygata@hotmail.com
Lastly I would like to share a favourite poem, "my bible"
Desiderata... It says it all... Keep safe.`
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
This is our friend and writer Lucinda E Clarke
I first met Lucinda when we shared a table at Javea Bowls Club in Spain.
We hope to be sharing another table, later this year, at a language college in Valencia. The students will learn from our writing experiences.
You can contact Lucinda at,
lucinda@lucindaeclarke.com
I first met Lucinda when we shared a table at Javea Bowls Club in Spain.
- Lucinda was promoting her latest book and I was doing my best at promoting my first book. She sold more books than me on the day!
We hope to be sharing another table, later this year, at a language college in Valencia. The students will learn from our writing experiences.
You can contact Lucinda at,
lucinda@lucindaeclarke.com
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
This is a piece by our friend and local artist Jenny Anne Morrison.
Entitled THE KISS
OIL ON CANVAS
measures. 90 cms x 90 cms
A little information:-
´I painted this image a few years ago on a smaller canvas, and it was sold to a client in the Philippines.
The painting was so beautiful to create, I decided to produce a slightly different version on a much bigger canvas.
I am known as a romantic painter, and THE KISS really captivates the romance in me.`
Visit my website to see paintings
http://www.jennyannemorrison.com
For Pop Up shop - info@fineartamerica.com
For enquiries and to arrange a private view at the Gallery call:-
LANDLINE : 96 558 7711
MOBILE :- 694 412 409
jennwill306@yahoo.co.uk
....................................................................................................................................................................................