Salad Days.01

The map above is a rough representation of countries I have visited. These are shown in the white areas. Over the coming weeks I will post about each ship I worked on in turn. The countries will be designated a colour depending on how positive, or otherwise, I was about my experiences there. Some countries I visited many times but I will give a holistic assessment of my visits.

My first ventures off our island were as a kid. My mother would organise a day-trip across to Calais from one of the ports in the south east. Ramsgate and Dover both had the hovercraft which was the favoured method of travel by most as it was the fastest. I preferred the ferry boats that sailed from both ports and Folkestone as well. It was more of an adventure on a ship, on the hovercraft I had to sit down and not move around.

The catalyst for my fascination with travel was a school trip to Germany. Every sight, sound, smell, was absorbed hungrily. Even then there were clues to life. The journey was every bit as important as the destination, and I was in no hurry to get there. Every aspect of the journey was an adventure, the coach to Dover, the ferry to ZeeBrugge, and even the seemingly endless train journey. I watched the countryside which at first looked just like England, only the towns and cities indicated I was in a foreign land. I didn't need to see signs, architecture gave it away.

My heart was almost in my mouth but in a strangely exhilarating way. Nervous excitement, like waiting your turn on the roller-coaster. It felt good. After Germany I had my first trip to France without parents when I went with my friend and his brother. It was the first of many. Joining the merchant navy was the obvious thing to do even though I swore I never would. My father went into the merchant navy after leaving the coal mines and was always away from home.

This brings us to my first deep sea ship and the beginning of the odd odyssey that over a decade took me around the globe. That first ship was a super tanker, the biggest ship on the ocean when it was built, but others had exceeded it by the time I joined. It was a mere 250,000 tonnes and was as wide as the ferry boats were long. This leviathan could only muster 13 knots at full ahead and  took twenty minutes or 8 miles to stop once under a head of steam.

I flew from Heathrow airport to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates with no knowledge of the country whatsoever. I dropped geography in favour of languages at school, mostly because I hated the geography teacher, the upshot being I hadn't even heard of the UAE. Having spent the night in a west London hotel, I felt a little special. I was just a fresh-faced kid but had never felt so adult. The solitude didn't bother me, I was used to it by then.

It was getting on for autumn and the weather was showery. I had my trusty mac on with a trilby hat trying for all the world to look like Dick Tracy. My collars were raised to cover as much of my face as possible. I wasn't horribly disfigured although it felt that way. I just wanted to hide the fact my chin had never seen a razor blade. Getting served beer was easier than it was at home, I guess they never expected a kid to be out on his own in the backstreet pubs of the west end.

Ten pounds was enough to get me relatively merry back then but I was reluctant to go back to the hotel. That would mean sleep and the experience would move to the next step. I wanted every moment to last as long as possible. The past five years had been traumatic, the last the worst. I had spent so much time just surviving I'd stopped living. Stuck in an existence, a rut, a bad situation beyond my control, one that too many find themselves in today.

Wandering the empty streets I looked at the buildings, marvelling at the architecture not seen in the Lego-like village where I grew up. I stumbled upon a huge museum, aesthetic lighting enhancing every arch and chiselled column. For fully five minutes I just stood gawping in awe at the amazing artistry that went into the construction.

The next morning a coach took me to Heathrow, the first time I had been in an airport. People were tense and fidgety but I was like I had just been handed the keys to a chocolate factory. I only had one suitcase which was jammed shut and a hold-all for the excess. In order to take as much as possible I wore my three-piece suit and my 'Dick Tracy' mac, it seemed appropriate. Somebody told me it was cold at night in the desert and having looked at an atlas, that was where I believed I was going.

Stop-overs in Munich and Kuwait meant we wouldn't get to Dubai until evening. I flew Singapore Airlines on a 747 Jumbo Jet and enjoyed this new experience. Drinks were complimentary and I had a steady supply of gin and tonic brought to me by the hostesses. On top of that I was given a pack of cards, travel chess set, and a magazine. I didn't read it on the plane as I never tired of looking out of the window.

The first sign of my naivety was when we finally touched down in Dubai. As I set foot on foreign soil I was aware of a furnace like blast of warm air. Having never flown on a jet before I thought it was coming from the engines, as I moved away from the plane I realised it wasn't. Suddenly I felt overdressed. The second sign of my naivety followed almost immediately afterwards.

Unknown to me there had been security threats and the odd hijacking here or there. As the passengers queued to board a bus, armed guards were taking their landing cards. I asked the person next to me what was happening as I joined the queue. When he told me I realised I had left my landing card on the plane. Without thinking I dashed back to the plane to get it. I ignored an unintelligible shout behind me then heard a kind of splat as a bullet whistled over my head. I assume it was a warning shot.

If it was it certainly had the desired effect as I swung round abruptly, unsure of what had just happened. Then I saw the guards running towards me with guns at the ready. They were shouting but I didn't understand. Taking a wild guess I dropped my hold-all and put my hands on my head. They kept yelling at me as one patted me down and another cautiously opened my hold-all. Eventually an English speaker asked what I was doing and when I explained the guards relaxed. They still looked a bit angry but I saw the funny side of it. Five minutes in a foreign country and I was getting shot at.

I managed to clear customs without any further drama and a taxi took me to hotel. It was one of the best hotels at the time, before twenty years of building work saw others dwarfing it. The air conditioning was like an icy blast but most welcome. I was allocated a room and the 'boy' took me to my room. They were referred to as boys but were actually adults. The first thing I saw in the room was a hockey stick, presumably left by the previous occupant. It was a weird thing to find in a hotel room and I tried to give it to the boy. He shook his head and made a chopping motion with his hand across his wrist. It was though he believed he would have his hand chopped off for stealing it.

Although I thought the gesticulating to be overly dramatic, I shrugged and decided I'd keep it. The company's agent came to see me and was apologetic stating the ship was delayed three days and I would have to stay at the hotel. I could just sign for food and non-alcoholic beverages. The guy looked at me as though I would take the news badly but it was the best news I'd heard. I tried caviar, just because it was on the menu. I hated it and just ate the biscuits it was served on. The gateau trolley was my favourite. Down in the bar I had a result as well, coming to an arrangement with the barman whereby Martini was classified as a soft drink. I felt like James Bond.

Walking around the city I saw the other side of life in Dubai. Homeless people were sleeping on flattened cardboard boxes in doorways. There was a fine powdery sand covering the paving stones and i walked to the edge of town. I headed into the desert up a dune just to see how far I could go. The sand was very fine, not like beach sand at home. Walking through it became an effort after just a short space of time. I turned back and headed for the hotel bar.

The days passed and eventually a taxi took me to a launch. The sky blue waters were amazing as we sped across them on a high powered launch. It took well over an hour before one of the launch crew pointed up ahead and I saw the ship for the first time. I was glad to see it, I was sweating buckets. Because there was no room in my case I was wearing my three-piece suit and mac in 110 degree heat. If that wasn't enough I was carrying the hockey stick I found in the room. The ship didn't look much at first but as the launch drew closer I started to realise just how big it was. Being light-ship (no cargo on board) it towered above the water, getting up the gangway was to prove difficult.

It was with some effort I struggled up the gangway with case in one hand, hold-all in the other, and hockey stick in my teeth. The First Mate was at the top of the gangway to welcome me aboard but when he saw how I was dressed, and the hockey stick in my mouth, he closed his eyes and shook his head sadly.

Salad Days.02

The first thing that struck me when I stepped aboard the super-tanker was how many skinheads there were on board. There were at least eight crew members with shaved heads and it was a little unsettling, not because they looked like skinheads, more because they looked liked mental asylum inmates. We sailed to Ras Tanura in Saudi Arabia but nobody went ashore. The deep water berths to accommodate the huge ships were well away from civilisation. Besides anything else we wouldn't have been able to get a beer anyway. There was strictly no alcohol in Saudi Arabia. It took just three days to load and we were under way.

It was quite a new experience sailing on such a big ship. There was very little pitch and roll even in bad weather, the ship sliced through waves effortlessly. The problem was when out on deck. Other ships would hurl some spray at you but on this ship when a wave broke over the bow a wall of water came rushing at you. At intervals all along the ship were 'bus-shelters' to jump into when a wave hit, the danger of being washed over the side was very real. We sailed through the Straits of Hormuz and headed south into the Indian Ocean.

I soon found out the 'skinheads' were those who 'crossed the line' for the first time. The line was the equator and sea-farers had a tradition in honour of King Neptune. Part of this involved shaving the head. The ceremonies varied considerably from ship to ship and mine was of a pretty mundane type. In a future post I will intimate one of the more 'interesting' ceremonies I witnessed.

We were bound for Cape Town where we would take on stores before sailing up the west coast of Africa. My memories of the passage through the Indian Ocean are hazy as I spent a good portion of it laid up. The first problem I had was heat exhaustion but at least it made the sunburn tolerable. We worked in just a pair of shorts but unlike the others I hadn't acclimatised. They had sailed into the heat over the course of weeks, I had flown into it in hours. Nor had I a suntan whilst all the others were brown as berries. Foolishly I tried to hurry my tan along and was quite badly burned.

I barely noticed, I was too busy falling asleep. The other mistake I had made was not taking salt tablets. Having never worked in such heat before I didn't realise the importance and as I didn't like taking tablets, I didn't bother. It probably contributed to me getting heat exhaustion. That was a weird experience but not entirely unpleasant. It was in effect like narcolepsy as I would just randomly fall asleep.

It could happen any time but as much as it was funny, to a degree, it was also quite dangerous. A few times I fell asleep standing up and on separate falls I injured a knee and cracked my head open. I was lucky it wasn't more serious. By the time we reached Cape Town I was somewhere near normal - as normal as I get anyway - and I looked longingly at the shore. We had only rare sights of land since we left the Arabian Sea and not this close up. Table Mountain was probably the catalyst for my obsession with climbing mountains.

Mountains were visible from the sea when no other land was in sight. For a seaman they were beacons, lures, the promise of terra firma and respite from the constant motion of the ship.

The stores were loaded from launches off Cape Town and looking out over the sea it looked flat calm. It was deceptive. This was where the Indian and Atlantic Oceans met, causing massive swells even when all appears calm. The lack of white water lulled us into a false sense of security but as we sat drifting the ship began to roll ominously. The Cape Rollers pushed us one way then we righted in the trough before another huge swell pushed us back once again.

This rhythmic rocking on such a huge ship wasn't unsettling though it made loading the stores entertaining. The problem came when every so often as the rolling built up momentum, we became out of sync with the swell and a roller would break over the deck. In my youth it was an adrenaline rush getting thrown across the deck or hanging on to a handrail for dear life. We always kept a wary eye out for one breaking over the deck and could usually tell when it would happen. There was then the mad dash for the bus-shelters. Inevitably one or two of us would be caught out and the others would laugh. It was great fun as long as nobody died.

[I did go ashore in Cape Town another time and will include it in a future post]

Working on the 12-4 watch was when I really started to become interested in the stars and constellations. Midnight to four in the morning was the perfect time for it too. I was fascinated by the new stars I had never seen before. It was my first time in the southern hemisphere and I had never seen the Milky Way like this before. I wanted to know everything and was fortunate the officer on watch was an expert navigator and willing teacher. This sparked my interest with the celestial bodies. Others said watch-keeping was boring but I would have happily paid for the experience.

The ship developed some engine problems and we anchored off Fuerteventura to get divers down. We lowered a floating pontoon for the divers to work off and three of us tended them. It was good, the weather was bright sunshine and the sea calm. We drank beer as the divers worked. The sea was inviting and we swam around happily, despite being told about the Hammerhead sharks. The divers had mentioned there were a few but we only saw one. We had assumed because the divers were in the water with them, these weird looking fish were harmless. It pays not to assume, we were later told they can be dangerous but they left us alone.

The Straits of Gibraltar were the next highlight. Only 18 miles separated the continents of Africa and Europe at this point. On the port side was Gibraltar looking like an island and to starboard were the Atlas mountains. We entered the Mediterranean Sea bound for Italy where for the first time in a couple of months my feet would be on dry land. Or so I thought.

Salad Days.03

Savona was the first port we docked at since leaving Saudi Arabia. As we didn't even get ashore there it had been four months since the other crew members had been off the ship. Joining in Dubai it had only been a couple of months for me. Sights of land were at a premium. The ship was generally 50 miles from the coast at a minimum, so we had just occasional glimpses of the great continent of Africa off our starboard side. The Straits of Gibraltar were like a welcome mat guiding us back to civilisation from the vast ocean. For a time, the Dark Continent remained a mystery to me. As we sailed into the port of Savona the Chief Steward asked me for my inoculation certificates.
"Umm, didn't know I needed any"

At the merchant navy office they assumed I knew I would need injections so neglected to tell me about it. My stay in the UAE was the only time I had touched foreign soil (sand) but it was enough to cause quite a stir among the Italians. A medical team came on board with white disposable overalls and masks. It seemed a bit overkill, if I had any disease I should have died from it in the two months since leaving the Gulf. Nevertheless I was given a number of injections and told I was quarantined for three days. It was a real kick in the teeth watching everybody going ashore and coming back with tales of mayhem and debauchery.

Merchant seamen always had a bad name in polite society, but shore-siders didn't realise it took a special mentality to go to sea. It may seem an exciting life, and it was. When it was good there was no better life. Travelling to distant lands, seeing new sights, climates, and cultures. When it was bad there was nothing worse. A floating prison tossed around in a hurricane, half an ocean away from dry land. You try to sleep on the deck of your cabin so as not to get tossed from your bunk, but it's impossible. Like trying to sleep on a roller coaster. This can last for days on end and you are constantly aware of your own insignificance, your inability to effect change. It is a truly humbling experience. Is it any wonder then that seamen are so rambunctious when hitting land.

We sailed, but thankfully it was just a short jaunt to Genova where I would finally get ashore. I did that all right, and before anybody else. We had just tied up and were taking bond on board (cigarettes and alcohol). Making a human chain we manhandled the boxes to the store. Some of the cigarette boxes had a steel band around them and inevitably I managed to slice my finger. It was a good one, right down to the bone, and an ambulance was called.

It took an hour and a half to arrive and despite all the dressings I had lost a lot of blood. I knew that because I was starting to feel light-headed, almost drunk. With my background I was no stranger to hospitals but the one in Italy was vastly different to ones I'd 'visited' before. There were kids running around unsupervised and a couple of people had their dogs with them. It just seemed chaotic. When I was taken in to be stitched up they insisted I lay out on a table as they did it, despite the injury being to my finger..

I wanted to see what they were doing and tried to look.but a nurse turned my head back. In the end the doctor said something and she let me watch. The doctor then said something else I didn't understand and she left the room. She came back seconds later with a woman who had a cut over the bridge of her nose. The woman looked worried and I assume they brought her in to see by my lack of concern, having stitches was nothing to worry about.

Eventually they let me go and the city was now mine to explore. I had a couple of hours before the rest of the crew would be ashore so I headed to the bar nearest the dock gate. It was always a starting point. This was also known by the local bar owners and they were geared up to cater for visiting seamen. Due to my age and appearance I always worried about getting beer at first, but never had a problem abroad. I don't know if the laws were different or whether it was just because I spoke a different language but I was never refused a beer. In the bar I was quickly pounced on by a lady of ill-repute and though never my intent, negotiations were entered into. The experience was not one I would want to repeat, it just felt sordid.*

*it was also quite amusing.... after the fact

The crew eventually arrived - shortly after I didn't - and we set down to some serious drinking, and a lot of raucous singing. When we were all turfed out of the cells at 6am the next morning, I was still in a daze. Memories of the previous evening were hazy at best. It was like the blood-loss had given the alcohol added potency. We were all arrested when riot police with white batons came charging into the bar after a dispute. I vaguely remember being bundled into a van with the others at gunpoint but nothing else. It transpired that during the day we were being charged at a cheaper rate for beer than after 7pm, the sudden price rise caused the unrest.

The next morning we were let out but the police weren't stupid, they were letting us out one at a time at 20 minute intervals. I stumbled around the early morning streets of Genova without a clue of where I was or where to go. As I walked past a building the door was slightly ajar. Still dazed and needing more sleep I went inside and saw stairs rising in front of me. They were somehow inviting so I closed the door and lay on the stairs, falling asleep instantly. A pounding at the door woke me and I opened it to find a very angry looking Italian gentleman holding a newspaper. He must have popped to the shop quickly and felt no need to close his door.

He shouted and gesticulated as I walked past him and stumbled down the road.

On a subsequent visit to Italy a few years later, I was in a bar when I saw my friend from school. At first we just kept glancing at each other thinking it unlikely to see the other in such an obscure location. In the end my curiosity got the better of me and I went over to him. It mirrored an incident in Gibraltar (and later New Zealand) proving it is indeed a small world.

The ship left Italy on the return journey to Saudi Arabia for another load of oil. I was sad to leave the sky blue water of the Mediterranean for the dark blue water of the Atlantic. As we passed the Canary Islands hundreds of birds* descended on the ship. It was strange and at first quite a wonderful sight but the ship moved out of range of the islands and the birds were stranded. Despite our efforts of putting out bread and water they started dying. The spectacle had turned to tragedy as we shovelled hundreds of dead birds over the side of the ship.

*the birds were canaries which were named after the islands not the other way round. The islands were named from the Latin canis - dog 'isle of dogs'

We stopped for stores again in Cape Town then headed into the Indian Ocean bound for the Persian Gulf. Dubai was our final destination before flying home via Kuwait and Athens. For a first trip deep sea, it was a relatively uneventful start when I consider what was to follow.

Salad Days.04

On reflection I was glad I did the supertanker first, I didn't know it then but one decent run ashore in nearly 7 months was enough to induce cabin fever among many seamen. My naivety and adaptability, as well as my fascination with anything new, made the whole experience quite interesting. The next ship was the real deal though.

In direct contrast to the 250,000 tonne leviathan I left behind in Dubai, the next ship was a mere 6,600 tonnes. The composition crew were only fewer in number by three and it was like scaling down from a pigeon coop to a budgie cage. The cabins were much smaller and the atmosphere vastly different. This ship was to be a real adventure and would connect me with the rest of the world in ways the other could not.

Up until this point I felt a foreigner in a foreign land whenever I ventured from my island home. It felt that as a Brit I was somehow different to the rest of the world, whereas in reality we are all just people. Our trials and tribulations may vary considerably but on a grass roots level we are all the same. The adventure would begin in London just as the last one had, but it was different this time.

Instead of finding myself in a plush west end hotel to be taken to the airport by taxi in the morning, I found myself under the steps of the merchant navy federation building in the east end of London. The problem was that although I lived pretty close to London I still needed a train to get there and the coach for the airport. Having been told the coach would depart from the merchant navy building at 6am I knew I would have to spend a cold night on the streets of London. There was a train that was early enough but any delay whatsoever and I would miss the flight.

At this time I was only 17 years old but I had lived on the streets and the prospect of sleeping rough held no fear for me. It was a minor irritation, nothing more. Near the federation building was a pub and I tried to buy a beer but they wouldn't serve me. Okay I was a year under the legal drinking age but the main problem was my appearance. I still only looked like a kid even though my last growth spurt had finally begun. A man who looked to be in his late twenties watched me leave the pub and followed me out. I noticed him but didn't realise I was the object of interest as I trudged back to my resting place for the night.

The man saw me sit on the steps with my rucksack and must have thought I was homeless. I had learnt from the last ship to travel light and carried only the bare minimum. He approached me.

"I know a pub that'll serve you if you want to get out of the cold" he ventured in a thick Irish accent.

"I'm okay, I just wanted to kill some time" I told him in a rather offhand manner.

My disability had made me look at people differently. If I couldn't hear a person properly I had to learn to read them in other ways. I trusted my instincts. Only twice would they fail me when it came to people so it was wise to obey them. 'Micky', as he introduced himself, I felt I could trust. It was the early days though and I was a little cautious, Micky was bigger and maybe stronger than me but my youthful appearance belied an inner strength. The element of surprise always helped if things went wrong.

We went to another pub nearby and chatted away over a couple of beers. The more we talked the more at ease I felt. Micky had thought I was on the street and offered me a place for the night but I told him I was flying out to a ship in the morning. I went back with Micky that night and an impromptu party took place. Micky was married but his wife didn't seem at all surprised when he brought me back with him. A lady from next door came in and Micky started playing the guitar.

It felt much like when I was taken in by those wonderful people who briefly entered my life when I needed a friend most (see Tribute). I still had this thing where I hated being treated like a kid. My thoughts were confused. I wanted to recapture the childhood I felt was stolen from me yet wanted to be treated as an adult. The neighbour lady, 'Joss' (Jocelyn?) was attractive and seemed to like me. This was confirmed when Micky announced he and his wife were going to bed.

"It's half past four, I have to go in an hour" I whined.

Quite selfishly, I thought they had stayed up and partied this long, another hour wouldn't hurt. It would be fatal if I went to sleep now. 

"Just gives you and Joss enough time to get better acquainted then" Micky said with a smirk and he and his wife left the room.

Ever the idiot I didn't know what he meant, until I looked at Joss. She had that look in her eye I had seen before from a couple of older ladies. Coy but predatory. Just over an hour later I was hurrying out the door to get back to the rendezvous point. 

"Come and see me when you get back" Joss said and kissed my forehead like I was suddenly a child again.

It was odd that I found it irritating but I didn't understand things back then. I smacked her bum cheekily and promised I would see her again. The short distance back to the federation building was a blur. The sun hadn't risen yet but the twilight gave that eerie, yet oddly comforting feeling I only ever had in London. It was a special city indeed. The other new crew members were already gathering outside the federation and I was immediately labelled 'Moonie' as I floated on air whistling all the while. They suspected I had some kind of mental disability and in hindsight they had a point. It was cold and everybody was tired and only half awake but I was smiling from ear to ear and on top of the world. Clearly insane.

The coach took us from London to Gatwick Airport as the flight to Brest in France was little more than a domestic flight in distance. I had a window seat overlooking a wing. There appeared to be a rivet missing which I promptly pointed out to the stewardess. She whispered in my ear.

"Don't worry sir, there are another 19,999 keeping it on"

In contrast to the Jumbo Jets I had flown on, this plane had propellers and my concerns over the missing rivet were amplified as I experienced the worst turbulence I would ever witness on any flight. The plane just suddenly seemed to free-fall like being dropped through a trap door then bounce as if on an invisible trampoline. It was disconcerting more because I had never experienced even slight turbulence before and didn't know what was going on. The relief was evident on the faces of everybody when we bounced uncertainly on the tarmac of Brest airport little more than an hour later.

The first sight of the ship was a lot different to seeing the supertanker for the first time. I wouldn't say it was underwhelming, I had just expected it to be bigger. Although it was the same gross tonnage as the ferry boats I had worked on, being a cargo ship it was a lot smaller in size. The appeal for me was the layout, this was a real ship. It wasn't some gigantic floating oil refinery, nor was it a hollow box-like ferry boat. This had derricks, cranes and cargo holds. Up until now I had been a glorified painter and decorator but now I would be a real seaman.

Salad Days.05

I had seen the English Channel and North Sea in all their magnificent fury but up to this point had yet to witness the wrath of the oceans. The Bay of Biscay had its own notoriety as it marked the end of the continental shelf and formed a bottle-neck for the incoming Gulf Stream. The depth of water plummets from 120 to 3,000 metres in just a few miles. This of course stirs up surface waters without warning. On this occasion the sea was remarkably clement and gave no indication of what was to come.

The crew was younger than on the last ship and I felt less of a kid.  I was still third youngest but most were only a little older. Of course I was immature enough to want to show my worldly wisdom. I had been deep water now, I wasn't just a rock-dodging car park attendant as ferrymen were disdainfully referred to by 'proper' seamen. Unfortunately my 'wisdom' didn't befit my self-assuredness and a tactical silence was key to avoiding the teasing heaped on the more naive youngsters. I would laugh along with the others despite not knowing what was amusing.

All in all it was a good crew and the spirits were high, that changed a couple of days out. The weather turned for the worst and this was a far cry from the stability of the supertanker. We were tossed around like peas in a hamster ball as the small cargo ship pitched and rolled every second of every day. There was a subdued silence amid all this chaos, nerves jangled but tempers were kept in check by fear. We were all in this together and we might need the man standing next to us. I was excited at first but when the hurricane hit and sleep was impossible, it felt I was being battered into submission.

Fear wasn't as much of an issue with me as with the others. My fear receptors were defective, or maybe I just felt an affinity with the sea. The sea was my salvation, my sustenance, without it I had no life to speak of. Not a life I wanted anyway, it hadn't done me any favours so far. A sudden crash and all the lights went off, alarm bells reverberated around the ship, I didn't move. I had learnt to ignore the alarm bells. They usually signified engine failure or some other engine room related problem, there was nothing I could do except get in the way.

Sleep was fitful so it made no real difference. The voyage across the Atlantic should have taken 7-10 days but a week had passed and we were barely halfway to the Americas. It was at the height of the storm I was called up to the wheelhouse for a four hour stint at the wheel. Words were in short supply and fear was evident in the eyes of seamen and officers alike. The deck-boy was on the bridge as a look-out and his cheeks were tear-stained. The haggard seaman on the wheel was only too eager to hand over the responsibility.

Under normal circumstances the ship would have been on automatic steering, it was impossible in this weather. If the set steering strayed more than ten degrees off course the alarms would sound, a single swell would spin  the head around 15-20 degrees. That was the problem with crossing the Atlantic east to west, the swells always hit on the beam. The ship rolling was more unnerving than waves breaking over the bow. There was the feeling it might not right itself and capsize. We hadn't had a hot meal for days as it was impossible to cook, not that anyone had an appetite.

The sea is an unforgiving animal and it's unwise to take liberties or underestimate the power of its mood swings. On a bright day when the surface was like glass, it was the most serene and calming feeling I had ever experienced. I would recommend it to anyone. At times like this it took a special person to endure it.

Taking the wheel I was immediately thrown off balance. It took a moment to adjust my legs to the rolling. I would bend one knee and straighten the other leg to stay upright. As the ship rolled I counteracted rhythmically, almost as though I were dancing with Poseidon himself. In the cold light of day I could see the nature of the beast. The 100 foot swells were like a vast wall of water looking for all the world about to swallow us up without even the necessity to belch. Then it would suddenly rise up beneath us, tantalisingly dangling the ship on the edge of a precipice. I began to hum.

My words were deliberately unintelligible, I didn't want the others to think me crazy. I muttered soothingly to the ocean "you're my friend, I know you won't hurt us, don't be angry" and the like. The others looked at me dancing and humming, my worries about appearing a little mad were too late. Just my perceived happy demeanour was enough to certify me. Then something strange happened. The storm began to abate, sunshine broke through the clouds ahead and suddenly life was looking brighter.

The sea taught me many lessons over time. It taught me my own insignificance and humility. It taught me fear is most often worse than reality and worry is counter-productive. I spent many hours on watch, staring at the horizon looking for land or other shipping. We spend our lives chasing horizons but they are unattainable, like the end of a rainbow. All they do is give us an indication on the course we should steer to achieve our individual goals. Horizons shift though, they are not a constant.

In bad weather or fog, the horizons all but vanish and the way ahead is hidden or obscured. It is the same in life. Circumstances beyond our control may cause us to deviate from our path. In such times it is important to focus, bend into the weather and press on regardless, trusting to fate. The storm will abate and the horizon will once again show us the way. It was there all the time, we just lost sight of it for a while.

Salad Days.06

The calm blue waters of the Caribbean were a favourable first impression, especially after the open hostility of the Atlantic Ocean. The Caribbean had its moods as well but the knowledge land was never far too away gave a perhaps misguided feeling of safety. We were headed for the Panama Canal and I was really excited even though I didn't know much about it back then. I had joined in with the teasing of the galley boy but was equally in the dark, I was just as naive but not daft enough to let on.

The crew had told him stories about the Canal and I listened, though pretended not to. They explained how the Canal had locks where mules towed the ships through to the other side. He was encouraged to save left over vegetables to feed to the mules, something he did with great enthusiasm. He kept saying about the mules to me, asking if they bite. How the hell did I know.
"I suppose they might by accident if you got your fingers too close" I speculated.

A passing seaman was grinning as he walked behind the galley boy giving me the thumbs up and a wink. He obviously thought I was in on the joke and I smiled back conspiratorially. Cristobal was the city on the Atlantic side of the canal and we had an overnight stay before traversing the canal zone. The weather was perfect and all the tensions among the crew had lifted. We docked and after work went ashore. It would be unfair to say I hadn't enjoyed my times ashore before Panama, I enjoyed everything new ....even getting shot at. I felt I wanted to see and experience as much of life as possible, even bad things had a place. Life is a learning process and there is no better teacher than personal experience.

The street where we were walking, looked almost like a post apocalyptic New York. The buildings were huge multi-storey blocks of grey stone, although the poor street lighting may have given that effect. Between each building was a narrow alleyway, dark and threatening. Looking down these alleys the far end was fenced off, there was one way in and one way out. I made a mental note not to run up an alley if chased. People were hanging about on street corners and watching us carefully. My decision to go ashore with those closest my own age was a mistake. The three of us must have looked like little kids and once again I silently cursed my youthful appearance.

At home it meant I couldn't get served in pubs even though all my friends were, now I worried I looked weak and easy meat for a robber. We had been given warnings about the city being noted for violence and street robberies. The bar where we had been told to meet the others was up ahead and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. The Moro Bar or 'Boite el Moro' as the sign said, went some way to healing my problem with my appearance. The bat-wing doors suddenly flew open and we froze as a crowd rushed out the door straight at us. We were bout to panic until we realised they were all girls.
They surrounded us and guided us inside the door, all pulling at us and squabbling over who would 'pop our cherries'. I have to say it was one of the strangest but exhilarating experiences of my life. This was my first experience of the 'good-time girls' and I drank and danced long into the night. At the end of the night we had all spent up when the older crew members were negotiating with other girls. I was disappointed but also a little relieved I had no money left, I remembered Italy and didn't want to spoil one of the best nights I'd ever had with a somewhat sordid experience.

The three of us rose to leave but the girls wouldn't let us. We explained we had no money left but they were convinced we were virgins (especially as that was what the crew members told them), and in truth we looked the part with our fresh faces that had never seen a razor. This made us highly-prized and a fee wasn't required. I won't go into specifics but it was the perfect end to a perfect night and a far cry from Genova. The next morning we dashed back to the ship and were spotted coming back. Everybody gathered and looked at us laughing and cat-calling, they knew what had happened. For once we didn't mind the teasing.

Going through the canal was the icing on the cake. I loved the scenery as the waterway meandered through jungle and even a mountain. There was Panama State Penitentiary, and a plaque commemorating all those who died in the construction of the canal. At the other end was the Puntas des Americas the only connection (at the time) between the two continents. In between were two sets of locks, and of course the mules. The joke on the galley boy had been the fact the 'mules' were large locomotive engines on tracks, not the four-legged variety he (and I) was expecting.

In my travels I went through the Panama Canals maybe a dozen times. It never lost its magic and remains one of my favourite places on Earth. Already this ship had far exceeded any expectations and there was still Peru and Chile to come.

Salad Days.07

There was a dramatic change after the Canal. Our first port of call after the Panama Canal was Callao in Peru, the port for Lima. Up to this point I had only touched foreign soil in Europe and Saudi Arabia. My first taste of South America had me hooked straight away. Callao may or may not have been worth a night out, I didn't stop to find out. Lima Central was merely a 20 minute taxi ride away. 

My knowledge of Spanish back then was very limited but I knew how to say 'cuanto cuesta' and could grasp the numerals thrown at me, or so I thought. The taxi driver gave me a price which I thought was reasonable but as I handed him a note, he jabbered away at me. It became apparent I had gotten my decimals wrong and the price was one tenth of what I expected. He was indicating he didn't have enough change. For me it was such a negligible amount I waved it away and told him to keep it (it was actually the lowest denomination note I had). As it turned out, I earned more in an hour than he did in a week. He was almost in tears with gratitude

.

Lima could have been like any European city yet there seemed to be a different feel to the place. There was a vibrancy to the city and I was keen to experience as much as possible. After taking in the sights I inevitably found a bar and ordered food and a drink. The initial worry of whether I would have enough money had long since passed. It would have been extremely difficult to spend the paltry amount I had. In the bar I heard three guys talking in English and went to investigate. It was the first English I heard in Peru and turned out the guys - all about mid-20's in age - were Kiwis. 

Since leaving the Canal there had been an aroma permeating the ship. I had tried pot at that stage but it had always been in solid form, even so the smell of weed was unmistakable. Future experience would show me the weed consumption in the merchant navy was far higher percentage-wise than ashore. Even so, this ship I found, had an inordinate number of smokers on board. It got so bad the Captain sent word down with the Mexican bosun (a smoker himself) to stop the crew smoking in their cabins as the air-condition circulated and the engineers were walking around like zombies.

Most smokers had been busy talking to the Canal guys at the locks but I was green and missed out. It didn't matter, there was plenty to go round. The other deck-boy had bagged off* in Panama and had a polaroid photo taken when he was with the girl in the bar. It took pride of place in his cabin and he was roundly mocked as he professed an undying love for the girl that had made him a man. Yeah, fucking hilarious. He was told by all and sundry she was probably noshing on a foreign seaman right at that moment. The little shit didn't like me. I had avoided the crossing the line ceremony having already crossed on the tanker, he didn't like that and I could sense he wanted to have a go. Probably chose me as I appeared to be less of a threat than his real tormentors.

*bagged off = had sex

The point to all this was that during negotiations with the Panamanians, boxes of rolling papers exchanged hands and by Callao there were none left on board. To add to the problem, they were very hard to find in Peru. The Kiwi guys had found a similar problem and they told me to buy the New York Times from Central Station in Lima. They told me they had tried every foreign and national paper on the news-stand and the New York Times was the best for using to roll joints. I went back with the Kiwis to their yacht where they made up for my missing out in Panama. Their story was fascinating. There was a fourth Kiwi on board their 40 foot yacht.

Five friends had bought the yacht with the intention of sailing up the west coast of the Americas. One had become serious with a woman and was unable to go but the others went anyway. When I met with them they had been gone 5 years already. They sailed up and down the coast buying goods in one hemisphere and selling them in the other. It obviously didn't reap rich rewards but it allowed them to eke out a living and continue in their adventure.

I never had a problem anywhere in Peru but the reality is that it's not all an adventure playground. One of the guys off the ship had his watch snatched off his wrist but nobody had any sympathy. Seamen knew very well not to go ashore with jewellery or even expensive clothes, jeans and a T-shirt were the norm, it made us almost invisible in most countries. Wearing rings and watches were magnets for trouble.

Lima was very interesting but the rest of Peru gave me a vastly different image, before then we had another scheduled stop to discharge cargo. We headed south to Chile and the port of Valparaiso, or 'Valpo' as the old sea-dogs referred to it.

Salad Days 08

As our work rotas were similar I found myself going ashore with Alan, the steward's boy. It was his second ship and I was rather surprised he managed number two. As junior ratings we were subject to excessive amounts of pranks and teasing. There was also another side I haven't yet touched upon. Let's just say it was common for a junior to be touched inappropriately at the most inopportune time. It was a source of amusement to watch the unsuspecting lad jump out of his skin and drop whatever he was carrying. 

Although there was never any sexual intent, we as junior ratings hadn't yet learnt that. I caught on quickly that it was done purely for reaction and the best way to stop it was by not reacting. Unfortunately Alan hadn't mastered it yet, and showed no signs of ever doing so. Anytime someone touched his bum he would always jump through the roof and the worse he reacted, the more frequently the form of teasing occurred. Alan would rant at the perpetrator but it just amplified the laughter. I decided to have a friendly word with Alan whilst we were alone.

I told him the  senior ratings were just doing it for the reaction and he should stop fuelling their mirth. He broke down saying it is a problem he has had since he could remember. It wasn't just the seamen, friends and even family members were kept at a distance. Alan had boasted about a girlfriend at home but he told me he had never had one due to his problem. He was one of the few who didn't have a liaison in Panama, citing fidelity to his girlfriend as a reason. I decided things were going to change.

We stumbled around all sorts of backstreets, completely lost. It didn't matter, the weather was nice and the buildings so colourful. Despite our youthful looks we had no problem buying beer in every bar we passed. The people were friendly and the bars were atmospheric. Only Santana and somewhat bizarrely (so I thought) Peter Frampton were recognisable names on the Jukebox that looked like it had been taken directly from the set of Happy Days. The problem was a shortage of ladies. It shouldn't have been a surprise, we were in local bars and it was still only late afternoon.

Eventually we found our way to the seaman's mission and was surprised how lively it was. I was also surprised to see quite a number of young ladies in the bar. Seaman's missions were almost without exception church run or sponsored. It didn't make them popular with seamen seeking a night on unrestrained merriment and debauchery. For one thing 'good-time girls' were not allowed. Valpo mission broke the mould, there were women and merriment. Two of the girls came over and sat with us. Alan had always been a 'sipper' when it came to drinking but his revelation to me triggered a devil-may-care attitude and he was very drunk for the first time since he joined the ship.

The girls were not slow coming forward and I kept glancing at Alan with interest. The alcohol had dulled his senses and it looked like the girl would need surgical removal from his lap. It wasn't long before the other crew members started arriving, they obviously knew of the reputation Valpo's mission had. Alan broke his duck and we staggered back to the ship arms around shoulders. I felt good, I thought I had helped cure Alan of his affliction. The reality didn't quite justify it. Alan remained jumpy but not quite as bad, it seemed in order to cure his affliction he would have to stay drunk.

In the morning a plague of beetles had descended on the ship. We had a cargo of animal feed on board and it attracted millions of beetles from who knows where. Getting them off the shipp involved a high pressure hose but it was one of the most disgusting jobs I ever had. We wore waterproofs and sea boots tied at the ankles to stop the beetles going up our trouser legs. It may not sound particularly gross but the worst part was having to walk on the knee-deep swarming mass. The crunch and squelch sent shivers down my spine but within a couple of hours they were just a bad memory.

Later that day four of us shared a taxi to Santiago. It was about 70 miles inland but remembering how cheap the ride was in Peru. I had this thing of wanting to visit the capital city and tick another off on my map of places I'd visited. In truth the ride was the best part of the idea. Up and down a series of mountains and ranges we travelled inland taking in the sights. We didn't catch a glimpse of Santiago until we came out of the Tunel Lo Prado which drilled through a mountain range west of Santiago. Then suddenly, surrounded by ranges on three sides and with the mighty Andes as a backdrop, the Chilean capital came into view. From a distance it was a sight to behold but on entering the city, our brief visit failed to do it justice.

The ride back was exciting for a different reason. It was dark, very dark, and the old taxi's headlights were inadequate considering one laps of concentration meant certain death. If that taxi ride was scary there was much worse to come back in Peru

Salad Days 09

Having finished discharging cargo in Chile we now set sail north and back to Peru. We knew by then the ports of call which would turn out to be quite fortunate for Alan and me. I didn't get on with the deck boy, or more likely he didn't get on with me. We had come to blows one night in the bar when I laughed at him for staying faithful to the 'good-time girl' in Panama. The others teased him more, he just felt he had a chance against me. 

He hit me but it felt as though he'd never hit anyone before. I just grabbed him by the throat, put my leg behind his and had him on the deck in a flash. I snarled a warning that next time I would hit him back. It was unnecessary, I could see the fear in his eyes, my grandmother always said I had a look that could curdle milk. It is a measure of the crew when I state it was the only 'scuffle' in the whole time I was on board. This was extremely rare. Long periods at sea brewed a sort of cabin fever and 'disputes' were commonplace. In fairness it was just as rare that these scuffles at sea were of a serious nature, ashore things were a little different.

Alan and I became inseparable and it took a lot of the heat off him. One able seaman in particular wouldn't desist so we both took a dump in his work-boots, a turd in each. We also unscrewed his air-conditioning vent and put a fish and some cheese in it. He threatened to kill us even though we denied it and the other seamen got on his case. Other than that, the atmosphere on the ship was the best I would ever experience. Despite leaving a trail of smoke in our wake, the crew knew what they were about. Everything on the ship was maintained scrupulously. The ship was even painted nicely, something unusual on a working ship.

The best thing about the ship was the layout but it was just one of many endearing qualities. Even as a junior I was allowed to use the cranes on deck, another thing that irked the deck boy. I learnt largely by trial and error...... and a lot of cussing out by the seamen. It would serve me well in the future, most ships had derricks and many seamen were unfamiliar with cranes. The housing was midships but the crew quarters were down aft. It gave us a seclusion that allowed for extremely loud music, music kept the ship floating and was in keeping with the special feel to South America. The most commonly played albums were from Santana, Frampton, Black Sabbath and Incantations which was traditional Peruvian Pan-pipe music. It was rather a bizarre mix but nobody thought so at the time.

If there was one drawback it was the cockroach infestation (aka Jaspers or Bombay Runners), and they were the biggest I would ever see. The crew joked about someone falling asleep on the deck of the bar and being carried off by them. Our bar was decked out with black-light posters and we had a sound to light unit on the stereo. With just the ultra-violet light on the posters came alive, so did the cockroaches, It was the only time you saw them apart from a split second when you turned a light on. We used to throw darts at them but apart from one fluke, we swear he was aiming at a different one, there were no fatalities.

On the supertanker the crew were mostly Welsh and a bunch of piss-heads, this crew was from all over and were potheads. I did like the tanker crew, the Welsh do indeed love to sing, but this ship was my ideal, I could have stayed on it forever. The second cook used to leave a dog off the porthole that was situated below deck level like our accommodation. Late at night we would lower ourselves over the side and in through the galley porthole, then we would cook ourselves steak sandwiches. Life couldn't get any better.

It took nearly a week to get to Pisco and it was to be the last port that could be termed a city. 

Salad Days.10

Pisco was the last major town on our South American adventure and it pretty much mirrored the other ports. Three decades ago things were very different  but when you arrive it is difficult to gauge the size of a place in short excursions ashore. After wandering around Valparaiso and getting lost, I was in favour of waiting for the others to finish work and tag along with them. Alan had different ideas. He was becoming a bit of a nuisance. Alan didn't strike me as someone who made friends easily and it seemed when he did he was stifling. My 'evil plan' to overcome his quirk backfired, I'd created a monster and he only had one thing on mind as we made our way ashore.

Another night of wine, women, and song followed. Without going into detail, it was an eventful night. The most vivid memories were of the kids. Walking ashore we were followed by a couple of young kids, the further we walked the more kids joined in following. It became quite unsettling when there were about a dozen of them. A couple weren't much younger than Alan and me, others were younger, the youngest looked about 6 or 7 years old. They seemed friendly enough but only knew a few words of English and neither Alan nor me could speak Spanish. One or two asked for cigarettes but we ignored them.

In the end I took all the loose coins out of my pocket and told Alan to do likewise. We threw the coins up in the air then ran whilst the kids scrambled for them. It worked, the kids left us alone. At that time I didn't really attach any great significance to the experience but in a few years time I would remember those Peruvian kids with fondness. They were all happy and smiling despite their no doubt dire circumstances. The handful of coins thing became a commonplace event. It had been the first time I had experienced being followed by a gang of kids, but it wasn't a phenomenon only found in Peru.

The good-time girls we found all lived in a big hotel. They had permanent rooms on the first and second floors (I assume they were permanent by the quantity of personal effects in the room). The whole ground floor was a huge bar and very lively. It was clearly geared up for visiting seamen. In the morning both Alan and me had started to sober up despite having no sleep. We stumbled out of the hotel with no idea where we were. Luckily there was a kid outside and we asked how to get to the ship. The lad looked about 10 years old and we worked out he was offering to take us. He held out his hand to see what we would pay. All we could muster between us was a few coins, half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of beer. The boy gave us a big toothy grin, put the coins in his pocket, took a swig of beer and lit up a cigarette, then he indicated we should follow him.

I couldn't help thinking back to when I was the same age, it was impossible to imagine myself in a similar situation. A brief stint on the streets before going to sea had nearly killed me, and I was 16 then. I wouldn't have survived as a ten year old. Looking back this was probably the catalyst for my wanting to know the people and places rather than just the first seaman's bar from the dock. It was a good half hour walk to the dock and I wanted to give the kid more but had nothing. I handed him my T-shirt (one I bought in Italy) and the boy's eyes lit up. He put it on straight away and it almost came down to his knees, he didn't care and went away as if he had just won the lottery.

Leaving Pisco was an experience in itself as we sailed south we passed the Paracas Candelabra. It was similar to the Nazca Lines. Almost 600 feet tall the giant Candelabra* is carved into the hillside of the Paracas Peninsular just south of Pisco. It dates from around 200 BC and can clearly be seen from the sea from up to 12 miles away. Although we spent almost three months on the west coast of South America it was nowhere near long enough.

*The 'Candelabra' is thought to signify a Tree

The plight of the kids upset me a little, invoking memories from a bad time. It was mild compared to what was to come in Matarani.

Salad Days.11

Matarani was like nothing I'd experienced so far, although it was not too dissimilar to other places. So far I had only seen sand and city, there had been no lush greenery save for the jungle surrounding the Panama Canal. Matarani was sand and rock but from the dock there appeared to be no town. I finally managed to shake Alan off and quickly headed ashore on my own. I wanted to see more than the inside of a seedy bar.

As with Valparaiso and everywhere else so far, I had no local knowledge. The uphill walk from the dock to find civilisation didn't look that daunting but it proved to be a little more challenging than I expected.

[I should point out that this account is from 30 years ago and having used Google Earth I can see significant changes in the landscape. Apart from the area having been developed significantly, so too has the road from the dock. It has been lengthened in each direction and now consists of just two or three turns instead of seven or eight]

A road snaked around for the heavy lorries from the dock, making the route an easier gradient for them. In typical fashion I decided the best way to the top was a straight line. To follow the twists and turns of the road would take more than an hour and there were no taxis.

As I would find out some years later, climbing on loose rock or scree wasn't easy. By the time I reached the top I questioned whether I had taken the best route. Looking back at the winding road below, with a slow-moving truck full of ore lumbering labouredly onward and upwards, I was tired and thirsty but still convinced I had saved at least half an hour.

There was still some way to go before the buildings began but at least it was flat. It was as I approached the first single story sandstone dwellings, I noticed holes in the ground. They were partially covered with a sheet of corrugated tin. Curious, I went to investigate. I was almost at the hole when an old man poked his head out giving a toothless grin. Smiling, I waved, and kept walking. More heads popped out from the holes and it dawned on me these holes were dwellings.

As I neared a street of rundown shacks a boy approached me. The lad looked about seven or eight years old and without hesitation he took hold of my hand. He was dressed in just a pair of shorts and had no shoes. I was somewhat confused as the boy led me to a street. 'Had something happened? The boy hadn't uttered a word but was smiling, it couldn't be anything serious'. The shacks were single story with one glass-less window and an open doorway. It was to one of these the boy led me. In the open single room was an old man and a younger woman whom I assumed were the boy's mother and grandfather. The woman was sat sewing with needle and thread.

I didn't understand the greetings. A word I did understand however was 'cerveza'. It quickly became apparent the old man had seen a business opportunity and sent his grandson to watch for any seamen brave (foolhardy?) enough to visit the town. I bought one of the lukewarm beers and sat to drink it. It wasn't really enjoyable and I felt a little uncomfortable as three generations sat staring at me. It was like I was intruding on their privacy but they all had big smiles and nodded whenever my eyes met theirs. Out of sympathy I bought a second beer.

When I finally made hand gestures to say I had to leave (I wanted to find a real bar), the old man seemed to understand and sent the boy with me to show the way. The boy led me to a bar a good fifteen minute walk away which made me feel a little guilty. I gave the boy my loose change, said thank you, and disappeared into the bar. The cold beers were a lot more palatable and I began to relax, impervious to all the curious stares. My thoughts kept drifting back to the old man in the hole and the family trying to eke out a living hijacking seamen on their way into the shanty town.

Three hours later I had spent the money allocated for the run ashore and happily drunk decided it was time to go back for food. Stepping  out of the bar I saw the boy who acted as my guided was there waiting. Had he sat there the whole time I was in the bar? I felt guilty. The boy must have been sat in the sun without a drink or anything to eat whilst I was indulging in excess. I didn't even have any money left to give the boy. As I had done with the boy in Pisco I took off my T-shirt and gave it the lad. He seemed just as pleased as the kid had and followed suit by putting it on immediately. 

As the boy led me back through the narrow streets other kids began to follow. In the end there were five boys and three girls in tow of varying ages. The kids followed back past where the boy lived. I tried to tell them not to follow anymore but either they didn't understand or simply ignored me. Worried they would continue to follow if I took the direct route I decided to walk back along the road. They followed me back right to the ship's gangway. Some of the crew saw me approach like some kind of Pied Piper and asked what was going on. I explained about the boy, and the people living in holes in the ground.

The gathered crew members looked at the kids still standing at the bottom of the gangway. It was dinner time and a suggestion was made. Nobody remembers who thought of the idea initially but it was instantly and unanimously accepted. Five minutes later eight Peruvian kids were sat at tables in the crew mess, totally unaware they almost sparked a mutiny.

The cooks were aware of the extra mouths to feed and refused, saying there wasn't enough and it was more than their jobs were worth. The Chief Steward heard the dispute and sided with the cooks. The seamen said they would go without and the kids could have their meals but the steward stood firm. Eventually the Captain was alerted and came into the messroom. He took one look at the kids and turned to the Chief Steward:

"Feed the children and in future don't be such an ass!"

The Chief Steward's protestations were drowned out by the cheers of the crew and they went to get plates for the kids. Hearty meals were placed in front of them and the seamen watched eager to see their charges enjoy the food. The kids were uncertain and hesitant, puzzling the watching crew. Then the boy I met did the 'sign of the cross' and every kid joined in with a short prayer. How humble we felt at that moment. On the walk back I saw lots of shrines on the twisty mountain road and wondered about how religious the people were to have so many in the most unlikely places. Many years later I found out they were memorials for people who had died on that road.

Prayer over, the kids tucked in with a will and broke the spell. The other crew members saw the boy wearing my T-shirt and went below. Everyone of the kids left with a T-shirt bought in some far off land and an orange and apple each. The kids waved and made the long climb back to their homes. That night in the crew bar the seamen were very subdued. In the morning we went out on deck and saw an odd sight, especially in such a barren landscape. The bottom of the gangway was festooned with flower petals.

Matarani may not have been the most exciting destination but few places left such a lasting impression. #NotEveryoneSucks @NotEvery1Sucks

Salad Days.12

Word spread that the nearest town was Mollendo so several taxis were booked that evening. It would be a short stint ashore however, the ship was due to sail at midnight. We tried several bars before settling on one and a good time was had by all. There were a few girls about but not the sort we had become accustomed to. In truth I was a little relieved, Pisco had been enough for me for the time being. Or at least that's what I thought. I was only 17 years old, it was a bit of a stretch.

At 11pm when we were just looking at leaving three girls walked into the bar. To cut a long story short they were from Canada and were very interested in Alan and me. At around 11.25 we knew we had to leave or miss the ship. No contest, we went back to the hotel with the Canadian girls. We reasoned that I had a long taxi ride in Lima for pence and the price of the taxi from Valparaiso to Santiago we considered a bargain, how much would a taxi twice the distance cost?

It turned out to be a week's wage for both of us but we didn't bat an eyelid. A week's wages when you are months at sea wouldn't be missed. We were more concerned with the state of the taxi. It had no windscreen nor bonnet to cover the engine. If we knew of the third problem we would never have gotten into the car.

The road from Mollendo to Ilo in daylight was perhaps more terrifying than the return in darkness from Santiago. I think it was most likely due to our sudden awareness of the third fault with the taxi. On a downhill gradient the driver had to pump the brakes that only seemed to work sporadically. The first part of the journey was the worst as we rose into the foothills of the Andes and down the other side. If the brakes were a major concern, the driver was a bigger one. We were sat in the back seats and he kept looking over his shoulder to talk to us. I finally understood the religious aspect of the people, I said a few prayers that day. There are no atheists on a sinking ship.

The last part of the journey was hair-raising for a different reason. The road ran along the coast and in many places just a matter of yards from the mighty Pacific Ocean. Spray and water hit the road ahead, we could feel the car aquaplaning on its no doubt bald tyres. The driver never lost his smile, he could probably buy a new car with the price of the fare. For the only time and can recall, my prayers were answered and we arrived in Ilo in one piece, albeit with stinking hangovers and jangling nerves.

The Captain was less than pleased when we took the driver on board to get his money. He did our hangovers no favours ranting at us even though we lied through our teeth saying we got lost. As we were just kids he didn't throw the book at us though. We were fined a day's wage and not allowed ashore in Ilo which I didn't consider a punishment. I hadn't worked the day I lost so there was no real loss and you couldn't have dragged me ashore after last night.

It was with a little sadness we left Peru for the last time. This ship was my coming-of-age as far as the sea was concerned. Peru and Chile had left lasting impressions on me and were the catalyst for an attitude change. It would be wrong to attribute it solely to South America, the crew also played a huge part. After the problems I had at school and then on the streets briefly, I was a pretty angry person. I still am in some ways but at least now I was angry for the right reasons.

Balboa or Panama City had a similar feel to Cristobal on the Atlantic side but the experience was not the same. It was bigger and busier, possibly because it was at the end of the Puente de las Américas, which at the time was the only link between the North and South American continents. In any event it was somewhat of an anti-climax. We arrived at night and sailed early in the morning. Once again the journey through the Canal was awe-inspiring and Peter Frampton was in full voice as the ship blasted music out to the jungle.

At the locks some of the Panamanian guys came on board and started tapping along to the music with makeshift instruments. I was amazed at the natural rhythm they had, all doing a different beat yet all coming together like pieces in a jigsaw. Needless to say there were a few herbal transactions going on but the crew were a little dismayed to hear we would be docking in Avonmouth. It was renowned as a HMC&E training place and it was common for ships to get ripped apart by the rummagers. The crew decided it was going to be one hell of a party on the Atlantic crossing.

Unfortunately the Atlantic had other ideas and once again showed us its ire. A 7-10 day crossing took us 17 days and never were we so glad to see England again even though it was a shock to the system. We had come from summer in the southern hemisphere to winter in England with no autumnal cushion in between. I had no intention of staying home long, I needed more sunshine.

Salad Days.13

I was to become eternally grateful I joined my next ship as an EDH and was no longer considered a boy rating. My 18th birthday was a week before I joined the ship and it couldn't have come at a better time. The crew of the last ship were in the main easy-going, hippiesque (I made that word up but you get the gist). The crew of this one were mostly drunken brawlers, the stereotypical seamen in the eyes of many shoresiders. Of course I didn't know that immediately but it became apparent very quickly. If I were given the choice of repeating the experience, would I? Hard to say, probably. I think the positives outweighed the negatives on a personal level. 

The trip would certainly be eventful. Joining in Brest, everything seemed normal. The first thing I noticed was the crew all came from different places. One Geordie, one Jock, one Scouse, etc. I joked afterwards that the Federation had taken the worst arsehole from every pool in the country and stuck them on this ship. The ship itself was a 53,000 tonnes bulk carrier. It was huge compared to my last ship but not in the same league as the supertanker. It was a rust-bucket and maybe my conspiracy theory was not far from the truth.

We went ashore en masse in Brest and the crew were already boisterous, pushing and shoving each other. It was a popular game, as someone with you approaches a lamp-post or sign-post, they would be given a nudge so they walked into it. I wasn't participating but that didn't mean I wouldn't be a victim. With a little help from Scouse I walked smack into a pole. It was cold and I had my hands in my pockets so I caught it full on and felt a lump rising on my head.

Everyone carried on and the laughter died down, then I saw it. There was a dead rat in the kerb and the others ignored it. Walking at the back to avoid anymore injury, I saw a chance of revenge. I picked up the rat and threw it as hard as I could. Bullseye! It hit Scouse on the back of the head so hard it knocked him forward. When everybody saw the rat the were decking it, holding their stomachs as they laughed so loud it hurt. Scouse didn't laugh, he rubbed his head and looked at me angrily. I just stood there smiling and I put a finger to my forehead where the lump was. He scowled and turned away.

Apart from a minor scuffle between Paddy and an engine room guy, there was no trouble ashore. The problem occurred in the dock itself. Half a dozen fork-lifts were parked up for the night and all the keys were in the ignitions. It was too much of a temptation and races were organised. The fork-lifts didn't exactly go fast but when you had your pedal to the metal they were really hard to steer in a straight line. I have to admit watching the antics was very funny and yes, I did have a go. It was funny right up to the point the deck-boy after being bumped by another driver headed straight off the quay and into the dock. Everybody dashed to look what became of him. When we saw his treading water we started laughing. Luckily he was close to a ladder, the water was freezing.

The next night we went ashore but all split into pairs, it was clear this crew wasn't going to get along. As I came back with Tommy, a steward from Norwich who was barely a year older than me, I noticed a number of black cars. They weren't there the night before and the windows were blacked out. It had to be because of the antics last night. They were probably wanting to know where the other fork-lift was. I couldn't wait to get away from France. In truth it wasn't just France, I wanted shot of Europe, I'd just had nearly a year of summers. Unfortunately we were headed to Antwerp and London first.

Antwerp wasn't particularly thrilling as most stayed in the same pairs. It was a quiet night as a result. There had already been a couple of scuffles on board but both times Paddy was involved. He was very pugnacious and fearless, thankfully he was just average height and quite thin so he wasn't a major threat to anyone. He catch-phrase was "What'll you do?" (in an Irish accent) and was usually by someone saying 'don't...' or 'stop...', if they made a threat Paddy would spring into action. I couldn't decide what Paddy liked more, hitting or being hit.

In London we docked at an almost deserted Millwall Dock. The only ship in was A Russian one on the far side of the dock. Thatcher's sell out and dismantling of the merchant navy was already in full swing. Soon seamanship would disappear from our island nation. The best trained seamen in the world would no longer be required when so many cheap imports were available. The government allowed British companies to register in 3rd world countries so they didn't have to meet the strict safety guidelines laid down by the Lloyd's Register insurers. Safety of crew / passengers is not of great importance.

Outside the dock gates it was just a short walk through the deserted streets until we found a pub. At lunch hour we all frequented the pub, even though we had cheaper beer on board. It was just good to get off the ship. There was a stripper every lunchtime laid on by the landlord, it was a piece of genius with all the drunken lechers in attendance. I could relate an incident in which the poor deck boy was 'educated' by the stripper on the pool table, but I'm trying to avoid an 18+ label for this series. Besides which, a repetition today could see criminal charges brought against the crew (and the stripper), though I doubt the deck-boy would press charges.

Finally we left cold and miserable London and were headed south-west on route to Lisbon. the company were keeping their cards close to their chest when informing us of our next port of call. It should have aroused some suspicion but it was quite common for tramp ships. We had no thoughts beyond Lisbon anyway. Still there was no sign of what was to come as all the seamen congregated in the Texas Bar. I remembered  that bar on subsequent visits over the years but whilst it kept its name it changed its identity.

I suppose the presence of available women was a pacifier and I was lulled into a false sense of security. There was much more to Lisbon than just the Texas Bar but we only had an overnight stay on this occasion, giving me no time to explore, We sailed into the Mediterranean and took bunkers in Malta without major incident and whilst there were no scuffles the volume of arguments increased. The constant squabbling over trivia was beginning to get to me and one night I turned the sound system in the bar onto max to drown them out. A big Geordie donkey-greaser came rushing into the bar and ripped the machine out of the wall.
"Who the fuck turned that up?" he demanded and everyone looked at me.
"I did" I said defiantly.

Some of you may think I was extremely brave but I'd already been grassed up by everyone looking at me so I had to stand firm and deny and look a coward. The donkey-greaser stormed over me and launched a verbal tirade at me as I stood looking at him impassively. We were almost touching noses but I wasn't going to back away. When he finally ran out of expletives I said softly:
"Have you got a problem?"

The confused look he gave me would have been comical if I hadn't shat my pants. I could see his mind working out what to do next.
"Aaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh!!!" he yelled then turned and stomped out of the bar.

It was a close call but worth the risk, the crew were still looking at me in stunned silence. I should thank the donkey-greaser, it would be a long time before anyone picked on me. They imagined I was a lunatic or some sort of martial arts expert. Suez Canal was next, I hoped it would give me the same feeling as Panama had.