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.