By the Anchor Light

Tony Crowley

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 By the Anchor Light
by Tony Crowley

McGrath’s revenge
Four moorings and a fiasco
A fatal flaw
Captain William Harvey
Cuidado Marinero!
Where the sky is blue
A ship bound for New Zealand
Grandfather was right
Survive!
John Marra - gunner’s mate
I want to be Captain
Seafarers in distress
Mutiny on the Redcar
Sea Shanty
Baffled by Baffin
Killorain’s treasure island
Forty years on
Captains
1912

Here is a selection of seafaring yarns. They are a mixture of fact

and fiction. Whether afloat or ashore, I hope you will find a safe
anchorage, rig a good light, then relax and enjoy them.

The Crowsnest.
30 Mandeville Road, Hertford, SG13 8JG

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 McGrath’s Revenge
A South Seas melodrama
The war in the Pacific was hardly over when the drums began beating. A
continuous low-pitched rhythm throbbed from the cloud-capped hills
overlooking the island of Nasuma. It rolled across the valleys, through the
vanilla plantations, over the mangrove swamps and down to the harbour
where the inter-island ferry Ocean Flower lay at her berth. Her decks were
dusty and deserted. Not a soul or thing stirred aboard save for a small
masthead flag which fluttered feebly at each passing breath of air. A lone
figure walked slowly along the quayside, pausing occasionally to wipe his
brow and rest before continuing on his way. At the foot of the gangway, he
stopped to inspect the vessel and noticed someone crouching by one of the
lifeboats. ‘What are you doing, Mr McGrath?’ he shouted in a tone which
carried some authority. Kevin McGrath, a native of Kerry and first mate of
the Ocean Flower, arose from the boat deck holding a spanner in one hand
and shading his eyes from the blinding glare of the sun with the other. ‘I’m
just checking the rails, sir,’ he cried as he recognised the ship’s master on
the quayside below. ‘Apparently, there’s a loose one up here somewhere.’
‘Belay that,’ growled the Captain. ‘I’d like a word in your ear.’

The Captain mounted the gangway slowly and reached the deck just as the
mate stepped out into the alleyway. ‘Is everything alright, sir?’ asked Kevin
and then added. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look worn out.’ ‘I’m
fine,’ replied the Captain abruptly, ‘But what about our passengers?’ He
indicated with a thumb in the direction of the saloon further down the
alleyway. ‘Well, they’re not overjoyed with the delay. Grimble, the Colonial
Office fellow, says there'll be trouble if we don’t sail by tomorrow. His wife
is expecting another child and she was unwell last night. Then the war hero
with the double-barrel name came hammering on my door so I escaped to
the boat deck for a bit of peace. Apart from that everything is, as you might
say, tickety-boo.’ The Captain shot Kevin an odd sort of look and continued,
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‘I’ll speak to them later. We’ll sail when I say and not a minute before. I
have some private business to clear up. If they pester you, tell them there’s a
hurricane warning or whatever. I’m sure you’ll think of something.’ ‘Very
good sir. I hope they’ll swallow it.’ Kevin turned and strolled away. ‘The
old devil’s away with the fairies again,’ he thought as he flicked yet another
butt end with pinpoint accuracy into a bucket standing outside the galley.

The Captain stood alone on the deck, his eyes staring coldly at the distant
horizon. Above him, the seagulls circled with their plaintive cries. From the
saloon came the rattle of cutlery and the clinking of glasses; a canvas awning
flapped in the breeze, and, somewhere on the ship’s side, a discharge pipe
opened and spewed forth its contents into the waters below. Whistling
cheerfully, the ship’s cook emerged from the galley and removed some
freshly risen dough from a nearby bucket, but of these sounds the Captain
was unaware. Yet he was listening; listening intently to a sound which came
from the hills, the sound of drums.

Miss Clarissa Twist, a college librarian, sat tight-lipped in the saloon of the
Ocean Flower studying the menu. ‘Green pea soup but no sippets, thank
you,’ she hissed to the little Chinese steward who bobbed his head and
scuttled away. ‘As I was saying Mr McGrath, do you know a good cure for
sea sickness?’ Kevin stared at her thoughtfully and then replied, ‘Oh I do,
Miss Twist, indeed I do. The only real cure is to find a nice green tree and go
and sit underneath it.’ Miss Twist smiled, ‘How very droll. And can you tell
us anything about that drumming in the hills?’ ‘Sure,’ said Kevin. ‘I’ve
worked in these islands since before the war and those drums you hear are
part of ceremony held every ten years in honour of Owata-Pekka.’
‘Really?’ replied Miss Twist. ‘Is he an important chief?’ ‘No, I think yer
man’s a fertility god. But don't be alarmed, the mountain people are
harmless and you’ll sleep safely tonight.’ Miss Twist blushed and made a
mental note to remove the parasol from under her pillow.

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A silence fell over the saloon, broken at intervals when Grimble junior
slurped his soup, and several minutes passed before anyone else spoke.
Resplendent in a green velour smoking jacket, Major Spencer Canning-
Horsham (Catering Corps - retired) carefully wiped his moustache with the
edge of his napkin and waited for the attention of the other diners. ‘Look, I
don't know how you good people feel about being delayed here, but
personally I find it damn annoying. I mean to say I'll miss the golf club
dinner and dance if we don’t sail tonight.’ ‘And,’ he thought to himself,
‘That bounder Carruthers will be hanging around Gloria Ponsonby, the new
nurse. So young, so fragile and so vulnerable. What a divine creature! I
haven’t seen such shapely ankles in many a long day.’ The others at the
table were nodding in agreement and for a worrying moment he wondered if
they could read his thoughts, then Grimble, the man from the Colonial
Office, spoke. ‘I’ve tried to speak to the Captain but he’s not been answering
his door and my wife is getting quite anxious. Has he given you any reason
for our delay, Mr McGrath?’ Kevin mentioned the hurricane warning and
added that the Captain didn’t want to take unnecessary risks. ‘A hurricane
warning?’ echoed Miss Twist. ‘But I listened to the wireless all morning.
The weather forecast followed the church service from Samoa - the vicar
there is such a charming man. I know his wife very well, we serve on the
ladies social committee at government house. She‘s one of the Woode-
Smthyes from Bagshot, you know. Now where was I? Oh yes, I heard the
weather forecast for the islands and there were certainly no hurricane
warnings.’ Kevin groaned inwardly as all eyes turned in his direction. He
took a deep breath and prepared plan (b): an unusually low tide and the risk
of Ocean Flower running aground on the reef.

The brass clock on the bulkhead chimed twice and as the Captain heaved
himself to his feet, his hand slipped on the edge of the desk at which he had
been dozing and sent a half-empty whisky bottle crashing to the deck. The
clear liquid formed a pool around the broken glass and started to drain away
in a stream towards the doorway. The telephone rang several times but he
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ignored it. He lurched drunkenly across the cabin and struggled to open the
porthole. Fresh air flowed into the cabin and he gulped at it eagerly. In a
nearby cabin, someone was whining a tuneless refrain, but before he could
close the porthole, the drumming started again. What did it all mean? He
could put up with the voices that came at night but not the drums; they were
driving him insane. Ashore, he had found some escape from the relentless
pounding. It had been so peaceful there. He remembered the daylight
streaming through stained-glass windows, the overpowering fragrance of
incense and flowers, and the rows of candles flickering beneath the statues.
Once more he heard his footsteps echoing on the stone floor as he walked
towards the church door. And then the drums returned. With each step, they
became louder and louder. If only he could stay there, they might leave him
alone. But it was no use; he had to leave and face the demons that were
taunting him. There was no point in telling the passengers though, they
would only laugh. Such idle and arrogant people but they kept the Ocean
Flower in business. ‘I don’t know how McGrath can stand them, but then
perhaps he‘s on their side. I never did like the fellow. Doesn’t show enough
respect for my liking. He’s probably after my job if the truth is known. I’ll
have to get rid of him somehow and the sooner the better.’ He staggered out
of his cabin and stumbled across the wooden deck. For several moments he
leaned against the rails ranting incoherently to himself, his bloodshot eyes
staring wildly at the distant hills, and his bulky figure silhouetted against the
burning blue of the Pacific sky.

In her small cabin on the boat deck, Miss Clarissa Twist was busy at her
needlepoint whilst happily humming her favourite hymn. Midway through a
crescendo in ‘And was Jerusalem builded here’ she heard a sudden noise
and a cry outside the porthole. She put down her work and peered out
anxiously. ‘Coooeee..is anyone there?’ But there was only silence and no
sign of a disturbance. ‘Well, that did give me a turn,’ she whispered
nervously as she resumed her task; a present for her favourite niece,
Hermione, currently serving a five-year sentence at boarding school in
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England’s green and pleasant land.

The tiffin gong sounded aboard the Ocean Flower and the passengers
assembled in the saloon for tea. Several eagerly tucked into a large plate of
cucumber sandwiches made from freshly baked bread. McGrath noted the
Captain’s empty chair and wondered what could possibly interest the old
man ashore. ‘Were he a bit younger, I’d understand, but he’s sixty if he’s a
day. Ah, it’s a queer old world, sure enough.’ His thoughts were rudely
interrupted by the major's braying voice. ‘McGrath, inform the Captain that
we wish to speak to him as soon as possible. We’ve been delayed long
enough. The man is always AWOL. Frankly, it’s a bad show, a damn bad
show! And no more of your hurricane warnings and all that blarney about
the tides!’ Kevin nodded. How he would love to sort out this pompous eejit.
Then, all of a sudden, the small Chinese steward came rushing in babbling
hysterically. ‘Mr Mate, sir, you come plenty damn quick! Sailors catch big
big fish...him on deck now. One bloody mess! Hurry please!’ Kevin leapt to
his feet and followed the steward out of the saloon. Immediately all the
passengers started talking and Miss Twist paled as she struggled to find a
bottle of smelling salts in her handbag. The Major arose. ‘I suggest that the
ladies remain here while a couple of us chaps go and see if we can be of any
assistance. This kind of thing often happens; the natives land sharks without
taking any precautions. It sounds like a twenty-foot rokea: a frightful butcher.
Flashes like a hurled lance through the water. Bite you in half as soon as
look at you.’ Miss Twist gave a feeble cry and fainted. ‘Yes,’ he continued,
stepping over her prostrate figure. ‘Seen it happen once. Ghastly sight.
Couldn’t eat fish for months. Wonder where the First Aid kit is?’

‘Thank you, Major, but there is no need for any medical assistance.’ Ashen-
faced, Kevin stood in the saloon doorway. ‘But what about the men who
caught the shark?’ asked the Major looking puzzled. ‘We understood there
was an accident.’ Kevin shook his head slowly, ‘No, they’re OK. They were
just cutting it open and there’s some clearing up to be done - a few loose
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ends.’ He paused and turned to the Major. ‘Do you still wish to see the
Captain?’ ‘Indeed I do, sir, and I intend to give him a piece of my mind -
and there’s no lie!’ Kevin gestured towards the open door. ‘Well I think
you’ll find that he’s just come out on deck.’

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 Four moorings and a fiasco
[Mooring n.s. a place of safety where
a vessel is secured by chain or rope.]

Some years after leaving the Merchant Navy, I recalled a boyhood ambition
to own a sailing ship and explore the South Seas. As I stared wearily past
my reflection on a crowded train from work, I heard surf breaking over a reef
and pictured myself landing on some flowering coral shore and surrounded
by beautiful maidens. All I asked was 'a tall ship and a star to steer her by'.
By the time I got home, I had made up my mind to buy a boat, learn the
ropes, and set sail for Paradise. Unfortunately, the great adventure did not
unfold in quite the way that I had anticipated.

I searched for my dream ship with an abundance of optimism matched only

by my ignorance. After exploring several boatyards and marinas, I was much
taken by Osmosis, a simple but rugged craft named, I assumed, after some
ancient Egyptian god; very possibly a god of the sea. This seemed to be
confirmed when the owner nudged me and with a knowing wink said
‘Tempting fate, eh?’ Indeed, Osmosis may have been cursed but not by any
form of wet rot which her name, apparently, implied. After a trial sail, and
having accepted my first offer, he handed over a large bunch of keys. ‘This
one will get you into the clubhouse at B. This one usually unlocks the
showers at M. This opens the yard gates at D.’ etc. ‘And what about the
keys to the boat?’ I asked as he hurried away up the pontoon. ‘Oh nobody
will want to pinch that.’ was his brief reply. He was leaving the country to
open an underwater diving school in the Canary Islands. Little did I know,
that with the passage of time, I was to envy his occupational skills. Later, I
sat in the cabin and studied the boat’s papers. She was registered under a
different name, and had six previous owners: all were ‘company directors’
and none had kept her for more than two seasons. Heartened by their
experiences in this modest yacht they had probably upgraded to something
more in keeping with their status. Reassured by these thoughts, I spent
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several challenging hours starting the engine.

I liked the small marina in which Osmosis lay and wrote to the manager
expressing an interest in retaining the berth. His reply was swift and blunt.
The previous owner had left several unpaid bills and, as the new owner, these
were now my responsibility. Under marine lien, certain debts remained with
a vessel and he would have no hesitation in impounding the yacht if they
were not paid immediately. I was stunned and pictured a writ being nailed to
the mast and steel barges forming a menacing blockade. Fortunately, a friend
had advised the insertion of the phrase ‘free of all encumbrances’ in the bill
of sale so I wrote a stern letter to the previous owner reminding him of his
responsibilities. Would this be sufficient? I stared doubtfully at the large
bunch of unofficial keys which I had inherited and planned our escape. Then
more unfinished business at other yards came to light and it was clear that
something more drastic was required. Armed with a bowsprit and fittings, an
unusual boom support, some quick-drying deck paint and a pair of
temporary name boards, I sneaked into the yard under cover of darkness. At
dawn, the pea green cutter Little Owl slipped quietly from the marina and out
to sea in search of new and distant cruising grounds. On reflection, it had
been a useful experience. For the first (and possibly the last) time in my life,
I had purchased a cranse iron (galvanised) and attached a bobstay. I had
also discovered the meaning of lien.

We wintered in a canal that was choked with waterlogged sailing craft and
abandoned dreams. As space was limited, Osmosis was forced to moor
alongside a large yacht, the owner of which lived in America. After a few
weeks, I noticed that water was gradually seeping into the cockpit of his
yacht and lapping around the duckboards leading to the cabin. Thereafter, on
my weekly visit to the canal, I manned the pumps vigorously and kept her
reasonably dry and afloat. It seemed the right thing to do - ‘hands across the
sea’ and all that. One pleasant afternoon, as I sat on Osmosis enjoying the
pale winter sun, a man appeared on the towpath. In a hectoring voice, he
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reprimanded me for my matching pair of Michelin fenders, my overtight
mooring lines and for my muddy footprints. It was the yacht’s owner
recently returned from the colonies. Maintaining a dignified silence, I slipped
my lines and managed to find another mooring further up the canal. Call it
mean-spirited if you will, but when we passed a little later on the towpath, I
couldn’t bring myself to tell him about his leak. Anyway, it had been a
useful experience and I had some helpful tips on the etiquette of rafting up.

Spring beckoned. I joined a sailing club and received an invitation to a pre-

season meeting. Impressed by pompous titles such as ‘commodore’ and the
like, I wore a smart blazer with a Merchant Navy tie and, during the fifty
miles drive to the coast, rehearsed a short acceptance speech. The members
assembled in the rain on a drab sea wall overlooking a featureless estuary.
The vice-commodore (senior) explained to the newcomers that the club had
no premises (burnt down), no social activities (secretary resigned), and no
newsletter (nothing to report), but it had a shed, a slipway and spare
moorings, all of which needed urgent maintenance. Suitably attired for work,
the others set about their tasks with enthusiasm. Prancing about like a Boat
Show rep in the mud, I must have looked a complete idiot. Anyway,
Osmosis was allocated a buoy close to a beach which was overlooked by a
large holiday caravan site. Viewed from the fish and chip kiosk, she looked
isolated and vulnerable.

A month later, I arrived at the slipway in time to see a gang of kids boarding
and ransacking my beloved craft. They had already taken the binoculars, fire
extinguisher, clock, torch, compass, lamps, radio and charts, and were
returning for anything else on which they could lay their hands. The vice-
commodore (junior) and I rowed out stealthily to apprehend them, but
inexplicably, as we rounded the stern, he shouted out in anger. They
immediately dived overboard and made for the shore leaving behind a large
dinghy which he deflated. Several club members trawled through the caravan
site and recovered most of my belongings whilst angry parents unleashed
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their wrath on the culprits. I was grateful for the help the club had given but
decided to quit the mooring on the ebb tide. Sailing past a spit of land, I
noticed the gang of mud larks gesticulating and shouting. Assuming they
were hurling abuse, I ignored them and sailed on imperiously. Several hours
later, I discovered a large dinghy in the fore cabin. All in all it was a useful
experience and helped to clarify the role of a yacht club's vice-commodore.

Summer was slipping by with still no sign of a permanent parking place. In

makeshift havens, Osmosis yearned to be free and persistently dragged her
anchor. One memorable night, a borrowed mooring buoy parted company
with its cable and the ebb tide carried the three of us gently down the estuary
and out to sea. Then a call came from a boatyard which had a spare mooring
alongside a jetty. ‘Can you bring her in next Friday? It would be ... er ...
more convenient.’ I arrived on time to discover that alongside meant bow
lines to the jetty, stern lines to mooring buoys, and breast lines to nearby
craft. But worse was to follow. My arrival had been conveniently timed to
coincide with an exceptionally high tide. At most other tides, Osmosis
squatted in the mud like a trussed-up duck and refused to budge. Even when
she was afloat, it took a well-organised operation with the dinghy to release
her without fouling a spider's web of lines from other boats. More often than
not, I gave up in despair and sat aboard strumming my ukulele and dreaming
of Tahiti. Although I hadn’t started baying at full moon, things were moving
in that direction so I left, but with some reluctance for it was a friendly place
and the staff were ever helpful and considerate. They even sent me a farewell
card with their best wishes. However, it had been a useful experience; my
knowledge of tides had increased considerably and I now had a clearer
perception of spring tides and what it meant to be neaped.

It was autumn once more. Osmosis sat snugly in a mud berth at the edge of
some saltings. As the tide rose, an armada of small boats emerged from the
mud and bobbed around on the top of the marshes. When the tide fell, the
boats gradually disappeared from sight leaving a forest of masts to mark their
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resting place. On a misty morning, it was a mysterious and fascinating sight;
the perfect mooring in harmony with nature. All was serene until that fateful
day when, unbeknown to me, the yard made some changes to my mooring
stage and snagged my lines. Trapped by her stern on a flood tide, Osmosis
suffered what the surveyor's report called ‘a severe ingress of sea water’, ie.
she sank. At high tide, only the wooden mast guarded by a lone seagull, was
visible. It seemed the last straw, particularly when the yard refused to accept
any responsibility and its insurers accused me of negligence. Fortunately, my
insurers were not fobbed off so easily. They pursued the case with vigour to
the door of the court and the other side conceded defeat. All the costs were
recovered including some extra compensation for ‘loss of pleasure’ - a
doubtful bonus but one that was gratefully accepted. By and large it had
been a useful experience for it had helped me to discover, not only the value
of adequate marine insurance, but two extra seacocks. Also, in a brief
moment of frustration, I had found another use for that intriguing word
ingress.

Raised and restored, Osmosis returned to the mooring. It had been a long
season and we were both tired of running. With winter approaching, it was a
time to reflect on all those valuable experiences and to face the new season
with renewed optimism. Hopefully, there would be more useful lessons and
less useless moorings. The South Seas might have to wait, but at least I could
now bluff my way in sailing with a whole new vocabulary.

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 A fatal flaw

Here is a nautical version of an old riddle. Some people see the solution
almost immediately, whereas others puzzle over it for hours - even days.

One cold and wet evening an old cargo ship was lurching slowly across the
North Atlantic . The third mate was brewing a pot of tea in the chartroom
and the lookout huddled miserably behind the bridge dodger to avoid the
rain. In the radio shack, the ship's radio officer was listening to some music
from a French station. He sat nodding sleepily by the receiver and his head
sank lower and lower until it was almost resting on the bench in front of him
and he fell asleep. In his dream, he imagined he was living in Paris at the
time of the Revolution and was on his way to the guillotine jeered by a large
and violent crowd. Struggling desperately for his life, he was dragged up the
steps to the platform and his neck laid across the fatal plank. Stricken with
absolute terror he awaited the falling blade. At that very moment, the third
mate popped his head around the radio room door. Seeing the operator
asleep, he leaned across and tapped him smartly on the back of his neck with
a teaspoon. ‘Wake up, Sparks, tea's ready,’ he called. To his horror, the
radio operator fell dead at his post!

The problem: Although such a fatality is possible, what evidence does the
story contain which proves that it cannot have happened?

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 Captain William Harvey

One autumn day, whilst walking through the churchyard of St Cecilia’s

church in the Hertfordshire village of Little Hadham, I came across a weather
worn grave with the following inscription:

‘Captain William Harvey late of the Royal Navy who accompanied that
illustrious navigator Captain James Cook in his three Voyages of
Discoveries who died 12th July 1807. Aged 55 years.’ This was followed
by an illegible epitaph. The other side of the gravestone was almost
completely worn away but it was just possible to decipher: ‘Martha Harvey
Widow of this parish. Wife of William Harvey. Who died May 20th 1836.
Aged 72 years’.

The records office at County Hall had no information on William Harvey so

I explored the Public Records Office at Kew and the National Maritime
Museum library. By a strange coincidence I discovered that his great great
great grand daughter was also researching his life and this is what we found.

The voyages with Captain Cook

William Harvey was one of a handful of men who accompanied Captain

Cook on all three voyages, and had the unique distinction of serving on three
of Cook’s ships: Endeavour, Resolution, and Discovery. A Londoner, born
in 1752, he was 16 years of age when he joined the Endeavour at Deptford
for Cook’s first voyage. Well-educated and older than the other ‘young
gentlemen’ who joined as volunteers, his first appointment was as
Lieutenants’s Assistant or Servant, a position that was often reserved to
oblige relatives or friends. In April 1769 he was promoted to able-bodied
seaman and in February 1771 to midshipman. He does not appear to have
kept a record of his first voyage, but would have been busy ‘learning the
ropes’ and studying the art of navigation through techniques developed by
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the Hertfordshire-born mathematician, Edmund Gunter.

On the second voyage, he served as a midshipman on the Resolution. The

purpose of this voyage was to investigate the existence of a large southern
continent. When the ship entered the Antarctic circle, the first known to have
done so, the voyage became a hazardous adventure in which the crew faced
the perils of violent storms, fog and ice. In a ship that was never warm, many
of the seamen were unprepared for the intense cold and shivered with despair
in their hammocks, but Cook issued them with extra rations of rum and they
cheered up considerably. During the voyage, Cook christened both an island
and a bay with the name Harvey, but these were in honour of his Admiralty
sponsor and not the young midshipman who may well have been the first to
spot them from the crowsnest.

Whilst preparing Resolution for the third voyage, William Harvey met Omai,
a Tahitian who had come to England in 1774 in one of Cook’s ships and
was returning to the South Seas. Omai had much to tell him about his visit.
He had been an object of fascination to London’s high society which
lionised him as a noble savage; a man untainted and uncorrupted by modern
European society. He had met King George III, been introduced to Samuel
Johnson, and had his portrait painted by Joshua Reynolds

Upon meeting the King, he is reputed to have greeted him with the words
‘How do, King Tosh!’ The King was amused and later suggested that he
should be inoculated against small pox. Accordingly, he visited Hertford and
stayed with Baron Thomas Dimsdale who kept an isolation unit for victims
of small pox in the grounds of Port Hill House During his stay, Omai often
walked along Fore Street and by the River Lea where he enjoyed watching
anglers fishing but found their use of worms most disagreeable. Omai soon
tired of Hertford and was glad to get back to London. He returned to Tahiti
on the third voyage. Though his inoculation kept him completely free of a
disease which raged through the island, it was his undoing. Convinced that
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he was possessed of some kind of evil, his fellow islanders murdered him.

For this third voyage, William Harvey was promoted to master’s mate. The
master (usually the most skilled seaman and navigator aboard) was none
other than a very capable Mr William Bligh who was to be immortalised by
the mutiny on the Bounty. Bligh was actually two years younger than
William Harvey and, despite his rather tetchy temperament, they got on well
together. During the voyage, at Huaheine, Harvey was officer of the watch
responsible for guarding a native who had stolen a sextant. When everyone
fell asleep and the prisoner escaped, Cook was beside himself with rage. The
sentry responsible was given a dozen lashes on three consecutive days and
Harvey was demoted to midshipman and transferred to the Discovery. The
prisoner was recaptured and Cook, still fuming, ordered that his ears be cut
off, but it is quite likely that the ship’s barber let him go after only snipping
at his earlobes. Despite his temporary fall from grace, Harvey was considered
to be an honest, reliable and steady officer. He was well-liked by Bligh and
also by Cook who had him earmarked for promotion should the opportunity
arise. He was eventually promoted to third lieutenant when Cook was killed
in Hawaii and all the officers moved up in seniority.

Harvey’s journals

All journals from the voyages were impounded by the Admiralty and now
lie in the vaults of the Public Record Office in Kew. Written in a most
elegant copperplate script, Harvey’s are largely devoted to everyday events
aboard a King’s ship, e.g. the weather, the ship’s position, duties undertaken
by the crew, and floggings. He must have been aware that all such diaries
would be confiscated for there are few personal opinions and little
embellishment. e.g. ‘Punished John Marra with 12 lashes for drunkenness
and insubordination. Midshipman fell overboard and was drown’d. Light
Breezes and Fair.’ Just another day at the office really.

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Even when he faced Cook’s wrath, was disrated and banished from his sight,
he summed up the whole of this unfortunate episode quite briefly with ‘This
Day, I was transferred on board the Discovery, hence forward will be the
remarks on her.’ The entries begin to sparkle, however, when he records
sights and events which take place in the various islands. ‘As soon as it was
Day break, 12 or 14 single and double canoes came off full of Natives who
were Black. A small set of People with woolly Heads and naked except a
covering to their Penis having with them Clubs, Spears, Bows and Arrows.
After some inticing, one or two came onboard to which the Captain gave
Medals and several other Trinkets. They had not long been onboard before
they got up to the Mastheads and spoke to the Indians on shore who came
swimming off to the Ship. We soon had near a hundred onboard when an
Indian in one of ye canoes fired an arrow into the Ship. By firing one of our
Great Guns to frighten him, all those onboard jumped overboard and swam
ashore.’

A St Valentine’s Day Massacre

On 14th February 1779, Cook and several marines were attacked by natives
in Hawaii’s Kealakekua Bay and killed. Writing under some stress after
witnessing the event, Harvey explained how Cook had gone ashore with a
party of marines to invite a local chief back to the Resolution. The plan was
to keep him as a hostage until one of the ship’s boats, which had been stolen,
was returned. Despite his demotion to a lowly midshipman, Harvey accused
Cook of going ashore with a ‘treacherous design’ and of ‘trifling around’ on
the beach when surrounded by a thousand angry natives. Sparing some of
the more grizzly details, he described how two natives returned during the
night ‘and brought us a part of the sad remains of our unfortunate
Commander, being a piece of his flesh, about 8lbs.’ His main criticism,
however, was reserved for a junior officer in a nearby launch for failing to
come to the assistance of Cook’s party. He claimed that the officer had
threatened to shoot any man who pulled a stroke towards the shore. The
17
officer, Lieutenant Williamson, was eventually cleared by a shipboard
enquiry. Thereafter, Williamson’s naval career flourished and he was
promoted to post-captain, but in 1797, during the battle of Camperdown,
held back his vessel Agincourt from engaging with the Dutch fleet and was
cashiered in disgrace from the Navy. Nelson thought he should have swung
from the yardarm.

After the excitement of the discovery voyages, however, Harvey’s career

followed a less-adventurous route. His promotion to lieutenant was
confirmed in December 1779 and he served aboard the Isis, a ship that
seems to have led a charmed life avoiding capture and groundings. In
October 1790, he was promoted to the rank of Commander and captained
the Gorgon. This 44 gun Adventure Class frigate with a crew of 300 men
carried convicts to Australia in the Third Fleet and later served as a troop
carrier and hospital ship. The Prince of Wales was another of Harvey’s
postings. By 1800, he was one of the longest-serving commanders in what
had been a period of intense naval activity against the Dutch and French
navies. Presumably he was not a high-flyer or he lacked the social
connections that were so important in those times because he never attained
the coveted rank of post-captain. In his will dated 6th March 1799 he left all
his worldly possessions ‘to my dearly beloved wife Martha’ and died on
12th July 1807, but the cause of his death is unknown. A large dusty
Admiralty ledger reveals that, at the time of his death, he was receiving a
junior captain’s half-pay of 8 shillings (40p) per day. Shortly afterwards,
Martha was awarded a Navy widow’s pension of £60 a year.

William Harvey is not entirely forgotten. Off the coast of North East
Australia, there is a very small island called Harvey Island. It was named
after William by Captain Cook. Though uninhabited, today, it has a tidal
gauge on one of its beaches and the gauge relays tidal data to oceanic
research centres in Australia

18
Little Hadham

William married Martha Plummer, who was 12 years his junior, on 27th July
1790, in Portsea parish church, Southampton. Around 1794, they had a
daughter Elizabeth who married William Bendel, a Bloomsbury fishmonger,
and raised ten children. Martha outlived William by 29 years, but their
presence in the village is a bit of a mystery for apart from the parish burial
records, there are no further details. They lived in Halfway House not far
from the old ford on the road to Much Hadham. Margaret Course of
Cheadle, who is Harvey’s great great great granddaughter, has kindly
provided details of the family history and a copy of a miniature portrait
which has been in her family for several generations.

So Captain William Harvey ended his days in a quiet Hertfordshire village

with his wife, his young daughter and his memories. Perhaps, of an evening,
he would stroll down to the Nags Head inn and entertain the customers with
stories of Captain Cook and young Mr Bligh, South Sea paradises, naval
engagements, narrow escapes and mutinies. Who knows? But, if he did,
well what a tale he had to tell.

19
Cuidado marinero!
Crudely compiled from a Spanish phrase book, this
sad song commemorates a memorable night ashore.
(It may be sung to the tune of ‘Adios Muchachos’)

(Con la arrogancia)
Camarero, serva este marinero!
Prisa, prisa - un bocadillo
Calamar, patatas y guisantes
Y por favor, lave mi cuchillo

(Con la pasion)
La comida era excelente
Mi estómago muy se infesta
¿Ay chiquita, donde esta el retrete?
Urgencia! Devo vomitar!

(Con la tristeza)
No me molesten por la manana
No me siento bien en Espana
Quando cerrado, supermercado,
Tenga cuidado, marinero!

A loose translation

(With arrogance)
Waiter! Serve this hungry sailor.
Hurry up with a sandwich
of squid, chips and peas.
And how about a clean knife?

(With passion)
The meal was excellent
but my stomach is on fire.
¿Hey kid, where’s the bathroom?
This is an emergency! I am indisposed.

(With sorrow)
Please don’t wake me up in the morning.
I’ve spent a night in Spain rainbow yawning.
So if the supermarket is closed,
Beware sailor, beware!

20
 Where the sky is blue
‘The night train to New York is arriving at platform four,’ announced a harsh
metallic voice. The boy had waited impatiently for its arrival. It was good of
his elderly relatives to see him off on his first trip, but he was tired of making
small talk and was anxious to be on his way. ‘Now you write to us from
your first port of call,’ reminded Aunt Bessie. ‘And steer clear of them
foreign gals,’ she added, giving a knowing wink. Uncle Fred, straight from
the Miners’ Tavern, grinned at him affectionately through a drunken haze.
‘Good Luck, sailor!’ The boy embraced his aunt and then swung a heavy
kitbag over his shoulder. As he turned to shake his uncle’s hand, the old
man whispered ‘Here’s some advice my pa gave me when I was leaving
home. When winter’s twilight troubles you, steer to where the sky is blue.
You remember that boy and you’ll be just fine.’ Aunt Bessie lifted an
imaginary glass to her lips, ‘Don’t mind old Fred, he’s had one too many.’
The boy smiled, ‘I won’t forget it, sir, and I won’t forget you both. You’ve
been like a real ma and pa to me.’ He jumped aboard and waved farewell
through the grime of the carriage windows. As the train departed, he
collapsed with relief on an empty seat. When winter’s twilight troubles you,
steer to where the sky is blue. Even when sober, Uncle Fred could say some
mighty strange things. The train gathered speed and hurtled through the
night to New York.

Several years passed and the boy matured into a young man. Having passed
his exams, he signed on as a navigator aboard a small freighter bound for the
Caribbean. She was a rust bucket held together by one hundred layers of
paint and ready for the breakers. Somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, she was
caught by the tail of a typhoon. Many larger ships and their crews were lost.
Swamped by mountainous seas, things looked bleak and the crew huddled
together in the wheelhouse waiting for the final order. If they abandoned
ship they knew they would probably abandon their lives. In the midst of this
mayhem, the young man remembered his uncle’s profound advice. He
21
walked out on to the bridge and in a wild fury screamed at the elements.
‘When winter’s twilight troubles you, steer to where the sky is blue!’
Mistaking his outburst for an order, the helmsman altered course in the
direction of a small break in the clouds. Almost immediately, the wind eased.
Within an hour, the seas subsided, the skies cleared and the ship continued
peacefully on its voyage. Standing in the wheelhouse, the captain eyed his
young navigator with suspicion. ‘Now what the hell was all that about ?’ he
asked.’ ‘It’s something my uncle told me,’ replied the young man feeling
somewhat embarrassed by his behaviour. ‘Oh yeah? This uncle of yours, is
he some kind of witch doctor?’ ‘No sir,’ replied the young man. ‘He’s just
a miner from Pittsburgh.’ The captain gestured toward the chart table. ‘Well
you better get it down in the log book. You never know when we might need
it again.’

In the fall, the young man returned home. He heard that his uncle was dying
and went to visit him for the last time. Lying in a hospital bed, the old man
awoke from a drugged sleep. He recognised his visitor and whispered,
‘When winter’s twilight troubles you...’ His voice faltered and the young
man continued, ‘Steer to where the sky is blue.’ Uncle Fred smiled, ‘So you
never forgot what my pa taught me.’ ‘No sir,’ replied the young man,
holding back a tear. ‘It may even have saved my life.’ For several minutes,
he sat silently holding the old man’s withered hand and then he spoke. ‘I
never forgot it, but I never understood it. What did your pa mean by it?’ The
old man stared bleakly from his bed; his breathing was shallow and he was
very tired. It had been a long life and now it was time to leave. He beckoned
for the young man to draw nearer until their faces were almost touching.
‘The truth is...’ he whispered. There was a long pause for breath. ‘The truth
is..’ Yet another long pause. A trolley trundled noisily along the corridor and
somewhere in the building a clock chimed the hour. The old man made a
final supreme effort, ‘...I never had a goddam clue.’

22
 A ship bound for New Zealand
(Lyrics to a song)

A ship bound for New Zealand has anchored in the bay.

and we shall soon be leaving for a land that’s far away,
from this island of ours beneath the stars - we’re off to see the world
so my brothers and sisters say goodbye as we sail away.

The days we were hungry, the nights when we were sad

are lost in the laughter of good times that we had
on this island of ours beneath the stars - we’re off to see the world
so my brothers and sisters say goodbye as we sail away.

Wherever we wander, we know we’ll always find,

some time to remember the friends we left behind
on this island of ours beneath the stars - we’re off to see the world
so my brothers and sisters say goodbye as we sail away.

A ship sails for New Zealand as night falls round the bay
and we look back and wonder - was this really our last day,
on this island of ours beneath the stars - we’re off to see the world
so my brothers and sisters say goodbye as we sail away.

The wind in the rigging, the seas along the shore

take us to New Zealand, but bring us home once more.

23
 Grandfather was right

When I left school, I served an apprenticeship in a small tramp shipping

company which had been established in the 19th century. For many years,
the founder of the company limited his fleet to a handful of ships. He had
found that small was beautiful, manageable and profitable, and always came
with a plain black funnel. This policy was inherited and continued by his
son. When the grandson inherited the company, however, he was more
ambitious. With eight ships and a fine city office, opportunities for
employment and promotion soared. Yet even though the plain black funnel
was retained, it is unlikely that his grandfather would have been impressed.
But more of this later.

During my third year with this company, I served under a first mate whose
sole aim in life, apart from making our lives a misery, was to be promoted to
Master. With several years experience as a first mate, he waited impatiently
for his promotion. He had compiled a dossier containing details of the
company’s dozen or so masters and, during the early morning watch, would
pace up and down the bridge working out his chances of promotion. Which
serving master might be the first to retire, be dismissed, or die, and when?
When was the ninth ship to be launched ? Eventually, this became an
obsession and he would ask me to test him on the names, ages, and careers
of his rivals, other first mates awaiting their chances for promotion.

As apprentices were often transferred around the fleet, he always made a

point of interrogating any new arrivals to update his dossier. He was
particularly anxious to hear about any accidents, cargo losses,
misdemeanours and Acts of God which might thwart the careers of other
officers in the company. When he heard that a master had been disciplined
for ignoring an ice warning and colliding with an ice floe, his spirits rose and
he strode up and down the bridge as if his feet had wings. Later, the same
master injured his back whilst carrying cases of beer for sale to his crew and
24
was sacked as the company had a ‘dry ship’ policy. Upon hearing the good
news, our first mate could not restrain his joy and, when dawn broke on the
4 to 8 watch, he would burst into song. I seem to recall that he was very
fond of ‘The Blaydon Races’. When he discovered, however, that a younger
officer had been selected to replace the unfortunate man, a deep depression
settled over him and we knew that we had to give him a very wide berth.

And so the months and voyages slipped past. With each watch, he paced up
and down and calculated his future prospects. There were moments of elation
when he was sure that he had climbed a rung of the ladder, followed by
periods of intense depression when he believed that his ranking had slipped.
Indeed, junior officers would sometimes concoct rumours to give him false
hope and then scotch them when he made life unbearable.

Then one day, as we were leaving Brazil, we heard that the owner would be
visiting the ship when it docked in Liverpool. This was our first mate’s
chance to shine; a heaven-sent opportunity to demonstrate his worth as an
able administrator and leader. So, for the next three weeks, we cleaned,
polished, scrubbed and painted that ship until it gleamed. In fact, before we
reached Liverpool, he phoned the docks to discover which side of the ship
would be alongside the quay so we could give it an extra coat of paint. It was
ludicrous but all part of his plan to impress. I suppose you could call it his
master plan.

We arrived in Liverpool and the owner honoured us with his presence. I was
instructed to shadow him wherever he went; to attend to his every whim and
ensure that anything he wanted was immediately made available. But here
was no querulous faultfinder; in fact I found him very pleasant if somewhat
preoccupied. Perhaps these were difficult times for ship owners? Throughout
that day, the first mate maintained a high profile. He appeared everywhere.
We saw him clamber down into the cargo holds, climb the mast to adjust the
navigation lights, slacken the mooring lines, bark orders at dockers, check
25
the lifeboats and chat genially to members of the crew, most of whom were
quite puzzled and a little apprehensive at his unusual behaviour.

At the end of the owner’s visit, I phoned for a taxi and escorted him down
the gangway to await its arrival. He stood on the quayside staring at the ship
for a few moments then shook his head sadly. What could possibly have
offended him? A gap in the pristine paintwork? Was the company flag
missing? Had someone defaced his black funnel? He looked dejected and
uttered just three words. Then his taxi arrived, and thanking me for my
assistance, he departed to catch his train. As he was driven away, I noticed
the first mate standing strategically at the top of the gangway waving a fond
farewell.

Our ship left Liverpool and headed south. We stood on watch together, the
captain-in-waiting and the lowly apprentice. He was feeling very pleased
with himself. He was sure that the owner’s visit had been a resounding
success and that his stock within the company had risen dramatically. Surely,
it was only a matter of weeks before he received the call from head office and
could add that elusive fourth strip of gold braid to his immaculately pressed
uniform. I imagined him sitting in his cabin and practising his signature
prefaced by that all-important word Captain. ‘And what did the owner have
to say to you, young man?’ he demanded. ‘Oh he just asked about my
studies, that sort of thing,’ I replied. ‘Did he say anything about me?’ ‘No
Sir.’ I didn’t lie. The first mate continued scanning the horizon and pictured
his first command buffeting its way up the English Channel. Perhaps he saw
himself retiring as commodore of the fleet? I couldn’t bring myself to tell
him what I had overheard. He knew the history of the company and would
have cried out in despair. After suitable treatment, he would probably have
returned home a broken man and I couldn’t accept the responsibility for that.
I knew that he would find out in due course.

Shortly afterwards, the owner started to sell off his fleet with the loss of many
26
jobs. Unlike many similar shipping companies, however, his firm managed
to survive for another thirty years, celebrating its centenary with a fleet of
only two ships. As the owner had said, ‘Grandfather was right.’

Survive!

You are sailing in the yacht Sea Slug in a shipping lane midway between
Panama to New Zealand. Unfortunately, someone left the chip pan burning
in the galley, Sea Slug caught fire and is about to sink. You send a distress
signal and scramble into the lifeboat. Here are some items you could take
with you. Rank them 1 to 15 according to their importance for your survival.

___Mosquito net ___Sail ___Water

___Shark repellent ___Length of rope ___Survival rations
___Spare oar ___Portable radio ___Knife
___Paraffin ___Compass ___Compact mirror
___Pacific Ocean chart ___Matches ___Fishing kit

Make your own choice first and then share your ideas with others before
looking at the information on p.31.

27
 John Marra - Gunner’s Mate

When Captain James Cook, on the way home from the first of his three
world voyages, reached Batavia in the East Indies, he found the port
devastated by dysentery and malaria. In the days that followed, several
members of his crew died so he sent a press gang to round up any able-
bodied English-speaking seafarers to replace them. One ‘volunteer’
protested angrily in broken English that he was a Dane from Elsinore and
that the Dutch ship on which he worked had papers to prove it. Cook
listened to him carefully, but detecting a strong Irish brogue, decided to
ignore his impassioned pleas. Eventually, the man admitted that he was John
Marra, a 24 year old from Cork. He agreed that one ship was much the
same as another and that only a fool would wish to stay around that disease-
ridden coast, so his protests were short-lived and his name was added to the
ship’s muster list. With the loss of more crew members, Cook was relieved
to discover that not only was Marra hardened to a life at sea, but a very good
worker, so he offered him the post of gunner’s mate for the second voyage of
discovery aboard the Resolution. With hindsight, Cook should have left him
behind in Batavia for Mr Marra was to prove a very sharp thorn in the side of
this world famous navigator and explorer.

Marra’s problem was that he was very fond of grog or navy issue rum. A
mug or two of the dark red liquid and he became a different person, difficult
to handle and very unpredictable. Below decks, life for his shipmates was an
unsettling experience. As Resolution lay in London docks being inspected
by the Earl of Sandwich and other bigwigs, he took the opportunity to slip
ashore for some refreshment. A search party of marines knew just where to
find him, dragged him back aboard and clapped him in irons. Cook wasn’t
going to put up with any indiscipline on a King’s ship and had him flogged
over the barrel of a gun; ‘kissing the gunner’s daughter’ as this severe form
of punishment was known. In elegant copperplate script, William Harvey, a
young midshipman from London wrote in the ship’s logbook: ‘Punished
28
John Marra with 12 lashes for desertion and insubordination.’ He could
have done with a rubber stamp for this was an entry he would repeat many
times.

In between bouts of insolence and drunkenness, John Marra was no problem

at all. When the bosun piped ‘all hands aloft’, his would be the first pair of
feet to hit the deck and he would race to be first up the mast. When the crew
of the Resolution entered the Antarctic circle, they faced the perils of storms,
fog and ice, and shivered from the intense cold. But not your man from
Cork; he continued with his duties as if the ship was cruising in the tropics.
Cook was most impressed and asked what kept him so cheerful. John
knuckled his forehead in salute and replied, ‘Tis the extra ration of grog, Sir.’

In Tahiti, John secretly made friends with Otoo, a local chief, who promised
him a house, some land and the prettiest wife he could choose from a dozen
maidens. John Marra could barely contain his joy. Being an excellent
swimmer, he decided to jump overboard when the ship was leaving the
island. As the crew unfurled the sails and broke out the anchor, he made his
move and dived silently into the crystal clear waters of the lagoon. He had
arranged for a canoe to pick him up half way and it was making its way from
the shore when he was spotted in the water and the ship’s boat was
launched. Recaptured, he struggled desperately with the marines in the
launch and dived overboard again but, unfortunately, the canoe had
abandoned the race. Despite his desertion, Cook was quite lenient with him.
He considered that this solitary drifter, with no friends or family, couldn’t
have picked a better spot where he could live at ease in a fine climate and
with all the luxuries he desired. John Marra himself argued that by staying
in Tahiti he would learn far more about the religion and government of the
islanders than a few short visits by English gentlemen who couldn’t speak
the language or stand the heat. Privately, Cook wondered if this wayward but
enterprising Irishman could one day have become a king of the island or at
least prime minister! Nevertheless, he still gave him a dozen lashes and
29
ordered that he was clapped in irons or kept under guard whenever the ship
visited an island with similar distractions.

Later, when the ship explored New Zealand, he made his final attempt to
desert. Once again, he was dragged back aboard, clapped in irons, and
flogged. The officers were relieved to see him return for they valued his
seamanship skills. But Cook was now tiring of this tempestuous man and
wrote in his journal that he would willingly have let him go but for one
reason. He was convinced that, following a warm welcome from the natives,
John would assuredly be ‘kill’d and Eat before morning’, an unfortunate fate
that awaited Cook himself in Hawaii some years later.

With Resolution heading back to Europe, a change came over John Marra.
He acquired a thirst for knowledge rather than rum and began to ask serious
questions about the voyage: the latitude and longitude of places visited, the
main discoveries, names of important chiefs, and so on. The officers were
impressed and wondered if, inspired by the Captain who himself had risen
from the lower deck, he was planning to advance his naval career. Though
not highly educated, this intelligent and observant seafarer had a trick up his
sleeve; he was keeping a diary. Anyone aboard ship was permitted to keep a
journal or diary on these voyages but these could be impounded at any time
by the Captain for official records. John Marra knew this so he kept his well
hidden from prying eyes. It was a good move for all diaries and journals
aboard were confiscated as the voyage drew to a close. Continually
punished, flogged, lashed, manacled in irons, confined aboard, and denied
his one chance of a happy marriage, Marra finally reached England and bid
farewell to Cook and his ‘voyages of discoveries’. He found lodgings in the
Angel, a public house in south London, and wrote an account of the voyage
being the first one known to have entered the Antarctic Circle. He also told a
few home truths about the expedition and the behaviour of those on it. A
publisher eagerly snapped it up and gave it that little extra bit of literary
polish to impress its readers. When published, it beat Cook’s official account
30
by eighteen months and copies were published in Dutch and French. The
Admiralty was appalled and Cook was beside himself with rage but there
wasn’t a single thing they could do about it. The profits John Marra made
from his book, however, were not invested in a pleasant cottage overlooking
the River Lee in Cork but were probably squandered on the demon grog,
and, within a few years, he was drifting around the coast of Australia in
search of work. Today, you can pick up accounts of Cook’s voyages for
next to nothing, but if you want a copy of John Marra’s journal, it’s a
collector’s dream and will set you back nearly $6000.

Survive! (see p.27 first)

Adrift in a small boat, people often survive for several days without food or
water but suffer because they have no means of attracting the attention of any
passing ships. So the matches, the rope soaked in paraffin and the mirror will
be of vital importance. These are followed by water and food. The sail is
useful for collecting rain. The knife, fishing kit and the shark repellent will
also come in handy. The oar may help with signalling, catching turtles or
keeping sharks at bay. The chart and the radio receiver are of little use. There
are no mosquitos and you are going nowhere special to worry about the
compass. Here is the order according to sea survival experts:

Mosquito net 14 Sail 7 Water 5

Shark repellent 11 Length of rope 3 Survival rations 6
Spare oar 8 Portable radio 13 Knife 9
Paraffin 2 Compass 15 Compact mirror 4
Pacific Ocean chart 12 Matches 1 Fishing kit 10

Did your chances of survival improve by pooling your ideas?

31
 I want to be Captain
A cautionary tale for those contemplating a sailing holiday

It seemed quite a good idea at the time. We hadn’t planned a Summer

holiday and the evenings were getting longer. Two acquaintances, Arnold
and Myrtle, had invited us over for a drink and out of the blue they produced
a video extolling the pleasures of a Mediterranean sailing holiday. The first
week was to be spent in a Greek villa gradually acclimatising to the heat, the
food and the drink. The second, in a flotilla of yachts, exploring idyllic
islands and visiting friendly tavernas. It was, as the video explained, ‘the
ideal compromise between a shore based holiday and a holiday afloat.’ A
holiday should never be a compromise.

Apart from the fact that Arnold was a sales executive, we knew hardly
anything about him. ‘So how much sailing have you done?’ we enquired.
Arnold brushed this aside abruptly, ‘Oh you’ve been sailing before and I
can take a three-day course during the first week.’ ‘Good, good,’ I
enthused, ‘But have you ever actually been sailing?’ ‘Look,’ he replied,
‘The brochure says the winds are only force 3 to 4. It'll be a doddle.’ ‘And
I’m going to learn how to swim,’ added Myrtle encouragingly. For a brief
moment, I heard the Meltemi wind howling down the mountains, and saw a
tangle of fouled anchors; then Arnold was waving an application form in my
face. ‘Shall we hire a spinnaker? It’s only sixty quid extra and what’s sixty
quid?’ Following an explanation that this was not a high-powered skiff for
nipping ashore, his enthusiasm for this optional extra waned. But we were
gradually drawn into the spirit of the occasion and, in the early hours of the
morning, the First Mate and I departed unsteadily to the sound of Zorba’s
Dance thundering in our ears.

So the weeks flew by until one afternoon in August we were bouncing along
in a coach on a dusty Greek road; four adults and their two teenage
daughters in search of adventure. Ahead, the deserted prison island of
32
Makronisos shimmered in the sun, and somewhere beyond the horizon,
across a sparkling turquoise sea, lay the cruising grounds. Our arrival at the
sailing club was greeted by an energetic team of young Brits, Australians,
and New Zealanders who cheerfully escorted us to spacious and comfortable
villas perched along the edge of a rocky cove. The water below looked so
inviting that within minutes the two girls were diving from the rocks and
beckoning us to join them. That evening, strolling down to the welcome
barbecue, we helped ourselves to grapes clustering on overhanging vines and
were serenaded by a thousand cicadas. There was not a single mosquito in
sight.

The next morning it was all systems go. The two girls enrolled in the junior
club and joined a training session on how to right a capsized dinghy. Myrtle
watched them anxiously from the beach so we steered her in the direction of
the local shops. Arnold strolled purposefully towards a group taking the
three-day sailing course, whilst I attended the briefing for flotilla skippers.
The sailing manager, a formidable lady, showed us how to use the radio and
operate an engine. Later, she tested our competence at basic manoeuvres,
and it was clear that she wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. Indeed, one or two of
us discovered that our ‘many years of sailing experience’ were merely one
year’s bad experience repeated many times. Anyway, in winds gusting
around force 5 to 6, we enjoyed an exhilarating sail and returned to the bar
to receive our skipper’s certificates.

Alas, the holiday of a lifetime lasted until 4.15. That was the time on the bar
clock when First Mate approached looking quite crestfallen. ‘Arnold’s
returned from his sailing course and he’s in a terrible state, I think he’s going
to need a lot of reassurance.’ Our companion was distraught. ‘You've no
idea what it’s like out there!’ he exclaimed as I entered the villa. ‘It's going
to take at least four people to sail one of those things, and Myrtle can’t swim
so she won’t be any help. She could be killed if that boom thing swings
across and hits her.’ I tried to reassure him that the boats could be sailed
33
single-handed but he wasn’t having any of it. ‘You think so? Do you realise
that the average wind force here is 6 to 7? It’s the Meltemi season!’ All that
was missing was the cello music from Jaws. We thought that a strong drink
might calm him down, but it only had the opposite effect. ‘There's an
incredible amount to this sailing business. Do you know we could have
spent most of the afternoon learning all about navigation?’ I tried
humouring him, ‘Don’t worry too much about that. I’ll admit my Merchant
Navy career was undistinguished, but we never got lost.’ Now this was not
entirely true; there was a deeply embarrassing incident in New York harbour
involving a Black Star Line freighter, but this was not the moment to be
candid. For the rest of the evening, Arnold insisted on describing all the
potential disasters which might occur whilst sailing around the islands.
Myrtle listened intently to her husband’s comforting words and we noticed
how her morale was starting to ebb. That night, the First Mate thought she
heard a mosquito in the bedroom.
The following day, Arnold suggested that we would do well to join him on
the sailing course, but his offer was declined because we had another plan.
When he was safely out of the way, we took Myrtle out on one of the day
yachts moored in the cove and sailed to Cape Sounion. The purpose of this
expedition was to admire the ruins of a temple perched on the cliffs, but our
hidden agenda was to give her back some confidence. In fact, despite some
heavy seas breaking over the foredeck on the return leg, she thoroughly
enjoyed the trip. Back at the club, we relaxed until Arnold returned from his
course. He was in a difficult mood and plied us with questions: ‘OK then,
how much anchor chain should you normally let out?’ or ‘OK then, what
should you do when you have a man overboard situation?’ or ‘OK then,
how do you moor when there's only one person left aboard?’ We answered
him to the best of our ability, but there were two phrases which we were
starting to detest. One was ‘OK then’ for it heralded another question drawn
from the copious notes which he had scribbled during the course. The other
was ‘You think so?’ which, more often than not, was accompanied by a
contemptuous sneer. That evening, a mosquito bit my big toe (starboard).
34
By the end of his sailing course, Arnold appeared to have undergone a
considerable change of personality. At night, he sat in the bar explaining,
with great authority, the finer points of sailing and offering to take anyone
who needed extra practice for a spin. ‘What's a topping lift for Arnold?’
‘Oh, its er... a minor adjustment, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’
We listened to this mutual exchange of ignorance in disbelief, but Myrtle
seemed impressed. Indeed, one good lady leaned across and announced that
we were very fortunate in having an expert like Arnold accompanying us.
‘Yes,’ said Myrtle proudly, ‘And he belongs to MENSA.’ How this
transformation from nervous anxiety to supreme confidence had occurred
was a complete mystery, but we now found that we had to bear the brunt of a
querulous nature as well. ‘Why do the children always put their elbows on
the table at meals?’ It was all getting a little bit unpleasant and we couldn't
understand why. Here, at the villa, there was room to escape, but what of the
second week when we would be living on top of each other? Our hearts
sunk and we faced the rest of the holiday with considerable apprehension.
That night, the mosquitoes attacked in force.

At the start of the second week, we travelled to the island of Poros by

Hydrofoil to join the flotilla. These Russian-built sea monsters sped
aggressively from one island to the next. We watched two collide and were
determined to give them a wide berth. On the quayside, Jon, the flotilla
leader from New Zealand, and Doug, his Australian engineer, showed us
around our yacht Poseidon and outlined the various cruising procedures.
Jon warned us not to waste our drinking water, but his parting shot, ‘So
guys, don’t wash your decks in it’, caused a temporary misunderstanding.
Ask a New Zealander to repeat that line and you’ll catch my drift. Doug
explained the workings of the engine, and we complimented him on his lucid
description. ‘Well,’ he observed, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time on this little
bastard. No worries!’ It sounded ominous but we let it pass.

35
As we prepared for departure, Arnold took me aside. ‘How are we going to
play this then?’ Initially, I was confused and assured him that he and Myrtle
could have the main cabin; we would be quite happy in stern berths. ‘No,
you misunderstand, I’ve done the 3-day course and I’ve acquired a lot of
specialised knowledge which you don’t have.’ It suddenly dawned on me
that Arnold desperately wanted to be skipper and that this had played on his
mind for several days. I assured him that I would be happy to sail under his
leadership, but checked this arrangement with Jon before leaving. Jon gave a
broad grin, ‘I think we'll both be keeping a close eye on him.’

Somewhat to our surprise, it all went quite well. Once in charge of

operations, Arnold appeared more relaxed than he had been for several days.
He attended the morning quayside briefings punctually and made detailed
notes on every minute aspect of the cruise. He avoided having anything to do
with the sails or the anchor, but thoroughly enjoyed taking the helm. Of
course, there were the occasional collisions in tightly packed harbours and
the time when he ordered the anchor to be released in 300 fathoms. I even
recall his ability to plot our position within an error of ten miles, but this is
carping. Indeed, if anyone made a stupid error, it was me. I accidentally
released the topping lift, just a minor adjustment - nothing to worry about,
and Arnold received a very painful blow from the boom.

In the middle of the week, there was a dramatic change in the weather. An
angry northerly wind, our friend the Meltemi, had returned and we became
separated from the flotilla. After a fruitless search for sheltered moorings, we
were forced to anchor during a rainstorm in Spetses harbour. Working from
the dinghy, I laid out a second anchor and then took a stern line to a tree
ashore. Anxious faces peered down, briefly illuminated by the glare of a
lighthouse stabbing the darkness. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ exclaimed
our skipper. ‘I was just taking some precautions,’ I replied, shaking the mud
from my hands. ‘There’s nothing about that here,’ said Arnold waving his
thick wedge of notes. He remained unconvinced and ordered Myrtle to pack
36
their cases for a night in the nearest hotel. We ferried them ashore to the
beach, then, laden like sherpas, struggled to the top of some cliffs from which
could be heard the tinkle of bells. After stumbling around in the dark, they
found a track leading to the town, and marched away escorted by a herd of
goats. Anyway, the good news is that, later that evening, Arnold relented
and returned with Myrtle to be with his crew. The bad news is that someone
had sneaked alongside and pinched the dinghy.

Despite the Meltemi, the holiday was drawing to a satisfactory conclusion.

Jon and his splendid team were always close at hand to solve any real
problems, and we had enjoyed several lively evenings ashore with the other
crews. But fate has a nasty habit of striking when it is least expected, and it
was lurking in the narrow stretch of water between Skilli Island and the
mainland. The flotilla was returning to Poros and Jon had advised us to use
this gap as a short cut but to have our engines ready as the seas there were
unpredictable. Arnold decided to make the journey entirely by engine, but
reluctantly agreed to our raising the mainsail. The girls soon became bored
and went below to play cards.

After lurching along in lumpy seas for a couple of hours, Poseidon reached
the gap only to be confronted by Georgio, an inter-island battering ram
heading in our direction. Fortunately, it failed to score, but while we were
being tossed around in its wake, our engine started to cough. ‘What are you
doing?’ screamed Arnold. ‘Nothing,’ I replied, 'But I think we have a
problem - you better get your notes out.’ The engine spluttered and died, and
the yacht started to wallow alarmingly. Arnold leaped down into the cabin,
or rather the cabin reared up to meet him, and having regained his footing, he
pressed the starting motor several times. The engine refused to budge.
‘Right,’ he cried, ‘Everyone get below!’ and Myrtle fled the cockpit leaving
us to contemplate heavy seas breaking on the jagged rocks of an
approaching reef. Keeping the bows up to wind, we set the headsail and off
went Poseidon like an ocean greyhound. Having cleared the reef and set a
37
course for Poros, we paused for a breather and looked down into the saloon.
Arnold was pounding the VHF radio in desperation ‘Mayday! Mayday!’
and Myrtle had fainted. The two girls were still playing cards.

A rather subdued Poseidon approached Poros that afternoon. The support

boat met us at the harbour entrance and our friend Doug removed an airlock
from the fuel pipe. No worries. Arnold sat alone in silence on the foredeck.
Despite assurances that we had never been in serious danger, Myrtle wept
hysterically. ‘Weren't you terrified back there?’ she cried, ‘We could have
lost our lives!’ One of us muttered, ‘Better than losing those ****** notes,’
and then we concentrated on making a final approach to the berth. At that
moment, Arnold stepped into the cockpit and, pushing us aside, resumed
command. Sensing a familiar hand on her tiller, Poseidon ploughed with a
sickening crunch into the concrete walls of the quayside.

That evening, the flotilla held a final get-together in a lively taverna. After the
meal, Jon made a short speech and awarded a prize to one member of each
crew. He gave a tin of spinach to a diminutive lady who was always seen
tugging at her anchor, and a pair of water-wings for the airline pilot who fell
overboard in Hydra. There was a toy telephone for the Birmingham
businessman who insisted on a daily fax from his office, and a tourist map for
the family that accidentally sailed halfway to Crete. The skipper of Poseidon
received a rather smart little sailing hat with a Greek inscription. Before
leaving the taverna, we asked one of the waiters for a translation. It read, ‘I
want to be Captain.’ According to our shipmates, the mosquitoes were very
busy that night, but we slept soundly.

38
 Seafarers in Distress

In this account of a 50’s coastal voyage around New Zealand, some names
and details have been changed to protect the innocent. And if we weren’t all
innocent we were certainly very gullible.

Oliphant O’Malley was a distressed seafarer. Yes, distressed, but not

emotionally or anything to do with antique furniture. It was an official term
used to indicate that he had been left behind by his ship through an accident
or illness and was waiting for another to carry him back to Europe. In
Oliphant O’Malley’s case (and that really was his first name if not quite his
second) a mysterious illness had struck him down while he was in Australia
and he had spent several weeks in hospital. Now, a picture of health, and
holding all his worldly possessions in two large matching brown paper
parcels, he stood on the quayside in a worn pair of leather sandals and
chatted to the captain.

‘So, Mr O’Malley, we have to repatriate you,’ said the Captain. ‘Well, you
can travel as a passenger or we can find you some light duties. It’s your
choice.’ ‘Oh, I couldn’t laze about in the sun, Sir,’ replied Oliphant. ‘Put
me in your engine room. I’ve many years of experience and you won’t find
a harder worker in the South Pacific.’ Though initially reluctant to
accommodate this overweight nautical refugee, the captain was suitably
impressed. ‘That’s what I like to hear. Get yourself aboard. The steward will
show you to your cabin.’ So Oliphant O’Malley clambered up the steep
gangway of the rusty tramp steamer Romantic and into our lives.

During the voyage to New Zealand, the engineers soon discovered that
Oliphant’s knowledge of a ship’s engine was, to put it bluntly, incomplete.
Indeed, one night, whilst unsupervised, he accidentally discharged most of
our drinking water into the ocean. But this charming and sociable Irishman,
with his ferocious red beard and enormous appetite, was soon forgiven. He
39
was such a sparkling and witty conversationalist and eagerly joined every
card school, invariably leaving with the winnings. As ship’s apprentice, I was
the lowest of the low but he treated me like an equal and I was flattered.
When he told me how a promising career in the Foreign Legion was ended
prematurely by a stray bullet, I listened in awe. He was a little vague over
dates and places, but I didn’t pry as it might evoke painful memories. ‘So
your mother was from Sligo?’ ‘That’s right, Sir,’ I replied. ‘Oh, call me
Ollie, dear boy. Sligo, I know it well. A fine place with grand people. Now
what was your mother’s maiden name again? Goodness me, I think I may
have met her right there in the Cafe Cairo!’ I was immensely impressed. ‘Oh
I do hope so, Ollie. I do hope so. Let me get you another can of lager.’ You
get the picture.

Then there was the prize-winning greyhound. Ollie had bought a champion
greyhound in Australia but it died within a month. ‘Now don’t tell a soul,
dear boy,’ he confided, ‘But in my distress I raffled it. Win a champion
greyhound for a pound - that sort of thing. I sold a stack of tickets.’ ‘But
what about the winner?’ I asked in astonishment. ‘Well, yer man was a bit
upset but I gave him his pound back.’ He clearly found this very amusing
and collapsed in mirth at the memory of it all. Later, whilst immersed in yet
another card game, he asked me to get some tobacco from his cabin. I
opened the door only to find an Aladdin’s cave. For someone who had
joined the ship with next to nothing, he seemed to have acquired a
considerable array of possessions: books, a radio, pictures, ornaments, a
small typewriter, plants, and so on. Unable to find the tobacco pouch, I
looked inside his wardrobe. There, to my amazement, hung a most splendid
naval uniform covered in medal ribbons and gold braid - hardly the right kit
for a tramp ship. I didn’t dare ask him about it, but doubts about the
enigmatic Mr O’Malley started to form.

Having only a limited supply of fresh water, tramp steamers are not usually
furnished with baths, just showers. But the Romantic had one bath and that
40
was in the ship’s hospital. This was a room in a deserted area that was
seldom used and always locked; its security was one of my responsibilities.
One night, whilst on my rounds, I heard strange noises coming from its
vicinity; the door was unlocked so I peered in. There sat Ollie with his back
covered in soap suds and singing ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’ with joyful
abandon in a fine baritone. He may not have known how to pick a
greyhound but he certainly knew how to pick a lock. Fortunately, he didn’t
see me and I quietly locked the door. If he could pick his way in, he could
pick his way out.

The following day, I was replacing a broken lamp in a storeroom when I

heard him flapping along the deck in his leather sandals. He was deep in
conversation with the ship’s electrician and I could hear every word. ‘So
your mother came from Liverpool? I know it well. A fine place with grand
people. What was her maiden name again? Goodness me, I think I may have
met her right there in Yates Wine Lodge!’ In the darkness of that storeroom,
I pictured my mother as a young woman sitting at a gingham-topped table in
the Cafe Cairo and saw Ollie making a beeline for her. I shuddered and
prayed that their paths had never crossed. In the Cafe Cairo or anywhere
else. Ever.

So the SS Romantic reached New Zealand and worked its way around the
main ports loading lamb, apples and butter for Europe. In each port, a
telephone was installed aboard and Ollie lost no time in scrounging
invitations to several parties and other social events. Though I was often tired
after a day’s work, he insisted that I accompanied him and brought along my
battered guitar. He even encouraged me to buy a proper case for it, though I
couldn’t see anything wrong with the old kit bag I carried it in. Unbeknown
to me, he had told his hosts that among the ship’s passengers was a very
talented young musician en route to London to sign a lucrative recording
contract. Fortunately, by the time I strummed my three chords and squawked
through half a dozen numbers, everyone was too merry to notice, or care
41
about, my complete lack of skill. By the end of the evening, Ollie would have
escorted some wealthy widow off the premises and I was left to trudge
several miles back to the ship. Ollie clearly used these occasions to enrich
his network of contacts; I was merely a useful stepping stone to greater
things. How great, I can only guess, for one wet night in Wellington I saw
what looked like a Japanese Sea Lord sneaking down the gangway and
boarding a taxi. It was Ollie in his magnificent naval uniform and not a sniff
of those sandals. A day or two later, I saluted him and called him Admiral
O’Malley; thereafter, he began to avoid me.

My shipmates, however, were still impressed by Ollie and continued to buy

him drinks and lend him their money and their possessions. They found him
very knowledgeable about horses and, as luck would have it, he discovered
that a horse called Romantic was due to race. It could be a lucky omen, he
declared, but he wouldn’t dream of encouraging them to squander their
hard-earned cash, even if it was a ‘dead cert’. But seafarers are simple souls
and even the Chief Engineer wagered a week’s salary on this promising
thoroughbred. Predictably, Ollie took the money ashore to place the bets,
‘Now if I hurry, I’ll just make it.’ Just as predictably, the poor nag was the
last to pass the winning post. Ollie consoled each of the luckless punters with
a drink at the bar. I’m not saying that he didn’t lay those bets, but it was the
only time I ever saw him buy a round.

The Romantic’s stay in New Zealand was drawing to a close and we

prepared to leave for Polynesia. In the rather aptly-named port of Bluff, Ollie
sat in his cabin reminiscing about the time he landed as a sunburned mariner
on some deserted palm-fringed atoll to search for buried gold. The
expedition had run out of money and was abandoned, but he was determined
to return. My shipmates were enthralled and demanded to know more. Ollie
produced a rather tatty map and lowered his voice to a whisper. He had
acquired the rights to explore the atoll but the government’s annual fee was
overdue and his enforced stay in Australia had left him short of savings. It
42
was a modest sum but a worthwhile investment for anyone willing to
contribute. The fee could be paid through a bank right here in New Zealand.
Then, why hadn’t he thought of it before? The atoll was just a few miles
from our course across the South Pacific and we might even see it. It all
sounded pretty exciting, but I couldn’t take any more and went out on deck
for some fresh air. That evening, at dinner, there was a buzz of excitement
and everyone seemed mesmerised by the thought of that treasure just waiting
to be dug out of the sands of a lonely atoll. Ollie sat at the table beaming
smugly; it was to be his final meal aboard the good ship Romantic.

The next day, as the final items of cargo were being loaded, the Captain
received a phone call from a hospital further up the coast. A Mr Oliphant
O’Malley, said the caller, had been seen earlier that morning with an unusual
and rare medical condition. The doctors wished to detain him for tests. There
was no need to forward his personal effects. How true - his cabin was
completely empty. Later, I would find a long queue of disgruntled shipmates
outside the captain’s door. Indeed, I was to see the Captain himself ruefully
inspect an IOU note before crumpling it up and tossing it into the vast
Pacific Ocean. But these events lay ahead and our immediate concern was
the hustle and bustle of leaving port and the prospect of heavy weather at
sea. That evening, as the Romantic slipped away from the jetty, I spotted a
familiar bearded figure standing in the shadow of a warehouse. It was Ollie.
He was still wearing those sandals and, upon seeing me, grinned and gave a
little wave. ‘Good Luck, dear boy!’ Then he turned and flapped off into the
darkness. I never saw him again.

43
 The Mutiny on the Redcar

Unlike the dramatic events which took place over two hundred years ago on
HMS Bounty, the mutiny on the Redcar is unlikely to feature in the annals of
maritime history. Now largely forgotten, it was an odd affair which took
place in a period which some might describe as the golden age of seafaring.
A time of optimism in the late 50’s and early 60’s when seamen’s wages
and conditions had improved considerably, ships had more style and spent
longer in port, and containerisation meant little more than lashing a few 40
gallon drums on deck. At the trial of the mutineers, however, the prosecution
sought to establish a parallel between the events on the Redcar and those on
the Bounty. Certainly, the mutineers got more than they bargained for, but
any links were quite tenuous. Unlike Fletcher Christian and his associates,
they had not been subjected to the harsh discipline of a sailing ship, nor had
they been lured by the attractions of a South Seas paradise. Not a single
bread fruit plant was thrown, just a birthday party which got out of hand.

In December 1961, I signed on the Redcar in Middlesborough as third mate.

The Redcar was a bulk iron ore carrier owned by the North Yorkshire
Shipping Company. The ore carriers were named after towns in North
Yorkshire and sailed in ballast from various European ports to return with ore
from Canada, Algeria, Tunisia, or Norway. On this voyage, the Redcar was
bound for Vitoria in Brazil; I looked forward to enjoying the sun and to my
first job as a qualified deck officer.

Having joined shortly before sailing, I had little opportunity to get to know
the other officers and crew, but she seemed a well-organised ship with no
signs of tension or discontent. Watches were set, and the Redcar settled into
a steady seagoing routine as we headed down the Channel and into the Bay
of Biscay. Here, we met some heavy weather, but it had subsided by the time
we reached Madeira. At midnight on 14th December, the Redcar was off the
coast of West Africa when I was relieved on watch by the second mate.
44
There was more traffic around than usual and the lookout was urged to keep
an eye open for any small fishing boats which might be in the vicinity. I went
below and turned in.

I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by an apprentice with an

order from the bridge telling me to get up and haul in the log line. Now this
was a job that I would have performed cheerfully enough as an apprentice,
but it now seemed beneath my newly acquired status as an officer. But I had
to make my mark and complaining wouldn’t help, so I dressed and made my
way aft. Dawn was breaking over Africa, the engines had stopped, and the
ship rolled lazily in the Atlantic swell. There was an eerie silence about the
ship, and, despite what appeared to be an engine breakdown, no sounds of
activity rose up through the engine room skylights.

The log line should have been hauled inboard before the ship lost way, but it
hung down from the stern in a tangle of turns and kinks. I had to retrieve it to
save its rotator from being ripped away by the propeller, and had just started
the task when two seamen appeared at my side and offered to help. I
recognised them as members of the 12 to 4 watch who had signed on with
me in Middlesborough. Although they had been drinking, they seemed quite
amiable and the older one suggested that the tangled line could be cleared
by reversing and paying the line out into the ship’s wake. As there was no
wake, I watched their performance with some interest as they went through
the act of reversing and then hauling back the tangled line. They made
several attempts and each met with a marked lack of success. Eventually,
exhausted by their efforts, they both collapsed into a large coil of mooring
rope and fell asleep.

I made my up to the bridge, but was ill-prepared for the sight that greeted my
arrival. The wheelhouse, which was packed with officers and crew,
resembled an overcrowded railway waiting room. They were all staring
intently at the foredeck. Without removing his gaze, the Captain enquired
45
about the log line. ‘Your line, Sir,’ I replied, still smarting at being called
from my bunk to perform such a trivial task, ‘Was a bit snagged but the lads
from the 12 to 4 watch did what they could to clear it.’ A row of faces turned
to meet mine. ‘And where,’ asked the Captain, ‘Are your two assistants
now?’ ‘They are curled up fast asleep in the mooring lines,’ I replied. There
was a brief pause then all hell let loose as officers and seamen swept past me
in a madding crowd.

The helmsman gave me the gist of what had happened. Shortly after
midnight, the lookout left his post and went below to hold an impromptu
birthday party with his watchmate. After consuming 36 cans of beer, they
both returned to the bridge and attacked the second mate. He managed to
summon help, but in the ensuing melee, the ship was thrown off course and
the engine room was at the receiving end of a stream of confusing
instructions: full astern, full ahead, full astern etc. Fighting their way off the
bridge, the two seamen roamed the vessel causing considerable havoc and
threatening anyone who got in their way. Had I been asked to retrieve the
log line an hour or two earlier, I might well have found myself chucked
overboard and hanging on to the end of it. The bosun took a beating from
them and I felt quite sorry for him because, as I recorded in my diary at the
time, ‘He is an old man in his fifties.’ This sympathy evaporated a week
later when I entrusted him with a 22” flying fish I had found lying on deck; I
returned with a camera only to discover that he had eaten it.

By the time I arrived on the scene, members of the crew were either in the
wheelhouse or keeping a low profile elsewhere. and the trouble makers were
thought to be skulking around the fore deck. Tucked up asleep in the coiled
mooring lines, however, they were easily apprehended and restrained.
Redcar made for the Cape Verde Islands where they were handed over to
the local police force to be returned home to face trial.

A month later, they appeared in court in Middlesborough charged with

46
wilfully disobeying the lawful commands of their master at sea, multiple
assault, and committing an act likely to cause serious damage to their ship.
The prosecutor outlined the events that had taken place during ‘a night of
destructive violence and viciousness in which the lives of all on board were
put at danger.’ He warmed to his task: ‘Following nine hours of trouble,
fighting, and scuffling....these men put their captain in the same position as
Captain Bligh of the Bounty. Unlike Captain Bligh, however, he had no
firearms, weapons, or handcuffs he could use against them. Nor had he a
cell, a dungeon, or a brig to throw them in. All he could do was bring them
to court back in this country.’ The local and national press lapped it up.
Though claiming that ‘Nobody can say what really went on because it all
happened in a mist,’ the two men pleaded guilty and were sent to prison.

Readers of the Bounty saga will recall that after some of the mutineers were
rounded up by the Navy, they suffered much cruelty and danger before
returning to face justice in England. The Redcar affair provides a parallel of
sorts. Whilst the British consul and the police were discussing how the two
might best be accommodated prior to their return, one of the seamen
suggested that the consul would be far better employed if he got of his
backside and helped them sort out the chief of police. This ill-timed request
included an unfortunate reference to one official’s corpulence and to the
other’s parentage. The accommodation issue was quickly resolved; while
awaiting repatriation, they were allocated a filthy cell in a rat-infested
dungeon where they spent a miserable time reflecting on a night of pointless
violence

47
 Sea Shanty

(To the tune of Oh Susannah)

To be a sailor big and bold

that was the life for me
To go aloft and man the sails
above a stormy sea
But up there in the rigging
in a Force 9 gale
The wind can play havoc
with a trendy ponytail.

Heave and haul away!

Let the main sheet fly!
Kiss the gunner’s daughter
and we’ll pump the bilges dry

We beat the French and Spanish

by spiking up our guns
With bully beef and biscuit
- it gave them all the runs.
Twenty days to round the Horn
soaked in sweat and spray
But I was never seasick -
more than twenty times a day

Heave and haul away!

Let the main sheet fly!
Kiss the gunner’s daughter
and we’ll pump the bilges dry

We were into body art

with tattoos on our skin
Some had naked ladies
or names of next of kin.
The bosun had a hunting scene
right on his backside.
There’s no prize for guessing
where the fox was going to hide.

Heave and haul away!

Let the main sheet fly!
Kiss the gunner’s daughter
and we’ll pump the bilges dry

48
Now I knew the name of every sail
and every block and tackle.
I knew the halyards and lines
and every single shackle.
One day a man fell overboard
I shouted “Grab this line!”
but I forgot my pants were held up
by that piece of twine

Heave and haul away!

Let the main sheet fly!
Kiss the gunner’s daughter
and we’ll pump the bilges dry

Night times at the wheel -

how my heart would sing with joy
Alone with just the stars
and a simple cabin boy.
So heave away me hearties
for England we will steer
Then come and dance the hornpipe
but don’t get too damn near.

But I’ve never been a sailor

it was not the life for me
A humble civil servant
is all I’ll ever be
Instead I’ll grow a beard
cup one hand around my ear.
And sing a load of nonsense
just like we’re doing here.

Heave and haul away!

Let the main sheet fly!
Kiss the gunner’s daughter
and we’ll pump the bilges dry

Yes I’ll strut around in jeans

with a gold ring in each ear
and sing a load of nonsense
just like we’re doing here.

49
 Baffled by Baffin
A 400 year mystery

On the morning of 9th July 1612, William Baffin, seafaring explorer and navigator of
the Patience, stood on a small island in Cockin Sound on the west coast of Greenland.
With the sun rising in the north east, he watched the moon gradually approach two
plumblines marking his meridian. As the moon reached the meridian, he took an
observation of the sun and after a few calculations became the first ship’s navigator to
record his longitude.

Like most navigators of the time, Baffin had no difficulty in finding his latitude, but,
without an accurate method of timekeeping, longitude was still based on dead
reckoning and guesswork. Baffin’s solution to the longitude problem was quite
ingenious. His almanac showed that when the moon passed over London earlier that
morning, the sun was several hours behind but gaining on the moon by about 48
minutes a day. From his observations, Baffin calculated that when the moon passed
over his position, the sun had caught up the moon by eight of those minutes - a sixth
of the daily rate. Accordingly, Baffin reasoned that he must be about one sixth of the
way around the world from London, ie he was in longitude 60° W or thereabouts. In
fact, Baffin’s longitude was about 53° W; a discrepancy in the region of 190 nautical
miles. This error could have been caused by several variables including an incorrect
observation of the sun, a misaligned meridian or some faulty almanac data. Whatever
the reason, a small error in his measurements or calculations would produce a very
large error in the longitude, but for a pioneering attempt at solving the longitude
problem, it was a promising start. Or was it?

50
Recently, I was studying Baffin’s journal in the ‘Voyages of William Baffin 1612 -
1622’ edited by Clement Markham and published by the Hakluyt Society. Whilst
checking and reworking his calculations, I was surprised to discover that Baffin had
made a fundamental error. He had overlooked the fact that the time gap that he
calculated was not eight minutes smaller than the one at London but larger. This
larger time gap would only have occurred before the moon passed over London. This
means that the 60° degrees longitude which Baffin embraced was not to the west of
London but to the east; a longitude which placed him safely at anchor in the Ural
Mountains.

In his journal, Baffin writes with considerable detail and clarity. His basic data are
repeated and discussed so are unlikely to be the result of careless transposing by a
third party. His observations were performed with a four foot semi-diameter quadrant
and he had spent the previous day establishing his meridian line with the help of the
sun. He confesses that his method is difficult and troublesome and that there may be
some ‘smalle errour’. Tucked away in his journal, however, is an inaccurate
description of the moon’s movement in relation to that of the sun. “....the moone
cometh to the meridian sooner that day then she did the day before...” But, as any
stargazer knows, the moone always cometh later not sooner! This misunderstanding,
however, does not fully explain why he obtained a larger time gap than the one at
London, and his observations would have to be seriously in error to account for the
discrepancy.

Back on the island in Cockin Sound, Baffin mentions an abundance of herbs which the
crew of the Patience boiled in beer and which appear to have done them a power of
good. Well, its just a thought, but the true source of the error will probably remain a
mystery. Had he discovered his error, he might well have been dissuaded from
continuing with his efforts, which would have been unfortunate, for on later voyages,
his attempts to find his longitude were successful and he seems to have acquired a
better understanding of the moon’s relative motion. Although I am baffled by Baffin’s
journal, for me, he remains a pioneering navigator and a century ahead of his time.

51
 Forty Years On

A short but cautionary tale

After spending a number of years at sea, I decided to go ashore for a while

and try my hand at something completely different. I was willing to have a
go at almost anything apart from selling life insurance; a popular refuge for
deck officers washed up on the beach. I worked through an A to Z of careers
in the public library and was starting to lose interest when I came across the
entry for Youth Employment Officer. It was an unusual choice, but it seemed
an easy number and would be a welcome change from the 4 to 8 watch. I
found a position in a quiet rural backwater which was as far removed from
the sea as one could imagine. My elderly colleagues, who included a retired
vicar and a failed pharmacist, appeared to have other sources of income for
the wages were dismal; an apprenticeship with the local Gas Board paid
more. But it was enough to live on and each morning I cycled to work
through leafy lanes without a care in the world.

In those days, most young people left school at 15 or 16 and my job

involved giving them a talk, a guidance interview and help with finding work.
The school talk was to encourage youngsters to be realistic about themselves
and adaptable for the future ‘....for we do not know what changes may lie
ahead’. How true those words ring now; container ships were starting to rear
their ugly square heads on the horizon and we would laugh at them with
derision. Having little work experience outside the Merchant Navy, my
52
talks were peppered with nautical anecdotes and the number of boys and
girls wanting to go to sea increased considerably. Indeed, one irate parent, a
rather pompous man, berated me for encouraging his son to consider such a
dead end occupation. When I replied that it might be an ideal escape for him,
the poor man almost had a seizure.

I shall always remember my first client. I lent him the office tie and gave him
an introduction card for an interview which stated that the employer’s
premises were situated at the back of Swan Yard. He returned a couple of
hours later and I asked him if all had gone well. ‘No,’ he replied, looking a
little crestfallen. ‘I found Swan Yard all right but I couldn’t find the Backof.’
I began to realise that there was rather more to this vocational guidance
business than meets the eye and another lesson was about to follow.

Some days later, a young girl came in to the office and she appeared quite
distressed. She told me that she was working as a mother’s help for a
wealthy family but that the lady of the house was beating her, locking her up
in her room and fining her for petty mistakes. I could hardly believe it. This,
after all, was the era of the Beatles, free love and all that, and what she
described harked back to the turn of the century. I spoke to her employer on
the phone explaining that the girl had lodged a complaint and would not be
returning to work. I consoled the girl as best I knew and arranged for her to
return to the office with her mother. After she had left, I studied the Youth
Employment Manual with Bill, the office manager, and we discovered that
mother’s helps, along with seafarers and the feeble-minded, were remarkably
well protected by employment legislation. In fact, there was a detailed
complaints procedure which had to be followed. ‘I’d have a word with the
Old Crow, if I were you.’ said Bill. The Old Crow was our area boss and she
was shocked when I reported the case to her. She knew the lady in question
well. It appeared that Mrs L was a pillar of the community, a regular
churchgoer and a leading member of the soroptimists to boot. It was quite
inconceivable that this decent woman would treat her staff in such an
53
appalling manner. She decided to investigate the complaint and I was quite
relieved to hand it over to her.

Later, she told me that the girl had confessed that the story was a fabrication.
Her mother had found the job for her, but she had really wanted to work
with her friends in the local electronics factory and earn a lot more money.
Accordingly, the Old Crow had sent this young madam from the office with
a flea in her ear and reassured her recent employer that it had all been an
unfortunate misunderstanding. That evening, in the local pub, Bill and I
pondered over the possible pain and embarrassment we might have caused a
fine and virtuous woman had not our leader intervened and we raised a glass
to them both. In truth, we probably raised several glasses because I recall
cycling home that night and falling off my bike.

But all good things must pass. Once again, the sea beckoned and I returned
to face those grey mornings of the 4 to 8 watch. I was able to entertain my
fellow watch keepers with anecdotes from my previous employment; it made
a change from comparing riotous nights ashore. They particularly enjoyed
hearing about the officer who was sacked for stealing £450 - then about half
a year’s salary. Unbeknown to anyone, he had pinched a few coins from the
stamp account each week but, after ten years, was caught falsifying the
postage book. Occasionally, I told them the tale about the pretty young
caller who had played on my good nature and lack of experience, and must
confess to embellishing it a little. For example, in one version, I had the lady
who had been kind enough to give her a decent start in life, arrested and
thrown into the cells of the local police station. The young apprentices,
however, only wanted to know more about the girl and how I had consoled
her. It was an ideal opportunity for more embellishment, but I preferred to
focus on the importance of seeking advice from one’s superiors before
rushing into a decision which could have most unfortunate consequences.

54
But now I discover that I should have waited a little longer to tie up the loose
ends of that tale. In fact, I should have waited forty years. Recently, I returned
from helping out aboard the Africa Mercy. This former train ferry is being
converted on the Tyne to a hospital ship and, manned by volunteers, will
provide facial and eye surgery along the West African coast. I called in at
my local charity shop to collect a large supply of unwanted towels and
sheets for use as cleaning rags aboard the ship. As we bagged them up, I
was chatting to another helper about seafaring and the odd ways in which
our lives unfold. By a strange coincidence, I discovered that she had lived in
that quiet backwater where I sought to escape from the sea and was the niece
of the now sadly departed pillar of the community. Without going into much
detail, I explained that I had once had some dealings with her aunt whilst
working in the Youth Employment Service. Upon hearing this, she turned
rather pale and gripped my arm. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she implored, ‘That you
sent anyone to work for her.’ I assured her that I hadn’t, which was true, but
asked why. She explained that for many years she and her sisters were
forbidden to visit or have anything to do with this aunt. She was ostracised
by the family because of the way she treated her domestic workers. ‘Can
you tell me more about this treatment?’ I asked. She suggested that I would
find it very hard to believe. ‘I can try,’ I replied, but with a sinking feeling
for I had already guessed what was coming. ‘Well, when my aunt was in a
rage, which was quite often,’ she explained, ‘She would lock them in their
rooms or fine them for the most trivial things. Sometimes, she would beat
them. Of course, they never stayed. In fact, she should have been locked up
herself.’

****************************************

55
 Killorain’s Treasure Island
When I left school, I worked aboard a rusty trampship in the South Pacific. One
morning, as we passed a group of low-lying palm fringed atolls about a day from
Tahiti, the Captain pointed towards them and said “There’s supposed to be a hoard of
pirate’s treasure buried on one of those islands but no one has ever found it.” I was
intrigued by the thought of buried treasure just lying there waiting for someone to dig
it up and, as the atolls gradually disappeared over the horizon, made up my mind to
return one day and find it. But life unfolds in unexpected ways and I never returned. I
did, however, research the story extensively and wrote about it for several magazines.
Last year, I received a letter from an Australian who had read my account and had
visited the atolls with his family in search of the treasure. On one island, he made an
amazing discovery but let us first revisit and update the story of Killorain’s treasure
island.

In 1912, Charles Edward Howe, a Cornishman living in Australia, was

disturbed one stormy evening by the sound of someone outside his front
door. He looked out and saw an old tramp sheltering from the rain. Howe
took pity on the man, who was Irish, and gave him a meal and some dry
clothes. When the storm had abated, he took him to the nearest bus station
and gave him the fare to Sydney. Several weeks later, he received a message
from a hospital asking him to visit a patient who was dying. Puzzled, he went
to the hospital where he discovered that the dying man was none other than
the tramp he had briefly befriended. Lying in the darkness of a deserted
ward, the old fellow summoned the strength to tell him an astonishing tale; a
tale which led Howe, and may even lead you, to an atoll in the South Seas in
search of buried treasure.

The man said his name was Joseph Killorain and that he was born in 1825 in
County Clare. In 1858 he deserted a sailing ship along with three unsavoury
56
colleagues: Diego Alvarez, a Spaniard, Archer Brown, an Australian, and
Luke Barret, an American. They made their way to Pisco, a seaport on the
coast of Peru, where they had heard of a church with a huge quantity of gold
concealed in its vaults. The four worked around the harbour and became
regular worshippers at mass. Having won the trust of the local priest, they
told him that they had overheard a conversation in a bar between two thieves
who were planning to rob the church. Why Joseph had even heard one of
thieves mentioned by name! The parish priest recognised it as that of a
young curate who had served in the church some years earlier but who had
deserted the priesthood for a woman. This convinced him that evil deeds
were afoot and he sought the four men’s help in transferring the gold to
another church further up the coast. They solemnly swore not to tell another
soul and they had every intention of keeping that promise!

The gang made its move when the gold was safely aboard a small sailing
ship, the Bosun Bird, in transit to Callao. They overpowered the other
members of the crew and threw them overboard. Then, having disposed of
the the two priests who were guarding the gold, they fled westwards into the
Pacific Ocean. In December 1859, the Bosun Bird anchored in the harbour
at Tahiti to take on fresh water and provisions. The port records show that
officials did not board her as she carried a signal indicating there was fever
aboard. From Tahiti, she sailed east to the Tuamotus, an area of several
hundred small atolls and reefs. Many of these small islands were unchartered
and most were deserted. Killorain and gang decided to bury their ill-gotten
gains on a deserted island and return later when any hue and cry had died
down. Having found a suitable island, they buried some gold on the beach
close to a large column of coral which overlooked the entrance to the lagoon.
Then they dropped the rest of the gold into a pear-shaped pool to the side of
the lagoon. Crossing to a distant island, they asked a native the name of the
island they had visited. He told them that it sounded like Pinaki or an island
near it. Later, Alvarez killed this man. It was a brutal act which Killorain
deeply regretted. Leaving the Tuamotus, they followed the trade winds to
57
Australia and scuttled the Bosun Bird on a reef near Cooktown. The quartet
rowed ashore to begin new lives in preparation for their return to the island,
but here their luck ran out. By February 1860, two had been killed in a fight,
and two were in jail for manslaughter following a brawl in a bar. Brown died
before completing his sentence and Joseph Killorain was the sole survivor.
He never returned to the Tuamotus but, after many years in prison, drifted
penniless around Australia and New Zealand.

Killorain thanked Howe for the kindness he had shown him earlier and
handed over a greasy piece of cloth which contained an outline of the island
and the whereabouts of the treasure. After Howe left, Killorain received the
last rites from a priest and died some hours later.

At first, Howe was very doubtful about the whole tale, but he checked up on
Killorain’s story and found much of it to be true. Having no family ties, he
sold his property and set off to search Pinaki which he reached in February
1913. According to the map some of the booty was buried 84 feet east, and
some 75 feet north, of a tall column of coral. Pinaki, however, contained
several such columns, so Howe dug a complex network of trenches along
the lagoon beach. He didn’t find a thing. There were many times when he
cursed the Irishman who had led him on what seemed to be a wild goose
chase, but he kept at his task. Indeed, the writer Charles Nordhoff (Mutiny
on the Bounty) was becalmed off Pinaki in 1919 and, going ashore, was
astonished to discover Howe still hard at work and furiously digging up the
beach.

After nearly fourteen years, Howe decided to abandon his search and
returned to Tahiti. This is when he discovered that some Polynesians
pronounce their t’s almost like p’s. Could Pinaki possibly have been Tinaki?
Howe scanned charts of the area and found a small island called Tuanake.
He visited Tuanake and its neighbouring islands and discovered one which
contained all the features on the treasure map. Returning to Australia, he
58
made contact with a group of investors and told them that he had located
some of treasure. He offered to share the booty with them if they would
finance a well-equipped expedition. Then just before the expedition left
Australia, he went to visit some friends in the outback, but fell ill and died.
As his backers still had a copy of the map, they decided to go ahead and
explore the island. Unfortunately, they were ill-prepared for conditions on
the atoll and suffered badly from heat stroke and coral fever, so they
abandoned the project and returned home. Later, one of the team wrote an
account of the expedition but did not reveal the name of the island. The years
passed and the search for the Pisco gold was forgotten.

Some years ago, I obtained aerial photographs and maps of the atolls in that
region. I studied them for hours and eventually found myself staring at
Killorain’s treasure island. There, on the edge of the lagoon, was the pear-
shaped pool shimmering in the sun, and, guarding the beach at the entrance
to the lagoon, stood a large column of coral. Later, I discovered a small
French Government chart which described the column or ‘cairn’ of coral
and gave its exact latitude and longitude. It is 16o 49’ south and 144o 16’
west of Greenwich. So now you have it!

59
It was to this atoll that the Australian mentioned earlier and his family travelled in
search of the treasure. Although I have called him Kevin, this is not his real name
because he is quite guarded about his treasure hunting activities and prefers to
remain anonymous. I know his story is not a fabrication because he has provided me
with several photographs and was able to answer certain specific questions about the
island. According to Kevin, the pear shaped pool is still clearly visible from the air
but over the years has silted up until it is less than one metre deep. Close to the
entrance to the lagoon, he searched in the coral debris with a metal detector and
picked up a strong signal which indicated that something of a non-ferrous nature lay
below the surface. He started to dig and to his amazement uncovered a hoard of
silver and copper medallions similar to that shown in the photo. He found over one
hundred and thirty of them and each bore the inscription “Virgo Carmeli Ora Pro
me”.

Back in Australia, he had the content of the medals analysed and this confirmed that
they were of South American origin and dated around 1830. Though of no great
value, they could have been a small part of the original consignment of religious
artefacts stolen from the church in Peru. Perhaps they were discarded by someone
who had unearthed something more valuable? Or perhaps they came from a ship
carrying missionaries to the atolls which was wrecked in a typhoon? Kevin says he
found nothing else of value in the time he had available and has since moved on to
another project.

60
Are you inspired to follow in his footsteps? Well, you will need to move fast for sea
levels are rising and threatening the existence of these low lying Pacific islands.
From Tahiti, you can hitch a lift to the atoll on a passing copra boat if you don’t
mind rain-soaked clothing, seasickness, diesel fumes, and enormous cockroaches.
Don’t forget to take a metal detector, underwater diving equipment and a sturdy
spade. You will also need a supply of fresh water and a large first aid kit for the
entrance to the lagoon is alive with sharks and rats lurk in the undergrowth.
Naturally, you will avoid damaging the coral but when you are up to your ears in
moray eels (water snakes with large teeth) it’s easy to overlook environmental
issues. Finally, don’t blame me if you encounter the bad luck which seems to have
dogged so many who have searched for the treasure including Kevin. Shortly after
he returned to Australia, his house was burgled and he lost most of the photos and
artefacts which he had brought back from the atoll. Perhaps Joseph Killorain,
formerly of Co Clare, is still smarting over the loss of that map?

61
 Captains

Whilst strolling through a Hertfordshire churchyard, I came across the grave of

William Harvey who, as a young midshipman, had sailed with Captain Cook on
each of his three voyages of discoveries. With the help of the National Archives,
I tracked down his journals and found that they provided a fascinating account
of the three voyages and of Cook’s behaviour, particularly on that fateful day in
Hawaii when he met a rather gruesome end. Cook had gone ashore to recover
a stolen ship’s cutter and intended to take a local chief as hostage until it was
returned; following an argument, his shore party was attacked and Cook was
stabbed to death. Despite his youth and his lowly position, young William
accused Cook of going ashore with ‘treacherous design’ and of ‘trifling around’
on the beach, when, surrounded by a thousand angry natives, he should have
been making tracks back to the Resolution. Older and experienced officers
were more diplomatic in their comments about the sad end of their beloved but
unfortunate commander. This encouraged me to look back through the diaries
which I had kept at sea and to reflect on the various captains under whom I
served. Perhaps with age and experience, I too would have shown more
understanding and diplomacy in my comments, but, at times, some of their
quirky behaviour left me quite puzzled or bemused.

For my first captain, I had much admiration. His style of leadership was a
model to which some of those who were to follow could never aspire. Hailing
from the North East of England, Captain Siddle was a large powerful man with
a warm sense of humour. The crew respected his authority, possibly swayed by
a rumour that he had once thrown an insolent deckhand over the side in Cardiff
docks. Both his first and second mates were reformed alcoholics and he kept a
kindly but watchful eye on them: woe betide anyone who brought any drink
62
aboard one of his ships. He struggled to master the guitar and upon hearing that
I owned one, sent me home at his expense to collect it. He asked me to show
him the chords to “On the sunny side of the street’; this was his mother’s
favourite song and he wanted to sing it to her on her eightieth birthday. Later,
as a reward, he called me from my deck-scrubbing duties to take the wheel and
steer the ship past Lands End. ‘See those jagged rocks, lad? Try to avoid
them.’ It was a long time ago, but the pleasure of that moment has never faded.

Time passes and I find myself serving under Captain M. Like so many before
him, he had worked hard for his promotion but appears to have achieved a
position one rank beyond his abilities. I recall a kindly man who was far too
trusting of those he commanded. One night, having ignored a notice from the
Canadian Ice Service, a truculent second mate switched off the radar when
taking over the graveyard watch. An hour or two later, the ship ploughed at full
speed into pack ice extending across the Bell Isle Strait and sustained
considerable damage. From that moment, Captain M’s days as a master were
numbered. Later, he slipped on a companionway whilst carrying crates of beer
to sell to the crew and injured his spine. The company had a dry ship policy and
he was sacked. I believe that he eventually found employment as a weights and
measures inspector.

Another year, another ship, and I awaited the arrival of the newly-promoted
Captain G with considerable apprehension. He had a reputation as a mean-
spirited and bad-tempered mate whose main joy in life was making the
apprentices suffer. Indeed, I recently discovered a book written many years
later by one of those apprentices. It was an account of life aboard a British
trampship in the late 1940’s and, despite the passage of time, he still deeply
resented the treatment meted out to him by the chief officer. His tormentor was

63
our new captain. Much to my amazement, he turned out to be one the most
pleasant shipmasters I ever met. He treated the apprentices like human beings
and willingly shared his knowledge and experiences with them. ‘Come and help
me take a couple of star sights. I’ll show you how to work out our position,’ or
‘Would you lads like a few days off in port?’ and so on. We shared his
excitement when he discovered an unchartered shallow bank which rose
dramatically from the ocean bed a few hundred miles from the Cape Verde
Islands. If confirmed, charts of every seagoing nation would bear his name.
And we genuinely shared his disappointment when more shallow banks
appeared like stepping stones and we realised that the echo-sounder needed a
good servicing. But what was it about that fourth gold stripe that turned a bucko
mate into a samaritan? His was not an isolated example for I recall other tetchy
mates who became affable masters. Does this civilising process work in
reverse? Could promotion to command, turn an agreeable officer into a
persecuting bully? Those cold grey dawns of the 4 to 8 watch have much to
answer for.

Captain H was a remarkable man. When I last saw him, he was a shore
superintendent in a busy London office. We were both stranded in a trapped lift
but he wasted no time and started my interview for a seagoing post. His desk
sagged under a battery of telephones all of which seemed to be ringing at once.
With stubborn charm, he calmly reassured an anxious master drifting towards
Portland Bill that there was no need to accept a tow from a naval ship standing
by - he just needed a little more faith in his Spanish chief engineer and everything
would be all right. On another line, he commiserated with an elderly officer who
had been sacked for sleeping on watch. Why, with time, he might be offered
another post in the company but he had to prove himself elsewhere first. He
dealt efficiently with these and several other calls whilst checking my papers and

64
arranging a medical appointment. As a young man, Captain H commanded an
ageing freighter crowded with thousands of refugees and attempted to sneak
through the British naval blockade of Palestine. Despite many setbacks, they
eventually made it and, having seen him working under pressure, I think I know
why. I still keep a photo of his ship entering Haifa as an inspiration.

The SS Pan York enters Haifa/Jaffa

Captain A and his Indonesian chief mate, were a pair of likeable rogues. We
moored off Greenhithe in a floating wreck held together by layers of paint and
awaited the arrival of a third mate. By midnight, there was no sign of him so
over a glass of Bols they put a proposition to me. If we were to sail without this
officer, we could share his wages. But were they prepared to share his work
too, I wondered? Unfortunately, they were a little vague on this point. I looked
around at the pre-war freighter which was long overdue at the breakers and
decided to do a runner. It was a wise decision. How the ship got to West
Africa, I shall never know but somewhere along the coast, it acquired a cargo of
several hundred illegal deck passengers. Unfortunately, it had to make an
unscheduled call at a port where marine safety was taken seriously; the officers
were fined and the captain was thrown into jail.

65
 ‘The floating wreck’

Most married captains were faithful to their partners and proud of their families.
Captain T, however, was more of a ladies man and enjoyed their company in
every port. Indeed, he installed extra soundproofing on the bulkhead that
separated his cabin from mine which I considered rather thoughtful of him. One
day, he left me a cryptic message: ‘Bluco arriving 4.30.’ Bluco? We puzzled
over this for some time and the Israeli chief engineer thought that it might be the
engine lubricant that he had ordered. As acting chief mate, and not wishing to
disturb the captain, who was taking a nap, I used my initiative. A small crane
was rigged to haul it aboard and several deckhands stood by (on overtime) to
help stow it. We peered up and down the quayside and impatiently awaited its
arrival. Eventually, a taxi drew up alongside and from it emerged a fine figure of
a woman. We strained over the railings and, with eyes like chapel hat pegs,
watched her gracefully ascend the gangway. ‘Take me to your captain,’ she
demanded in a husky foreign voice. ‘Of course, Madam, and what name may I
give?’ She flashed me a stunning smile. ‘Just call me Bluco, big boy.’

66
For some masters, boredom was a serious problem; it seemed to go with the
territory. With a ship running smoothly, they were reluctant to interfere with
well-established routines and usually kept out of the way. Among their more
unusual hobbies, I recall one who had a rifle on the bridge and shot at spent light
bulbs for target practice. At a prearranged signal, I had to hurl them overboard
from the foc’sl head and prayed that his aim was accurate - this was not an air
rifle. Another would play the bagpipes for hours on end. He may have been an
excellent piper, few are qualified to judge, but his performances were always
quite nerve-stripping. A later captain was an enthusiastic photographer which
was rather fortunate for me. I awoke him one misty morning to tell him that there
appeared to be a large iceberg dead ahead. He came up to the bridge like a bat
out of hell and thinking Titanic. The iceberg, however, turned out to be the fully-
rigged Polish barque Dar Pomorza gliding gracefully across our bows. He
photographed her as the first rays of the sun caught her sails and was delighted.
He winked as he went below, ‘Unusual iceberg,’ but kept my gaffe a secret.

“Dar Pomorza”

Unwilling to socialise freely with their subordinates lest familiarity might breed
67
contempt, some masters gradually withdrew into their quarters and sought
solace from loneliness in a bottle. But did Captain B really consume 84 bottles
of beer, 3 bottles of whisky and 2 bottles of gin every week? And did I really
see Captain J peering at our sooty smokestack through binoculars and slurring
‘The sea’s as dark as a shark’s arse tonight.’? Surely, these must be
exaggerations from the diary of an impudent upstart? But then I can no longer
be sure.

Drink was not the cause of Captain E’s downfall, however, but food and plenty
of it. Today, we are used to seeing obesity, but in those days it was uncommon
and Captain E was extremely large. Invariably, he would be the first into the
dining saloon, and would work his way through each and every item on the
menu. Unable to cope with the physical demands of the job, and only able to
use the gangway with considerable difficulty, the ship became his prison. In the
end, the company relieved him and, as we helped him ashore, we were
surprised by the considerable weight of his luggage. Oddly enough, it wasn’t
ship’s tack that he had taken with him but our ‘docking bottles’ or spirits
allowance. A few days later, he died whilst tucking into a meal at home, and we
forgave him. When I think of him now, I see a large man with a napkin rigged as
a bib and eagerly devouring an enormous plate of red cabbage.

In this brief diary-based survey, I have saved Captain D until the bitter end.
Infested first with rats and then with cockroaches, the Densu River was an
unhappy and hungry ship. Our elderly leather-faced master ruled it with an iron
fist, spitting out orders and treating most of us with contempt. He imposed a
strict dress code which, though appropriate on a liner, was utterly pointless on
this ghastly rust bucket.

68
 SS ‘Abandon Hope’ (aka ‘Densu River’)

On my one and only voyage, our chief mate was accompanied by his sharp-
tongued wife and two whingeing children. Harassed, in turn, by his family and
his beloved captain, the poor man led a very stressful existence. We understood
that the captain was a Dutch citizen but his behaviour was uncharacteristic of
any seafarer from the Netherlands that I have met, and a hardworking African
crew regularly bore the brunt of his anger. At sea, he would sleep in the
chartroom next to the wheelhouse, which was a bit disconcerting for the
watchkeeper, and, one night, a most curious incident occurred. I was on watch
when he appeared in the wheelhouse clad in a silk bathrobe and smoking a
Havana cigar. Elbowing the helmsman out of the way and gripping the arms of
the compass periscope, he started to bark out orders in German. We stood
there speechless and stared at him in astonishment. Eventually, he regained his
composure and left the bridge. Thereafter, I wondered if he had spent his war
beneath rather than above the North Atlantic but I never pressed him on the
matter. I have no happy memories of that ship and left at the earliest
opportunity. Before paying off, I rehearsed a farewell salute but bruised my arm
on a beam and can’t remember if I executed it. Captain Siddle and his merry
guitar seemed a lifetime away.

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These were a few of the captains that I remember. Now they are just fading
signatures in a discharge book, but I recall that they taught me many useful
things and I served them as well as I could. I sometimes wonder what became
of them when the winds of change blew like a gale through the shipping industry.
Apart from piloting or cargo supervision, their opportunities ashore were very
limited; it was the only life they had known. But they were a special breed and
must be admired, for many seek their fortunes at sea, but few achieve that
special goal - the command of a ship.

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 1912
Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg
Steady lads and do not fear,
I have sent an SOS
and know that help will soon be here.

Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg

Steady lads and don’t despair,
We shall soon be wrapped in blankets
and a change of underwear.

Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg

Steady lads, although we’ve sunk
You shall soon be drinking cocoa,
In another sailor’s bunk

Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg

Steady lad, let spirits rise,
Compared to -------- in the rain,
Why this place is paradise!

Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg

Steady lads and do not panic
To our rescue comes a ship,
Oh praise the Lord boys it’s Titanic!

crunch!

Wrecked and stranded on this iceberg

Steady lads, without a moon,
They had difficulty docking,
She’ll be back again quite soon.
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