THE OLD MAN BY THE SEA
Soporific sounds
Slap, swish, slap, swish
Sea on sandy beach.
Elbow on knee, fist under chin
Pen knife and apple on lap
Breeze stirring grey hair
Man sits thinking.
Of life and Liberty?
Of philosophy?
Or daydreaming
Of times gone by.
Memories of missed hopes
Wondering at lost dreams.
Life’s a bugger
When we get old.
Can the brothers find a way to compromise their positions and fulfil their mother’s wish for a happy few weeks or will their anger boil over into open conflict and family break up?
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As I looked out of my cabin window across the deck of the Otter and the docks beyond, my heart was pounding in my chest. I was excited because I was waiting for Maria to drive to the ship and take me back to her home to tell her parents that we were to get married.
My mind drifted back to that first time I had met Maria. It seemed so long ago now, that night at a party on the Otter. It had not been an auspicious meeting. I had been sitting on the deck in a corridor, slumped with my back against the bulkhead, trying to regain my senses after too much drink. I was feeling as though I was floating a few feet off the deck, free and above the mere mortals attached to the earth who walked by in a blur.
Then somebody had spoken, breaking through the drink induced fog and I was looking into pair of dark brown eyes gazing seriously at me through large glasses. The face was round, with a small nose on which her lenses perched. Even through the fog of the alcohol, I was aware that she had a rather large mouth filled with very white regular teeth that smiled at me from very close. The face was framed in brown hair, neatly cut and not quite reaching her shoulders. She introduced herself as Maria Tourvelinen and told me she had come to the party with my friend Brian's girlfriend.Somehow, I had pulled myself together enough to dance with her and ask for a date when the ship was next in Helsinki.
The following time the ship had come to Helsinki, we had met, had a meal and been to a concert. After that, we arranged to see each other at every opportunity and started to make love in her flat whenever I was in Helsinki. After a while, I had asked her to marry me but she refused.
It came to a head one day in April, when the snow had melted and the grass was starting to show green in the parks. We were walking through the park near the sea and it was so sudden and unexpectedly that I did not know how to handle myself.
Innocently, I had said to her, “ I have this feeling we were meant to stay together and grow even closer. I suppose what I am trying to say is that I think it is time for us to talk about getting married.”
When I had finished speaking, Maria stopped suddenly. It was as though I had punched her. Roughly, she pulled me over to the rail by the edge of the water. She stood there not looking in my direction but staring out to sea. It was as though she was asking the sea to give her some inspiration, for the words to rise from the waters like a siren and rescue her.
“ Its so hard to explain ,” she had began, her voice trembling. “ If you were a Finn I would most likely say yes to marrying you. I don't really understand why but there is something which holds me back from saying yes to marrying you.”
“ I am from this land, this is where I belong,” she went on after a pause and I did not reply. “ We Finns have feelings which are rooted deep in the soil of our forests and in the history of our people. For all the hard climate, the isolation from the rest of Europe, the snow and the cold, over the centuries, we have built a way of life. All my friends and my parents live here and I am scared to move away. If I married you, I would have to leave my land and my friends.”
“ Other people have managed,” I had replied harshly.
Now, standing looking out of my cabin window waiting anxiously for Maria to arrive, I distinctly recalled her words. “ Ah, James you are not like all those other people. Don't you ever listen to yourself when you are talking? When we lie together, our passion spent or as we drink coffee in the mornings, you should pay attention to what you are saying. All the other English seamen I have met talk about the here and now and never give any indication that they ever think about the future. To them the whole purpose of living is for their ship to arrive in Helsinki, what they are going to do while they are in port and whom they will meet. I have noticed, even when we are with other people from the ship, you talk about different things than they do, as though the ship is only a place of work and there are other things to do in life. When you describe England in the spring with the soft rains and the budding flowers, the country bars with huge open fire places and pints of beer, your eyes shine with an inner passion. Though you might not realise it openly, I can see that is where your heart is and England is where you will eventually return to settle down once you have had enough of the sea. James, I have lain in bed listening to you talking about the town you come from, about your friends and family and I know that you have roots as deep in that community as I have here. Your bonds to your family are as tight as my own. Our roots go deep into the soil of the places and into the soul of the people from whom we sprang. I am tied to my past and you are to yours.”
“ Maria, that may have been true in the past but events change our outlook on life. If we got married, your family would become my family, your home my home. My attitude to England would change just in the act of marrying you!” I had emphasised each word by almost shaking her.
“ No, It would be like caging an animal which has always been free to roam and cutting it off from it's home. You do not talk about the sea in the same way as the others, as though you are going to spend the rest of your life at sea. Always in the background of what you are saying, I have detected that if the right job came along, you would leave the sea without hesitation. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying you do not like going to sea. All I know is that I am certain that one day you will say to yourself, I have had enough of the sea and then you will find a job ashore and that job will be in England. James at the moment, I don't think I could leave Finland and come to live in England even for you.”
A silence had fallen between us after that. It was not the silence of contentment nor of anger but of bafflement at how this divide could have grown so swiftly. No doubt both of us were thinking about how we could rediscover the excitement of being together which we had had before the question of marriage had arisen.
It came as a shock to me when I realised that Maria had inadvertently opened my eyes to the way I thought about a career at sea. For the first time in my life I began to realise that the sea was not everything to me but only another job. The sea which had dominated my life since as long as I could remember, could this only be a passing phase in my life? I asked myself as the doubts about the foundation of my living began to make all certainty crumble. Would I be able to leave the life I had built for myself at sea if I found another job which did not involve going away from home? Was my character so rooted in England that it was obvious to Maria, while not to me, that I would finally settle down in England? Was Maria right in claiming that it would be impossible for me sail to Helsinki for the rest of my life, that in the end the excitement would fade and I would seek a more stable life style?
After our disagreement,the Otter had sailed to other ports than Helsinki and for a long time I had not seen Maria. All through this forced separation, in her letters, Maria had maintained her stand of not wanting to get married.
When I had finally arrived back in her flat in Helsinki, she had told me before we had made love, “ Your being away for so long has convinced me that I cannot live without you. As far as I can think, this means we will have to get married. I suspect that nothing has changed between us. Our getting married will mean I have to come and live in England at some time in the future. If going to live in England is the only way I can be with you all the time, I will be willing to leave Finland and come with you.”
All I could say was thank you. She had been aware of how I felt towards her for a long time. For me it had been an age to wait silently, hoping each time we met for her to say those words. At the time there was little I could say.
After she arrived on the Otter, we had lunch and it turned into one of those happy occasions which come unanticipated, one which I can even now recall in every detail as though it was only yesterday.
Captain Harris ordered a special meal, even going so far as to break out some of his much cherished wine which he usually kept locked in his locker. He played the gracious host, dressed in his best uniform, presiding over the meal with genial competence. Indeed, he appeared to be genuinely pleased that Maria and I had decided to get married. I had shyly told him of our plans on the way round the Finnish coast from Helsinki to Kotka. As I came off watch, he had called me into his cabin for a gin before we went to bed. His normally serious expression had almost changed to a beaming smile and he had insisted we had one more than our usual ration of gin.
All my friends were sitting around the table. Most had delayed their usual headlong rush to leave the ship and catch the bus for Helsinki in order to meet their girlfriends for the weekend. We sat in the same saloon where I and Maria had first met, surrounded by memories of the party and my first kiss. Above the echo of my friends laughing and drinking through lunch, were the ghosts of other friends who had been at the party that night.
The toasts that lunchtime were for the ship and for Maria who sat in her seat by Captain Harris sparkling and smiling. When the last of the wine had been consumed, all those present insisted on lining up and kissing Maria in turn. As an after thought they all shook my hand and wished me good luck.
When we finally got back to my cabin to fetch my bag, Maria flung her arms round my neck, kissing my lips through the taste of the wine. The warmth of her body and her trembling excitement made my heart beat faster and my body pushed against hers as though I had no control over my behaviour.
“ Let us make love here in your cabin before we drive home,” she had whispered in my ear. “ I have always wanted to make love on board the Otter and in your bunk. You have always come ashore to my flat whenever you are in Helsinki, so I have never had the chance.”
We made love slowly and silently, conscious of the people walking passed the door of my cabin. It was wonderful. Afterwards we lay in each others arms laughing about how we should have done this that first time she had been aboard the Otter.
Then, after a drinking a coffee, we went arm in arm out into the cold, down the gangway and into her car. Even after so much time, I can still see her smiling face as she waved goodbye to Bill who was leaning on the ship's rail watching us depart and, if I think deeply, experience my sense of happiness and the rightness of what we were about to do.
The light was growing dim as we left the Otter in the middle of the afternoon and Maria had to turn on the car headlights. As we sped through the frozen landscape towards Maria's home, the woods on each side of the road look dark and forbidding. The trees were individually visible close to the road but fading into a dark mass further away. We hardly talked, content to let the dirty snow at the side of the road slip by as the studded car tyres threw little chips of ice into the air. We were still, I suppose, enveloped in the warm relaxing glow of our love making, in many ways outside of time.
Through half closed eyes I recognised the approach to the village where Maria lived, thinking vaguely that it would not be long before we arrived at her parents' house.
When the car started down the steep slope just before the edge of the village, there was a bang from the front of the car and I sat up in my seat conscious of a sense of fear creeping into the car. Maria was now fighting the wheel, the gears and the brakes. She was staring straight ahead, a vein throbbing in her temple, her mouth a tight, thin line. The skin was pulled tight across her cheeks in an expression of fear and her back was rigid, away from the back of her seat.
The car was gathering speed down the hill and I looked away from Maria and out of the windscreen. A sharp bend was coming towards us too fast. Everything seemed suspended. I stopped breathing, my mind went blank and all my muscles were stiff and unmoving. It was apparent to me even through my fear that the car was not going to get round the bend at the speed it was travelling.
I must have called out something to Maria but she did not answer. A piercing scream seemed to come from outside the car, a scream which told Maria to hold tight. The frozen snow was flashing passed the car, throwing up clouds of spray exactly like a ship in heavy weather. The car was bouncing horribly on it's shock absorbers as it left the road and headed for the trees. There was a loud bang as an object hit the side of the car and pain was shooting through my body as the sound of grating metal filled the air.
Another loud bang, more pain as my body bounced off some metal and I felt I was flying through the air. My leg smashed against something rough and hard and my side was being dragged over what felt like broken glass. Another thump and I came to rest.
Events became completely disoriented then. It was cold and I can remember trying to find out what had happened to Maria. I tried to get to my feet but everywhere there was pain and my legs would not hold me upright. My eyes would not focus and all around it was dark. Somehow I was outside the car, even my fuddled brain could work that out. I was lying in the frozen snow slowly getting colder and colder. The cold did not matter too much because the colder I became, the less the pain throbbed through my body.
Then I was surrounded by people and flashing lights. I tried to ask about Maria but all they did was push me back onto a blanket. They were fiddling with my legs and I confess I screamed with the pain. Then I was inside a vehicle travelling at speed through a village with the people in the green coats still leaning over me wiping my face and holding my hand. The vehicle stopped, the doors were flung open and I was being pushed at great speed along a corridor on a trolley. Doors clanged shut in our wake and more people were leaning over me looking at my legs. I heard a voice as though from a long way off moaning Maria's name and then there was nothing.
It was like floating in a tank of liquid, relaxed and secure. There was no sound and the sense of being detached from anything else was very strong. The light was soft but dappled, dark and bright as though I was laying in water under a tree. There was no time and my body did not exist. It was wonderful.
Then the noise started, a relaxing sort of sound as though I was lying, dozing, on a beach with my eyes closed listening to the waves breaking on the shore. A noise in the background, soothing absorbing, helping me sink back below the surface of consciousness, floating, relaxed and secure. It was only in the mind, not in the body.
Then I was rising above the surface and the soothing sensation of floating was thrust aside by the pain. The colour in my mind was now red. I was surrounded by red but I tried to get back to my floating. It was still all in the mind but I was surrounded by pain.
As I broke the surface of the liquid, the pain started to separate. Soon I could identify different parts of my body by the type of pain. Then I was fully conscious and I wished I had stayed in the liquid. My head had been taken over by a trainee drummer who was practising the same phrase over and over again. My leg hurt with stabbing bursts of pain as though somebody was pushing a knife into the muscle and twisting it savagely. As my heart beat rapidly, I could feel my side and arm throbbing as though somebody was hammering to get out.
I opened my eyes slowly but had difficulty focussing at first. Raising my hand, I rubbed my eyes and was surprised to feel bandages. The general whiteness of my surroundings started to come into focus. Trying to sit up proved difficult, if not impossible. The red curtain descended again as soon as I tried to move. Pain filled my whole world so much I wanted to cry out. Steeling myself against the onset of the pain, I raised my head sufficient to look around and found my leg encased in plaster, raised above the bed on some kind of harness.
Just as I was sinking back onto the bed, sweat beading my brow, a girl in a white uniform and with a cheerful face crossed the room into the direct line of my vision. She went to the door and shouted something I did not understand. Soon, another girl appeared and between them they managed to raise me into some semblance of a comfortable sitting position. I asked her in a very hoarse voice, what had happened to Maria but she only shrugged and made signs that she did not understand what I was saying. It was obvious she did not speak English or so I reasoned. I told myself, I would have to wait until somebody who spoke some English came to see me before I would find out about Maria.
Later a doctor came to examine me but he would only answer question about my condition. With a touch of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he told me to lie back and try to relax. I was helpless to do anything else, though I dreamed about walking out of the room. Instead, I lay back and let the nurses deal with my needs. After an injection, the pain stayed in the background and I was able to relax.
A long time passed, or so it seemed to me, when the door to my room opened and Mrs. Tourvelinen was standing there looking at me. My heart missed a beat when I saw her. She was visibly drawn into herself but rigid as though trying to hold herself in control. She looked so much like my Maria, I wanted to cry out. She came a few steps into the room and then hesitated for what, to me lying captive in that bed, seemed like hours. Then she pulled back her shoulders with a mighty effort and walked across the floor to stand by the bed.
Suddenly as though all the courage she had stored up had vanished, she collapsed onto the bed and pulled my face into her breasts. She sat like that, rocking back and forth, stroking my hair like a mother with a son she wants to protect from the evils of the world. I could feel the tightness inside, the cording of her muscles as she fought to control her emotions. She lost the private battle with herself. Tears cascaded down her face and sobs shook her frame.
I knew then what she had come to that hospital room to tell me. It was as though her grief had been transmitted without words. There was no need for her to try to compose herself but she fought for control so that she could tell me what had happened. Stiffening myself against the onset of my grief and anger, I strove to make my face appear as unemotional as possible.
When she was able to start, she was very blunt and brutal. I suppose at the time there was no other way in which she could have braced herself to speak.
“ Maria died in the crash and the funeral was yesterday.” Her face was still wet with tears, the anguish of her expression showing how she was trying to comfort me but finding the right words was proving difficult. “ I hope you will be able to forgive me for not telling you as soon as you regained consciousness but the doctor told me that you must not be stressed too much so soon after coming round. In addition, I wanted to tell you myself what had happened. I could not leave that painful duty to somebody unknown to you.”
“ The car hit a tree on Maria's side and she was crushed against the door,” she went on, even though it was obvious she wanted to hide the memory from herself but was compelled to tell me what had happened. “ Somehow you were thrown clear of the car because the emergency service people found you lying some distance away jammed between two small trees. The doctors and nurses fought to save her life. They managed to get her back to the hospital but she died the day after she arrived without regaining consciousness. At the same time they were trying to put your leg back together and bring you out of your coma. My husband and I have taken turns to sit by your bed. It has been over a week since you were brought here and when they told me you had regained your senses, I thought it was time to come and tell you what had happened.”
While she was talking, I kept my face impassive but my throat was so tight, I could not say anything. All I could do was sit and stare wide eyed at the wall. My mind tried to grasp what Mrs. Tourvelinen was telling me. I knew her words were important. I tried to reason out what her words foretold about my future but I could not hold onto the words long enough to understand. My stomach felt as though it had been placed in a freezer and been turned into a lump of ice. Cold fluid filled my veins. Numbness was rapidly spreading towards my brain. Echoing through my mind was just one refrain and this was not really a part of me. What am I to say to a mother who has just lost her daughter while I lived through the same crash? What comfort can I bring to this vulnerable woman when I feel so empty and bereft of any reason for living?
After she had finished telling me as much about the crash and what had happened afterwards as she could, we sat in that white painted hospital room in silence. We were lost in our own thoughts but the presence of the other brought a feeling of sharing and a great deal of comfort. She held my hand and after a while, quietly left, whispering goodbye as she went out of the door. I did not move but lay still staring at the wall. The silence stretched into my small world. All alone I sensed the white walls crowding in on me, making me feel I was in some sort of snowy hell.
I cried then, deep sobs wrung from the depths of my very soul. The shaking tore at my body until there was no emotion left and I could lay back. I now had to confront the images from the past that rose up out of my mind to join me as though they were real. The nurses frequently bustled into the room and performed their secret rites before leaving to find their next victim. Through this time, I hardly noticed their passage or the passing of the hours or the days. For a while it was as though I was suspended from the bed, looking down at events as they happened, completely divorced from the person lying there. At other times, I was submerged below the oceans of my emotions trying to swim through an opaque darkness that had no end.
What fools we humans are, I kept telling myself in the few moments when I was conscious and rational. We build in detail our future plans in the certain knowledge that what we plan will come to pass. All the time there is lurking in wait the sudden event that shatters all the certainty from life in a fleeting moment. We are then all left naked before the world. All we humans beaver away like ants to construct relationships, to lay the foundations on which we base our lives. But, I kept asking myself as the time floated by as I lay in that hospital bed, what for? Why do we plan and what is the point of making foundations for our future life? Who in the whole universe can answer me that question honestly? At times when the plans we lay are crumbling before our eyes and there is nothing we can do to save them, the whole exercise of living appears such a huge joke. Something or somebody must get a whole lot of pleasure out of watching the manoeuvring and posturing of these earthly beings as all their plans and hopes turn to dust in their hands. How often does the bad appear to triumph over the good? That is true, I hear myself almost shout. Why do the bad win most of the rewards in life? Why do the bad seem to enjoy life much more than the good? Or have I got the meaning of life all wrong? Am I really looking at the bad and the good? It is a mystery to most of us as to why some people always win and yet others always lose. It does not look as though there is any connection to good or evil. It is a mystery of which most of us are not privileged to glimpse the answer.
( As published in "with islands in mind" - Earlyworks Press 2006 -ISBN 978-0-9553429-4-3
Early one morning, I climbed to the bridge of the ship to take my watch. Half asleep from being woken a few minutes before, and if the truth was admitted, from too much to drink the night before I looked around. It was a glorious night, one of those that people dream about when crossing the North Sea. The stars twinkled brightly in a cloudless sky and the sea was dead calm. Even though I was not mentally sharp, something alerted to my sleep deadened brain to danger. It is as though some sixth sense was working even though there was nothing to indicate that anything was wrong. My head twisted as I tried to make out what was out of place, my eyes checking all the instruments I could see and my ears straining to sense any difference in the peculiar sounds which emanate from a ship. Everything appeared in order. Then my eyes rested the second mate in the gloom of the bridge. He was standing rigid at the front of the wheelhouse, staring out at the sea ahead of the ship. Some lights were visible close to the starboard bow, and my brain suddenly registered that they were from another ship.
I reacted instantly and automatically, my long years of training and experience taking over. Suddenly I was wide awake, the adrenaline causing any lingering sleep to vanish. Rushing to the front of the bridge, I grabbed a lever and changed the steering gear from automatic into manual. I yelled at the second mate to take over the wheel. He came out of his trance at the sound of my voice and rushed to the stand by the wheel.
" Hard a port!" I yelled even louder as I came to terms with the true situation. The Charles Winter was only a few yards from another coaster and in a few minutes we were going to smash into it's stern. " Are we overtaking or not? " I yelled never taking my eyes of the rusty grey hull getting ever closer.
" Overtaking, " the second mate replied in a voice which quivered with fear.
As the bow of the Charles Winter swung away from the other ship, I yelled for the wheel to be put midships and raced out onto the bridge wing to watch our stern come round. The aft ends of the two ships were now closing each other very fast and I yelled for the wheel to be put hard to starboard, towards the other vessel. The two ships were now running parallel and water was being thrown into the air as it was squeezed between us. Looking over to the other ship, I caught a glimpse of a white face looking out of their wheel house but had no time to wave. Once the two ships were running exactly parallel, I yelled for the second mate to steer a steady course hoping all the time, the two sterns would not be pulled together. As the bow of the Charles Winter edged passed the other ship, I waited holding my breath.
There was nothing I could do other than pray the two ships would stay apart long enough for me to take the next action. The second mate was fighting the wheel, trying to hold the Charles Winter steady while casting fearful glances out of the wheelhouse at the other ship.
When I judged the time was right, I yelled for the second mate to steer to starboard, despite his look of horror, across the bows of the other ship. I ignored his look and concentrated on what I was trying to do. As our bow turned towards the other ship, I wondered whether I had judged things right.
Actually, thinking back there was nothing else I could have done because the sterns were starting to close. Our stern started to move away from the stern of the other ship and our speed was carrying us round his bow. It seemed to go on for ever and I must have stood holding my breath for what was an impossible time, watching the bow of the other ship slowly pass down our side and then slip away very close astern.
" Put her back on course," I ordered my voiced drained of all feeling. I sank down against the front of the bridge wing, my hand gripping the rail tightly in an effort to stop the shaking of my arms. My legs were like jelly and I honestly thought I was going to collapse onto the deck. Never in my whole life had I been so scared, never had I used up so much nervous energy in so short a time. I felt as though I had stood and faced death, only to be reprieved. That is not so strange because there was every chance of the Charles Winter exploding if we had hit the other ship. Still shaking almost uncontrollably, I managed to pull myself upright and somehow walked into the wheelhouse.
The sight of the second mate standing there, his face chalky white and his hand pushing nervously back a lock of his hair from his eyes snapped my control. All the bitterness I had been feeling towards my life irrationally focused on the young man in front of me and I exploded.
" You bloody idiot! " I shouted even though he was right next to me. I was so beside myself with rage, I could not stop myself. " What the hell were you trying to do? You could have lost us both our certificates not to mention our lives. Standing there like that staring out to sea and waiting for something to happen is the worst thing you could have done. Do you call yourself qualified!? I would make sure you never set foot on a ship again if I had the power. What the hell were the examiners thinking of when they gave you a ticket? If I was you, I'd get out of my sight now and make sure you keep out of my way for the rest of the trip."
I turned suddenly at the sound of a quiet voice behind me. " There is no need for you to manhandle my second mate. " The Captain was standing in the entrance to the bridge frowning. It was then I realised I was holding the second mate by the coat collar and shaking him from side to side. Sheepishly I let go and pushed him away.
" Go down to your cabin now and I will be down shortly, " the captain said to the second mate who left the bridge as fast as his legs could carry him.
The oil tanker, San Wilfrido, approached the pilot station off Hong Kong as the sun was setting, a big red ball behind the islands. Lights were starting to show along the shore and on the boats sailing between the islands. The leading lights flashed ahead of the ship, one above the other showing the channel to be navigated between the islands. After the ship had slowed and stopped, the red painted pilot boat came alongside.
Once the pilot had climbed the rope ladder and was safely standing on the deck, the Captain ordered the chief officer and the anchor handling team onto the focastle. As part of the that team, I stood beside John Deacon, the Chief Officer, and watched the islands pass close to the ship on either side. The trees were hardly visible in the gathering night, lighter patches against the dark of the hills. A line of white phosphorescence outlined the shore caused by the wake of the ship as waves broke among tyhe rocks. Except for the sound of the throttled back engine of the San Wilfrido, all appeared quiet.
After negotiating narrow channels only guided or warned by sets of leading lights of the flashing lights of buoys, the islands parted and a bay opened up in front of the ship. It was to me as though we were entering a magical kingdom. Multicoloured lights climbed away from the water towards the stars. They twinkled and winked like diamonds in Aladdin's cave. On all sides of the ship the lights were reflected in the water and moved gently as boats and ferries disturbed the surface and altered the patterns.
All I can say now is that it was like looking into a fairy grotto. I stood captivated and was pleased that it was dark on the focastle because I suspected that my mouth was open. I will remember that first sight of Hong Kong harbour all my life.
The ship traversed the harbour between the crossing ferries, the sampans and the speed boats. John pointed out all the landmarks which were etched in lights. Sticking out into the harbour was the airport runway. Further on from the runway I could see the flash of cutters like lightening against the sky. The ship headed in this direction and anchored opposite the place where the broken down hulks of ships lay on the beach passed the end of the runway.
Once the ship was securely at anchor, those members of the crew who were not wanted the next day were taken off by boat and bussed to the hotel. The skeleton crew left on board settled for the night. Their belongings, except for a small over night bag had been sent on ahead to the hotel with the other crew members. It was strange walking round the ship that night. There were so few people on board. The Captain, Chief Officer, Chief Engineer, Second Engineer, Bosun, Carpenter, two sailors, greasers and me. Everywhere on board, footsteps echoed into the empty spaces.
Early the next morning as the sun was climbing above the hills, the pilot came aboard. The tall buildings where the lights had shone the day before, I noticed as I led the pilot to the bridge, were now visible all around the harbour. The green ferries ploughed their way across the water from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. Once the pilot was safely on the bridge, I took my place on the focastle with the Chief Officer, bosun and carpenter.
At the order, we weighed the anchor, the chain clanking as it came aboard. A boat was by the bow and we lowered one anchor all dripping wet as soon as it was above the water onto its deck. Another boat took the other anchor. At a whistle signal, the two boats headed for the shore with the Wilfrido closely following. When the stem touched the mud, the pilot ordered the ship to stop. The boats continued towards the shore as the anchor chain was paid out in their wake.
Once the boats could not sail any closer to the beach, the anchors were lifted ashore by a heavy crane and attached to thick wires. At a signal from the shore, we slowly paid out the cable as it was pulled further ashore by the wires. We could not see how from our position on the ship, but the cables were fixed ashore. At another signal we started to heave in the anchor cable. Slowly, unnaturally with a sound like a sigh, the Wilfrido slid up the beach. More and more of the black, rust streaked hull became visible. On either side of the ship were the rusted shells of half demolished vessels.
With just the stern in the water, we were ordered to stop. The engineers opened the safety valves and vented the steam into the air with a long drawn out scream ending in a long sigh. To me this sounded as though the ship had given up. We secured the anchor chain and left the focastle.
Even as we walked towards the amidships accommodation, men were swarming all over the ship, pulling pipes and equipment after them. The crane was landing heavier machinery on the deck.
We collected our overnight bags from our cabins and assembled near the steep gangway which had been placed against the ship’s side. The Captain joined us soon after having signed away the ship to the manager of the wreckers yard. He shook hands with manager of the scrap gang and led us down the gangway and along the walkway beside the ship. He did not look back but resolutely led us to the waiting bus. It was as though his emotions were under strict control but would break loose if he looked back at his ex-command.
Three days later after a fascinating time in Hong Kong, my first taste of the east, I sat by one of the windows of the plane that was taking us home. It taxied down the runway, out into the harbour. I caught sight of the Wifrido or what was left of her. The tall funnel with the smoke hood was gone. half the accommodation blocks were now missing. No longer there were the masts shaped like rugby posts at the bottom and a tall mast at the top. Those masts which the chief officer had made me climb to unravel the flag of the country we were visiting or the company house flag. I had been scared the first few times clinging to the ladder for dear life though determined to reach the top so that the crew would not bate me about being a coward. What remained reminded me of pictures I had seen of stranded whales.
The plane turned and rushed along the runway between the flats leaving what was left of the Wilfrido bereft of life and on its own. It had been made of steel and now was a pile of scrap waiting for the trader to find a buyer. A ship is more than a pile of steel, I thought. It had been a home for countless seamen. When they were on board it had been alive. It had battled storms, rolling and heaving through heavy spray. At times it had smiled serenely into the mirror like sea of the Persian Gulf. How many ports had it visited with how much cargo? As I said, above all of this it had been a home. Through the voyages it had been a platform for friendships, feuds and arguments and some indifference, It made me sad to think that the Wilfrido had ended up as a pile of scrap metal on the banks of the harbour in Hong Kong.
The sun was shining from a clear blue sky, low down to the east. Hardly a ripple disturbed the water of the bay. To the starboard side of the San Fernando, lying at anchor off the oil terminal, were the golden sands of a beach. Back home on a day like this such a beach would be crowded. It was almost empty. Arcing around the bay, green jungle and forest climbed steeply from the sand towards the ridge of a line of hills. A jetty pushed incongruously out into the water, the piles grey and weather beaten. Forming a tee at the end of the jetty was a berth occupied by some brightly coloured but rust streaked fishing boats. Hanging from a metal structure were a number of black rubber pipes connected to two silver pipelines marching along the jetty and disappearing into the jungle. In the distance, half shrouded by trees several silver tanks shone dully in the sunshine.
All this I took in at a glance as I came out of the accommodation dressed in a pair of shorts and flip flops. In my hand I carried a mug of coffee. I breathed deeply of the warm, fragrant air. The almost empty beach looked most inviting. Away towards one end a few fishermen were tending their nets by their fishing canoes. It was, I thought, a perfect morning.
It was early in the morning and as I stood looking out over the bay, the ships crew were just stirring. The bosun waved as he passed on the way to the bridge to get his daily orders from the Chief Officer. The chief steward staggered towards the mid ships accommodation where I stood with an armful of towels and boxes of soap. The lookout remarked what a beautiful day as he walked from the focastle aft for his breakfast. A normal day with the ship at anchor waiting for the berth to clear.
As I drank my coffee, I was gazing out to sea through the mouth of the bay when I noticed two black dots approaching low over the water. Then born on the breeze came the faint sound of aircraft engines. Before long, it was possible to make out the outline of two single engined planes. Curiously, I watched as the planes rushed towards the bay wondering what they were looking for. As far as I knew there wasn’t any oil under the sea so they could not be surveying. Then they banked steeply left and climbed over the jungle clad hills ahead of the ship. They disappeared.
I was just about to return to my cabin to dress properly for breakfast, when I heard the planes approaching from the land side. I walked across the deck to take a look.
In line astern, the two planes were diving down the slopes just above the trees and heading straight for the tanker. It was just as I had seen in a dozen war movies as the Japanese planes attacked the American fleet.
The lead plane levelled out and headed straight for the ship across the blue water. I watched transfixed as a black object detached itself from the underside of the plane. It fell slowly straight for the after deck. Then I realised it was going to hit the ship. In panic, I dived for cover behind the bulwark.
There was an almighty bang and the ship shuddered as though it had run full speed into a very big wave. The stays on the mast and the wireless arial twanged. Diesel oil spattered the accommodation from the geyser of oil which exploded from the damaged deck. Steam was hissing from fractured pipes and alarm bells were ringing all over the tanker.
Nervously, I risked a look in time to see the first plane wheel away, rushing out to sea. A black object fell from the second plane and I ducked for cover once more. Another ear splitting bang. The shuddering and shaking of the ship was followed by the screaming of fractured steel. The second plane headed out to sea.
It was as though all sound had gone except the ringing in my ears. Then there was the grating of steel plates twisted apart, steam whistling from holes in the pipes and the splash of oil landing back onto the deck. What had happened was so fantastic it was unbelievable. A tanker innocently anchored in a sun brushed bay being bombed. It could not be true but I soon understood that it had taken place.
I climbed to my feet and looked over the bulwark. Oil was bubbling out of the holes in the deck but no longer shooting skyward. I thought my eyes were playing tricks but it appeared the ship was bending in the middle. Yes, I told myself, the aft end is higher than the centre. The funnel looked as though it was slowly falling towards the main deck. At the same time, the ship was slowly settling into the water.
I did not have time to think too much about that had happened. Looking up, I spotted Captain Ruddock on the boat deck staring aft at the buckled deck and the funnel bending towards him. His face was white which matched the knuckles of his hands gripping the rail so tightly I thought he was going to snap it away from its anchor points. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes staring as though he could not believe what he was seeing. Incongruously, shaving foam still clung to his chin.
Spotting me on the deck below, he demanded in a hoarse voice. “ What happened?”
“ Two planes came over and dropped bombs on us,” I answered bluntly still too much in shock to be diplomatic.
“ Whatever for?” he muttered. “ Those bloody rebels.”
Then pulling his shoulders straight, closing his mouth and wiping the shaving foam on the towel he held in his hand, he was the Captain of the San Fernando again. “ Get up on the bridge and get the Chief Officer to sound boat stations. Then come to my cabin to help me.”
Other crew members were pouring out of the accommodation and alarm bells started sounding. As I raced up to the bridge, Captain Ruddock was already issuing orders to organise the crew. I found the Chief Officer and the bosun staring aft and issuing orders over the emergency phone.
“ The Old Man orders everybody to muster by the lifeboats,” I shouted as I rushed through the bridge to the stairs leading to the Captain’s cabin. “ He says to make sure that the radio officer sends out a mayday or SOS.”
“ Where are you off to?”
“ To help the Captain.”
I raced down the stairs and knocked on the door of the Captain’s cabin. When bidden to enter, I found Captain Ruddock on his knees, dressed in his uniform and stuffing papers from the ships safe into two brief cases.
“ Everybody is mustering and getting into the lifeboats, sir,” I said rather breathless.
Captain Ruddock smiled. “ Good Eddie. You are to take one of these brief cases up to the bridge. I will bring the other. Try to make sure it stays with you no matter what happens. It contains copies of all the ships papers and records. I have the originals. Between us we should be able to make sure that these are taken ashore and saved.”
Taking the brief case, I ran down the stairs to my cabin. On the way my shoulders banged painfully into a bulkhead as the ship took a lurch but I ignored the pain. When I got to my cabin, I quickly dressed in my uniform ignoring the lurching of the ship and the groaning of the plates. I shoved my personal effects, my discharge book, identity book, photos, letters and money into a bag I kept for this purpose. Some of the other cadets during my time at sea had scoffed at my caution but it was vindicated now. Slinging this over my shoulder, I raced back up the stairs to the bridge.
When I arrived panting from running, I found Captain Ruddock standing on the bridge wing looking aft. The water was lapping over the deck now and when I looked forward all I could see was the focastle. Looking back aft, it was as though the engine room and the accommodation in the stern were completely cut off from the amidships. The decks were at crazy angles but the four lifeboats were now being filled with crew. Air and oil were bubbling up from the tanks spreading a black sheen over the waters surrounding the ship.
I looked at the captain. His face was lined and he had that broken look of somebody who had come to accept defeat. His shoulders slumped and his hands were shaking.
As though seeing me for the first time, he nodded. “ You had better get down to your lifeboat.”
“ What about you?” I asked even though I knew the answer.
“ There is a life raft at the end of the bridge. I intend to stay until just before the bridge goes under.” He laughed sadly. “ Actually, unless the ship capsizes,. I judge it will not sink completely. There was only twenty feet below the keel, so when it settles on the bottom, the top of the accommodation should remain above the water. Go on. Go for your lifeboat. The third mate is waiting for you.”
“ If it is all right with you, I would like to stay.”
Captain Ruddock put his arm round my shoulder and squeezed. “ Thank you.”
He waved the last lifeboat away. I have to admit as the lifeboat moved away from the ship and deck under our feet bucked and shuddered, I was more frightened than I would ever admit to anybody. Despite my fear, there was no way in which I could have left this vulnerable man on his own.
We stood and watched as the lifeboats pulled away from the sinking ship. Two patrol boats had left the jetty and were racing in our direction. Once again my heart stopped as we felt the grinding of broken plates beneath our feet. Once we had to cling to the bridge rail as the ship lurched and heeled over to starboard.
The water was steadily climbing up the structure. Level now with the main accommodation deck. There was a groan and a long hiss as though an old lady had lowered herself painfully into a chair. The bridge rocked and swayed. The captain and I saw the stern twist and settle. It heeled over to port. With a whoosh, the remaining air bubbled from the superstructure. Then there was silence. Even the hiss of escaping steam had ceased.
The water was now level with the boat deck and the oil sheen spreading out from the ship into the clear waters of the bay look thick and ugly.
Captain Ruddock turned to me and said, “ Thank you for staying with me.”
We walked down the twisted stairs together to the boat deck below the bridge carrying the ships papers, my personal belongings and the Captain's bag. By the time we arrived, a patrol boat was alongside the boat deck. I stepped aboard helped by the crew. The captain took one last look round his command and stepped aboard, leaving his ship to the mercy of the elements.
A divergence from my tales of the sea
A first novel published at sixty-eight
An Ordinary Life by Edmund J Gubbins
Edmund Gubbins worked as a ships officer in the Merchant Navy for twelve years after leaving school. He subsequently studied for a degree. On graduating, he became a university lecturer specialising in transport management and UN consultant. During his time lecturing, he published two text books, Managing Transport Operations and The Shipping Industry. He has lived and worked in Louthborough since 1975. During his life, he has traveled widely both for pleasure and for work.
Edmund Gubbins retired in 2005 after almost thirty years service at Loughborough University. After retirement, he started creative writing classes through the WEA in Loughborough learning to hone his writing skills, both prose and poetry.
With much encouragement from the tutor, his first novel has been published at the age of sixty-eight by Youwriteon.com.
The story explores the manner in which most people regard themselves as honest and law abiding although there are times and circumstances when they ignore the rules of behaviour or of some moral code. These people justify their actions by ignoring their conscience or making excuses for their behaviour. In extreme cases they give the impression that morality is not an issue in their case.
The story follows the life of Tom Houseman. From his early childhood on the edge of a hard council estate to eminent Professor with a worldwide reputation and great wealth. Tom Houseman has a boyhood friend called Derek from the council estate and, though their paths diverge after junior school, he stays loyal to his friend.
During his life, he accepts opportunities presented by his friends and his brother. These enhance both his standing in society and his wealth. All the time, he ignores and denies the moral and legal implications of taking advantage of these offers.
As time passes, he has to face the implications of his choices. Will he finally have to face these hard decisions or will he sail serenely on living, to him, this ordinary life?
It can be purchased as a print on demand (POD) book through major booksellers such as Waterstones, WHSmith, Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
The wind howled out of the northeast sending the snow horizontally across the hatchcovers. Curtains of spray and tons of solid water, forming ice on the rigging and coating everything in a white translucent sheen, crashed over the ship as it ran before the wind. Like a toy boat tossed about in a toddlers bath tub, the Arrow pitched and rolled, rushing forward on the crest of each huge wave only to crash with a shudder which vibrated along the length of the ship as the wave passed and the bow slammed into the sea. Wires once the size of a finger now started to look the size of an arm and the frozen spray formed tattered banners of some mediaeval army on the lifeboat tackles over the boat deck. The snow did not settle on anything, blown away into the dimness beyond the ship by the strength of the wind.
Standing on the bridge wing with the snow coating the backs of our fur lined coats and stiffening the leather of our hats, Captain Ross and I looked anxiously out into the murk but could see nothing beyond a few yards ahead of the bow. The ship shuddered as another wave washed across the deck, adding more ice to the equipment, the rigging and the hatch covers. The wave raced foaming white away into the gloom and the almost horizontal snow. Even the lookout on the other bridge wing was hard to distinguish against his surroundings covered in snow as he was.
“ We have to turn into the Gulf Of Finland,” the Captain remarked calmly looking back at the waves coming out of the snow from the direction he wanted to steer.
“ Do you think she will come round?” I asked trying to keep my voice as calm as that of Captain Ross but casting a nervous glance in the direction of the waves.
“ Your guess is as good as mine, Mate but we have to try.” Captain Ross grimaced. “ Go and warn everybody to hang on to something fixed. I am afraid this is going to be rough.”
Captain Ross walked purposefully into the wheelhouse and positioned himself by the engine telegraph. I followed and noted in passing that the wheelman was fighting to keep the ship on something like a steady course, the wheel spinning back and forth in his hand. Picking up the microphone, I advised all the crew to hold onto something immovable, hearing the metallic tones of my voice echoing through the corridors of the ship
Clamping his pipe firmly between his teeth, Captain Ross gave the order to the wheelman, never taking his eyes off the sea. “ Port ninety degrees!”
He turned the wheel, holding tightly to the spokes until his knuckles were white. The bow started to turn to port. The wind screamed even loader through the open door of the wheelhouse. Those on the bridge hardly noticed the sound. At the same time, the ship rolled violently. The movement of the Arrow was like a corkscrew causing the structure to grunt and groan. Soon the ship was heeling more and more to starboard as each wave swept over the decks. When almost side on to the howling wind, the bow stopped turning. The ship heeled over even further until those on the bridge were clinging onto the handrails. Then the bow fell away from its heading and the waves were battering the ship in such a way that I thought it was not going to come back upright.
With obvious reluctance, Captain Ross gave the order to turn back. At first nothing happened but then in a rush, the ship turned away from the wind. With what sounded like a sigh, the Arrow continued her ahead long rush before the raging sea, the waves once more lifting the stern and almost flinging the ship forward.
All of the time, the snow continued to rush horizontally passed across the wheelhouse door and across the bridge wing. As though with a mind of its own, the Arrow sailed through that howling wind, with spray and snow restricting visibility to a few metres. The noise of the groaning structure, the violent vibrations felt through the feet and the sickening lurches where at times the ship felt as though it was not going to come upright beat at my senses.
The wheelman stood stiff legged and fought the ship through the wheel trying to keep a steady course. My face was highlighted by the glow of the radar as I fought down the building panic as I watched the echo of the approaching land. Staring one moment out into the gloom and the next at the echo sounder, the third mate tried to keep his voice untroubled as he related the lessening depth of water under the keel. Like a statue carved out of wood, Captain Ross, gripping the rail with his fur lined mittens, stood on the bridge wing, pipe clamped to his teeth staring at the ice accumulating on the structure and rigging.
Suddenly the snow was no longer hurtling passed the wheelhouse door horizontally but was falling much closer to vertically than before. At the same time, the wind appeared to have dropped and the sea had moderated a trifle. The third mate announced that he thought he saw the beam of a lighthouse on the port bow but could not be certain. On hearing this, Captain Ross strode into the wheelhouse and consulted the chart.
“ How far do you make it to the shore?” he asked me frowning.
“ Five miles.” I replied looking up from the radar.
“ Depth?” he barked at the third mate.
“ Fifteen fathoms and shallowing.” There was a hint of hysteria in the third mates voice.
“ Now is the time to alter course,” the Captain remarked. “ We do not have much leeway. Third Mate, get everybody to hold on. I will turn to starboard this time, hopefully away from the shore.”
I had to admire the way the Captain still managed to sound calm, as though he was in complete control.
The third mate picked up the microphone, announced that they were about to turn the ship and told everybody to hold on. Like mine had before, his metallic sound echoed through the ship.
With a last look back at the raging sea, Captain Ross gave the order to turn the ship to starboard. The wheelman turned the wheel and in silence we all held tight to the rail and watched. The bow turned slowly to the right, hit a wave and came back to port. With a roar that wave passed and the bow was turning at a giddying pace to starboard only to slam into another wave and stop dead in its tracks. The bow came back a little to port but had I noted that the Arrow had turned a lot more to starboard than it was being pushed back to port.
As though to emphasise the precarious nature of their plight, the ship rolled violently as she came beam onto the wind making the watchers cling ever harder to the rails. There was the sound of breaking crockery and Captain Ross muttered something about bang goes my afternoon tea. For one horrible, breathtaking moment at which the thought that this might be the end flashed through my mind, the Arrow hung side on to the wind and waves heeled over at an impossible angle. Then with what sounded like a relieved whoosh, the bow turned, the ship came back upright with a rush and heeled over the other way.
Now the Arrow was heading into the wind and was riding the waves in a way for which she was designed. Captain Ross unclasped his pipe from his jaw and looked around as though awaking from a nightmare. Almost gently, he gave the order to steer a north easterly course, ordered the engine to be slowed so that the ship did not pound into the waves too much and looked out over the decks.
Turning to me, he said with a relieved grin, “ You had better get some of the crew turned out to chip the ice off the deck, Chief Officer. While you and the crew are down there, I will try to avoid too much water coming aboard though it might be a good idea to wear safety harnesses. When things calm down a little, join me for a drink in my cabin.”
The ship still bounced and shuddered through the waves but there was a feeling that we were once more in control.
I was sailing on the San Wifrido as a cadet around the Caribbean and down the South American coast. It was a well organised ship and the Captain insisted that each cadet was attached to one of the ship’s deck officers. This way we would learn what was required of a ship’s officer. My officer was the second mate. I followed him round the ship and sometimes ashore while he was working. Helping him in his jobs and running errands when ordered. Over time during the voyage we had become more than colleagues but good friends.
The ship had berthed in one of those South American ports bordering the Caribbean sea to load crude oil. As seemed often the case it was the middle of the night. After securing the hip, the second mate and I had watched from the catwalk as guards were posted, one on deck the other at the foot of the gangway. I asked the second mate why in this tin pot dictatorship they needed to post guards. He shrugged.
“ What are they looking for?” I asked as our bags were searched as we went ashore to deliver papers to the agent.
“ Subversive material,” he muttered while smiling at the guard.
When we took over the loading of the cargo from the Chief Officer, it was mid morning. The water ballast had been pumped ashore and the crude oil was now flowing into the ships tanks.
As we opened and closed valves to start loading into one of the tanks, the sun was beating down on the black painted deck. Heat haze rose causing the structures to shimmer and waver. The only shade was under the catwalk which joined the amidships and aft accommodation. This was high above the deck to give safe passage when the deck was battered by waves. Joining the that haze was the cloud of gas from the open vent through which we measured the oil depth in the tank.
By the amidships accommodation, a guard in his green uniform, gun slung over his shoulder, lounged against the rail watching our efforts. Ashore, another guard sat on a bench by the foot of the gangway chatting loudly to a refinery worker.
I measured the oil depth and reported this to the second mate.
He grinned. “ Another forty minutes until we have to change tanks. I’m off to the cargo office to enter the figures in the book.”
“ And get a mug of coffee,” I muttered.
“ I heard that,” he laughed. “Privileges of yer officer class my boy. I’ll bring one back......”
He never finished what he was saying, Like a statue he was fixed to the spot. his eyes bulging from his head. I turned in the direction in which he was looking and froze.
The guard had straightened and was pulling out of his pocket what looked like a large cigar. Calmly, he unpacked it from its silver case throwing the case into the sea.
We stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. Both of us were silently willing him to put it back into his pocket but, after rolling it between his fingers, he raised it to his lips.
After that it was all as though it was in slow motion. The lifting of the arm to place the cigar in his mouth. The reaching into a pocket and extracting a lighter. The hand going round the lighter thumb on the striker. The cupping of the hands against the breeze.
His thumb moved and the lighter sparked. Flame leapt from the wick. His head lowered until the end of the cigar disappeared into his cupped hands. He straightened and the end of the cigar glowed red.
The second mate had ducked under the cat walk and I quickly joined him, hunching down behind one of the pillars.
Nothing happened.
I took a quick look.
The guard was standing looking straight down the deck through the gas cloud pulling contentedly on his cigar. All I could see was the glowing red end. It appeared to get bigger and bigger.
“ You’ll have to order him to put it out,” I told the second mate trying to sound calm.
“ Not me after what happened to Joe the last time we were here.” The second mate sank further into the shadows under the cat walk. “ All he did was let the national flag touch the deck when he was lowering it one night. The guard shot at him and arrested him. He spent two weeks in jail before the company could get him out.”
I stepped out of the shadows and took a measurement of the oil. About half filling the tank.
A sound made me turn sharply and I once more froze to the spot. In measured steps, his gun slung jauntily across his back, the guard was walking along the catwalk towards the stern contentedly puffing on his cigar. Screaming at me from behind his back in big letters on the accommodation bulkhead NO SMOKING in three languages.
I stood rigid and glued to the spot. The measuring tape dangled unnoticed in my hand. Clouds of gas drifted upwards over the catwalk from the tank opening. The smell of oil filled my nostrils. My stomach was filled with ice.
Clank, clank. Measured footsteps along the metal grating over my head. The red tip of the cigar big and round, bright even in the sunlight. As though out for a Sunday stroll round the village square, the guard passed overhead, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. My eyes followed his progress but my feet were fixed to the spot. I wondered how much I would feel when the ship exploded.
The guard walked out of the gas cloud and continued until he reached the end of the cat walk. Turning towards the port side, he strolled under the NO SMOKING signs, took one last puff on his cigar and threw the butt over the side of the ship.
Looking in my direction, he grinned. “ Very good cigar. Come from Cuba.”
