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.
