The Storm

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.

The Cigar

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.”

M P's Allowances

I will divert from my tales of the sea for a suggestion to M Ps.

To me the solution is simple. No MP can have a second home paid for by the tax payer. There are plenty of people who have to commute every day over long distances so why should an MP be any different.

An M P"s main house has to be in the constituency for which he or she is elected. That is where an MP should live. The family should shop in the local shops, drink in local pubs and send any children to local schools. If an M P indicates that they cannot live on £65000 as year there are plenty of other people willing to try. Besides, almost all of my friends and acquaintances would love to earn £65000 a year plus the generous severance payments and pension rights.

For London there has to be an agreed B & B allowance for the most part for four nights a week. Some M Ps who live greater distances could claim for five. In this way the focus for an M P's work would be the constituency. If an M P then went on a parliamentary jolly ( official visit) his B & B payment would not be made.

Obviously there would have to be arrangements for ministers like official residences.

There should be NO allowances for furniture etc.!!!

The Ancient mariner

The Call

The sea is calling, always calling

Even when the sailor has long left voyaging behind.

The sea calls, ever calls,

Over the noise of this sometimes dreadful life.

To sail away , to leave this life behind,

But to where?

That is what adds to the thrill.

Let the voyage be long or short,

Let the oceans be calm or fierce,

In the urge to sail away,

Lies man's eternal quest

For something new.

Why oh why does man always strive after the new

When accepting the present would save a lot of heart ache.

It has long been a mystery to me but,

More than in any other profession,

The sea offers a greater chance to satisfy this need.

The sailor never arrives

Because each new port is a stepping stone to the next

And on to the next

Until the nomadic lifestyle grows too much.

It maybe that the sailor observes other people

Settling into a pattern of life which brings rewards

Such things as family and home,

Anchored to other views of living

Rather than constantly on the move.

So the sailor leaves the sea

And puts down roots.

Or does he?

The sound of a seagull screaming ,

The wind moaning around the roof of his house

The sound of waves lapping on the shore

Will awaken in the hidden recesses of his mind

The longing to feel the excitement once more

As the ship goes silent,

Ready to leave for the sea.

The Docks

The Docks

Water glistens below the bright flower beds

Tall white buildings reflected shapes shimmering

In sepia coloured liquid lapping redundant quays

Rope fenders still clinging to the concrete walls

Iron rails sunk into the tarmac beside the quay edge

Unnoticed now by all but a handful of men.

Voices echo through the abandonned cranes

Laughing, shouting, crying, arguing

As children play in the shadows of their homes

Unmindful of the history close by.

Once, years before in this very place

Deeper voices shouted, swore, laughed and moaned

Broad backs and strong arms pushed and heaved

Cranes banged, whined, moved and whirled

Cargo loading for distant exotic unkown places

Names on the case and the checkers’ sheets

Bales, boxes, bundles, cases and casks

Discharged for the market down the road.

Dynamic energy spilt for the demands of trade.

Now faded into folk lore, remembered by few.

Flats gardens and living people in their place.

In the sky above, a lone seagull cries

Reminded of the sounds of the docks and

Shades of long lost ships tied to bollards and

The ghostly wail of a ships whistle in the mist

Never to return.