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Did I mention that I had a quick temper? My first trip on the company cadet ship (no crew/able seamen, just cadets) the chief officer had asked me three times to get my hair cut, finally put me on "field days" until I got it cut. "Field" days are up to 18 hour days on really shitty jobs. Lost the plot, went ashore first opportunity in West Africa, told the local barber to give me a Mohican. Despite a little cultural difficulty in visualising what the strange white boy with the big lugs wanted he duly gave me a pretty good approximation to a "Mohican". Back to ship, pretty pleased with myself, chief officer has an apoplectic fit and takes me straight to captain. Midshipman carpeted and entered into the official logbook of ship, bit like a police caution! Telegrams must have been sent to HQ, because, before the ship has crossed the Bar in Liverpool midshipman's presence is required at India Buildings, HQ central as they say.
Now the man in charge of Elder Dempster cadets, a Capt.Smallwood RN retd , was the same man who had so graciously accepted this unpromising material into this great shipping line in the first place. His office was at the end of a very long corridor, an open office which housed all the hundreds of secretarial staff , pretty girls after whom we cadets lusted. The bush telegraph had done its business and it was to hushed and amused stares that I stumbled my way to Capt. Smallwood's office.
The good mans clipped and succinct demolition of my character culminated in the immortal phrase "midshipman, you will never make anything but a dammed foc'le hand". A humbler cadet stumbled out of his office and tried and failed to navigate the secretarial office with some dignity. Circa 67-68
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Sailed from Liverpool assigned to the poop with the 2nd officer. My duty to convey orders and messages from bridge to 2nd officer and vice versa. Let go stern, hold on to spring, eh, what was that!! After an infuriated 2nd mate grabbed the poop phone from my hand the second time I decided it was better to just repeat the strange instructions verbatim, rather than assuming the instruction from the bridge was in code. However my language problems continued. 2nd officer "all clear aft". Two mins later "have you told the bridge?" "I'm only after doing it". " What". "I'm only after doing it". After the sixth "what" from a now red faced officer I decided to rephrase in mainland English, "I have just done that, sir", immediate comprehension.
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First ship, midshipman's uniform, the only non-Conway navigational midshipman. Port and starboard, forward/aft, forecastle/poop, bow/stern, new terms to yer wee man from Belfast, bread and butter to the Conway graduates, definitely time for a Belfast kiss (similar to the Glasgow kiss but applied to nose rather than head). These posh chaps would become lifelong friends. I never did inflict any damage on Charlie (a strange 16 yr. old who confessed he had never been in a fight in his whole life) but my other two bunk mates did receive and dish out punishment from yours truly. Dougie battered me all over our cabin after I sicked over him from the top bunk. Ian roughed me up once after I stubbed out my cigarette on the back of his hand. My excuse on both occasions was an advanced state of inebriation. CIRCA 65
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Sixteen and straight off the boat to Liverpool for an interview with Elder Dempster Lines. Stopped off in sweety shop near India Buildings. Engaged a charming elderly lady in conversation, hampered by my stammer and a thick Belfast accent. Me pointing and shouting "a qqqquarter of mmmmelttttona ddddrops, she shouting in reply "are you American?" Exit the shop clutching bag of sweets, not meltona drops, red faced and exhausted. Thinks, this is not looking good for interview.
Later, interview successful, Captain Smallwood saw something in the frightened teenager, off to sea in weeks not months Circa 1965
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