Who the hell is Stokey Woodall?

WHO THE HELL IS

STOKEY WOODALL?

First Edition 1999

Second Limited Edition 2005

The New Edition

Contains those things that would have pleased my English teacher. /<>~,.:;! ()?

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 P A WOODALL

All rights reserved

PREFACE

The Arctic Tern is easily taken for just another seagull by the inexpert eye but of course it’s not. It’s a special bird, an Ocean traveller capable of flying 32,000 kilometres in a year, a master navigator, a true adventurer almost invisible among the shore-hugging gulls. It’s a bit like that with Stokey Woodall if you meet him like I did, propped in the corner of a bar crowded with other sailors. You’d never guess that this genial, self-effacing man has sailed over a quarter of a million miles that include twenty-seven Transatlantics, a spell skippering for the Greek Royal Family and a shipwreck in the Red Sea during which he experienced close encounters of the shark kind.

Abandoned at birth by his mother, Stokey’s life at sea and ashore, has never taken the usual course or kept an even keel. Whether locked in a bordello in Caracas, driving a Scorpion tank down the A1 or being pursued by a crew of angry Argentinean sailors during the Falklands War it’s an epic journey, sometimes dangerous, sometimes funny and always interesting.

Stokey is a character, a one-off. He is a sailor who has never learned to swim, whose nickname has more to do with a football club than the sea and a man, who knows more than most, that life is not a rehearsal and that nothing is won without daring to dream.

Jeremy Davies (Writer)

DEDICATED

To my loving Mother, Michelle, Rachel, Suzanne, Eiris, and Meiko the special ladies loved and lost along the way.

My Father, a simple yet unique human being, Roger Justice my mentor and Lastly, to all my shipmates I’ve met around the world.

Without you exceptional people this book would not have been possible, you are fondly remembered and will always be loved.

FOREWORD

In an age of political correctness and uniformity, the opportunities for adventure and excitement that nurture individuality have, by and large, been squeezed out and marginalised. It takes a strong willed and determined character to swim against the tide of mediocrity and corporate existence.

Stokey is such a character. Assisting in the setting down of his story so far, has been both an amusing and enjoyable venture. I hope that anybody, from any walk of life, who takes the time to read this book will benefit from the insight they will gain into a very special individual, whom I am proud to call my friend.

Bob Garrett 1999

A CAPTAIN’S ODYSSEY

There are storms that can’t be beaten

And dreams that cannot be

But still the sailor dares to dream

Far away at sea.

Where breaching whales erase the sun

And slide beneath the waves

Where darting dolphins stir the stars

Reflected in the sea.

The lonesome sailor turns his mind

To that which used to be

And all regrets he found on land

Are put to rest at sea.

Chapter 1

WHO THE HELL IS STOKEY WOODALL?

The First Half

It was a cold day in 1953 and the town was quiet. Men in caps with beery breath lined the terraces of the Victoria ground, the home of Stoke City Football Club. Some laughed and joked noisily whilst others chatted quietly. The truly devoted gazed silently across the empty pitch, their quiet eyes focused on the uncertain and impending future. Boys in long grey flannel shorts scuffled at the touchline. Today they would be close to their heroes and tomorrow become them on the waste ground by the factories and the local steelworks.

There was an air of anticipation about the crowd, a restlessness, which was only dispelled by the single roar of their voices when the teams took to the field. Stoke City were at home to Notts County and across town a woman went into labour.

The game was fast and furious and both teams pushed and pulled against each other, probing each other’s defences and searching out those elusive goals. The woman bore down and, as if urged on by the clamouring crowd, she bucked, heaved and twisted, until in the deafening silence of the delivery room, the child was born.

Stoke City 0 – 1 Notts County and my Mum.

I have no clear and distinct recollection of my actual birth, as some people claim to have, suffice to say that like the famous artist Whistler, I wanted to be near my mother. Shortly after my birth, my natural mother wrapped me in a red and white spotted handkerchief (the team colours of Stoke) and left me outside the children’s department at the Council Offices. She believed that I would stand a better chance of life than the one she could offer, because my real father had not long died from TB and the family was too large for my mother to cope with another mouth to feed.

Against the odds, given a week to live and the severe childhood illnesses of yellow jaundice and rickets, I survived. At the tender age of 10 months, I was taken into the loving and remarkable care of the Woodall family, whose name I am proud to have taken. Mr and Mrs Woodall, Mum and Dad, were special people and to them I owe the greatest debt of gratitude and thanks.

Mum was a caring woman and, in her time, fostered more than one hundred children. She was very tough and scrupulously fair, but her word was the law. Dad was a bluff Black Country man, a wonderful character to whom I grew to be extremely close.

At the tender age of 12, I had to make the first major decision of my life. The choice was between returning to my natural mother or agreeing to my formal adoption by the Woodall family.

My first and last meeting with my natural mother was in a courtroom, before a judge. It was a tough choice at such a young age but I decided that, since these two people had cared for me and given me the gift of life, my loyalties and love lay with them. I remained a Woodall and never saw my natural mother again and only had one chance meeting later in life with any member of my real family.

It was whilst in a fish and chip shop, standing there in the queue was a really good looking girl, I turned to my friend and said that I really fancied her, He looked at me a little shocked and said that I had better go outside as he needed to have a quiet word with me. Apparently he knew, as did others and assumed that I knew, that this was my real sister and my natural family had been living in the next street throughout my childhood and I had known nothing about them, as our paths and lives had never crossed. It was a disconcerting feeling having fancied my own sister, albeit unknowingly. Isn’t life strange?

During my childhood, I was fortunate to have many ‘brothers and sisters’ as my mum and dad continued to foster, apart from having adopted me. In particular, I remember very well the 5 years that I had a black brother; the experience opened my eyes to the intolerance and prejudice that continues to divide and separate human beings even to this day and is one of the most unpleasant human traits. At school one day, I came across the school bully taunting my brother with the stereotypical racial comments, with which we are all familiar. I was not particularly large or robust as a child, as my illnesses had left me unable to walk until the tender age of five. I had however, recovered sufficiently to have become small and nippy. The bully was typically large, older and feared by the other children. I knew that there was no way that I could win in a fight with this large, ignorant boy, but seeing my brother reduced to tears angered me to the point of action. I could not fight but I could run so, taking deliberate aim, I bounced a full house brick off his head and then we ran like hell.

Dad was Black Country through and through and, when he retired from a lifetime’s work in the steelworks, immediately took up a new job, the work ethic being ingrained so deeply. He was a character, cheerful yet authoritative, a heavy smoker, fifty a day for years. The new job, in retirement, was as a lollipop man at a local school, making sure the children crossed safely and he would give the kids a good talking to if they did not cross with him. The children loved his friendly yet firm manner and they would bring him sweets, cigarettes and presents at Christmas.

A lasting memory of him was, at 15, I was selected to represent Worcestershire in an athletics championship and had won my particular event but had got home late. Mum was wild and did not wish to hear about my victories, her concern was that it was past 9 o’clock and I should be in bed. I was angry, as only a 15 year old could be. Dad just smiled, looked at me proudly and said calmly, Son, please don’t slam the door. I went to my bedroom and even though upset, for some unknown reason, quietly closed it. They, sadly, were to be the final words he would speak to me and the last time I would ever see him. He went to work the following day, finished crossing the children before going into the school for his lunch, where he sat down and died.

As I have said, Mrs Woodall’s word was law! To give you some idea of just how tough she was, I still had to be in bed by 9 o’clock every night up to the age of 18. I can remember vividly at 17 taking some milk from the ‘fridge without asking her and being caught in the act. She hit me with the poker and when I asked why she had done it, she coolly replied that it hurt her if she hit me with her hand! On my 18th birthday, she took me into the front room and set me free from her jurisdiction. She said that I was now a man and responsible for my own actions, I could do anything I wished and the only proviso that she made was that I should never bring shame and disgrace to the Woodall name. I trust I have lived up to this expectation.

My childhood days were a mixed blessing and ran parallel to the fortunes of Stoke City Football Club. Their 109 years of struggle and my brief 18 years of life were united on 4 March 1972 at Wembley Stadium, when players and spectators alike shared a great moment of triumph together. We won the Football League Cup against Chelsea, 2-1. It was on the coach back, amongst the lifelong die-hard supporters of the Club, who had experienced many years of win, lose or draw, that one of them who knew me well gave me some valuable advice. He intimated that, even though I thought that seeing Stoke win was the greatest experience of my life, there was a life and a world waiting for me beyond the confines of my youth. He was right. The ball had been passed to me and suddenly I realised I needed to become an active player in life’s arena, rather than just a spectator on the terraces.

A private Individual

Joined up with the Queen

For five long years of drink and love

With sailing in between.

And nurtured there in Neptune’s deep

A creature strange and rare

But as the sands create a pearl

Such was not to be

This liquid birth by Roger’s hand

In far off Germany

Spat out Stokey Woodall,

The soldier of the sea.

Chapter 2

INTO THE ARMY

I Take To The Field

Imagine, if you will, a warm, sunny Saturday in a local park, the small Summer carnival procession complete with a local beauty queen is making its somewhat grand progress around the perimeter. The local community were gathered together to enjoy a brief and happy respite from their otherwise regulated lives. Brightly dressed and scrubbed children masqueraded as soap-powder boxes, televisions, ballet dancers, cowboys and the obligatory pirate. A white gloved hand waving from a floral throne, bestows blessings upon us all. The floats lurch by; the procession is of a strictly amateur status; as with small carnivals and festivals all over the world, what may be lacking in sophistication is always more than made up for by the enthusiasm and involvement of the participants.

Dudley, my land base at this time, was in a festive mood. I am still not sure just what it was that we were celebrating at the time but I can assure you that my mate and I were definitely ahead of the entire event by several hours when it came to the happy and relaxed feeling! In time honoured tradition at all these small events, apart from the stalls, the home made cakes, teas and ice creams. There was also alcohol!

I am uncertain as to why at these gentle and festive events, somewhere past the swing boats and the roundabouts, but was usually close to the bar, there was a display of technology; it always seemed somewhat contrary to the ethos of the event.

The reflected sunlight was quite dazzling to the eyes as it bounced from mirror polished surfaces. The hard lines of the metals arranged on the display boards made the products stand out in contrast. There was a professionalism in the display which served to reinforce the distinct amateurism of the event. It was as if there was a hard line, with a crisp edge separating the familiarity of Dudley from the rest of the world. I had crossed the line and unwittingly made the first step in writing an unfinished journey.

What had drawn me to cross this line had not been the awesome fire power of the dark machine gun with its polished bullets or the allure of the keen edge to the Commando killing knife but the large pictures of the ski slopes, the exhilarating white water canoeists, the happy sun tanned faces on the beaches and the general holiday ambience that they had created.

It was 1974; I had been working in the steel works for four years, since leaving school; following in the Woodall tradition! I was twenty-one and had already witnessed the untimely and messy demise of a few fellow workers. I was ready for a change but had no real idea in which direction to head.

It all seemed so alluring as the details unfolded about the advantages of a military life that civilian life began to pale. My best friend Ray and I, in our mellow mood, were seduced. All for the promise of a shilling! Papers were signed and we agreed to go in search of adventure together, then parted to go and inform our respective families of our impending departure.

Mother was not impressed and the words Bon voyage did not enter the one sided conversation, but I was determined.

My friend Ray, who was to be my companion in life’s odyssey, failed to materialize on the due departure date having been either coerced, threatened or imprisoned against his will or maybe even begged not to go and to this day I still wonder what his life has been like. There I am, twenty-one and ready for the promised land of holidays and sunshine. Not only am I able, but I am also willing!

The dawn rose dull, grey and wet in the Northern Hemisphere and drained the colour from the world. Catterick camp was to become my new home and the commencement of basic training. Being very fit at the time, because of the long distance running I had done in civilian life and of which I was justly proud, would undoubtedly put me straight into the P.E. Corps. This would suit me, utilise my main talent in life, which was sport, allow me to serve my country usefully and fast track me to the new life that I envisaged for myself.

The Army being the Army, ignored the obvious and impressive record of my achievements. They decided that given the vast amount of detailed and personal information regarding my interests, experience and skills they had a different agenda in mind.

Now it may seem obvious to you, the reader, that somewhere on all the application forms that you ever fill in, there is always a box that you tick if you hold a current driving licence. In my headlong rush to get to the new world it had not been an error of omission on my part that I had not ticked this particular box. I had no driving licence or any experience whatsoever of being in charge of any motorised vehicle at any time in my life. Army personnel had obviously scrutinised my records carefully and had come to the firm conclusion that I was their man and that I was best suited to their choice of occupation. In spite of my protestations and appeals for common sense, reason prevailed and I was dispatched for training...as a tank driver.

My driving instructor, a Welsh N.C.O. was pleasant and welcoming and greeted me cordially. He was pleased that he had under his instruction, a man with no bad habits, that is in the motoring sense. Dismissing my reasoning and fears he began to introduce me to the joys and delights of driving a Scorpion Tank. For the less fortunate amongst you who have been denied the benefit of army experience, a Scorpion Tank is a very large and heavy piece of mobile metal. It is used as a reconnaissance vehicle and on being sent out to contact the enemy and doing so, returns to tell the others that it is unfriendly up ahead. The vehicle has a seven speed gearbox in either direction, fourteen gears in all. The driving position is cramped and uncomfortable with the driver’s head poking up through the small hatch beside the engine cover and no visible instrumentation. The noise is deafening and driving must be done out of sight and by feel somewhere beneath the disembodied head. In order to ensure that the driver goes in the right direction, he is connected to the eyes, ears and brain of another being above him in the turret by a headset intercom arrangement. Supposedly, this is meant to arrive at two men and a machine in perfect harmony.

In an attempt to spare the civilian driving population a road massacre of localised but ridiculous proportions, the first day’s lessons take place off road and over an assault course. Bearing in mind my complete lack of driving ability coupled with the removal of my visual senses from my hands and feet, you will, no doubt, have some inkling of the possible consequences. My mastery of the hidden pedals and controls after a few hours tuition was at best becoming intermittent. My genial Welsh N.C.O. had now fused and bonded with me over the intercom to a level which he considered would enable us to have a go at the assault course. Personally, I had a few doubts. Slowly, and with all the style of a spasmodic crab we made our way round, through or over the obstacles. As we neared completion of the course, just above the engine noise, I heard the soft and reassuring voice of the N.C.O. He instructed me to engage a lower gear, ahead of me was a ramp which headed towards the sky with a similar gradient of some ancient pyramid. The sky seemed so far away. Again, he called for a lower gear as we arrived at the bottom of the incline, I responded and we embarked on our heavenward journey. The world became progressively steeper as we continued climbing. My disembodied head could see only the ramp and the sky, as to what lay on the other side remained an unseen mystery. I wondered where we were going. I reminded myself that I was not the eyes of the tank and trusted to the instructor’s clearer view of the big picture.

As we climbed steadily towards the sky, at an alarming angle, I began to notice a more nervous edge to the soft, Welsh voice in my ear and as each successive change down became more frequent, so the tenor of his voice rose. My mastery of balancing engine revolutions and gear changing failed me. The Panic in his voice filled my ears and it was obvious his eyes could see something that mine could not. A vast number of disjointed and garbled instructions filled my mind and like a tap dancer who has lost the rhythm of the music, I pressed levers and pedals, in no particular order, to attempt to catch up. Suddenly, my view of the sky was replaced with the distant horizon and then equally suddenly the sky reappeared. The noise in my ears grew more, panic stricken and frenzied we seesawed gently backwards and forwards. I had apparently managed to bring the tank to a halt on what is known as the Knife-edge. This is a steep ramp negotiated smoothly in low gear, when the top is reached it plunges steeply away. The tank is meant to complete the manoeuvre in one flowing movement. We were sitting on top of the world rocking gently backwards and forwards. Almost without warning and accompanied by the noise of grinding gears and seething pistons, the forward weight began to carry us beyond the fulcrum point. My second set of eyes, were suddenly beside me, and