Transcription of an MP3 Audio Diary, kept between Friday January 11th

and Saturday March 15th 2008. Part Two.

Friday, 18th January

What a day a difference makes ! During breakfast, dawn rose and kept on
rising. Clear sky and a veritable millpond compared to the past few days.
Captain Böckmann says we should dock in Lisbon around 15:00-15:30 and
there's even a real chance of getting out onto deck this morning. Or at least
there would have been, except the captain decided to unwind to me over and
after breakfast. Breakfast that finally ended around 09:30. Worthwhile,
though. He explained the politics and economics behind the freighter business
and the benefits (relatively few) and drawbacks (many and varied) of the move
to huge container ships. Apparently the freighter business is a very positive
cash-flow affair, as freight charges are mostly paid in advance. This means
that, theoretically, a company with a good number of regular customers in their
pocket can charter a boat according to the merchandise and, running small 1-
and 2-person offices in strategic ports, they need only capitalise with a
laughably small amount – we're talking €50,000 - €100,000, where any single
cargo is worth millions. And, because they deal in cash and percentages, they
can even make money on a cargo which actually loses money overall.
Minimum manning, hammered out between the unions and the freight
companies, means that a ship could be perfectly safe while at sea, but,
because there is no specific demand for an electrician, for example, if
something went wrong, the ship could sail for days and nights without general
cabin lighting or repairs to a pop-up toaster. “But the engineer's a fully
qualified electrician !” True (in many cases), but shouldn't he be concentrating
on listening to his engines, in order to anticipate any problems, rather than
changing light-bulbs in the owner's toilet ?
Captain Böckmann's other big point is the problem of diminishing returns. As
the Chinese and Indian dockyards turn our more and more, bigger and
sometimes better carriers, where do you find the experienced crews to sail
them ? When and where is there the opportunity for people to gain
experience ? And, as every single manipulation of a container costs extra, and
a maxi-container ship needs feeder carriers to bring everything to a centralised
marshalling point (from lorry to dock, to feeder vessel, a shortish journey on
feeder vessel, then down onto another dock, up from the dock onto a large
container ship... and the reverse procedure for unloading), at what point do
these huge leviathans become white elephants ?
Captain Böckmann is the only German captain afloat in what is a German
company, in spite of the Marshall Islands registration. He also carries enough
clout to resist the 'minimal manning' movement. As he says, he could sail the
Grey Fox from A to B with 6 or 8 crew, but what about all the necessary
cleaning and maintenance that needs to be done during each voyage and all
the little incidentals ? He is able to insist on 22 seamen aboard.
Although I have still only met relatively few of them.
Because we have our meals at 07:30, 12:00 and 17:30, I have not been very
aware of the different changes of watch. I've now noted that on the bridge,
they have 4hrs on 8hrs off, so the same 2-man team does midday to 4pm and
midnight to 4am, and so-on round the 24hr clock. I would be allowed to spend
every waking hour watching them work, if that's how I chose to pass my time.
Other parts of the ship have to be agreed to beforehand. I'm still waiting to be
invited to the engine-room...
The captain seems to spend time on the bridge during each and every watch –
or has done so far; perhaps this will change after Lisbon, when we have 12
days of open sea ahead of us as far as Walvis Bay; we sail through the
Canaries, but, as Las Palmas will be about 18 nautical miles to starboard at
04:30-05:00 on Monday morning, we may not see land again until we hit
Namibia.
With the sun on our backs, the smiles between crew members, me and each
other are permanently there. Those grey, rough days obviously took their toll
of everyone. Those who had to clamber up and down, under and over cargo,
with winds vicious enough to tug them overboard or dislodge something heavy
and dangerous will be glad of the respite.
The sea is blue, the Sir Jacob is still just about in sight on the horizon behind
us... she's tailed us all the way down from Cherbourg. We're doing about 16
knots. A Chinese container ship, a huge beast, went whistling past us a little
while ago doing 23 knots and will be tied up in Lisbon a good hour before we
arrive.

Looking at the map of the docks, it seems as if we'll be quite close to the city
centre, in which case Cap'n Martin Rose, eat your heart out, 'cos I shall do
serious damage to one of those mixed fish grills that we had in the port of
Lisbon in October 2005. Which reminds me, I must tell the steward that I'm
'eating out' tonight.

Arriving in Lisbon, the sky was clear and blue, the beaches at Cascais and
Estoril inviting, when quite suddenly everything changed. The huge bridge
across the estuary, then the prow of the Grey Fox itself simply vanished into an
extrusion of fog. The pilot said that we would need another half hour at the
least and the captain has just been talking to the agents on the ship-to-shore
who informed him that we will not leave before 06:00 tomorrow, so he's told
me I can stay ashore all night, if I wish !
The pilot is talking us into harbour as our own foghorn shakes the whole wheel-
house Then quite suddenly there's blue sky above us, followed by clear vision
to starboard, then to port and our threateningly close moorings, but never all at
the same time. The 3 tugs are earning their money today, as the pilot, chief
mate and the captain are gathered round the satellite console out on the port
wing.

In spite of the pilot's misgivings, we arrived in Lisbon on schedule and I was

free to go ashore at around 16:30. I had to fill out a customs' declaration, but it
wasn't very clear whether they wanted to know about the things I proposed to
take with me off the ship, or the things I intended to leave behind in my cabin.
Then, a minor problem to solve: I found out that the swing bridge that allowed
us to cross the marina would close at 20:30. That meant a deviation of a mile
or so to come back aboard. Still, having been on board for a week, the exercise
will do me good and I shall be able to walk off a heavy Portuguese supper.
Plenty of tourist restaurants around, several of them open, even though it's
mid-January.
But no Internet Cafe.
I went to the various chandlers, the telecom building, a couple of likely-looking
restaurants, but no joy. I contemplated going out to Cascais on the local train,
but couldn't remember if the Internet Cafe that I knew of was open in the
evening, and anyway it's January and I had been there in October. Over 2½
years ago...

Cascais, October 2005. I had a long-standing date with my friend Martin Rose
to sail for a few days together on his boat. This had been postponed year after
year and so in 2005, in spite of the fact that I'd travelled overland to Viet Naam
and back in the early spring, we had decided that this year (2005) it was going
to happen. Martin had sailed solo from the UK and I expected to meet up with
him somewhere around Faro or Cadiz. Alan Copps, an editor on the Times, was
going to make up the threesome (we'd all worked together at the Shenker
Institute in Rome in the late 60s, early 70s... and even played a soccer match
together there: if anyone still has copies of the photos, they would be gratefully
received !).
October 2005 was the time that desperate things were happening on the other
side of the Atlantic in New Orleans, but they were also having an effect on our
side of the pond. As a result, Martin had only made it as far as Lisbon, so I took
the train from Bussigny to Renens, to Geneva, to Barcelona, to Madrid and then
to Seville; then I picked up a coach that took me via Faro to Lisbon to meet him.
Alan had had to cancel at the last minute and may have been the most
fortunate of the three. Because the European ramifications of Katrina in the
States kept all the marinas closed down the Portuguese coast. And it stayed
that way all the time I was in Cascais. We slept aboard in the marina, watched
British and European soccer on Sky Sports in most of the bars in town, ate and
drank well (that's where I discovered Magners' Original Cider at €6 a litre), and
Martin and I explored some of the hinterland that we certainly would have
missed if the wind had 'stood fair' for the Algarve or Morocco; and, as we didn't
really want to be 'overset', we became tourists.
Reminds me: I must ask Martin if he can let me have copies of the photos he
took at Sintra and in the fish restaurant in Lisbon.

...so back to last night. I decided it was not a good idea to go to Cascais on the
off-chance, so looked for something nearer to home, preferably not too far from
the entrance to the dockyard, because, as the evening mist/fog settled on
everything, I realised that I would be soaked to the skin by the time I turned in
for the night.
Eventually I found an Irish Pub. Ah ! 'Magners', I thought. They had it, but
only in bottles, so I settled for a poor man's Black Velvet: Guinness & cider.
Which washed down the 'typical Irish' meal they served me: olives in garlic &
onions, goat cheese with herb butter and olive bread, fillets of once-dried
bacalao with chips, mayonnaise and mixed salad. It was certainly a change
from ship's fare, but I wouldn't say it was an improvement. As the 'Irish' music
was Portuguese pop without even an echo of fado, I decided on an early night.
And I remembered to stop at an ATM to get Euros to replace the dollars that
were no longer acceptable currency on board.

Saturday, 19th January

The pilot didn't come aboard until 08:00. We were ready to sail as agreed at
06:00, but the local tides left the sand-banks in the estuary in shallow water.
So we had another longish meal together. I'd set my alarm in time to be on the
bridge for a 6 o'clock start, so there was no point in going back to bed again.
The captain and I shared our scrambled eggs, coffee and bread & jam, then he
shared his opinion of unions and the effects they have had on his job – in the
70s, as a first mate and today as a captain. It was really the reverse of and
complement to the Chief Officer's coin: the captain seeing the negative effects
on productivity, the Chief remembering the aspects of 'normal' life that have
now been all but eliminated.
According to the screens in the wheel-house, our next ETA is about 08:00 next
Monday, Jan 21st. This must refer to somewhere in the Canaries which are
about 675 Nautical Miles away. But we don't actually arrive there, only pass
through. There are far fewer ships showing up on the radar and we seem to
have the sea to ourselves at the moment, bowling along at 15.3 Knots.
Radar... Everyone seems to have been ashamed when I went into the theatre;
being articled to Courtaulds was 'a job for life'. My maternal grandmother used
to assure her friends at the whist drives where they new me, that: “Roger is
staying in science... he's studying radar !” RADA (Royal Academy of Dramatic
Art) is only slightly different as an acronym !

The sun is out and so is the lady. I'd been on board for over a week but I had
never seen her. Today I almost saw her twice before lunch and once just after:
like the Julie Christie/Donald Sutherland Venetian thriller “Don't Look Now”, her
red sleeve or trouser-leg was just visible on a bannister or disappearing through
a doorway. Then at 14:55 Lisbon time, when I had decided to change into
shorts, take of my shirt and indulge in a little preparatory sun-bathing, we
came face to face. She was obviously coming from the laundry but, as she was
on the bit of open deck I usually have to myself outside my chambers, I
wondered if I had bumped into her before she had had time to hang her
washing out to dry... she responded to my smile with a nervous grin and ran
down the outside stairs clutching her bundle under one arm. Hope I don't have
to deal with an irate Polish husband !

Kristian was the first to join me for lunch. He hadn't found an internet cafe last
evening either, so it looks as if Cape Town will be the first opportunity to deal
with Email. I had obviously misunderstood him when I thought he had said he
had found access in Walvis Bay; the only possibility there would be in the
unlikely event of docking beside a luxury cruise ship with an 'open' Wi-Fi.
We had an excellent vegetable soup, followed by braised beef, brussels sprouts
and rice, with an orange and a pear as dessert. The Chief arrived as Kristian
was clearing his plate away into the pantry and spoke to him about changing
his watch. I asked if we changed time zones when we reached the Canaries,
which surprised and then puzzled the Chief. He said, no, we'd change one hour
crossing the equator and another before arriving in Walvis Bay. Then the penny
dropped for both of us at the same moment: nothing to do with a wristwatch.
The Chief had been reminding Kristian that he also had to change the cycle of
his watches and to stand 'dog' watches, which I dimly remember to be those in
the early morning.

At dinner, the captain proposed a €20 phone card, which sounds a good idea.
During a working day, it guzzles about €4.50 a minute, but if I use it at night or
over the weekend, the card will give me over 35 minutes of conversation. I
have €6.70 on my 'United' travelling SIM card, but, as I was unable to buy extra
credit on the web last night, it's best that I keep that phone for receiving calls.
I'm sure I'll be able to add more credit from somewhere in South Africa. There
is no internet connection on the Grey Fox. Emails are directly to and from the
ship, but there's no mechanism in place to re-route my 'usual' Emails. I think
the phone card is the best bet, so I can talk to the family. Anything else would
have to be an emergency.

Sunday, 20th January

Clear sky, blue sea, an itch to strip off in the morning sun and...
...the captain who wanted to expand on yesterday's discourse about unions,
corruption and the general topic of organisational abuse of the individual. Until
10:05. But again, it certainly was interesting, opinionated but full of supporting
arguments. I need to reprocess the whole conversation, as there's far too
much information to give one example without giving another or its paradox.
I'll try to come back to this later.
At the moment, there is an A/B walking around outside my chambers spraying
high-pressure fresh water to remove the salt. This, together with chipping off
the rust and repainting the superstructure, is a task that is ongoing. For now,
the cargo containers are left to fend for themselves.

After the long breakfast, I joined the 3rd officer, Jacek, on the bridge for the rest
of his watch. He's the only officer that I have seen plunging outside (even
during the storms a few days & nights ago) in order to have a quick smoke. He
reminds me of me when I used to smoke, teach and work in recording studios –
the last of which I still do. Nowadays, sound studios are non-smoking areas (as
is the bridge on the Grey Fox), but years ago the ash-trays were overflowing in
every dubbing studio and language school in Rome. Whenever there was a
break, you lit up; a reel to be changed, you lit up; the technician had an urgent
phone call, you lit up; a student had not arrived on time, you lit up. And then
of course we had official coffee breaks, where you... had a drink and only rarely
lit up. Because it was a question of voice control, nerve control and...
something to do with your hands. Away from work, I enjoyed the odd cigarette,
especially after meals. But I never smoked first thing in the morning and
probably averaged between 8 and 12 on a non-working day. But when I was
working, I would take every available moment to light up, meaning that I would
probably start another 25 to 30 fags a day: start, but rarely finish. One thing I
found particularly disgusting was re-lighting a docked cigarette: something that
both my mother and her mother did. Unemptied ash-trays early in the morning
still remind me of that and I still have the urge to heave.
Jacek, the socially-conscious 3rd officer even does a little rapid breathing with
his head stuck outside, so that the smell doesn't invade the wheel-house
He's 44 and used to be an A/B, until he had an accident. He got dragged into
one of the winches and pulled in for 3 full revolutions. Results: collar-bone and
shoulder smashed, arm broken in three places, 4 broken ribs and teeth broken
off; 3 years unable to work... but the time to study for his mate's ticket. He's
one of the few slim ones on board and looks as if he burns more energy than he
produces. 44, but his musical taste revolves around the golden oldies. He was
playing Dean Martin and Tony Bennett very quietly and was pleased & suitably
impressed when I seemed to know most of the lyrics: I kept it simple, and didn't
do my Dean Martin impersonation !
There were only 3 other ships within 300 miles and he took the time to give me
a quick refresher course on wind-speed, boat-speed and smoke direction: it was
a bit like the trick questions we used to ask each other about the smoke
direction on electric trains ! But I am again able to calculate the real distance
from two longitudinal readings.

I've made my first serious mistake while on board !

Although I should have been warned beforehand, as it was something that I
should probably have remembered from my nights aboard Martin's schooner in
Cascais marina in 2005. Toilet paper and vacuum toilets... After I reported my
loo blocked, one of the crew came to have a look and complain about his shitty
job. Apparently, they use special toilet paper and nothing else should replace
it. Having got used to living in a bidet-less country, I have found that 'baby
wipes with lanolin' can work wonders, so I always have them to hand, so to
speak. But they obviously don't dissolve quickly enough, so I bunged up the
loo in my chambers. I apologised profusely and promised that it wouldn't
happen again, but really, no-one had told me.
I waited until the captain had finished his meatballs for lunch before telling him
how I had blotted my copybook. He and the first mate immediately went into a
double act about how ridiculous it was ! The system was installed when the
ship was built 10 years ago, but at the same time a desalination plant was
installed on board which produces enough fresh water each day to flush all the
toilets on the ship AND to spray down the whole of the ship's exterior 3 times !
Something as small as a cigarette end can gum up the works in these vacuum
loos. Apparently the captain has been trying to get the company to change the
system since he took over. No-one would change a brand-new sanitary system
10 years ago; people would just have to be more careful. Now, a decade later,
perhaps even when Grey Fox goes into dry dock at the end of May, he hopes to
have a set of lavatories installed that don't threaten to suck you down into the
bowels of the ship...

Really long mealtimes today !

Dinner was laid for a party. There was a bottle of beer for each of us from a
crew member who has his 'name-day' today (not the same as a saints day, but,
to use a relatively new word, an onomast, or his onomastic). The salads were
excellent, cold roast beef just right, thinly sliced roll-mops on halved boiled
eggs and smoked salmon and garlic bread providing a real feast.

After dinner I bought a €20 phone card and called home to say hullo to
everyone and to pass on the ship's Email ad(d)ress and InMarSat phone
number. So all bases should be covered, all eventualities made provision for;
shipwrecks or men overboard are signalled direct via satellite, I don't have to
pay for those.
Not sure if I'll bother to set the alarm for 04:00 in order to squint into the gloom
and probably not to see the Canaries... on the other hand, it might be
interesting to follow on the radar and listen to the ship-to-shore
conversations... otherwise I'll get up at the usual time and, if there's enough
light, take a couple of snaps as we pass Las Palmas at the southern end of Gran
Canaria.

Not really sleepy, so I'll try to clarify Captain Hans-Dieter Böckmann attitude to
unions etc.
The start of (his) problems came in the 60s aboard German freighters, when
the unions insisted that new crew members all had to be experienced sailors.
The result that caused the biggest outcry was when the union directives were
followed, Spanish sailors being taken on at exaggerated salaries, often higher
than those paid to German sailors. But those Spaniards were fishermen, not
merchant crew and most had little or no experience of merchantmen. Flags of
convenience have been abused for decades, but the unions have rarely
intervened, whereas, if they were doing their job properly, they could have
improved safety and working conditions decades ago; instead they were easily
fobbed off by accepting small pay rises.
Surprisingly, United States unions for crew and stevedores wield a lot of power.
The US government subsidises American merchantmen because of the possible
need to use them in times of tension or conflict, so very often their sailors
behave in the same boorish fashion their military do when in a foreign country.
Each of them is a specialist confined to a narrow job-description where
demarkation lines are inviolate. This pushes prices up, but the political clout is
often enough to 'convince' exporters & importers to use their services. Their
unions still insist on a man being on duty at all times in the forecastle, the
modern-day equivalent of the crows' nest. Where crews from different nations
are comfortable in each other's company in Seamen's Missions or on local
dance-floors, US merchant mariners tend to live in a world apart... something
that has increased since the reaction after the initial thaw and sentiments of
solidarity just after 9/11.
Captain Böckmann says that he wouldn't follow the same trail if he were to join
up today; he'd get all the necessary papers, but then find a sinecure ashore. I
find that hard to believe.

Monday, 21st January

In the end I finished yesterday's diary entry at 2 a.m., set the alarm and got up
at 04:30, but there was absolutely nothing to see. We were fog-bound and you
couldn't see more than 7-8m in any direction: from the door of the bridge you
could just about make out the rail on the outside wing.
So, we were 18 miles from the coast, in thick fog, when suddenly I perceived a
problem and observed a moment of panic. Kristian, who is working strange
hours so that he always bridges two watches, was at the wheel following
instructions, when a new voice on the shore side of the ship-to-shore radio
started speaking almost accentless English. After establishment of contact, the
voice said: “Go ahead”. Kristian was reaching out to signal the engine room
when he froze: “Full or Half ? I don't understand !”
I decided to intervene: “Kristian, wait. I think he wants information”.
The Chief came bustling down the bridge and picked up the handset: “Please
repeat instruction”.
Voice: “Go ahead”.
Chief: “That is not instruction from the book. By the book please”.
Voice: “What is your cargo ?”
The chief checked off the cargo manifest, establishing the degree of
'dangerousness'. The guy on shore had simply wanted to continue with the
'usual' exchange of information, but if for some reason the chief had been
distracted or too far away, cadet Kristian's reaction might have had grave
consequences: standing at the wheel, he is conditioned to reacting to officers'
or pilot's succinct instructions. Elsewhere, ambiguous English idioms have
caused more than one fatal accident. The chief was absolutely right to ask the
guy on shore to 'go by the book'.

Las Palmas, February 1948. We went ashore and 3 of the men who were
buzzing around my mother took us round the town in an open horse-drawn
fiacre. I say horse-drawn, but I remember it as being skeleton-drawn. When
the driver appeared to be beating this bag of bones with his whip, I screamed
so loud that my mother had to get the man to stop and let us off. My mother's
hangers-on had to sort out some kind of payment.
The other thing I couldn't get used to was the uniform of the soldiers who
seemed to be standing about in 2s and 3s on every corner or goose-stepping
up the road. My 'Empire Youth Annuals', 'Wizards' and 'Hotspurs', the Gaumont
British News or Movietone News and 'The Last Chance' in my Film Review
Album had told me lots about the Nazis and now to see dozens of them in the
flesh was pretty frightening but also a challenge... When I stopped in front of a
building with sentries in their funny hats posted on either side of the door,
none of my mother's champions was quick enough to stop me giving the Nazi
salute and shouting 'Heil Hitler!'
One of her beaux grabbed me and tucked me under his arm, while another
kept saying: “Sorry. He's only a baby”. Then we all set off down the hill to the
port, me like a sack of potatoes, my mother carrying her high-heeled sandals
and everyone galloped up the gangplank of the Winchester Castle. Half an
hour later, even though I was still in the dog house, I could hear one of the men
in a nearby cabin telling new friends that they had all had a great time,
“showing those Nazis who was boss”.
It's only since I've had children of my own that I've understood just how small
children can drop you right in the brown stuff.

I was ravenous at breakfast time and, for once, envied the captain his steak
fillet sandwich, while I had to make do with scrambled egg and fill up with
bread and honey. Half the day had gone and it was still only breakfast time.
But I had a full morning's work ahead of me...
Today's the day that I intend to do my dirty washing. Not in public, but in the
laundry room which is one deck above me near the captain's day room. I have
bought my 750g packet of milwa 99 washing powder from the steward and
read the instructions on the wall of how to wash a mixed load of less than
2.5kgms. At home, Rahel separates everything out into 1)whites 2)fast colours
and 3)'dubious', to be washed at 30C, 40C, 60C & 90C, all in their individual
containers. I have everything bundled into a large plastic bag. I HAVE
separated out a cheap orange cotton T-shirt that I bought, as I have the feeling
that the colour will run every time it's washed, but the colour-fast stuff that I've
worn for years shouldn't bugger up the white stuff too much, even if I do it at
60C...
By the way, a hint for anyone who's interested: there are sock clips for keeping
pairs of socks together, which are a godsend for anyone who has to wash and
sort out socks. It certainly works well for my family of 5, but I can imagine the
benefits for couples or even people living on their own. I bought our last refill
supply on the net. They are colour-coded, so each person has their own colour.
In our family, it works like this: each person is responsible for clipping together
their own used pairs of socks; any loose socks are thrown out by the boss and
make the tour of the kids rooms until someone recognises their own and colour-
codes them accordingly. After washing and drying, they can be hung up using
the hook on the sock clip. Those in the know or those who have to try and sort
out unmatched socks (the boss, in our case) assure me that it saves a lot of
time.
But by what right do I presume to give anyone instructions about washing
laundry ?
Well...

I realise I've always said that I first started working in 1954, when Roger Nixon
and I worked at the Armstrong Sidderley during the summer holidays and I first
had a pay-packet with stoppages, including my Old Age Pension. But in fact I
had worked before that...
Mr Nicholls opened the first Bendix Launderette on the Cheylesmore estate at
the shopping Parade in Daventry Rd. I started off by holding boxes of screws
and baby clamps while he was on his back attaching the machines to the water
and electricity supply; progressed to delivering leaflets door-to-door for the
grand opening, later showing curious housewives how the whole system
worked; eventually being promoted to unofficial 'watchman', when I was able to
pop in when I got home from school: one eye on the machines, one eye on my
homework. I also started earning serious pocket-money for the first time,
'watching' ladies' machines and putting in the soap powder, blue or bleach at
the appropriate times, while they were able to go off and do their shopping:
much better than 'bob-a-job' and I could keep the proceeds. Some years later
Mr Nicholls opened a second laundromat across the road and offered me a
'future' as manager and prospective partner. As a friend of ours from the
Methodist Youth Club, Jimmy Hands, had been made a shop steward in his first
week at work at Alfred Herbert's, at the age of 16(!), young people were
obviously going to take over the world and that was fine; but I was in serious
negotiations with my headmaster and parents, who decided I was going to be
some kind of scientist, like it or lump it. So I never got to run my own Beautiful
Launderette.

Lunchtime we travelled back again to when Capt. B got his Mate's ticket
decades ago, God was in His heaven and all was right with the world...
Deck cadets had only just stopped being cabin boys and were expected to
spend at least 2 years at sea, working as ordinary seamen, before becoming
A/Bs for a year and spending long hours anchored to the wheel so that they
could steer in their sleep. THEN they went ashore for a year for their first
course. Then, on a regular basis, there were exams, more courses, more
exams, and gradual progression up the ladder in order to 'win' their mate's
ticket. Electricians and engineers had even more of an obstacle course: a full
3-4yr apprenticeship ashore, then 6 months in a shipyard, then 2yrs as
assistant aboard, then eventually the CHANCE to become a fully-fledged ship's
engineer or electrician.
In 2008, Kristian has a 1-year contract aboard, limited work on deck (mostly on
the bridge) followed by a 1 year full-time course ashore, another year afloat,
another year's full-time study ashore and he'll get his mate's ticket/license.
Hamburg Sud used to have a training school in the Gilbert & Ellis Islands,
where Philippinos and Indonesians underwent seaman and officer training; but
it was an expensive business for them...
The members of a large Philippino family would all work to earn the money to
send just ONE boy to sea, because all of the courses had to be paid for in cash.
They had a reputation of being good workers, but were under constant
pressure to pass exams and progress. Most spoke quite good English, but they
were tested by officers out from Europe who were quite happy to fail them
once, twice, three times... The Philippinos comparing wages, saw that they
could step up from OS to A/B and earn almost as much as a 2nd or 3rd mate,
largely avoiding the hassle of being failed by an unsympathetic European and
saving their families money.
But what happens as time goes by? Who is there to acquire the necessary
experience and run the ship? How were companies able to employ
experienced crews and, crisis time, how can companies employ experienced
crews today? Our crew members are all Polish. In Poland there is a training
school that offers a 5yr course and the ability of those who qualify is widely
recognised. But there are other less reputable institutions (or even rip-off
merchants who sell qualifications). So what has been happening more and
more often? Intelligent and experienced crew members wangle jobs ashore
with the result that today there are no crew members of any nationality with
more than 4 or 5 years experience. And with the new super-container ships
being bought or 'managed' by the big shipping companies, more and more of
them will be scrabbling around to find capable seamen to sail them.
The Chinese might be able to do it: they have already bespoke one million new
cadets plus training ships & colleges... but where are they going to find the
seasoned old salts willing and able to teach them?

At 12:45 today, our ETA Walvis Bay was 31stJanuary at 15:45, with 3715
nautical miles to go. The mist or fog had been around all day, maximum
visibility being when I was just able to see the Kiwi Auckland 6½ miles away.
She's on a parallel course to ours and our speeds are much the same: around
15.3-15.8Knots. A couple of ships have been closer to us on the radar scanner,
but that was when visibility was less than a couple of hundred metres i.e. I
couldn't see the forecastle from the bridge.
The sun is very much as I described it on the TransSiberian from the Mongolian
border to Beijing, the difference being that there the Chinese sun was dim
behind a yellow-green industrial pollution, where as here it's yellow from the
sand particles from the Sahara (n.b. I haven't verified this with anyone who
might have better information, so at the moment it's a case of Roger trying to
con you. I shall get a reality check from a couple of other people who have
made the trip before. There is no sand deposit on the walkways or gantries).
The sea water is gradually warming up so, even if we have fog tomorrow, I'll
drop a hint about filling the swimming pool.

Conversations were muted on the bridge this afternoon, so I spent quite some
time curled up in a quiet corner with a very good book: an Ian Rankin, this
time.
At dinner time we were back on the topic of the (in)ability of Africans to govern
themselves properly.
I tried to lighten and equilibrate the atmosphere a little by talking about
Seretse Khama who, although born to rule Bechuanaland, had embraced &
preached an effective form of democracy at a time when you needed a
magnifying glass to find any democratic states at all in the whole of Africa. He
married a white English woman, Ruth Williams, in autumn 1948, just at the
time that the South African nationalists passed their infamous race laws. Then
he went home to live right on their doorstep. South Africa declared him and his
wife to be prohibited immigrants and said they would be arrested if they set
foot in South Africa. As the HQ of the Bechuanaland Protectorate was in
Mafeking in South Africa, this made life difficult and he was soon living in exile
in England. Only after he formally renounced the Chieftainship for himself and
all his descendants was he allowed back to his homeland. He became prime
minister and then the first president of the newly named country of Botswana.
I surprised the dinner table with the verifiable fact that, in the mid-60s,
Botswana was the fastest developing economy in the world.
Khama's time as an undergraduate at Oxford and a lawyer in London helped
develop one of his most powerful negotiating and debating tools: his sense of
humour. Just as Victor Borge was Hitler's Danish Enemy No.1, Seretse Khama
was a permanent thorn in SA Prime Minister Malan's thick skin. At about the
time that South African Nationalists were ignominiously bulldozing the multi-
ethnic District Six in Cape Town, Khama was quoted (but not in SA papers) as
saying in a public address that every black man should consider taking a
European wife. After the general intake of breath, he qualified his statement
with a smile: “...a European wife... NOT a European's wife!”.
I saw an easy way to round off the discussion, suggesting a great punch line for
one of the UK's new Moslem stand-up comics on the northern clubs circuit: ”In
2007 in Bradford, one married woman in four was white.... so I feel right at
home there... my 4th wife is also white”.
After finishing off 'Resurrection Men', the Rankin thriller, I watched the
American vent, Jeff Dunham, and Achmed the Dead Terrorist....

Tuesday, 22nd January

I missed breakfast ! For the first time. Not seasick, but some form of
Montezuma's revenge. I can't think what it might have been that I/we ate for
lunch or dinner yesterday, but I was backwards and forwards to the bathroom
throughout the night. I was sitting up reading (and waiting !) when my alarm
went off at 06:45, but then the next thing I knew, it was 09:26.
We have a strong crosswind blowing off the Sahara – and the ship is covered
with a coating of sand ! The white wings of the bridge are pale orange and
with the green paint-work it looks like an advert for Irish harmony. Kristian and
the Chief told me that there had been the same problem for a couple of days
on the last trip, when at times the sand had blotted out the sun completely.
They also claimed a storm of locusts. They had had to close the doors from the
bridge to the wings and the 10-15cm-long hoppers were piled two-deep. They
had to start the windscreen wipers to remove the debris from crashing locusts.
I asked them why they didn't get the cook to deep-fry them, but the idea didn't
appeal. I must find out how they removed them from the superstructure; and
who the lucky lads were who had to do it.

In Florence and elsewhere I vehemently object to Archaeologists or Art

Historians who claim infallibility: “This is certainly what happened...”, “The blue
period is without doubt...” In fact, in my “Living Archaeology: The
Mediterranean and Beyond” series, I make it very clear to specialists that I
interview that they are only delivering their opinion, research results etc, NOT
their interpretations as eternal verities. I should have read the runes as to why
their usual behaviour annoys me so much: there is really little difference
between what they do and how I mix my fertile assumptions and imaginings
with provable fact and then serve them up as part and parcel of reality. But as
I hadn't consciously been aware that I had done that for most of my life, it will
probably take me the rest of it to apply the rule correctly. And yet at Bablake
'Elsie' Phillpott laid it out very clearly to those of us who wanted to listen, when
he advised any would-be researchers to be circumspect, pointing out that an
accepted Universal Law had had to be changed, receiving the codicil: “...in a
Normal chemical reaction”, when it was no longer true to claim that: “Matter
can neither be created nor destroyed”.
So I'm only feeling a tiny bit smug when I say that in this particular case, I have
sought the considered opinions of others and that it is (probably) the sand that
is blocking out the sun...

The crosswind has reduced our speed by a mile an hour. One nautical mile an
hour doesn't sound much, does it ? But it's enough to have reduced our ETA in
Walvis Bay to the morning of 2nd February. 1 N mph reduction is 24 N miles a
day, and suddenly we're another 36hrs behind schedule. The ETA is calculated
constantly, giving a reading on the basis of: NONE OF THE PARAMETERS WILL
CHANGE FROM THAT MOMENT ON. That might work for a space shuttle, but
not the Grey Fox. Once we make our final course change, then everything will
depend on the wind. But I really have no idea when we'll arrive in South Africa.

I'm starting to enjoy the fact that I have no access to daily news. A week or so
ago, I tried to get my short wave radio to work and when it didn't, I could sense
a little anxiety. But now I think I've finally agreed to give up 'control' of that
part of my life, or at least, put it on 'hold' for the duration. So much so that
when my telephone rang in my cabin, I just sat and looked at it for a moment,
whereas anyone who knows me well is only too aware of the Pavlovian reaction
I have with telephones, still scared that I might miss out on the part/play/film
that will change the direction of my career; the scared teenager still trapped in
an ageing body.

Needless to say, 20 minutes after I recorded that statement, I put the batteries
into my radio and switched on... 'just to see if it worked'. Luckily it didn't, so I
can remain blissful in my ignorance.
The Chief Mate was on the 2000 to 2400 watch on the bridge and I spent most
of the late evening with him. We started talking about Viet Naam and he told
me stories about his time on Polish merchantmen that dodged the bullets and
bombs to service the North Vietnamese in the late 60s and early 70s.
For the first time his shyness melted away and he became enthusiastic (and
younger!) as he described the situations he had lived through. He was often in
Hai Phong Bay and kept a tally of the 'warships and hostile merchantmen' that
the Americans claimed had been destroyed, and compared those results with
the reality. The North Vietnamese did not contradict the claims, just continued
to camouflage old skuttlebuckets and oil-drum rafts, that would be prominently
in place for the next US raid.
Hai Phong Bay. I went there in February 2005. Not sure what to expect, but
certainly not expecting what actually happened...
We went in a small convoy of tourist shallow-draft boats and the morning sun
was already making me curse the fact that I'd left my swimming trunks in the
hotel. Then the fog came, rolling in from all sides and descending from the
rapidly disappearing blue sky. In no time at all, we were one small boat all
alone in a limitless sea of fog. The boatmen's calls to each other echoed and
contorted as they continued to keep contact for the next 3 hours. But we never
saw another boat. Only after we had turned for home and amazingly found our
way up the same narrow creek from which we'd entered the bay did we bump
into one of our convoy.
All the amazing photos and video that I'd seen of Hai Phong Bay had prepared
me for a special visual experience and I saw nothing. But my other senses
were working overtime. It was the closest that I'd come to a religious
experience for a very long time.
When I talked about the fog or mist, the Chief became very introspective. Then
he talked about one particular night when the bombardment had been quite
heavy, with a lot of incendiaries hitting real cargo boats as well as the
dummies. The thick smoke was indistinguishable from the thick sea mist, then
the wind changed and the Polish boat was outside the fog-bank, anchored,
looking towards where land should be. The fog/mist/smoke now formed a huge
cinema screen, on which (or from just behind which) there was a superb
firework display...
The Chief said he often felt ambiguous about having enjoyed the show...
especially as his ship, now in clear view of the incoming bombers, could quite
easily have paid an unacceptable price...

Wednesday, 23rd January

Outside everything is pale orange. We still have a sand-filled wind coming off
the desert, but it's not as strong as yesterday's and our speed has moved back
up to 15.7-16.0 knots. Hence our Walvis Bay ETA is back to some time on 31st
January. We are about 60 miles off the Senegal coast close to Cap Vert, with
Dakar on the leeward side of the peninsular. The Cabo Verde Islands are
somewhere out in the ocean to starboard. And a mystery: Kiwi Auckland is
doing 1.2 knots better than we are (as she often did yesterday and much of
Monday), and yet she is still behind us on the N-S axis. I have this crazy image
of a WWII destroyer rushing backwards and forwards behind a Murmansk
convoy, trying to keep the submarines at bay and just keeping up with convoy
that she's protecting. Obviously the real reason is that the Kiwi Auckland is
going further west or further east at times when I haven't been following the
screens too closely, but the magical Ooozlum bird idea seems appropriate for
our friend from New Zealand...

I don't remember any odd weather like this 60 years ago, but there was so
much organised for the passengers, that cloudy days probably made little
lasting impression.
The single most impressive event on the Winchester Castle was the first film
show. Open-air cinema with the screen stretched across the ship. It was the
place where we could see 'the others' before it was dark enough for the film to
start. 'The others' were First Class. I have the impression that some of them
were in evening dress, but that might be the result of an embellishing
imagination. But WE were definitely second (or economy/steerage) class. This
you could tell the instant Leslie Mitchell's voice introduced the first newsreel
subject. The voice was fine, but the screen titles were back to front. And there
was soon a healthy competition to be the first to read the mirror writing on our
side of the screen. Of course, the 'gentry' with the text the right way round
had no idea what was going on and an officer had to stand in front of us 'oiks'
and beg us to let the feature film pass without our loud commentary. Even
yobs were basically well-behaved in those days, and by the time 'The Second
Mrs Miniver' had finished rolling the credits, both audiences were concentrating
on the film.

Life aboard ship in 1948 was organised to the full.

Lots of sports for the kids and the adults: deck quoits, deck tennis, running &
swimming relay races. Every evening there was bingo, or, as it was called in
those days, housey-housey. And the adults were enthusiastic about the daily
sweepstake on the distance covered in 24hrs.
There was a children's tea party, for which I still have the menu... and there
was a fancy dress competition that seemed to take up everyone's time and
energy for a week. Whole families (and any steward who wasn't quick enough
to escape) made costumes for couples of entrants, where each member had to
bear a clear relationship to the other. I remember there were lots of ballet
dancers, the inevitable Carmen Miranda and her tiny tot of a brother dresses as
a banana, pairs of animals and football players in Newcastle United strip –
though they were cheating, as they'd brought the soccer kit with them. Peter
Rowbotham and I went as 'Penny For The Guy': a street urchin with a stuffed
'Guido Fawkes' in a push-chair. I was the guy. It really was a different time,
back then. Everyone working, scrounging knick-knacks, sewing sequins,
hammering nails, bending metal tubes, and much of this effort would be
discarded at the last moment for some (more practical) improvisation. I think
we looked good in our costumes, but it was the stillness of the guy and the fact
that Peter was able to toss me around as if I were really a rag doll that won us
first prize.

No audiences here on board the Grey Fox to applaud or boo; in fact, I hadn't
seen another person since mealtime – wisely they were not prepared to inhale
sand ! But there was some kind of sun effect from behind the orange cloud, so
I risked stripping off for a while. Half an hour before, I'd covered myself with
the kind of milky crème that sensitive mortals like me need, but there was no
way of working out the cooking programme. I started off facing the sun for 10
minutes, then 10 minutes turning my back, Then I had to go back to my cabin
to look at myself in the mirror: it would be stupid to burn myself and confine
myself to my cabin for the rest of the trip. Then I re-basted myself and
repeated the treatment....
As a child, my sunburnt skin was a family joke. My shoulders and back were
always brown, but the rest of me was like an albino's skin. Sitting at the open
window of a car with my elbow on the rolled-down glass for fifteen minutes
would produce a beetroot red strip of something that bubbled, burst and
peeled all in a few short hours. This was frustrating, because I loved being in
the sun. When I was about 14, I started doing jobs for my step-father in the
garden, shirtless, before and after school in April. And that year, I only peeled
once. I seemed to have found a remedy. But each late spring I had to start
from first principles, even though I stubbornly believed that 'this year will be
different'. But it never changed, all the time I lived in England.
One experience in uncertain sun all but put me in hospital. It was April 1966 in
Hong Kong and I was with a new girlfriend. Dominique Boniface was a
simultaneous translator for the WHO, seconded to the FAO in Rome and on her
way back from a conference. She was booked for a 1-day session in Phnom
Penh the following day, so I took her to Kai-Tak airport, where we arranged to
meet in Bangkok in a couple of days time. The following day, at a loose end, I
went out to Repulse Bay to swim. It was a mackerel sky and the sun didn't
come through at all. I fell asleep for some time, got up feeling dizzy, went back
to the hotel and didn't move far from the bathroom all night. I don't know how
I got to Kai Tak the following morning, but I did and made the flight to Bangkok.
Dominique had booked us into a hotel and was out buying silk at Anita's
Warehouse, coming back for a late lunch. But lunch was out. As were most of
the meals for the next 2½ days. As was the romantic interlude that we had
planned. I lay on my stomach while Dominique wasted her precious 2½ days
stopover keeping my back basted with ointment and assuring the doctor that I
didn't need to go into hospital and would be fine sitting on a plane...
We flew out on the same day, both making for London, but using different
airlines.
Over the next year and a half, we met up several times around the world: only
once in London, only once at her place in Rome.
By the time I moved to Rome in 1968... we had decided to let things cool down
and, apart from a 'welcome to Rome' drink, we both used newer relationships
as an excuse to let something that we were not ready to handle either fade
away or beg to be rekindled. We spoke on the phone every second week, but
that was all... but then Dominique, like 7 other WHO/FAO simultaneous
translators, chose 1968 to put an end to things...

Rome changed me mentally and physically. I don't know if it was the diet,
making the close acquaintance of olive oil, pasta, or what, but after my first
summer in Italy, I grew an inch taller (at the age of 29 !), my skin changed
texture and I've always had a slight tan ever since. Sensitive skin ? On the
beach or on my terrace I used to smell like a salad, having covered all the
exposed parts of my body with olive oil and vinegar !

We had Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner this evening: very nice, no parmesan
but not necessary. And a pear as dessert. Once the others had left the table,
the captain wanted to talk about his daughter; he says he's too old to have a
daughter of 6½, but I think it would be neat to see the two of them together.
After dinner, he took me into the crew's common room to show me the world
map and point out where he had been sailing 30 years ago. Guadalcanal, Port
Maudsby, down the eastern coast of Australia to Melbourne or Sidney and back,
a trip he made over 50 times... He remembered the islanders who'd been on
board the Hamburg Sud vessels, those who'd been good sailors from the
training centre, and the not-so-good who were cheaper but a false economy...
Then I went up to the bridge (it's now light until about 1930) and took a couple
of particularly nice pictures of the setting sun. The sea is unruffled and we
have just made our penultimate course change before arriving in Walvis Bay.
We're doing 16 knots off the coast of Guinea Bissau and our final course
change will be around midnight, about 80 N miles down the coast of Guinea.
On the port side (away from the sunset) I saw my first flying fish.
I remember flying fish from 1948, but now it seems to be a completely
fabricated memory. I (thought I) remembered the longish herring or mackerel-
like fish more or less leaping out of the water, gliding and wing-flapping for 10-
20 metres parallel to the ship, then plunging back into the briny. But those
today were quite different. They fly away at right-angles to the Grey Fox,
leaving a take-off trail on the surface. They swoop close to and even touch the
surface several times, and change direction in mid-flight, sometimes flying a
hundred metres or more. They reminded me of swallows playing across the
surface of a pond or small lake in the evening shadows.

Re-reading that, it seems very pastoral, perhaps a little sad. If so, it might be
the result of my evening tope. I bought one of each of the bottles of red wine
on offer, both South African 2004 vintage, and decided to try one of them
tonight. It was slightly corked, which I suppose is natural enough with bottles
being tossed around all the time. Great colour, almost blue-red, and the nose
was quite good, although I found myself doing a pale imitation of my old Italian
habit, diluting it with fizzy mineral water. My full Italian habit was half-and-half;
not wine & water, but wine & Coke which was not sacrilege as, at the time,
vino soffisticato (not sophisticated, but fiddled with in the laboratory) could
hold its own with Coca-Cola, when it came to dissolving 6-inch nails.

Having written that, naturally I just had to have a glass of wine and Pepsi, but it
didn't remind me of anything; Pepsi with blue South African red or strawberry
Castelli Romani white create quite different flavour-mixes.
For some reason, they have started the ship's air conditioning, which means
that my chambers are decidedly chilly at this time of night, just sitting at my
desk. So for the first time, I've boiled some water and made myself one of the
Swiss packet soups that I'd brought along. A little touch of gruel in the night.
Don't have any Oxo or Bovril.
Any other disappointments? Still no dolphins. I think I/we called dolphins
porpoises in 1948...