Running After Maria

I came across this short story which was published in ' With Islands in Mind' in 2006. As a short story it was  the basis of my novel ' Running After Maria' published in 2011.

Maria

My heart was pounding in my chest as I looked out of my cabin window across the deck of the Otter and the docks beyond. I was excited because I was waiting for Maria to drive to the ship and take me back to her home to tell her parents that we were to get married.

My mind drifted back to that first time I had met Maria. It seemed so long ago now, that night at a party on the Otter. It had not been an auspicious meeting. I had been sitting on the deck in a corridor, slumped with my back against the bulkhead, trying to regain my senses after too much drink. I was feeling as though I was floating a few feet off the deck, free and above the mere mortals attached to the earth who walked by in a blur.

Then somebody had spoken, breaking through the drink induced fog and I was looking into pair of dark brown eyes gazing seriously at me through large glasses. The face was round, with a small nose on which her lenses perched. Even through the fog of the alcohol, I was aware that she had a rather large mouth filled with very white regular teeth that smiled at me from very close. The face was framed in brown hair, neatly cut and not quite reaching her shoulders. She introduced herself as Maria Tourvelinen and told me she had come to the party with my friend Brian’s girlfriend.Somehow, I had pulled myself together enough to dance with her and ask for a date when the ship was next in Helsinki.

The following time the ship had come to Helsinki, we had met, had a meal and been to a concert. After that, we arranged to see each other at every opportunity and started to make love in her flat whenever I was in Helsinki. After a while, I had asked her to marry me but she refused.

It came to a head one day in April, when the snow had melted and the grass was starting to show green in the parks. We were walking through the park near the sea and it was so sudden and unexpectedly that I did not know how to handle myself. Innocently, I had said to her, “ I have this feeling we were meant to stay together and grow even closer. I suppose what I am trying to say is that I think it is

time for us to talk about getting married.”

When I had finished speaking, Maria stopped suddenly. It was as though I had punched her. Roughly, she pulled me over to the rail by the edge of the water. She stood there not looking in my direction but staring out to sea. It was as though she was asking the sea to give her some inspiration, for the words to rise from the waters like a siren and rescue her.

“ Its so hard to explain ,” she had began, her voice trembling. “ If you were a Finn I would most likely say yes to marrying you. I don’t really understand why but there is something which holds me back from saying yes to marrying you.”

“ I am from this land, this is where I belong,” she went on after a pause and I did not reply. “ We Finns have feelings which are rooted deep in the soil of our forests and in the history of our people. For all the hard climate, the isolation from the rest of Europe, the snow and the cold, over the centuries, we have built a way of life. All my friends and my parents live here and I am scared to move away. If I married you, I would have to leave my land and my friends.”

“ Other people have managed,” I had replied harshly.

Now, standing looking out of my cabin window waiting anxiously for Maria to arrive, I distinctly recalled her words. “ Ah, James you are not like all those other people. Don't you ever listen to yourself when you are talking? When we lie together, our passion spent or as we drink coffee in the mornings, you should pay attention to what you are saying. All the other English seamen I have met talk about the here and now and never give any indication that they ever think about the future. To them the whole purpose of living is for their ship to arrive in Helsinki, what they are going to do while they are in port and whom they will meet. I have noticed, even when we are with other people from the ship, you talk about different things than they do, as though the ship is only a place of work and there are other things to do in life. When you describe England in the spring with the soft rains and the budding flowers, the country bars with huge open fire places and pints of beer, your eyes shine with an inner passion. Though you might not realise it openly, I can see that is where your heart is and England is where you will eventually return to settle down once you have had enough of the sea. James, I have lain in bed listening to you talking about the town you come from, about your friends and family and I know that you have roots as deep in that community as I have here. Your bonds to your family are as tight as my own. Our roots go deep into the soil of the places and into the soul of the people from whom we sprang. I am tied to my past and you are to yours.”

“ Maria, that may have been true in the past but events change our outlook on life. If we got married, your family would become my family, your home my home. My attitude to England would change just in the act of marrying you!” I had emphasised each word by almost shaking her.

“ No, It would be like caging an animal which has always been free to roam and cutting it off from it's home. You do not talk about the sea in the same way as the others, as though you are going to spend the rest of your life at sea. Always in the background of what you are saying, I have detected that if the right job came along, you would leave the sea without hesitation. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying you do not like going to sea. All I know is that I am certain that one day you will say to yourself, I have had enough of the sea and then you will find a job ashore and that job will be in England. James at the moment, I don't think I could leave Finland and come to live in England even for you.”

A silence had fallen between us after that. It was not the silence of contentment nor of anger but of bafflement at how this divide could have grown so swiftly. No doubt both of us were thinking about how we could rediscover the excitement of being together which we had had before the question of marriage had arisen.

It came as a shock to me when I realised that Maria had inadvertently opened my eyes to the way I thought about a career at sea. For the first time in my life I began to realise that the sea was not everything to me but only another job. The sea which had dominated my life since as long as I could remember, could this only be a passing phase in my life? I asked myself as the doubts about the foundation of my living began to make all certainty crumble. Would I be able to leave the life I had built for myself at sea if I found another job which did not involve going away from home? Was my character so rooted in England that it was obvious to Maria, while not to me, that I would finally settle down in England? Was Maria right in claiming that it would be impossible for me sail to Helsinki for the rest of my life, that in the end the excitement would fade and I would seek a more stable life style?

After our disagreement,the Otter had sailed to other ports than Helsinki and for a long time I had not seen Maria. All through this forced separation, in her letters, Maria had maintained her stand of not wanting to get married.

When I had finally arrived back in her flat in Helsinki, she had told me before we had made love, “ Your being away for so long has convinced me that I cannot live without you. As far as I can think, this means we will have to get married. I suspect that nothing has changed between us. Our getting married will mean I have to come and live in England at some time in the future. If going to live in England is the only way I can be with you all the time, I will be willing to leave Finland and come with you.”

All I could say was thank you. She had been aware of how I felt towards her for a long time. For me it had been an age to wait silently, hoping each time we met for her to say those words. At the time there was little I could say.

After she arrived on the Otter, we had lunch and it turned into one of those happy occasions which come unanticipated, one which I can even now recall in every detail as though it was only yesterday.

Captain Harris ordered a special meal, even going so far as to break out some of his much cherished wine which he usually kept locked in his locker. He played the gracious host, dressed in his best uniform, presiding over the meal with genial competence. Indeed, he appeared to be genuinely pleased that Maria and I had decided to get married. I had shyly told him of our plans on the way round the Finnish coast from Helsinki to Kotka. As I came off watch, he had called me into his cabin for a gin before we went to bed. His normally serious expression had almost changed to a beaming smile and he had insisted we had one more than our usual ration of gin.

All my friends were sitting around the table. Most had delayed their usual headlong rush to leave the ship and catch the bus for Helsinki in order to meet their girlfriends for the weekend. We sat in the same saloon where I and Maria had first met, surrounded by memories of the party and my first kiss. Above the echo of my friends laughing and drinking through lunch, were the ghosts of other friends who had been at the party that night.

The toasts that lunchtime were for the ship and for Maria who sat in her seat by Captain Harris sparkling and smiling. When the last of the wine had been consumed, all those present insisted on lining up and kissing Maria in turn. As an after thought they all shook my hand and wished me good luck.

When we finally got back to my cabin to fetch my bag, Maria flung her arms round my neck, kissing my lips through the taste of the wine. The warmth of her body and her trembling excitement made my heart beat faster and my body pushed against hers as though I had no control over my behaviour.

“ Let us make love here in your cabin before we drive home,” she had whispered in my ear. “ I have always wanted to make love on board the Otter and in your bunk. You have always come ashore to my flat whenever you are in Helsinki, so I have never had the chance.”

We made love slowly and silently, conscious of the people walking passed the door of my cabin. It was wonderful. Afterwards we lay in each others arms laughing about how we should have done this that first time she had been aboard the Otter.

Then, after a drinking a coffee, we went arm in arm out into the cold, down the gangway and into her car. Even after so much time, I can still see her smiling face as she waved goodbye to Bill who was leaning on the ship’s rail watching us depart and, if I think deeply, experience my sense of happiness and the rightness of what we were about to do.

The light was growing dim as we left the Otter in the middle of the afternoon and Maria had to turn on the car headlights. As we sped through the frozen landscape towards Maria's home, the woods on each side of the road look dark and forbidding. The trees were individually visible close to the road but fading into a dark mass further away. We hardly talked, content to let the dirty snow at the side of the road slip by as the studded car tyres threw little chips of ice into the air. We were still, I suppose, enveloped in the warm relaxing glow of our love making, in many ways outside of time.

Through half closed eyes I recognised the approach to the village where Maria lived, thinking vaguely that it would not be long before we arrived at her parents’ house.

When the car started down the steep slope just before the edge of the village, there was a bang from the front of the car and I sat up in my seat conscious of a sense of fear creeping into the car. Maria was now fighting the wheel, the gears and the brakes. She was staring straight ahead, a vein throbbing in her temple, her mouth a tight, thin line. The skin was pulled tight across her cheeks in an expression of fear and her back was rigid, away from the back of her seat.

The car was gathering speed down the hill and I looked away from Maria and out of the windscreen. A sharp bend was coming towards us too fast. Everything seemed suspended. I stopped breathing, my mind went blank and all my muscles were stiff and unmoving. It was apparent to me even through my fear that the car was not going to get round the bend at the speed it was travelling.

I must have called out something to Maria but she did not answer. A piercing scream seemed to come from outside the car, a scream which told Maria to hold tight. The frozen snow was flashing passed the car, throwing up clouds of spray exactly like a ship in heavy weather. The car was bouncing horribly on it's shock absorbers as it left the road and headed for the trees. There was a loud bang as an object hit the side of the car and pain was shooting through my body as the sound of grating metal filled the air.

Another loud bang, more pain as my body bounced off some metal and I felt I was flying through the air. My leg smashed against something rough and hard and my side was being dragged over what felt like broken glass. Another thump and I came to rest.

Events became completely disoriented then. It was cold and I can remember trying to find out what had happened to Maria. I tried to get to my feet but everywhere there was pain and my legs would not hold me upright. My eyes would not focus and all around it was dark. Somehow I was outside the car, even my fuddled brain could work that out. I was lying in the frozen snow slowly getting colder and colder. The cold did not matter too much because the colder I became, the less the pain throbbed through my body.

Then I was surrounded by people and flashing lights. I tried to ask about Maria but all they did was push me back onto a blanket. They were fiddling with my legs and I confess I screamed with the pain. Then I was inside a vehicle travelling at speed through a village with the people in the green coats still leaning over me wiping my face and holding my hand. The vehicle stopped, the doors were flung open and I was being pushed at great speed along a corridor on a trolley. Doors clanged shut in our wake and more people were leaning over me looking at my legs. I heard a voice as though from a long way off moaning Maria's name and then there was nothing.

It was like floating in a tank of liquid, relaxed and secure. There was no sound and the sense of being detached from anything else was very strong. The light was soft but dappled, dark and bright as though I was laying in water under a tree. There was no time and my body did not exist. It was wonderful.

Then the noise started, a relaxing sort of sound as though I was lying, dozing, on a beach with my eyes closed listening to the waves breaking on the shore. A noise in the background, soothing absorbing, helping me sink back below the surface of consciousness, floating, relaxed and secure. It was only in the mind, not in the body.

Then I was rising above the surface and the soothing sensation of floating was thrust aside by the pain. The colour in my mind was now red. I was surrounded by red but I tried to get back to my floating. It was still all in the mind but I was surrounded by pain.

As I broke the surface of the liquid, the pain started to separate. Soon I could identify different parts of my body by the type of pain. Then I was fully conscious and I wished I had stayed in the liquid. My head had been taken over by a trainee drummer who was practising the same phrase over and over again. My leg hurt with stabbing bursts of pain as though somebody was pushing a knife into the muscle and twisting it savagely. As my heart beat rapidly, I could feel my side and arm throbbing as though somebody was hammering to get out.

I opened my eyes slowly but had difficulty focussing at first. Raising my hand, I rubbed my eyes and was surprised to feel bandages. The general whiteness of my surroundings started to come into focus. Trying to sit up proved difficult, if not impossible. The red curtain descended again as soon as I tried to move. Pain filled my whole world so much I wanted to cry out. Steeling myself against the onset of the pain, I raised my head sufficient to look around and found my leg encased in plaster, raised above the bed on some kind of harness.

Just as I was sinking back onto the bed, sweat beading my brow, a girl in a white uniform and with a cheerful face crossed the room into the direct line of my vision. She went to the door and shouted something I did not understand. Soon, another girl appeared and between them they managed to raise me into some semblance of a comfortable sitting position. I asked her in a very hoarse voice, what had happened to Maria but she only shrugged and made signs that she did not understand what I was saying. It was obvious she did not speak English or so I reasoned. I told myself, I would have to wait until somebody who spoke some English came to see me before I would find out about Maria.

Later a doctor came to examine me but he would only answer question about my condition. With a touch of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he told me to lie back and try to relax. I was helpless to do anything else, though I dreamed about walking out of the room. Instead, I lay back and let the nurses deal with my needs. After an injection, the pain stayed in the background and I was able to relax.

A long time passed, or so it seemed to me, when the door to my room opened and Mrs. Tourvelinen was standing there looking at me. My heart missed a beat when I saw her. She was visibly drawn into herself but rigid as though trying to hold herself in control. She looked so much like my Maria, I wanted to cry out. She came a few steps into the room and then hesitated for what, to me lying captive in that bed, seemed like hours. Then she pulled back her shoulders with a mighty effort and walked across the floor to stand by the bed.

Suddenly as though all the courage she had stored up had vanished, she collapsed onto the bed and pulled my face into her breasts. She sat like that, rocking back and forth, stroking my hair like a mother with a son she wants to protect from the evils of the world. I could feel the tightness inside, the cording of her muscles as she fought to control her emotions. She lost the private battle with herself. Tears cascaded down her face and sobs shook her frame.

I knew then what she had come to that hospital room to tell me. It was as though her grief had been transmitted without words. There was no need for her to try to compose herself but she fought for control so that she could tell me what had happened. Stiffening myself against the onset of my grief and anger, I strove to make my face appear as unemotional as possible.

When she was able to start, she was very blunt and brutal. I suppose at the time there was no other way in which she could have braced herself to speak.

“ Maria died in the crash and the funeral was yesterday.” Her face was still wet with tears, the anguish of her expression showing how she was trying to comfort me but finding the right words was proving difficult. “ I hope you will be able to forgive me for not telling you as soon as you regained consciousness but the doctor told me that you must not be stressed too much so soon after coming round. In addition, I wanted to tell you myself what had happened. I could not leave that

painful duty to somebody unknown to you.”

“ The car hit a tree on Maria's side and she was crushed against the door,” she went on, even though it was obvious she wanted to hide the memory from herself but was compelled to tell me what had happened. “ Somehow you were thrown clear of the car because the emergency service people found you lying some distance away jammed between two small trees. The doctors and nurses fought to save her life. They managed to get her back to the hospital but she died the day after she arrived without regaining consciousness. At the same time they were trying to put your leg back together and bring you out of your coma. My husband and I have taken turns to sit by your bed. It has been over a week since you were brought here and when they told me you had regained your senses, I thought it was time to come and tell you what had happened.”

While she was talking, I kept my face impassive but my throat was so tight, I could not say anything. All I could do was sit and stare wide eyed at the wall. My mind tried to grasp what Mrs. Tourvelinen was telling me. I knew her words were important. I tried to reason out what her words foretold about my future but I could not hold onto the words long enough to understand. My stomach felt as though it had been placed in a freezer and been turned into a lump of ice. Cold fluid filled my veins. Numbness was rapidly spreading towards my brain. Echoing through my mind was just one refrain and this was not really a part of me. What am I to say to a mother who has just lost her daughter while I lived through the same crash? What comfort can I bring to this vulnerable woman when I feel so empty and bereft of any reason for living?

After she had finished telling me as much about the crash and what had happened afterwards as she could, we sat in that white painted hospital room in silence. We were lost in our own thoughts but the presence of the other brought a feeling of sharing and a great deal of comfort. She held my hand and after a while, quietly left, whispering goodbye as she went out of the door. I did not move but lay still staring at the wall. The silence stretched into my small world. All alone I sensed the white walls crowding in on me, making me feel I was in some sort of snowy hell.

I cried then, deep sobs wrung from the depths of my very soul. The shaking tore at my body until there was no emotion left and I could lay back. I now had to confront the images from the past that rose up out of my mind to join me as though they were real. The nurses frequently bustled into the room and performed their secret rites before leaving to find their next victim. Through this time, I hardly noticed their passage or the passing of the hours or the days. For a while it was as though I was suspended from the bed, looking down at events as they happened, completely divorced from the person lying there. At other times, I was submerged below the oceans of my emotions trying to swim through an opaque darkness that had no end.

What fools we humans are, I kept telling myself in the few moments when I was conscious and rational. We build in detail our future plans in the certain knowledge that what we plan will come to pass. All the time there is lurking in wait the sudden event that shatters all the certainty from life in a fleeting moment. We are then all left naked before the world. All we humans beaver away like ants to construct relationships, to lay the foundations on which we base our lives. But, I kept asking myself as the time floated by as I lay in that hospital bed, what for? Why do we plan and what is the point of making foundations for our future life? Who in the whole universe can answer me that question honestly? At times when the plans we lay are crumbling before our eyes and there is nothing we can do to save them, the whole exercise of living appears such a huge joke. Something or somebody must get a whole lot of pleasure out of watching the manoeuvring and posturing of these earthly beings as all their plans and hopes turn to dust in their hands. How often does the bad appear to triumph over the good? That is true, I hear myself almost shout. Why do the bad win most of the rewards in life? Why do the bad seem to enjoy life much more than the good? Or have I got the meaning of life all wrong? Am I really looking at the bad and the good? It is a mystery to most of us as to why some people always win and yet others always lose. It does not look as though there is any connection to good or evil. It is a mystery of which most of us are not privileged to glimpse the answer. 

Tales from the Sea by Eddie Gubbins

Tales From The Sea by Eddie Gubbins

A sample chapter from a semi fictional account of Eddie Gubbins' time as an officer at sea in the 1960's.

Chapter 1

I had been destined for a life at sea for as long as I could remember. In fact, I can recall vividly the first time my family started to take it for granted that I was going to sea when I left school.

It was at one o our family get togethers when I was about six years old. All of my aunties were there sitting in a line in the front room, pulling all their friends and acquaintances to pieces. It was a room which at that time was only used for special occasions or when some so called important visitor came. There was a fireplace with black cast iron surround and coloured tiles with pictures of flowers.

The uncles, my dad and granddad were in the sitting room drinking beer and talking of football and politics. The grandchildren in the conservatory playing with the toys they had brought with them.

We all came together for a buffet supper prepared by my grandmother, the aunties, uncles and eleven grand children. Somebody, I cannot recall who, started to speculate about what would become of all the grandchildren when they grew up and left school.

Suddenly Granddad put his large hand on my shoulder and announced in a voice which brooked no argument. “ Edmund is going to sea when he grows up. He will be the first Captain of a foreign going ship in the family.”

Everybody in the room nodded sagely and I did not protest. I suppose at six years old, I did not fully appreciate the true implication of what was being decided on my behalf. Oh, I had sat at the feet, so to speak, of my grandfather and listened to his stories of when he was at sea on White Star Liners. He had talked

of the people, the ships and the sea. He made it sound so glamorous, mysterious and fascinating that I had been attracted to the sea from that time.

Even at such an early age, I had felt the excitement of being on a ship when my family took the ferry from the Town Quay to Hythe across the river to visit my aunty and uncle. To feel the vibration of the engine through the soles of my shoes and the slow roll of the boat when we passed another moving craft had made me feel as though we were at sea. At those times I could let my imagination run wild.

Then there had been that first summer when my family had taken a holiday on the Isle of White. Once on board the ferry, I had stood looking out over the bow with the wind ruffling my hair mesmerised by the bow wave and the movement. Passing through the docks and on down the Solent, I had watched the ships and imagined where they had come from or were going to and secretly sailed away with them to all those exotic places I had only read about in books or seen in the cinema. When we sailed passed the tankers moored at the Fawley Oil Refinery, they looked large and strange with their hulls so far out of the water. Fascinated, I had watched closely as the ship was manoeuvred alongside the quay and tied up when we arrived in Cowes.

As you can see, this goes to show that I was destined for a life at sea from an early age. It was accepted by my mother and father and the wider family. Others might discuss university or an apprenticeship in the shipyard but there was no doubt in the family's mind that I was going to sea.

This ambition spilled over into my school life. All the top pupils at the grammar school I attended were destined for university after taking A levels. When I informed the headmaster when discussing my future that

I was going to sea in the merchant navy, he was not impressed.

“ You are among our top pupils,” he had said looking at me over the top of his glasses. “ There is no question but our top pupils go to university. The success of failure of the school is measured by the number of pupils who go to Oxbridge first and then other universities second. Nobody from our school goes for a career in the merchant navy.”

Even when I assured him that I was planning to become a Captain, he was not reassured. I could not understand his attitude at the time but came to understand later when I became an academic.

One of the geography teachers at the school was in the Royal Naval Reserve and he set out to convince me that I ought go to Dartmouth and into the Royal Navy. An officer in the Royal Navy was, it sounded, more acceptable than an officer in the merchant navy. Even now I do not understand the thinking behind this assertion.

Periodically, Mr. Jenkins arranged visits to Portsmouth naval dockyard, including staying for a few days on HMS Vanguard. Whenever these trips were arranged, I was included. It was not long before I realised that my parents could not afford the expense of sending me to Dartmouth so I settled down to enjoy the trips but finding out all I could about the merchant navy.

Before sitting my O levels, I had sent an application to become a deck cadet with an oil tanker company and, after attending an interview, I had been offered a cadetship if I passed the required grades. In the September, I would go to pre sea college in Stepney, London and join my first ship in January. My grandfather was more excited than I was when I told him.

“ I told you,” he informed anybody who would listen.” Edmund is going to become the first Captain in the family.”

After finishing school at sixteen, much to the disgust of the headmaster who still harboured the hope that I would relent and go to university, my uncle found me a position as a deck boy on one of the Isle of White ferries for the summer. It was a glorious summer. The sun shone, the ferry sailed back and forth between Southampton and Cowes and I was doing something I enjoyed. It was not much of a ship. A modernised landing craft with some accommodation built on above the engine room and the ramp at the bow. I learnt a great deal about the various things that take place on board a ship. A few times when they were short of crew, I was transferred to the Calshott, a tug tender that met the ocean liners as they approached Cowes. It could carry five hundred passengers but the few times I was on board all we carried were the Dockers going to meet a liner and get the baggage ready for discharge. I did make a little extra money by making them mugs of tea and sandwiches during the trip down the river. Though I did not think about it at the time, it was good grounding in sea life without having to leave home before I actually started my sea career.

In September, I took myself off to pre-sea college. There I shared a room with Andy Brookes, who like me was a cadet for the same tanker company. Andy was about the same height as me but much broader and stronger. I was lucky. We got on well even though I was hard put to maintain my friendship when he played his accordion some nights. The Triumphal march from Aida I seem to remember. After hearing this many times, even now every time I hear that tune brings back memories of pre-sea training. We were thrown into the

ring together during the boxing but maintained our friendship by agreeing not to hit each other too hard. Unfortunately Buster Brown the instructor, a true east end product noticed. Well I suppose we were naive to think that we could get away with it. Andy was put into the ring the next time with the most accomplished fighter and was soon overwhelmed. I was put into the ring with Douglas Moorhouse. I must admit I had taken a dislike to him from our first meeting. He was tall, handsome, always got his own way and always won. It was no match up even though I had spent time training with an amateur boxing club. With his long reach and height it was almost impossible to get to him. He knocked me down as soon as I tried to hit him. I got up and tried again. Ducking and diving, moving sideways and away from his right hand, I managed to hit him a couple of times in the chest. He knocked me down. Andy screamed for me to stay down. I got up. Buster stepped in grinning and stopped Douglas hitting me again.

“ I admire your courage young man,” Buster told me. “ In life you have to learn when the odds are too great. Then you have to retreat and work out some other way of defeating your opponent.”

Douglas grinned and held out his hand once the gloves were off. I shook it in return and grinned back. Deep down I vowed to make sure I beat him at something while we were in college. I was learning lessons that I hoped would help me when I was at sea.

The college had a small motor yacht that was used to sail down the Thames and back from Wapping Dock. It was painted white with a yellow funnel. There was a tall mast and a sail. It was provided to give the students experience of running an actual ship at sea.

There was a small professional crew but the idea was that most of the tasks were carried out by the students.

The students set off on their training voyage early one morning after we had been at the college for a few weeks. We had learnt the rudiments of seamanship and navigational chart work. Most of us were eager to put some of this theory into practice.

For me, the voyage did not start too well. Captain Duncan, the teacher in charge, was a tall imposing figure though with that hangdog look of somebody who wondered how they had got themselves into this situation. I suppose looking after twenty sixteen year olds on a yacht is no pleasure. When he came aboard, he demanded to know who it was leaning on the rail with his hands in his pockets. Of course that was me. All the teachers at the college called themselves Captain. The students had suspicions that not many of them had actually been the Captain of a ship before leaving the sea to become teachers. In the three months that we were in the college, not one of us had the courage to question whether this was true or not. Not that it made any difference to me at the time. On board the yacht, Captain Duncan was in charge.

In a stern voice, he said. “ One of your jobs will be to clean out the latrines twice a day.”

The other students laughed but they made sure they were presentable from then on. I suppose that was what Captain Duncan was trying to achieve. If it had not been me, he would have found somebody else. I did what I have always done when this happens to me. Sink into my shell, don’t show any emotion and get on with the job. It was a horrible job but I stuck at it.

On the third day as we started to return to Wapping, Captain Duncan found me cleaning the latrines as ordered.

“ Get cleaned up and report to the bridge,” he commanded me.

When I came up the ladder onto the bridge, he smiled at me for the first time. “ You have done well and accepted your punishment without histrionics. I want you to take over the wheel and we will start you on the path to your steering certificate.”

The seaman stood by my side and offered advice but after a while let me continue on my own. It was wonderful. Concentrating on keeping the ship on a straight course whether by following the compass heading or points on land. I was in my element. The familiar landmarks on the banks of the river passed on either side and ships sailed by destined for places round the world.

Captain Duncan smiled again after watching me for a while. “ You have done this before.”

“ Yes Sir,” I answered with a grin. “ I was a deck boy on the Isle of White ferries while waiting for my O level results. Because I was going to sea, they taught me how to steer when the ship was in Southampton Water. I even took a turn when, in an emergency, I was seconded to the tug called Calshott.”

“ I remember the Calshott,” he said ordering a different heading as we passed Gravesend. “ Steam driven tug tender. I used to see her when docking aboard the Southern Cross.”

When we were approaching Tower Bridge, the sailor took over the wheel for the docking in Saint Katherine's dock. With an effort, I tried not to show my disappointment at not being allowed to take the yacht into the berth. Deep down I was pleased with my time on the wheel.

I passed out of the college as the second highest student. Andy congratulated me but I was disappointed

not to be top, especially as Douglas Moorhouse had been the best student. He was one of those infuriating people who were good at everything and knew it. His arrogance got under the skin of most of the other students but I learnt a valuable lesson from that experience. It was more important when in a situation where one could not get away from those one worked with to find an accommodation and a way of so called rubbing along.

When we left college, Andy and I had to report to the head office of the tanker company. The Marine Superintendent went over our reports and assigned us to our first ships. Andy to the Fernando, me to the Fortunato. After three months sharing a room, we said goodbye on the steps of the office but hoped we would meet some time.

In the first week of January after a pleasant Christmas with my family, I found myself on a train bound for Heysham. It was the first time I had ever been north of London and the country and accents were strange to me. A taxi took me from the station to the berth and I got a good look at my first ship as we approached along the quay.

To me she was huge but later I came to understand that she was really of medium size for a tanker in the late nineteen fifties. The accommodation was amidships, three levels including the bridge. Running the whole length of the tanker was a catwalk raised about ten feet above the deck. The funnel was rather squat and above the aft accommodation. It was painted with two narrow yellow rings separated by a larger white ring. On this was the eagle, black with drooping wings. The smoke cowl was black. Two tall masts rose above the deck one aft of the accommodation the other forward. The hull was black with a yellow

stripe and the structures in yellow. This was my first ship.

Once on board, the chief officer allocated a cabin to me, the middle one of four small cabins designed for the cadets and situated on the starboard side of the amidships structure. My porthole looked out on the walkway leading between the after deck and the fore deck. When I had stowed my gear in my lockers, John Reid, one of the other cadets introduced himself. He had been sent by the chief officer to showed me round the ship and explain what was going on. I was soon in a daze at all the technical language and unfamiliar sights. It was one thing to learn about life on board ship, cargo loading and ship routines in college but quite different when presented with these in practice. I found I was one of four cadets sailing on the ship and that we had a number of routine tasks to carry out. Over dinner in the saloon that evening, I was introduced to the other cadets at the table where we would take all our meals. As dinner was served by stewards, I was glad that at college they had taught us how to act when being served with a meal.

That night was even worse. I had to keep watch from midnight with the second mate as the cargo discharge continued. Not only had I to keep myself awake at times when I was usually asleep but I found the physical labour hard. It involved turning valves to switch discharge tanks, climbing up and down the almost vertical ladder into the pump room and going to the kitchen to make mugs of coffee for the second mate. And all the time, I was trying to learn this technical language and the jargon of sea life. When dawn was breaking, I had breakfast with the second mate and fell into my bunk, asleep before my head had hit the pillow as the saying goes.

The next afternoon I met many of the crew and soon realised that these were the people with whom I had to, not only work, but also live with for the next few months. It was soon obvious to me that it was very important for me to establish a way of dealing with these people which did not take away my own individuality but which would be flexible enough to avoid conflict. It is usually enough for somebody to rein in their feelings when working in an office during the day because at night they can walk away from the job and choose whether to meet their other office colleagues for recreation later in the evening or not. I know a great number of people work and play with the same set of people especially when the out of work hours life of an organisation revolves around the social club but it is the choice an individual in those circumstances is free to make. Nobody is going to force such a person to mix only with working colleagues, though colleagues and bosses may put pressure on somebody to take part in some of the activities of the company. It is, at the end of the day, up to the person what they do with their non- working time. At sea things are different. Not only must you find a way of keeping stable relationships during working time, you are shut up with the same people for the rest of the time as well. Tolerance of the different attitudes to life, tolerance of other peoples point of view and a quickness in forgetting past wrongs are called for aboard ship. The most successful seamen soon learn how to practice restraint.

Late on the second day on board the Fernando, I experienced that special feeling which comes to all seamen. It is amazing to the lands man but quite suddenly on board a ship in port there comes a time when all activity ceases. The cargo has been discharged or loaded. In our case the tanks battened down and the

pipelines lifted ashore. The berth workers collect up their gear and walk down the gangway talking about their next job or the weekend at home. All attention is on the office ashore where all the various pieces of paper are being assembled. For a short while the ship will lie quietly waiting, the diesel generator a muted noise in the background, waiting as though gathering strength in the same way as a sprinter waiting for the gun before the explosive action.

It does not matter for how long a time a sailor has been sailing the oceans of the world, how jaded the sailor’s senses have become to the child like excitement of viewing the world as full of wonder, there is a certain expectant thrill running through a ship and it's crew just before the ship leaves port. It does not matter whether the crewmember is young or old, whether the ship is large or small, the expectancy, the thrill and excitement is felt by everybody on board. It even transmits itself to the shore people even though they experience the same thrill several times a week, it is still there. One can see it the faces of those connected with the ship and feel it in the vibration under the feet of those who walk the decks. At this time more than any other it is possible to believe that the ship itself is alive, waking from a long slumber in port and ready for the adventure and challenge of the sea. The pulsation grows as the engine is tested, sailors walk the deck in a purposeful fashion, ready to get this complex system of man and machine into motion. It feels as though the sea itself is calling, beckoning out there beyond the dock.

The mistress of the ship and the crew is waiting. She waits beyond the dock and there is no real knowledge of what her reaction will be when they go out to meet her. She may greet them in a calm, balmy mood and like a gentle lover entwine them in her arms,

leaving them refreshed and happy when they part. It could be that she is angry with unmatched violence which beats upon the senses and leaves the lovers drained and exhausted, ready to rush apart, concentrating on finding peace and quiet rather than wallowing in the feeling of complete satisfaction. Like all lovers, the sea and the sailor never quite know what moods will greet them at the times of their meeting or how the mood can change very quickly as the time passes. This is the excitement of the sea and, every time a ship leaves port, the sailor approaches love with a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension. Will they together make beautiful love under a clear blue sky or will they fight? It is not for the sailor to subdue the sea but to live with her moods in the hope that he can survive.

The sea is calling always calling even when the sailor has long left voyaging behind. The sea calls over the noise of this sometimes dreadful life. To sail away but to where? That is what adds to the thrill. Let the voyage be long or short, let the love making 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 heartache? It has long been a mystery to me but, more than in any other profession, the sea seems to offer 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 from such things as family and home, anchored to other aspects 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 over an inland rubbish

tip, the wind moaning around the roof of his house or 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.

We sailed in the evening from Heysham out into the Irish Sea. As soon as we were clear of the coast the chief officer arranged for the tanks to be cleaned. The crew were split into gangs and I was assigned to the first gang. How I survived that first night I still can’t believe. The work was dirty and hard, pulling pipes across the deck and lowering them into tanks. Timing the height for each wash and then lowering them further into the tank. All the time the ship rolled to me violently and water washed across the deck. By the time my watch ended, I was wet, cold and exhausted. John helped me undress and have a shower before I collapsed into bed.

“ It will get easier,” he assured me with grin as he dried his rather thin body with a towel. “ At least you didn’t throw up all over the deck. I did the first time I sailed and had to do tank cleaning.”

He was right. It did get easier and I was soon involved in the routine of the ship. The bane of all cadets’ existence, I found out, was Saturday morning. It was our job to clean the brass on the bridge under the watchful eye of the third mate. I was surprised at the amount of brass needing cleaning. Somehow, Captain Morris always managed to find his way onto the bridge just as we were finishing. For some reason, he always found a bit that we had missed. As senior cadet, Malcolm always went onto the focastle to clean the ships bell and the brass plates on the winches. I took note of this. By keeping out of the way, he always missed the ire of the Captain.

Captain Morris was a stickler for procedure. On Sundays, he did his rounds of inspection through the ship seriously. It was a ritual. Unless the ship was clean he would get the cleaning redone to his satisfaction. We cadets had to stand by our bunks until he had inspected our cabins. Afterwards, Mister Marsh, the chief officer invited us to his cabin for a beer with the other deck and engineering officers who were not on duty. In that way, he felt the cadets would be part of the officers’ circle. It was important because most of the time we were neither officers nor crew but some undefined position in between.

We crossed the Bay of Biscay with an almost flat calm sea and the winter sun shining. Nothing like I had anticipated or dreaded. The stories I had heard while in college about the terrible weather and the gigantic waves, the warnings that it could be hell were unfounded. Most of the seamen ignored it but I was on the bridge when we passed the white bulk of Gibraltar and entered the Mediterranean Sea.

We hardly saw any land as we sailed east towards Port Said. Then there were ships converging from the west and we picked up the pilot just off the Suez Canal. The pilot took us to an anchorage in a line of tankers and we waited. Boats suddenly appeared and men were shouting their wares for the crew to purchase. Wafting on the breeze was the unfamiliar smell of Egypt a mixture of rotting vegetation, unclean drains and sweaty bodies.

The bosun organised the cadets to rig the spotlight on the bow. I was curious and Andy explained that this was used to light the bank of the canal as we transited during the night. One of the crew had to be stationed by the spotlight to position it on orders from the bridge.

We lay at anchor for most of the day, peaceful but hot and sweaty except for the persistent bum boats as they were called. Then suddenly there was a great deal of activity. The pilot arrived with his bags and everybody was looking towards the Canal entrance. Then they came in a line astern. First a couple of ocean liners, their passengers lining the rail to look at all the waiting anchored ships. Then cargo boats of every description and colour. Their funnel colours and badges told the informed which company and the flag at their stern the country. Then the oil tankers. One was another company ship and we dipped our flag in response as she passed.

“ Captain Marshall,” John informed me as we stood by the rail and watched. “ I sailed with him on my last ship.”

“ What happens now?” I asked naively.

“ When the north bound convoy is clear, the south bound convoy will form and enter the canal. I expect we will anchor in the lakes half way through the canal to let another north bound convoy pass.”

The last ship of the north bound convoy cleared the canal and ships started to weigh anchor in a predetermined order. They sailed away from us into the canal as the sun was setting in the west. As one larger tanker passed our position, the order was given for the anchor to be weighed. Once under way, we followed the tanker ahead into the canal. It was getting dark as the sand banks and dunes beside the canal engulfed our ship. The spotlight was turned on and the banks lit up. That is all we could see. A round patch of moving sand with the stern lights of the ship ahead and steaming lights of the ship behind.

The next morning I awoke to find the Fortune anchored in what looked like a large lake. All the ships

of the south bound convoy were there. It was not long before the north bound convoy passed. I stood by the rail and watched in wonder. A couple of Royal Navy ships leading, their weaponry covered in canvass. Some ocean liners with the passengers standing looking at all the ships anchored in the lake as they passed waving occasionally. Then came the cargo liners of some of the companies listed in my book of ships funnels and company flags. I had seen some of these in Southampton before leaving to go to sea but most were only studied in books. Then last came the oil tankers and I had to rush aft ready to dip our flag to any of the company’s ships. Before long the last of the north bound convoy passed and we were weighing anchor and sailing south through sand banks leaving the green oasis of the lakes behind.

It was hot in the Red Sea. Hotter than I had ever felt. With no air conditioning, even in the shade of the cabin it was hot. It took a few days and then I started to get used to the heat.

We turned into the Persian Gulf through the Straits of Hormous joining the line of tankers sailing towards the loading ports. Coming the other way, another line of tankers lower in the water making for Europe or the Far East. The heat beat down and the decks were too hot to walk on bare feet. The Chief Officer made me keep my shirt and a hat on for most of the day fearing that I would get sun burnt. The Second Mate dished out sun tan cream for our faces and salt tablets to take with water, something I had never seen before. The sea was flat calm stretching ahead like the floor of a cathedral. The only breeze came from the forward movement of the ship.

In the middle of nowhere a pilot joined the ship and we sailed into Mina Al-Hamadi. There was nothing

there like normal habitation. A jetty jutted out from the sandy shore to join the longest berth I had ever seen. Tankers were tied one astern of the other for as far as the eye could see. Some were high out of the water indicating they had just started to load, while others were almost down to their marks ready to leave. The pilot guided us parallel to the berth until we could see a vacant spot beside a gantry with rubber pipes hanging free. We tied up here between a Danish tanker and Japanese one. It was not long before the ballast was pumped out and we started loading. The oil poured into the tanks and we shut each tank down as it filled. Lastly we filled a central tank and ordered the shore to stop. Papers were exchanged, we blew the whistle and we were off. I had not set foot on foreign soil.

We reversed the trip and sailed for Eastham Docks on the Mersey at the entrance to the Manchester Ship Canal. In fact we sailed this trip for the next seven months and during that time I did not set foot in any overseas countries. Mina Al-Hamadi was the closest I got but, apart from walking along the jetty to the recreation club, there was no going ashore. It appeared to me that the authorities were quite willing to sell us their oil but they were not confident enough to let us mix with their people in case we contaminated them with western ideas. Maybe in my case it was a good thing. There is no question that I would have disputed the way they lived and their general philosophy. They did let us hold a Christian service in the clubroom by the jetty operational control building. It was inspiring actually to say the Lords Prayer accompanied by thirty other men talking in ten different languages.

On the forth trip I did get a glimpse of the dangers associated with sailing on oil tankers. Until then I had not thought too deeply about risks involved in floating

on top of eighteen thousand tons of crude oil. To me it was a joy to be at sea. To see the stars in the sky at night far more clearly than on land. To stand on the bridge and watch the sun come up out of a calm sea. To feel the motion of the ship and the thrill of moving through the sea. These were the things that dominated my life. Well in my case going to foreign exotic places had not happened. I was stuck on the same worn track just like a train running along the same rails between the same stations. I could still sense the excitement in the crew and listened to the stories of the exotic places they had all travelled to. I assured myself that it would come in the future.

I happened to be on the bridge one day as we came out of the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean when there was a flurry of activity. The radio officer came out and talked to the second mate. The second mate called the Captain and he soon appeared on the bridge. I could not stop myself listening.

“ The Radio officer has picked up a faint SOS. He thinks it is an automatic one like those from the lifeboats. He reckons by the DF it is on our course. Obviously he has no idea how far away it is,”

“ Get him to inform the authorities. Set a course to intercept if we can.”

The radio officer appeared again. “ I have a communication from a British war ship. I gave her our position and they confirm that the source is about thirty miles from us. Could we go and investigate? They have given me the position of the ship in trouble and a bearing.”

He placed a piece of paper on the chart table. The second mate was soon plotting positions and bearings on the chart when the Captain spotted me on the bridge wing.

He smiled. “ Don’t just stand there. Take those binoculars and keep a look out.”

I stood staring at the horizon through the binoculars. The Captain watched the radar trace while the second mate navigated the ship.

Suddenly the captain exclaimed, “ There is an echo two points on the port bow at about twenty miles.”

We stood in a line looking in that direction. Then I saw it. A small smudge on the horizon and told the Captain. A sailor appeared and the steering was put on manual. The smudge got bigger and was now definitely a ship even to the naked eye. We sailed closer and closer and the ship now took on features. From this distance it looked intact, bow into the wind and swell. Then I realised something was missing.

Like most smaller tankers of that time, the bridge was over the officer accommodation amidships. As we approached it became apparent that this was missing. All I could do was stare. The crew were lining the ships rails but all were silent. In place of the accommodation structure was some twisted girders and a hole in the deck. All the structure was missing.

On the deck above the aft accommodation, some sailors waved as we approached. The captain ordered the motor lifeboat to be made ready. Turning the Fortunato into the wind and slowing parallel to the other tanker, the Captain got as close to the other ship as he dared. When this was done the chief officer and the third mate sailed our motorboat across to the tanker with some medical supplies and to find out what had happened.

It appears they were cleaning the tanks when there was an explosion which ripped away all of the accommodation. It had happened in the early hours of the morning and all the officers were asleep except the

second mate on the bridge and the engineers aft. The second mate had been blown off the bridge and into the sea. They had rescued him in the lifeboat. He was injured but helping the bosun tend the ship. All the other officers had been killed.

The crew had rigged up a system so that they could steer the ship from the steering engine and had managed to turn the ship into the wind. The generator was going so they had power.

We stood by the disabled ship for the rest of the day. That evening as the sun was going down a British warship arrived and took charge. Captain Morris was not really amused by the way the warship officers appeared to arrogantly assume that we would hand over to them but we had commercial considerations to take into account. Unlike the Royal Navy whose sole purpose at that time was to spend taxpayers’ money, our purpose was to carry cargoes for payment so that our company could survive. We dipped our flag in reply to their farewell and set course for the Persian Gulf and Mina Al-Hamadi once again.

I did get to stand on foreign soil before I left the Fortunato. The ship was sent to Rotterdam on the last voyage and I was sent on leave. I did not see much of this country because those crew returning to the UK were taken by taxi to the railway station and then to the ferry for Harwich. Still, I could truthfully say I had been abroad.

And so my first voyage ended without visiting any of the exotic places I had dreamed about all those years while I was waiting to join my first ship. I had listened in awe to the tales of my Grandfather of foreign shores, of storms and of sun kissed days when the sea was flat calm. I had been through storms, lent on the rail at night looking at the stars in a cloudless sky but not

visited any exotic places. Kuwait was abroad but we had not been allowed ashore. The nearest I had come to the country of Kuwait was the clubhouse in the centre of the long jetty. I went home wondering what I was going to tell my Grandfather about the places I had visited and the sights I had seen. He had been anticipating tales of the sea when I came on leave.

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A Ceremony of Innocence by Edmund Gubbins

A Ceremony of Innocence by Edmund Gubbins

( Warning!!Contains explicit sex scenes)

The novel is set against the background of the Thatcher years in the UK. Some people are making a great deal of money, industries are closing putting workers out of a job and criticism of those out of work is rampant. 

Two brothers are at home on holiday much to the delight of their mother. It is the first time they have been at home together for several years.Their father is a union convener in the local shipyard and while the brothers are at home, he leads the shipyard workers out on strike against the redundancies proposed by the  groups' central management. Though on the surface both brothers support their father, underneath the surface there simmers the stew of disagreement. Mark, the older brother is home fresh from travelling the sea as a ships officer and refuses to compromise his upwardly mobile life for the sake of family harmony. He lives for the moment and grabs any opportunity for happiness. Jim is freshly graduated from university and supports his father passionately without question.

Can the brothers find a way to compromise their positions and fulfil  their mother's wish for a few happy weeks? Will their anger boil over into open conflict and a family break up?

As this extract shows, anger and resentment causes damaging rifts between the brothers much to the sadness of their mother. To Jim it is all about family loyalty, to Mark it is about living life to the full in his own fashion. 

' Jim came home shortly before dinner, sourly greeted Mark and his Dad before going out to the kitchen to speak to his mother. His attitude left Mark in no doubt as to how he felt about what had happened the night before. The family sat down to dinner all together as Joan had imagined when she thought of them all being home at the same time but silence reigned around the table as all her men were lost in their own thoughts. They were content to let her chatter away about Monday's ceremony, about what she should wear and who would be there as honoured guests. Her conversation then turned to the dinner at the school, as she began speculating that it must have been a grand occasion and wondering whether their pictures would be in the paper. By her innocent monologue, she inadvertently hit upon a subject that rubbed the raw nerves of Jim's passion. Jim rushed down the path she had opened for him like sheep seeing the open gate, quick to grasp his chance and oblivious to his mothers needs for a quiet dinner with all her family round her.

" I hope his won't anyway, “ Jim said bitterly.

Joan frowned at Jim across the table.  " Now, now, “ she said quietly. " I don't want any remarks like that at my table. We are having dinner together as a family and hopefully we can get through our meal without harsh words."

" It's not that easy mum, " Jim continued his voice angry and aggressive. " Do you want to know who Mark took to the dance last night? " Jim pointed his finger dramatically at Mark, who sat frowning watching Jim closely.

" That girl Sue wasn’t it Mark? " Joan asked innocently as though she was not aware of any tension between Mark and Jim.

" Yes, “ Mark replied, he sounded defencive in anticipation of what Jim was about to say. God, thought Mark, is Jim going to use Sue to try to get Mum and Dad against me?

" Are you going to tell them her surname or am I? " Jim demanded his tone heavy with sarcasm, his eyes boring fanatically into Mark's.

" Susan Maunder, " Mark replied, shrugging his shoulders as though to show that it was of no importance to his parents.

" Susan Maunder, " Jim breathed the words as though they were a blasphemy. Turning dramatically to Charlie, he almost shouted in triumph.  "Doesn't that name ring a bell with you Dad? A son of yours, at this of all times, walking round in public with the managing director of the yards daughter. It is laughable or would be if it were not so serious. Think of what the papers could make of this! "

Charlie deliberately put down his knife and fork, looking across at Mark with a puzzled expression. "  Is it true? "  he asked Mark quietly.

" Yes it is true, " Mark replied equally quietly. " As you know I have been going out with Sue on and off since before I left school and, by chance, we met again the other day when I was in town."

" Why didn't you tell me? "  Charlie asked.

" I didn't make any secret of the fact that I had met Sue again, “ Mark replied evenly.

" But you never explicitly told me, “ Charlie countered.

" This is absurd, " Mark said. " Why should I tell you explicitly as you say? Do I have to come home at my age and say please Dad can I go out with Sue Maunder? Come off it Dad. You have been so tied up with the strike, you would not have noticed who I was going out with. "

" You could have had some thought for my feelings. " Charlie was obviously confused and at a loss for how to handle his sons but he doggedly persisted with his argument.

" Regard for your feelings! "  Jim exploded with anger. " He has no regard for your feelings or anybody else for that matter.  Do you know what I think?  Mark takes what he can from life and does not care who he hurts in the process."

" What do you mean? " Mark was fighting to keep his temper under control, to keep his voice calm and to keep the atmosphere around the table low key.

" Just that you could steer clear of Sue Maunder while there is trouble at the yard. Anyway, I can not see what you see or find attractive in that stuck up little bitch. "  Jim was bitter, wanting to hit out at somebody to relieve his conscience over the trouble he had caused his father. By trying to genuinely raise the issue of Sue, he was trying to push the odium of being disloyal onto Mark. Deep down he knew it was untrue but in his heightened sense of anger, he did believe that Mark had deliberately gone out of his way to flaunt his friendship with Sue before Jim and his friends the night before.

" You didn't say that when she came here before going to the States when I was on leave, " Mark said evenly. Turning to Charlie, he went on. " Dad I am not being disloyal. Sue is my friend, as you know. God you never said anything when she came her before. Though I have a lot of sympathy to your cause, my going out with Sue has nothing to do with your dispute. We don't work in the yard and have nothing to do with shipbuilding. She has only recently returned to the UK and it is only by chance that she is living with her parents. Lets face it, we are both well off enough to buy a place of our own but we choose to live at home because we both like living with our parents. You have to face the fact that I like Sue and there is nothing sinister in our relationship."

" All right son, I hear what you are saying," Charlie smiled at Mark. " All I can ask is that you stop seeing her while this trouble lasts so that the media cannot get to me through you. When it is all over you must bring her around here again. I must admit from what I remember, I liked her when she visited us before."

" No, “ Mark replied emphatically.  " She is a part of my life at the moment and I will not stop seeing her as you put it. I only have a few weeks more leave and then I have to go back to sea and I will not be able to see her for at least four months. I cannot bend my life to your instructions. This dispute has nothing to do with me and Sue."

Charlie regarded Mark for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, picked up his knife and fork and continued with his meal as though the subject was closed. Joan looked from her son to her husband, a worried expression on her face but she chose to remain silent as she also continued her meal. As she ate, she recalled Sue so pretty in a summer dress, sitting at this table, so young and so bubbly, slowly relaxing as time went by until she appeared to belong. I remember thinking, as mothers do, what a lovely wife she would make for Mark.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a snort of anger from Jim. " Is that all you are going to say to Mark? " Jim snarled at Charlie. " Christ he is knocking off the bosses daughter, flaunting his association with her in front of our faces and all you can politely ask him is to be careful! "

Mark felt his grip on his temper slipping. " Watch it! "  he shot back at Jim.

" Watch it! " Jim shouted angrily causing Joan to wince inwardly. " God you have got as nerve. I would not mind if she was the only girl you have been screwing since you came home on leave.  What about Clare?  What about Jane waiting down there in Weymouth having given up her virginity to the alter of your ego?  Do they mean nothing? I bet Sue doesn't even know they exist! "

Mark deliberately pushed back his chair and stood up. Joan winced as she thought her son was about to walk out of the room but Mark planted his palms firmly on the table and lent forward until his face was thrust at Jim. He said, slowly and carefully with his very hard eyes boring into Jim's, ignoring his parents, isolating the two brothers. " One more word out of you, Jim and I will come round this table and shove your teeth down your throat. "

Jim recoiled back into his chair, aware in that instant that his brother of whom he had always thought was soft, was quite capable of carrying out his threat without another thought. Indeed, so confident did Mark appear of being able to carry out the threat, Jim knew that he had done this kind of thing before. God, Jim thought as he warily stared at Mark, I don't really know you at all. I thought you were so mild that any threat and you would try to calm things by talking. It is obvious that in the mysterious world in which he works, actions speak much louder than words. When did he change?  He has always appeared so shy and correct with women when we have been together when I was younger.  Now I find he beds anybody he can get his hands on. Not only that but he has the strength to threaten anybody who does not agree with him. This is not like at the university where harsh words during a discussion are soon forgotten. He has changed and I no longer know what he is thinking. Jim shook his head to clear his mind, smiled weakly at Mark but did not reply. Mark smiled cruelly.back, resumed his seat and continued eating.'

This novel contains some explicit sex scenes

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Tales from the Sea by Eddie Gubbins

In my class studying novels this year we have been comparing novels written during the colonial period and post colonial. The novels have been Jane Ayre and Wide Sargasso Sea, The Outsider and The Meursault Investigation, Heart of Darkness and Trencherman. A more dismal set of novels I could not imagine but very interesting and though provoking. 

One thing that did jar with me was that in the Heart of Darkness Marlow says that the sea is boring and always the same. I could not agree.

In my novel Tales from the Sea, a fictionalised account of my time serving as a ships officer in the British Merchant Navy, I start the novel with this poem.

The Sailor’s Mistress

When the cargo is loaded and all falls quiet

The sea itself is calling, 

Beckoning the sailor out there beyond the dock. 

His mistress is waiting 

Where the river meets the sea. 

He has no real knowledge of what her reaction will be

When he sails out to meet her. 

She may greet him in a calm, balmy mood,

Like a gentle lover entwining him in her arms, 

Leaving him refreshed and happy when they part. 

It might be that she is angry 

And will meet him with unmatched violence 

A violence which beats upon the senses 

And leaves the lovers drained and exhausted, 

Ready to rush apart , 

Ready to find a place of peace and quiet 

Not the feeling of complete satisfaction. 

Like all lovers, the sea and the sailor

Will never quite know what moods will greet them when they meet

Or how the mood can change very quickly.  

This is the excitement of the sea.  

Every time a ship leaves port,

The sailor approaches that love 

With a mixture of exhilaration and apprehension. 

Will they together make beautiful love under a clear blue sky 

Or will they fight? 

It is not for the sailor to subdue the sea 

But to live with her moods 

In the hope that he can survive.

The sea is calling, always calling 

As a lover calls.

It is a novel which looks at the excitement of seafaring. Meeting in its pages the characters who man the ships, the changing, challenging weather and the exotic places visited. 

It is available from Amazon, www.createspace.com and the Kindle store.

😁