Rum, Bum & Whacky

By Christopher Chapman

Taken away from the bosom of his family in 1972, by chance, and not a little alcohol, the author is introduced to life on board a tramping coaster and thrown into a world of wonderful characters that would otherwise be ensconced in a institution more suited to the certifiable. A way of life that is unfathomable for men unlucky to be stuck ashore with families and work.
From huge deep sea bulk carriers in exotic ports to tramping coasters around the coast of Britain and Ireland the seamen sailing them are distinguishable from landlubbers by memories that can only surface when in the company of like minded souls. Then the laughter begins. This book may go some way to explain why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Chapman
• Release date: Nov 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465721198

Christopher Chapman

After 50 odd years of wandering around the globe in a state of drunken debauchery I have now settled down in South Wales sans the debauchery and before the memory cells go completely am writing humorous articles and books in a nostalgic vein, about it all.

Book preview

Rum, Bum & Wacky

Copyright 2007 Christopher Chapman

Smashwords Edition

Not so much about ships, more about the characters that sail in them. A veritable richness of oddballs grace the British Merchant Navy and here are a few reminiscences about those I've sailed with over a quarter of a century.

It is probable that those unlucky not to have gone to sea will believe the stories are fiction, but every seaman will nod their heads knowingly and mutter, ‘That reminds me of…’

Dedicated to all those seamen who have sailed the seven seas throughout the ages and given us so much jollity. It was wonderful knowing every one of them.

Introduction

1. Oil and Water

2. Let’s Go the Nice Way Round

3. Wives and Sweethearts

4. Joining and Leaving

5. Board Of Trade Acquaintances

6. Soojin Stanley

7. Innocent Abroad

8. Mates

9. Rock Dodgers

10. Christmas at Sea

11. Breakdowns

12. Reputations

Introduction

I was stone crushing in a Cornish quarry one day and ensconced in the fiery hell of a ship’s engine room with a crew of drunken strangers smashing our way through the North Sea the next.

I had experienced a rather unexpected and intoxicated chat with the Chairman of the Company which owned the quarry at a Christmas ‘piss up’ for the workers and enquired about going to sea with the Shipping Division. Luckily, he was as pissed as I was and interviewed me on the spot. The spot was in a bar at a St Ives hotel and the interview consisted of two questions. Was I seasick and could I grow a beard? I answered no to the first, although my total experience of boats amounted to rowing around a park lake and yes to the second as I was twenty four and shaving at least twice a week.

He scribbled my name down on a fag packet and we stumbled apart. I don’t remember much about the rest of that evening, I woke up in my own bed in the morning, with only a hazy recollection of events. So hazy in fact, I didn’t even tell my nearest and dearest about my meeting with the Chairman. Two mornings later, a couple or so days before we started our Christmas holiday the foreman came up to me with a note telling me to call a local Shopping Agent in Penzance. The Agent told me that I was to join a ship as third Engineer Officer in Goole, a place I’d never heard of, the day after tomorrow. I was issued with a first class railway ticket and told to spend the rest of the day and tomorrow going to Falmouth to join a union have a medical and collect a Discharge book,

Now remember, I had never been on a ship before, I hadn’t the faintest idea what duties I was supposed to perform what machinery I was supposed to engineer and last but not least if I was going to be sea sick. Add all this with the fact that I arrived at the gangway of the MV Windle Sky at one in the morning in the middle of a freezing cold and wet nor’easter gale, tired and weary with no idea of where to go next.

After paying off the taxi, climbing up a very precarious swaying gang way, I edged forward towards the bow where I could discern the cackle of an engine exhaust. Logically someone must live up here I reckoned. It was of course the ‘Harbour Genny’ rattling away, but I didn’t know that then. Anyway, there was nobody there, so I made my way eventually into the accommodation where there was still nobody.

Back onto the deck, I eventually ran into an old Arab chap who was emptying a drum of what looked like old sump oil into the harbour. He told me that everybody was in the ‘Middle House’ and pointed to a building in the distance where I could just make out a faint light flickering through a window. He also informed me that the ship was due to sail on the morning tide and the pilot was due at 05.00 hours.

I left Ali, the Donkeyman, with my bags and trudged off to this ‘Middle House.’ The sight that met me as I stepped over the threshold of this stygian pub and peered through the fog of cigarette smoke was like something out of a bacchanalian orgy. The almost full pub was filled with bodies in different stages of drunken debauchery, aided by the fact that half of them were the ugliest looking transvestites I've ever seen. And the other half, when not fighting off the advances of these bewigged harridans were sloshing back as much wallop as possible and falling over.

I learnt later that just before Christmas, every year