Dare to Dream

By John Robertson

This book does not do full justice to the many memories that were provided to me by the extraordinary characters that were my shipmates, but in recording those great times, I have now relived most of those fantastic experiences that time has not dimmed and enjoyed them as if they had just happened. Now, I would like to share them with you, the reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481761680

John Robertson

Personal finance and investing have long been personal passions for John. He has been an active part of the Canadian personal finance community for over 7 years, blogging at Blessed by the Potato, creating spreadsheets and how-to guides amongst other commentary and analyses. In 2011 he started Robertson Investment Services to help investors move away from relying on commissioned sales staff to planning and investing on their own. Those experiences helped identify the need for the material that would become The Value of Simple, and provided a venue to test and refine the explanations and tools that form the book. He has a PhD in Medical Biophysics from the University of Western Ontario, and spends his days as a science writer & editor for the Techna Institute in Toronto. He specializes in explaining complex topics – scientific or financial – for the lay reader, and has won multiple scientific presentation awards and the Macklin Teaching Fellowship from the University of Western Ontario.

Book preview

Chapter I

Dream Time

My hometown of Dalry is a small town set in the hills of North Ayrshire in Scotland. In its heyday, it was once a thriving town with woolen and spinning mills that employed most of the people in town. Its claim to fame was that there were more pubs in the town than there were churches. In some ways, the pubs supported the churches for, after a good night’s drinking on Saturday night, the celebrants repented on Sunday by filling the churches and putting on their most pious faces to impress others that the demon drink hadn’t caught up with them yet!

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Dalry from the South

It also had a very important railway yard and a station, which boasted four platforms. Each platform was numbered but all of the local people knew exactly what platform served their individual needs as to whether they were going shopping in Ayr, Glasgow, or Kilmarnock. When I traveled by train, it was always with great trepidation that I, as a small boy, would apprehensively see this large smoke belching monster approaching the platform that I stood on. I was always told that when an express train came hurtling through the station I would be sucked under it if I stood too near the edge of the platform. With this warning in mind, I was not going to be sucked under any railway engine but, when the locomotive had slowed down in preparation for stopping, I could only gaze at the array of cranks, linkages and valve gear that made up the operational parts of the steam engine. I could never resist the urge to touch all of that gleaming steel and find out what made it work the way that it did, so I always crept as close as I could just to smell the steamy, oily vapor that was blowing out of the steam cylinder glands and drains. When I got too close to my Mother’s safety margin, she would yank me back and tell me to behave myself or I surely would be sucked under that great steaming monster. I didn’t know it then, but that desire that I had to touch engine parts would, one day, more than satisfy any further yearnings for touching anything mechanical, especially hot steam engine parts.

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Steam Locomotive

This fatal fascination never left me, as even today, I love the smell of oily steam and the wheezing sound of the piston rods as they reciprocate through the glands on the steam cylinders. My Grandfather and my Father were both railway men, and being named after my Grandfather, it was expected of me to eventually follow a railway career. However, living in a small town with a big railway station, I soon found out that the only job that I could possibly get was that of a Porter. Now, I have nothing against a Porter and the work that he did, but it just didn’t smell of oil and steam.

I was born and raised in Smith Street. There was nothing very attractive about this street. It had three large tenement houses, one or two other smaller houses and four houses that the occupants owned. The latter were significantly upper class and boasted fancy cut glass front doors. Their owners, however, were really very nice people and they treated us kids very well when they would ask us to go errands for them. They always tipped us and we would compare their tipping standards by the thickness of the bread, butter and jam sandwiches that we were rewarded with. I can’t recall anyone of us who even got a penny for our efforts. The street also sported a small general store and we loved it when the lady who owned it asked us to do something for her. She always rewarded us with some candy, or sweeties as we kids called them. Apart from an occasional treat from my Mother, that little store would have gone out of business if it had had to rely on our business. Still, it was our little oasis. The one thing that I remember most of Smith Street was that our neighbors cared for each other in a way that, today; most people would not know how to handle. If one of our Mothers were sick, our neighbors would take care of the family until she got back to health. They would cook, clean and make sure that the kids got off to school in the morning with a good hot breakfast in them. This was over and above looking after their families. They were the salt of the earth.

Just around the street corner where we lived, there was another small store that seemed to have come out of a Charles Dickens’ novel and the old man who owned it was a penny pincher and was aptly nicknamed Scrooge. He was very short sighted but would never wear eye glasses and he even wore a fez-like cap that was complete with a corded tassel and his nose continually dripped, and he didn’t like children who came into his store and didn’t buy anything. He stocked some cloth-bound hardcover notebooks and sold them for two pence. It was everyone’s pride and joy to own one but we couldn’t afford to buy one.

When given a penny for our pocket money, we always asked for two half pennies, the excuse being that two half pennies looked more than one single penny. Living close to the railway, we would trespass on to the railway lines and place our half pennies on top of the rails and sit back on the property wire fence to await the next train that would come along. Waving excitedly to the Driver and his Fireman to allay any suspicions of us trespassing, the men would wave back and after the train passed we would dive on to the tracks and secure our squeezed out half pennies, which had been magically transformed into pennies. We headed back to the old man’s store and gave him our two pennies and walked out with a notebook. Kids don’t have any consciences.

My family consisted of my Mother and Father, my sister Mary, and later my younger brother David and, later still, my little sister Betty. My Mother’s Uncle John Craig also lived with us. Uncle John, as we all called him, was a master weaver by his trade and was a wonderful man who showed me how to tie knots and make all kinds of wooden toys. This was a handy thing to learn as growing up in the 1930’s, through those awful depression years, my parents could not afford many luxuries; and that included toys! Somewhere in time, I can’t recall exactly when, I lost my sister Mary to diphtheria. This was a devastating blow to the family, but being approximately two years old myself, I cannot remember too much about her at all. Even today, I still wrack my memory to try and catch a glimpse of what she was like. I often think that was grossly unfair. In 1936, my Father passed away and two months after his death, my younger sister Betty was born. With world affairs as bad as they were at that time, my Mother had a hard time keeping three kids dressed and fed.

It was then that I made up my mind that I, as the head of the house, would change that situation as soon as I had an opportunity to earn some money. Most kids want to be a pilot, or a fireman when they grow up. For me, the smell of steam and hot oil still lingered on in my nostrils. The question that bothered me most was how am I going to achieve this dream of mine?

Growing up in a rural environment, I became a Boy Scout and loved hill walking and camping out. There were very few nooks and crannies that I didn’t know about in the hills and valleys around me. My Mother called me a gypsy on many occasions when I would stray from home just to follow my curiosity. I would look at one of the three local rivers that flowed around the town and wonder where it started its journey to the sea. Next thing that I would do was to plan a hiking trip to find its source. It never crossed my mind that it could be many miles long and that I might be camping out for a couple of days or, even more. However, I was always impressed with some of the river’s beauty, especially when the river was in full spate. An impressive set of waterfalls on the River Calf was one of the local beauty spots as can be seen in the accompanying photograph. It further intrigued me to know that a cave existed behind the falls and that it was haunted by the spirit of a man who had flung himself over the falls in a fit of depression. I found the cave, but I never found the ghost. This curiosity to find out what lay around the corner soon became an obsession with me. Now, I wanted to find out how I could get to see the world and get paid for doing so. All this at the age of six!!

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The Lynn Falls on the River Calf

Even at the age of six, I still had to face reality. The reality was that we were too poor to do anything other than dream. My Mother had ten shillings and sixpence per week for her widow’s pension, which was supplemented by taking in other people’s laundry and scrubbing doorways in the houses of our affluent neighbors. She was limited to having a total income of twenty-one shillings per week and, if she earned more than that, and the pension office found out about it, they would deduct the excess money from her pension. I always thought that she deserved better than that but, a shilling was a shilling in those days and it could put some groceries on the table. Whatever our financial status was at that time, she always believed in a good meal, three times a day, a good shirt on your back, and a pair of good boots on your feet. The good shirt and the boots came from our local Parish Office and, by wearing these; everyone knew that you were on the Parish. It was a badge that declared to one and all that we were poor and on public assistance. However, we were grateful for whatever we could get and as the old saying goes every cloud has a silver lining; the silver lining for me was that the soles of the Parish boots were lined with steel toe and heel caps and had five rows of steel studs on the soles. They were the best boots for running and sliding on the concrete paving stones on the hilly sidewalks that our little town boasted. The only problem with them was that they never wore out.

Sometimes I could assist the railway deliveryman with his parcels and other bits and pieces that he had to deliver around the town. He was an earlier version of UPS. He used a sturdy Clydesdale horse to pull his delivery cart. That horse was a beauty and looked very regal in its leather and silver livery. When I first started helping the driver, he played a trick on me by having me sit immediately behind the horse’s tail. I thought nothing of it and felt very important to be sitting up there with the driver (other kids sat at the tailgate of the cart dangling their legs over the edge), it was only when the horse started to pull with great effort on a hill that I found out why the driver placed me in that position. The horse raised its tail and passed wind with great gusto right into my face. The driver never did laugh out loud but I could see by his shoulders heaving up and down, and his pipe jiggling around in his mouth, that he was having a rare old time to himself at my expense. After that, I dangled my legs over the tailgate swallowing my pride. It was, nevertheless, a little job where I got a lot of tips that gave my Mother a little more illegal financial help and for me, some pocket money. Entrepreneurs have to start somewhere!

At Dalry Secondary School, I was a fairly good scholar. I loved the art class and the technical drawing class and, even some of the more academic studies. Unfortunately, I hated the mathematics classes and for three years was the despair of Mr. Brown (Cambridge University graduate) the mathematics teacher. I just wasn’t interested in that subject and, as we were now at war with Germany, I became the class’ Walter Mitty. I would imagine myself in the cockpit of a Spitfire shooting down German aircraft by the score. For some unknown reason that, even today, I swear Mr. Brown had eyes secretly embedded in the back of his head. He could be writing problems on the chalkboard and, without his head even turning around to face the class; he would call out my name and bring me out in front of my classmates. He would dress me down for not paying attention to him and then pull out his strap and pound the hell out of my outstretched hands. He never missed! Being at war, I always pictured Mr. Brown in a Gestapo uniform as he was very Germanic looking with blonde close cropped hair and deep blue eyes and he walked very stiffly. So much so, that viewing him from behind, his walk was almost goose-stepping. Only a twelve year old could picture that!

This lack of interest in mathematics was later to be an impediment to me, and one that I would regret.

It was ironic that Mr. Brown was to be my last teacher before I left school to start my apprenticeship as a budding engineer. After class he drew me aside and asked me what I was going to work as. He looked at me with utter amazement on his face when I proudly told him that I was going to be an apprentice engineer. He sputtered out, Damn it boy, do you realize that engineering is a mathematical science and, for the last three years, you never passed one of my examinations! That was the best piece of advice that he could have given me even although it was not complimentary, for up until then, it hadn’t occurred to me that it was indeed a job where mathematics played an important role. As part of my apprenticeship training I had to attend night school four nights per week where I had to study mathematics, thermodynamics, physics, and technical drawing. Unfortunately for me, my boss was the cousin of the principle of the night school. He got my examinations’ score cards before I saw them and if the results were not up to his standards, he would let me know in no uncertain terms and language that I had better pull my socks up if I wanted to continue my apprenticeship.

Mr. Brown, please take me back!

In the night school classes that I had to take, some of my classmates told me where they were serving their apprenticeships. Prestigious names such as Rolls Royce, John Brown’s shipyard and other high ranking industrial companies were bandied around and I was the only one working in a small textile plant that made fishing nets. With this competition I felt doomed to remain in a second-class journeyman’s role for the rest of my working life and my dreams of becoming a master craftsman seemed unattainable. Now, I knew what the proverbial red-haired stepchild felt like! However, as I settled in to my studies it was becoming very apparent that the larger companies only trained their apprentices in specific areas whereas; I was expected to cover every aspect of engineering tasks. It was very encouraging to me to be asked by my fellow students how to do certain tasks. Later, as a sea-going Marine Engineer, I found myself working alongside some of those who had been trained in the big name companies and had to show them how to operate lathes, milling machines and other machine shop tooling. The most important training that I got was keep your eyes and ears open and keep your mouth shut. I will always be grateful to those who were willing to answer my questions and show me how to do my job correctly.

Those five years that I spent as an apprentice were some of the worst years of my young life. My boss, Mr. James Jimmy Shaw was very demanding and he was relentlessly on my top from morning until it was time to go home. Every Friday, I swore that I would not turn up for work on the following Monday morning. Every Monday morning I punched that time clock again and again. Even my Mother was on Jimmy’s side!! It wasn’t until my five years of hell were over that it dawned on me that the hard times that Jimmy gave me was his idea of making a man of me. I think, in all modesty, that he did a damned fine job of it, as I felt confident that my engineering skills were honed to a fine edge. Jimmy taught me skills that were not to be found in any textbook and encouraged me to think on my feet and act with confidence in resolving problems. He always told me to look at the problems closely because every problem contained its own answer. Under his watchful eye, I had to make most of my hand tools with the exception of engraved rulers and other such precision measuring tools. I became a blacksmith, toolmaker, carpenter and a general jack-of-all-trades, to Jimmy’s way of thinking that was what a good maintenance engineer should be capable of being. Although I did not appreciate his enthusiasm and guidance at the time, I could not but admire him because he just didn’t preach, he could do.

After my apprenticeship was officially over and I was a new journeyman, it was never expected that you would be given a job for life with the company. You were encouraged to move on to greener pastures. In 1951, the greener pastures that were available to you were offered by His Majesty’s Military Recruitment Office. It simply meant that your next tailor would be fitting you out in khaki, air force blue or navy blue suits. As I had always wanted to be a seagoing Marine Engineer, I had no intentions of serving the colors for a few shillings a week for the next two years. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to contact a couple of shipping companies who advertised in the Glasgow newspapers. The race was on. I had just received an official invitation to attend the Royal Air Force recruiting center in Glasgow for my physical. There, the recruiting Flight Sergeant informed me in no uncertain terms that if the RAF got to me first, I would be in air force blue and not navy blue. And, furthermore, if I did not sign up for three years, I would be peeling potatoes instead of doing engineering work. Now, I am beginning to sweat and pray that the Merchant Navy will call me for an interview before the RAF got me. Someone upstairs must have heard my prayers for, two days later; I had to go back to Glasgow to the Merchant Navy offices on Clyde Street for a physical and eyesight test. I was accepted and photographed with a board around my neck that proclaimed to all and sundry my name and discharge book number was (John C. Robertson – R558011).

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Seaman’s Discharge Book

I felt that my photograph should have been hung on a Post Office wall, as I looked every part of being a Mafia member in a trench coat. The shipping company that I had been in contact with was The British India Steam Navigation Company and they were offering me a position as a Fifth Engineer Officer. Eureka! I had made it!!

The next four weeks were hectic as I had to go to a naval outfitter in Glasgow with a shopping list for my dress uniform, my tropical uniform, naval cap complete with company cap badge; all in all, this little lot cost me £150, a small fortune at that time, especially on a journeyman’s wages. What the heck, it’s an investment. My orders came through shortly thereafter; I was going out to Bombay in India to serve a 2-1/2 year’s contract on the company’s eastern service. I now was required to go to my Doctor and get inoculations for typhoid fever, cholera, yellow fever and smallpox. Those injections knocked the hell out of me and I was confined to bed for two days feeling like nothing else that I had ever felt like before. It soon got around town that I was going into the Merchant Navy and also traveling to Bombay. I was now promoted from the ranks of obscurity to VIP status. Girls would come knocking at my Mother’s door asking me to put my uniform on and let them get photographed with me. This was a change for me as I was barely noticed before, but I felt like I was being used but, at nineteen, I wasn’t going to complain. All of my friends never got this kind of treatment when they came home on leave in their military uniforms so, I enjoyed every moment of it all. The charm of an Officer’s uniform set me aside from the other uniformed lads.

Chapter 2

Departure: June 15, 1951

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Junior Engineer Robertson

It was June 15th 1951 and my big departure day had arrived. Prior to this, I had been scurrying around buying what I thought would be tropical type shirts, trousers and other things that would be practical in the sweltering heat of India. As I later found out, it was money down the drain as clothing out there was made by local people who were used to the rigors of the Indian climate and their clothing was made of much lighter weight materials. That night when I said my farewells to my family, I am sure that my Mother thought that she would never see me again, she didn’t quite say it openly but, I am sure she was certain that I would succumb to some horrible tropical disease. I must admit that I didn’t feel too comfortable myself as I had never gone too far from home before and, now, I was taking a big step into the unknown. As I left home and made my way to the railway station to catch a train to Glasgow, and then join an overnight train to London I had second thoughts about everything. Being unaccustomed to traveling any length of distance, I prolonged my agony by making reservations on the London train that stopped at every possible stop en route. When I arrived with all of my baggage 10-1/2 hours later, and feeling that I had been pulled through a hedge backward, I was now confronted with the problem of transporting myself across London to Waterloo Railway Station to join the boat train to Southampton. Hailing a taxi was easy, but the driver was hesitant about taking on my entire luggage, he finally relented after giving him a couple of pound notes and proceeded across London. It was pretty obvious when I got on to the platform at Waterloo which train was the boat train for India, as it looked like half of Bombay’s population was getting on to the train with me. The carriages were decked out with placards with RMS CANTON printed on them so it wasn’t too hard for an inexperienced traveler like me to know which train to board. The British India Steam Navigation Company had kindly reserved a seat for me and to my great joy; two other lads joined me who were also joining the company. Sadly, they were as green as me and had never been away from home either.

We must have looked a pathetic sight to the other passengers and, after many years I can still recall the sight of three young Merchant Navy Officers in full uniform sitting there watching the safety of their own little world disappear as the train hurtled on toward the RMS CANTON. About two hours later, the train pulled into Southampton docks and slowly made its way toward the pier where sat this gleaming white monster of a ship. At least that is what it looked like to the three of us. At this point, I was now beginning to feel excited about the thought of this ship taking us half way around the world to seek our fortunes and have many adventures. I also thought about my promise to myself when I was six years old, and now, here I was about to see the world and getting paid to do so. Who could ask for more! We had about four hours to get settled in to our cabins before the ship sailed and, although my cabin was a two-berth unit, I had it all to myself for the entire voyage. The other two lads weren’t as lucky as they had to share their cabin. We all met up on the main deck and accustomed ourselves with the general lay out of the ship. The public rooms were sumptuous and the wall panelings were made of some of the finest wood and beautifully polished. Stewards were everywhere offering tea and coffee and biscuits. As we were still in our uniforms, one of the ship’s Officers approached us and told us in no uncertain manner that Junior Officers were not allowed on the main passengers’ decks and to get below where we belonged. We had a hard time informing him that we were passengers too and that we were British India Officers and not P&O ship’s crewmembers. He reluctantly gave in but offered no apologies and assured us that he would be watching our behavior, so we had better watch our step. As the P&0 had a different braid system to indicate the ranks of the Officers compared to that of the BI, we did not recognize that we had just been dressed down by the ship’s Captain.

Our instructions from the BI main office were for us to present ourselves to the Chief Engineer and offer our services. His only instruction to us was to keep out of his engine room and stay away from his Engineers. What a start to our sea going careers, we were hardly on board the ship and it hadn’t even left the pier and here we had already been chewed out by the Captain and discarded by the Chief Engineer. What next?

At the appointed time of departure, two tugboats came alongside the CANTON and took her ropes on board to pull the ship away from the pier side. A mighty blast on the ship’s steam whistle and the clanging of the engine room telegraphs told us that we were about to sail. It was interesting to see how the tug boats responded to the ship’s movements and, before very long with a few more blasts on the whistle, the ship cast off the tugs and started moving on its own power down the River Solent toward the English Channel and the open sea. It was with mixed feelings that we looked at the disappearing British landscape and wondered what we would be like when 2-1/2 years later we would be seeing it again, and would we be regarded by our families as strangers for we were already noticing changes that we would have to make. At 19 years old, I was already seeing that my life was going to be more disciplined and more regimented. There was so much to learn about this new world that I had chosen for myself and, in keeping with what my old boss had told me, I made a promise to myself that I would keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.

Dinnertime was traditionally announced by an Indian Steward walking through the passageways banging on a little xylophone like instrument. All passengers were expected to dress for dinner in their eveningwear, and as we had only our uniforms, we got a special dispensation to attend dinner in uniform. Sitting at the table we were confronted with such an array of silver ware, my mind boggled, as I had never seen such a display of silver ware before in all of my life.

I looked at the other two for support, but they were just as bewildered as me.

Fortunately, a gentleman sitting opposite to us quietly showed us by sign language that we should start from the outside knife and fork and work inward. Taking him literally, we ate our way through every course in the menu just to use up the entire cutlery from the outside inward as directed. We were stuffed.

As most of the passengers were old hands at traveling back and forth between Britain and India, it was obvious to us that we had to learn the customs of the Sahibs and Memsahibs. They didn’t drink their after-dinner coffee at the table, they arose from the table as if programmed and went to another room, which was set aside for their coffees and brandies. Later, we were introduced to drinking sundowners at around five o’clock in the evening just in time to see the sun sink under the western horizon. Sundowners turned out to be rather stiff whiskies weakened with a splash of soda water. As I didn’t drink, I celebrated the going down of the sun with lemon squash. Our dining table advisor saw me drinking my squash and he told me that if I continued to drink that "stuff’ my insides would rust up. Whisky had calories and water did not and I would need all of the calories that I could get if I wanted to survive in the Indian heat. It seemed that the regulars loved any excuse to drink as they participated in quaffing two or three pink gins before lunch every day and a few sundowners each evening. So, maybe there was some truth in what the gentleman said. After lunch and their mid-day drinks, most of the passengers disappeared from the decks and public rooms and didn’t reappear until the afternoon xylophone sounded at four o’clock to announce that afternoon tea and cakes were being served in the main public room. We had discovered another trait, everyone observed a siesta in the afternoon and, woe betide anyone caught violating that sacred rite by making a noise. That was not British.

As there were no baths or showers in the cabins we had to use a communal bathroom in the passageway, this too was a ritual practiced by those who were well informed about how things were run on board, and we found out that if we wanted to take a shower or bath, we had to wait until the seasoned travelers had their showers. Being as naïve as we were, we eventually discovered that the order of gaining access to the bathroom was dictated by the amount of money that was given to the Steward who ran the baths. So, the highest tippers were always first. This custom always made us late for our meals; another no-no! We created some mischief for the bathers when we quietly stole the plug from the bath and, by doing so, we speeded up bath times. By sharing the plug amongst the three of us, we enjoyed a long soak in the bath when it was convenient for us and no others wanted a bath. As there were no other plugs available on the ship we knew that we had scored one over the regulars. That plug eventually was stowed away in one of the other lad’s baggage when we left the ship in Bombay. Now, whether or not he ever used it after that, I don’t know. But, one thing for sure was that I was beginning to enjoy a little bit of harmless fun.

The following day, the ship’s information office announced loud and clear that we had just entered the Bay of Biscay. Having just transformed from a landlubber into a seaman, I had visions that there would be some visual phenomenon indicating the entry into such a notorious stretch of sea. After all, wasn’t the Bay of Biscay a storm center? The sea was like glass and the ship plowed on leaving a long straight, churned up disturbance in the water after the propellers had screwed their way through it.

It amazed me that, with no land in sight, there were small land birds flying alongside the ship and perching wherever they found a quiet place. They didn’t seem exhausted, so I guess that maybe their migratory flight paths took them along the same course as the ship. Which ever way they were heading, they were traveling first class as they hung around the ship until we picked up the northern tip of Portugal. There, they left us.

Being the month of June, it was becoming warmer the further south that the ship traveled. The swimming pool became our favorite spot and we began meeting some of the ship’s Engineers who were permitted to use the facility between 2:00 PM and 4:00 PM. Now we were with some real marine engineers. Through them, we began to learn all about how a ship’s engine room functioned. They sneaked us into the engine room via some strange named places such as the fiddly and the tunnel, but never through the entrance in the Engineer’s accommodation just in case the Chief Engineer saw us or found out that we had trespassed into his domain. The ship was powered by two large steam turbines and the smell of oily steam filled my nostrils. It felt really good to be in this environment that I had been planning to get into since I was six years old. Yes, I thought, John my boy, you have made it! The vast array of pressure gauges on the engine control panels fascinated me and they obviously told the watch keeping Engineers something about how the engines were performing as they periodically adjusted valves and made notes in their logbook. At this point in time, I was still a greenhorn, and hadn’t a clue about what it all meant but, one thing for sure, I knew that this is what I had always wanted to do with my budding career. I was soon to find out the hard facts of being a watch-keeping Engineer in hot engine rooms.

We entered the Mediterranean Sea and passed Gibraltar on our port side. It was as I had always seen it in pictures in my school geography books. It certainly was very majestic looking and having Gib, as our regular passengers called it, on one side of the ship and the Atlas Mountains of North Africa on the other side; they formed a perfect gateway into the Med. The term Med was another abbreviation that we were adding to our vocabulary from our traveling companions. The ship proceeded along the southern Spanish coastline and it was close enough for us to see in fair detail some of the small villages and towns that clung to the base of the Sierra Madre Mountains. Fishing boats from some of these towns dotted the sea and were often close enough to hail the fishermen and give them a wave. To which they responded by cheering and blowing their sirens or whistles. Soon thereafter, they were only little dots on the receding horizon and next morning we were, once more, in the open sea heading east toward Egypt. The island of Pantellaria came up out of the horizon and again, we were fairly close to it when we passed. Pantellaria was an Italian outpost during the Second World War and apparently, was very heavily fortified by the Germans to harass Allied convoys heading from Gibraltar to Malta and North Africa. It was, in effect, Italy’s Malta. Later on I was to find out that the BI lost quite a few ships with heavy loss of life in that particular area of the Med that we had passed through. This was some of the best geography lessons that I had ever had and there was more to come.

When you have been at sea for some time, you can actually smell the land coming up toward you even although you still can’t see any land. It is difficult to describe the smell and, although everyone knows that we will be arriving in Port Said in Egypt in a few hours, that smell permeates everything. It is not an obnoxious smell by any standards, but it is different from the fresh salty air that we had been enjoying for the past few days. Now, we were quite excited about seeing the famous land of the Pharaohs and getting ashore to explore the bazaars and take photographs of historic sites.

Our dining room advisor, with his many years of traveling through Egypt, started to give us advice about going ashore in Port Said and, in effect, promptly burst our bubble about things that could happen to us unwary travelers when the local hucksters got hold of us. We could find ourselves in a heap of trouble and get robbed of everything, even our clothing could be taken, and to make sure that we got back to the ship before it sailed, otherwise we would be left behind; and to be left behind in Egypt, particularly in Port Said, with no money or clothing was tantamount to a death sentence. His warning was reinforced upon us by the ship’s Purser holding an information meeting about going ashore in Port Said and what could happen to us if we strayed from the beaten path. His lecture was almost identical to our dining room friend’s warning.

When the ship pulled alongside the pontoon that served as a pier and the gangway went down, the Egyptian Customs people swarmed on board and cleared the ship to allow the passengers to go ashore. The main street at the pontoon was like a beehive with people jostling each other to get close enough to the passengers as they went ashore. Each one of them had a better offer than their neighbors to take you to dancing girls, to show you some freak shows, and curio shops, but all were intent on extracting as much money as they could get from you. There were horse drawn buggies, taxis cabs and others claiming to be the official guide to the P&O shipping company. The latter changed their allegiance to whatever shipping company’s ship that had just docked. I was beginning to see what we had been advised about and was a bit reticent about even thinking of going ashore. However, between the three of us, nobody was going to be allowed to take advantage of us and thus fortified, we went ashore and were immediately surrounded by these Egyptians who smelled as if they had just been pulled through a dung heap. Their faces were right up against ours and they obviously had never had a toothbrush in their mouths for years, if ever, judging by the smell of their breath. Now, I saw why we had to be injected against all of those tropical diseases. It didn’t matter where you went; beggars, pimps and purveyors of the best Spanish fly in Egypt followed us.

After an hour of this manhandling, during which time we kept a firm grip on our wallets and passports, we eventually had had enough of Port Said and decided that everything we had been told about the place and the people was absolutely true. Again we had to struggle through the ranks of our aggressors to get back to the ship; there was no fear of missing the ship because we were back on board four hours before it was due to sail. On board, some Egyptian entertainers had been employed by the ship to put a show on for the passengers. There were belly dancers, acrobats and magicians and, in all fairness to them, they put on a good show. One of the magicians was one of the slickest performers that I had ever seen. His act was accompanied by him continually repeating the words gully, gully, gully while he performed. He asked me if I had a half crown coin and, having one, he asked me to tightly grasp it in the palm of my hand. I had that coin grasped so tightly that it almost hurt; he then rubbed his hands over mine with the magic Gully words and then asked me to open my hands. I thought Mr. Gully man, I have you this time; the coin is still in my hand. When I opened my hand fully, the coin had disappeared and there was a one inch steel washer in its place. To this day I will swear that that coin was tightly in my hand and it never moved. I had to admit that I didn’t grudge him the coin but I would sure like to know how he did me.

The ship cleared Port Said and nosed its way into the mouth of the Suez Canal in the late evening and headed south. It had a huge searchlight mounted right up on the bow to help it navigate through the Canal. We were the lead ship and as we traveled through the Canal it was quite a sight to see other ships following us with their searchlights slicing the darkness ahead of them. Having no idea about how the transit system worked or the layout of the Canal, I overheard some of the ship’s Officers talking about the northbound convoy and when we would meet up with it. As far as I could see, this Canal was not a two-lane highway, so how would this be possible? The Canal is roughly 106 miles long, but it connects with two lakes before it enters the Gulf of Suez. It is in the greater sized lake of the two that the southbound convoy anchors in order to let the northbound convoy pass through. The time spent at anchor is dependent upon the number of ships that are in transit and how long it takes for the last ship to clear the lake. As we were going to be there for some time, the ship lowered two lifeboats into the water and crews were made up from the ship’s crew and passengers. We were going to have a boat race. The three of us volunteered and were each given a position in one of the boats and told to man the oars. Those oars were the most cumbersome oars that I had ever handled and with much flapping and slapping in the water we eventually got moving and actually made some headway away from the ship’s side. The other boat did not fare any better but we eventually got lined up to await the start order. The course to be taken was twice around the ship and back to where we started. Those lifeboats sat very high in the water and the oars had a hard time dipping into the water but, under the supervision of the ship’s Second Officer, he soon had us pulling on the oars and we took off. We managed to keep the lead on the other boat and after what seemed like hours we crossed the finishing point and maneuvered the boat under the falls and secured it in preparation for lifting it back on board. We were invited to climb up a rope ladder to the boat deck if we felt that we could do it. Undeterred, I started to climb and was not prepared for it swinging around and nearly went into the water. There’s a lot to learn about being a seaman, and I was finding out the hard way!

After the last of the northbound ships had passed through, the ship once more headed toward the southern section of the canal. The scenery was drab with little or no landmarks other than one train that passed by belching black smoke with passengers squatting on top of the carriages oblivious to the black smoke.

Soon, we arrived off Suez and dropped off the Pilot. Now, we were back on track and picking up speed, the ship headed down toward the Red Sea. Passing into the Red Sea, one of the ship’s Officers (obviously a plant) asked one of the non-regular passengers if they had seen a chariot wheel floating past. The passenger was a young girl and due to the power of persuasion, elatedly shouts out that she had seen one. This announcement was responsible for some passengers rushing over to the side of the ship and, before long, they all had seen one. Meanwhile, the regulars went on sipping their sundowners and chuckling to themselves about the naivety of those who got hooked in. The topic at the dining table that night was on chariot wheels. It was kind of strange that, on looking to the port side, we were looking over at the mountains that were the birth place of today’s three main religions, namely those of the Jewish, the Christian and Mohammedan peoples. It was now hotter than I had ever experienced. Due to a tail wind, which must have equaled the speed of the ship, there was absolutely no air circulating around the ship.

The cabins were not air-conditioned and had only air scoops fitted in the port holes, only the luxury of a ceiling mounted little fan gave us a little respite from the overwhelming heat. It was nothing to find yourself awash in your own sweat when you awoke in the morning, that is, if you got any sleep at all. In order to combat the heat and to avoid dehydration, we were given a glass of lime juice and a salt tablet every morning at 10:00AM on the dot. Those salt tablets were the most horrible things to try and swallow and I honestly think that the regulars, as we now called the Sahibs and Memsahibs, took them as an excuse to increase their thirsts and drink more pink gins. I still stuck to the fruit squashes and was still warned of the consequences of getting my insides rusty. To add to my, now listless, condition, a Malay Police Officer who had been in England for specialized training, challenged me to a game of table tennis. I had played in the West of Scotland table tennis competitions and fancied myself as a pretty good player. After getting defeated in every game played, I now acknowledged to myself, that I didn’t’ even know how to hold a bat properly, he annihilated me!

The Malayan gentleman held his bat like a pendulum and performed miracles with it by making the tennis ball just clear the net, hit my side of the table and then bounce back over the net toward him. All this before I could even react to try and hit the ball. He showed me how to play his style of game and, with a little practice, I became fairly proficient but I never did beat him.

Aden, in the Yemen, was our next port of call and it turned out to be a very barren looking place. We tied up to buoys and before they had secured the lines properly, the ship was surrounded by bum-boats. These bumboats were loaded down with everything from cameras to the kitchen sink and their occupants threw weighted lines up to the passengers with baskets tied to them. When a passenger bought something after haggling over the asking price, the boatman would have to put the bought article in the basket and the passenger would haul it in before putting money in it. Bumboats were notorious for taking off with the passenger’s money and not delivering the goods.

The ship took on bunkers (another nautical term for the book) from a fuel oil tank set into the side of the mountains that formed a backdrop to Aden. The oil flowed by gravity through a pipeline to a connection on the lower deck and when the ship’s bunkers were filled, a two-way radio informed the ship’s Engineer who was stationed at the storage tank to close the valve and then take an ullage measurement of the remaining oil in the tank. This assured the Chief Engineer that he had received the correct amount of oil by subtracting the final level from the original level in the tank. Looking at the mountains behind the town I could now see why a Scottish Regiment stationed in Aden had composed a pipe tune called The Barren Rocks of Aden, they were drab looking with absolutely no greenery on them and so dry that they appeared ready to crumble into dust. An RAF airfield lay beyond the town, and, with a shudder, thanked my lucky stars that I was in Aden as a visitor and not as a semi-permanent resident in that RAF camp. It was with a certain amount of relief that we eventually left all of that drabness and stifling heat behind us as we steamed out of the port and into the Gulf of Aden. Next stop in a few days’ time would be Bombay.

Those next few days were to be a wakening call to me for we were now experiencing the dreaded mal-du-mer that has plagued sea travelers for centuries. We were now in the grip of the Monsoon that was sweeping across the Arabian Sea and it was going to be with us until we reached Bombay. Even the Sahibs and Memsahibs were noticeably absent form the decks and the dining room.

The ship, even as big as it was, was bouncing up and down through the waves and it rolled like a barrel. In the dining room, all of the tables had a hinged edge that was locked in the upright position to ensure the chinaware would not go flying off into space when the ship pitched or rolled. The Steward poured some water on to the tablecloth at each place setting to prevent anything from moving unexpectedly. I certainly was not a great sailor for I really felt awful; my other buddies felt the same way. The cabin Steward, a huge Cockney, gleefully would offer to get us greasy pork chops for lunch and other non-palatable fare: I could gladly have killed him! However, after a couple days of this beating, I felt well enough to start eating and getting around the ship. Now that I had found my sea legs, it was quite a sight to watch the ship steadily plowing through the heavy seas and the rainsqualls that made such a hissing noise when the raindrops hit the sea. On the third day out from Aden, we heard the ship’s telegraphs ringing and the ship started to slow down.

We wondered what on earth was happening. The ship swung round to the port side and there, about a mile off the ship was a lone yachtsman. When he came alongside, the ship’s hull sheltered him from the running seas. He was in need of some provisions and the ship’s Captain was answering his request. Apparently he was sailing solo around the world and had got beaten up a bit with the Monsoon weather, which had delayed his progress. As a result he had had to ration himself pretty severely, but was now running low on the main essentials of life. The ship transferred box after box of canned foods to him and filled all of his water tanks, plus they gave him a case of whisky for good measure. As he cast off from us, he gave us a hearty wave and headed on his way.

Chapter 3

India

On Sunday, July 2 1951, the CANTON berthed in Bombay at Ballard Pier, so this is India? Bombay from the pilotage looked very much like any other city; its skyline wasn’t too impressive and at six o’clock in the morning there seemed to be more life on board the ship than there was ashore. That all changed as we slowly crept into the pier, there were bodies all over the place racing here and there and none of them seemed to have any specific destination in mind. The air was filled with shouts and everyone appeared to be giving orders but, out of all this chaotic behavior, the docking procedure went pretty well. The Indian Customs and Immigration Officers were very resplendent in their uniforms and turbans and they had us ready to go ashore in no time. The BI sent one of their clerks to meet us and he had an army of porters with him to pick up our baggage. After having seated ourselves and ensured that our baggage was safely on board the company bus, we took off. When we got outside the pier area and onto the main streets, we suddenly found ourselves involved in an utterly suicidal jaunt.

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The Gateway of India

We passed by a very ornate archway along the way and our office wallah told us that it was the famous Gateway of India. Up to that point, I had never heard of it, but it seemed to be a great gathering place for the local inhabitants. I guess it was to Bombay what Times Square is to America or Piccadilly Circus is to London.

The streets were crammed with people, taxi cabs screaming along at breakneck speed, double decked busses with more people hanging outside the bus than there were inside it, horse drawn buggies (gharis as we were soon to call them) galloping along with drivers who were totally oblivious to all that was going on around them. As we passed along Frere Road, we couldn’t help but notice the abject poverty that people were experiencing at the side of the road. Their homes were cardboard boxes with plastic sheets draped over them to cope with the torrential rain that the Monsoon brought in. People were sleeping on window ledges and also on the pavements.

Since 1947 when India and Pakistan became sovereign countries in their own right, most of the people living in these terrible conditions were refugees from Pakistan. These were Hindus who had been driven out of their homes in what was now Pakistan, in similar dire straits were those Muslims who had been driven out of India and were living in equally squalid conditions in Karachi. All this in the name of religion! Babies were born and people died in these conditions and nobody seemed to care. We soon arrived at our destination. Our new home was to be the mv MTWARA for the next few days until our assigned ships came into Bombay. Unfortunately the ship was in dry dock undergoing repairs and engine modifications, all amenities were shut down and if we needed to wash or go to the restroom we had to go onto the dock side and try and time our visits between rain deluges. All of this was very inconvenient to say the least.

As it was Sunday, none of the ship’s Engineers were working so; we had a good chance to get to know them. Leisure time on board ship seemed centered around invading one cabin and having cases of beer brought in and plates of sandwiches kept appearing with regularity. Nobody seemed to pay for anything but everyone was signing white cards to give to the Steward who brought the drinks into the cabin. These were called Bar Chits. The BI ships, as did most British ships, had bars on board and each Officer had his own bar account. This account was settled at the end of each voyage. One wit explained the system to me and, apparently, the company gave each account a 10% discount, this he added was a great thing to get as the more he drank, the more he saved!

Each Sunday after lunch, everyone would look out their swimsuits and await the coming of the BI bus. This bus went round all of the BI ships that were in port and took everyone off to the Breach Candi European Club where there was a large swimming pool, a bar and restaurant. It was right beside the shoreline of the Indian Ocean and was a lovely laid out recreational place.

Indian servers made sure that everyone was well taken care of and plates of sandwiches and drinks seemed to be disappearing as fast as they were brought to our table, and still they kept on coming. Even this paradise had one noticeable drawback; there were large birds of prey everywhere. If you held a sandwich in your hand between bites and just happened to turn your head for an instant, the remains of the sandwich were snatched away from you in a flurry of feathers. These dive-bombers were affectionately called Bromley Kites.

I didn’t realize at the time that if these feathered marauders scratched you, you were likely to suffer a severe infection. Adjacent to the Club were (I think) a couple of large round towers approximately 80 to 100 feet tall and there were some of these hawks, Indian vultures and large crows atop the towers that were so bloated that they couldn’t fly. The Towers of Silence was where the Parsis ‘bury’ their dead by offering their ritually minced bodies to the vultures at a place in the heart of Bombay, a hilltop park refuge guarded and walled off in the heart of Malabar Hill. The atmosphere of this incongruous jungle surrounded by city is very holy and quiet (extremely spooky, lush, decaying, and overgrown). The Towers are really just circular concrete buildings with a platform around the inside edge of their squat top and a deep black well plunging into darkness in their center.

Curiosity got the better of me and I asked one of the lads why the birds were so fat and cumbersome. He replied that the damned birds were only doing the locals and the city a favor. He went on to say that the Parsis people laid out their dead on the top of the towers on large