Diary of a Tramp

By Franco Fenucci

Already an officer in the Italian Navy, Brikki decides to join the merchant navy. It is a hard life full of surprises, both good and bad. Storms, shipwrecks, amorous encounters and the Vietnam War, all contribute to form the future master mariner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528998994

Franco Fenucci

The author, now retired, lives in a minute village of the Northern Apennines. There he spends his time still dedicated to his lifetime projects.

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About the Author

The author, now retired, lives in a minute village of the Northern Apennines. There he spends his time still dedicated to his lifetime projects.

Copyright Information ©

Franco Fenucci (2021)

The right of Franco Fenucci to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528998987 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528998994 (ePub e-book)

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Part One

Enrolment Day

My merchant career began with a cable. ‘Join S/S The Centone. Enrolment due Genova April 13th 1954 0900 hours. Take seaman book, vaccination card and personal belongings. Port Authority’.

In March, I had completed my military service as a navy sub lieutenant and now I was looking forward to a fuller wallet. Why?

My family needed some help. Pop had never recovered from the delusion of being abandoned by his lifetime employer, wandered from one part-time job to another with an ever-decreasing salary and faith in life. Mum, whom we called Lenin for her strong character, ran the family like a dictator but didn’t earn a penny. As for the young ones, my sister had recently bought a coat with the money Pop had saved to buy a house for her dowry. Such had been the money devaluation during the war. And finally my brother, a student who kept himself busy with Latin and Greek to conform to the family tradition. We owned a house, land and woods in the Apennines but the revenue from that property was no longer sufficient to maintain a decent standard of living. The land’s steepness did not allow to mechanise any possible cultivation. So how could I not have sent some money home?

On April 13th I arrived in Genoa by an early train and walked to the Recruitment Office. It was a tiny structure perched under a road bridge. In Columbus’ town, and the major port of Italy, seamen were recruited under a bridge while passengers and merchants were received at the large and polished Stazione Marittima. The Office was squalid and the chap on duty looked in no better condition than his surroundings.

Good morning, I said, I’m joining the S/S The Centone. It’s my first experience with a merchant ship, so don’t be upset if I ask some unnecessary questions.

Seaman book.

I gave it to him and he started turning its pages.

So you are Brikki. I’m the one who sent you the telegram two days ago…because my boss said so. Are you a friend of his?

I’m not.

I didn’t tell him that I had met, not his boss, but the admiral in command of Port Authority when I was still in the navy. The admiral had promised to find me a deck hand job, it being excellent experience for a future captain.

A man walked in behind me without distracting the fellow on duty from my book.

Do you know, the fellow on duty told me then, that a seaman should attend the daily call until his turn comes? Seamen who are called to relieve the ones on board, or to form new crews, have to be present in Genoa as no one has the privilege to be called at home.

And if one isn’t called for a month?

Bad luck for him.

I’ve been waiting for almost two months, granted the fellow behind me and I had to change the subject.

Is The Centone a good ship at least?

Good ships for me are those with short names because I save writing time, said the chap on duty, and this made the newcomer join me at the counter and say,

She is quite good, looks like a wreck fished up from the sea. Rust all over.

You are joking. I commented.

Rust means overtime and more money in the pockets.

So you have seen her?

Haven’t you? She’s been laid up in Genoa for a year and I belong to the group waiting to join her. My name is Aldo.

Please to meet you Aldo. I’m Brikki.

Now Brikki, let the Maresciallo stamp our books and then we’ll talk.

So I learned that the man behind the deck was a fully-fledged Port Authority Petty officer and a strong one too judging by the way he stamped our books. After he finished Aldo asked me,

First time on a merchant ship?

Yes.

Guess when I sailed my first ship?

Before the war?

Come on, I’m not that old! It was 1919, just after the war. A fucking schooner…sails to brace without a capstan, four hours on - four hours off. Hard days my friend.

Are you the Bosun?

No, I’m a sailor. Mind you, I could be a Bosun any time, but I’m not the man to kiss his owner’s ass nor his captain’s. Where did you leave your luggage?

At the railway station. It was close by. And yours?

At the boarding house. Where else? No land lady will let you take your luggage away unless she sees the stamps on your seaman book. The bitches want to know where to get the money for the unpaid rent.

Ship owners paid the ladies on seaman’s request.

Are you married? I asked.

I send remittances home, if that is what you mean.

Aldo was an average man in his fifties with the lined face of a man of seventy, but he looked healthy enough. From the age of thirteen he had been at sea, either as fisherman or sailor, and a ship like The Centone was the height of his ambitions. They were large, steady in rough weather and rewarding because every hour of overtime was paid. Some young fellows still complained, but the very fact that a sailor could show the finger to a superior without risking dismissal was an undeniable achievement of his generation.

We passed the medical check-up still in the same area and then went back to Port Authority, this time to an office on the ground floor, for the most meaningful part of the enrolment: signing the contract.

There, all men joining on the 13th had to be present at the same time because agents, as Aldo put it, were men who could not afford to waste time as Port Authority did. As the appointment was eleven thirty and we were twenty minutes early, Aldo told me more about The Centone.

The ship was going to take a full load of steel from Odessa to Buenos Aires. The Bosun and a deck boy had worked on board daily throughout the layup year. Some men had joined the day before but most of the crew was joining ‘today’ because the ship was sailing ‘tomorrow’.

I was surprised about the friendliness of these people.

Hallo Aldo! A younger fellow greeted him. Long time no see.

Hallo Peppino. We finally made it, said Aldo and touching my shoulders, this young fellow is a friend of yours.

You must have been in the navy. So was I, and petty officer as well. Merchant sailors call us sods, but don’t you worry, the ones of us with brawn and brain get all the respect they deserve. Are you on the owner or general roster?

General, said Aldo for me, he’s deck boy number one. I was surprised because I had thought from the start to have been recruited as a sailor. Evidently, he had taken a peek at my seaman book when we met because I hadn’t mentioned yet my previous experience.

Good to hear. Peppino is on the owner roster, said another fellow who introduced himself.

I’m Angelo, general roster.

And I asked.

What is the difference between the two rosters?

Laughter followed and Angelo explained.

Sailors from the owner roster are recruited more frequently because they work more and spend less time ashore. Obviously, they earn more money. But you puzzle me Brikki. You come to sail as a deck boy and yet you have an educated look. Are you desperate or nuts?

Neither. I was only unaware of what I heard.

Another man arrived in the meantime and Angelo addressed him as well.

Hallo Zampugna, not on board again! Look at this sailor Brikki. He’s the fine example of endurance in the general roster. How old are you, Zampugna?

Fifty-eight. Morning everybody.

Zampugna looked like eighty. He was skinny and poorly dressed, but sported the smile that in Italy is common of people who have managed to pull the umpteenth trick on their fellow men.

Empty pockets, back on board. Right? Angelo went on.

Right. As far as whores say, I’m capable. I must earn the money for the odd screw.

And what wife says?

The bitch. She’s always asking for more than I earn, but she always gets only a penny more than other whores get because I’m a generous man.

I had only met deck people when the room, all of sudden became perfectly silent. A tall, and skinny man, absent-minded, came in without greeting anybody. He walked to one of two chairs set on opposite sides of two tables, the only ones in the room, and took out a bunch of papers from his brief case. He looked at us finally.

Don’t talk. Nobody had since his coming in.

I’ll call you one by one to sign a contract for an indefinite period of time. Those of you who are not familiar with it ask and I’ll explain it. Accardo, come.

Accardo moved to the table and signed, not a word being said on either side. Then he moved away.

Bonifacio. Same scene.

Then my turn came.

Brikki. I said, "It’s my