My First 80 Years

By George Brown

George Brown wanted to write about his interesting life for his family and friends. He loved writing and kept diaries of some of his adventures during his later life. In 1970 he helped his wife, Nan Brown, to write a book about their adventure living in South Georgia in the Antarctic for two and a half years in the mid-1950s. The book is entitled Antarctic Housewife.

George lived in some very diverse placesGlasgow, Edinburgh, was at sea in the British Merchant Navy sailing to Asia, Africa, and India during the war at thirteen years of age, Grytviken, South Georgia, Alice Springs in Central Australia, Queensland Sunshine Coast, and Adelaide. During his time spent in Alice Springs, he worked as the Director for the Royal Flying Doctor service for thirteen years from 1957 when Alice Springs was a very small town and the only communication for people in the outback was a two-way radio. He and his wife then started the first travel agency in Alice Springs and were able to travel to new destinations together for their business. George then began a two-way communication business in Alice Springs, selling radios, phones and equipment for communication in the outback of Australia.

This was called XLCom. He operated this for several years before retiring when he and Nan moved to the Sunshine Coast and lived between Alice Springs and Mooloolaba. His daughter Catriona ran the business for them. George was involved in the community in Alice Springs for years; he started the Alice Springs Pipe Band with friend Ron Ross. He also was a lifetime member and past president of Mbantua Rotary Club and was heavily involved in rotary community fund-raising events like the Henley on Todd for numerous years. George was a member of the Show Society and organized the annual Alice Springs show, which was the highlight for families in Central Australia. He became involved as a volunteer in the Alice Springs Pony Club when his daughters started riding at a young age. George was president of the show Jumping Club and became a show jump course builder.

They traveled to Edinburgh where he owned a flat to tour around Scotland, but sadly, his wife died in 1995 due to suicide. George was totally devastated that the love of his life could end her life so tragically. George then returned to Australia to build a large place in Alice Springs and live with his two daughters, Fiona and Catriona, and their families in a large shared house on a block out of town on the Todd River. He kept himself busy by gardening, building a cottage, traveling to places like Europe and South Georgia to learn more about places he had visited in his earlier life. He had developed a real interest in World War II and the British Merchant Navy. He caught up with friends from the various stages in his life and reacquainted himself with his family living in Australia and England. He was invited to South Georgia to help restore the church and the community of Grytviken for tourits to visit as South Georgia and the Antarctic were opening up for tourism. He spent several months back in the place he loved the most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524521431

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by George Brown.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017900133

ISBN:      Hardcover          978-1-5245-2139-4

                Softcover            978-1-5245-2138-7

                eBook                 978-1-5245-2143-1

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Rev. date: 01/05/2017

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Contents

You Never Know When Your Bad Luck Is Not Your Good Luck

Antarctic Home

To Sea On A Whale Catcher

Home Again

Section 3: Out Bush

Humour And Domestics

Pilots

More Humour

Most Bizarre

Tribal Warriors

A Close Call

A Speedy Departure

South Georgia Revisited

Author: George Brown

My Wonderful Father, George Brown

YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOUR BAD LUCK IS NOT YOUR GOOD LUCK

I thought my life had ended on 11 June 1952, at the age of 24, when my head was slowly crushed against a pier in the small Victorian town of Portland. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘What a way to go!’ Then I heard the bones in my face breaking in a series of snaps and cracks, slowly, one after the other, as the pressure increased. I had the fatuous thought, ‘Snap, crackle, pop; just like Kellogg’s!’ I thought of my mother’s grief and even of the inconvenience it would cause the ship’s master, as he could not sail without a radio officer. There was no pain, only a feeling of resignation, tinged with sadness to be leaving. That was the last I knew until I regained consciousness in the hospital.

At some stage during my period of unconsciousness, I must have been only a whisker away from death, experiencing the strange sensation of leaving my body. It seemed that I had divided in two: the thinking, intelligent part of me was floating about fifteen feet above the inanimate framework; the recognisable me, lying below, in a bed in a white room. The two parts were connected by an attenuating band, which I could see was thinning noticeably in the middle. I felt that I was going to move on soon—to something, or to somewhere, beyond my ken. The parting didn’t bother me in the least, no more so than throwing away an old suit, or other article of which I had grown tired, just a detached indifference to the situation.

This dreadful accident brought me two realisations that I firmly adhere to. Firstly, the worse the injury, the less the pain—at the time, that is. It can certainly hurt afterwards! Secondly, there is something after death—I know not what, but there is definitely something beyond this life. I don’t shrink from death (though there are a number of ways I would rather not die!). I believe we mortals should look upon it as life’s greatest adventure and not to be feared in any way.

Awake, I found myself lying flat on my back in a bed surrounded by white screens. Struggling onto my elbows, I raised myself sufficiently to try and look out between the narrow gaps. As I did so, one screen was pulled aside and a surgeon, in white cap, coverall, and white rubber boots—all liberally streaked and spattered with bloodstains—looked at me. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Christ,’ he said, and withdrew.

I had a glimmer of sight through one eye—the other not at all. I couldn’t breathe through my nose and couldn’t talk as my upper jaw was somewhere in my throat. Feeling about my head, I discovered sharp hard shards, like bottle tops in the back of my scalp. With a bit of manipulation, I extracted a piece and peered at it, a piece of seashell. The barnacles on the ship’s hull had been crushed into my skull.

I never learned how long I had been unconscious, but there was no evidence of me having received any treatment. The startled surgeon must have passed the word because I soon had nurses and doctors by me.

Unable to speak, I signalled for pencil and paper and wrote down my perceived injuries in the hope it would be of assistance, listing such symptoms as ‘Unable to breathe through nose, Difficulty breathing through mouth, Upper jaw appears to be in vicinity of larynx, Have a headache’. The doctors nodded sagely, but looked confused.

Overcome by curiosity, I requested a mirror. The nurse was reluctant but I insisted. What a sight! My head was as large as a good-sized pumpkin; coloured black, blue, and green; profiled like a dinner plate; and covered in congealed blood and dirt. It was grotesque!

My return to consciousness presented the medical staff with a dilemma, as I had obviously been expected to die. So sure were the doctors of the outcome that no X-rays had been taken and no effort made even to clean me up. That I had my faculties about me, seemed in good spirits, and obviously expecting something to be done for me seemed rather an embarrassment to them. Two more days elapsed before a decision was made to transfer me to the District Base Hospital in Hamilton, which had the facilities and specialists to cope with my injuries.

Whilst I awaited this decision and transfer, I was the focal point of interest in the ward and never a visitor’s session would pass without one or more curious person peeking around my screen. This became an enormous source of entertainment for me. I made a hole in the sheet to peer through, arranged myself on the pillows as if asleep, and lay in wait for my victim. The quarry’s approach seldom varied. Firstly, the quick darting glances in passing. Seeing nothing, they paused on the next pass—still nothing. Emboldened, they would sneak within the screen, thinking I was asleep, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the monster. Then I would pounce, rearing up and leaning forward, emitting the most frightful gurgling noises. The effect on the intruder varied between shamefaced confusion and electrifying shock!

The blank part of the fateful night was filled in by the nurses. My shipmates had pulled me out, arranged hospitalisation, and packed and put ashore my personal effects. Graham Warland, the fourth engineer, had come close to joining me in the hospital, having fallen through the wharf when returning to the ship. An incredible occurrence, he simply disappeared before our shipmates’ very eyes. He’d fallen through an area of rotten planking. Adept at retrieving bodies, his mates trundled him off to hospital, suffering multiple lacerations and abrasions from plummeting through the crumpled deck. Sutured and suitably patched up, he was declared fit enough to resume duty.

By contrast, Hamilton Base Hospital was efficiency plus. Within two days, I had been X-rayed, operated upon, and was back in bed, with my head encased in plaster, supporting an intricate construction of rods and screws. In the intervening time, the fractures had set and had to be re-broken. The surgeon asked if I had a detailed photograph to assist him in the reconstruction. I replied that I hadn’t, adding hopefully, ‘Think of John Wayne, will he do?’

Unbeknown to me, my mother had been notified of my circumstances and she too had been asked to provide any photograph to assist the surgeons. She was horrified!

After the operation, I spent weeks lying on my back, in traction to overcome a pronounced under bite, my teeth cemented into steel braces and both jaws wired tightly together. From a hook on the upper jaw, a wire ran over a ceiling pulley down to a block of weights. I know how a fish feels on the end of a line!

I reflected upon how I’d come to be there. I was the radio officer—a position commonly known as ‘Sparks’ on merchant ships—on the oil tanker MV Daronia. She was by far my best sea-going appointment to that time. I’d joined her sixteen months previously in Singapore, and for most of that time, our voyages were to Australian east coast ports, Brisbane, Sydney, Melbourne, Hobart, and occasionally, Townsville and Cairns. Though stays were brief—a couple of days at most— we looked forward to the prospect of shipboard parties and, failing that, the fine taste of the varied local beers and a good feed of steak, eggs, and chips, which was the predominant item on menus in those days. The officers comprised a happy, well-integrated group, British and Australian, whilst the deck, catering, and engine crewmen were Singaporean Chinese.

Our modus operandi as soon as the vessel tied up was for the two of us to head for the nearest available telephone and phone the nurses’ home of the local hospital. The ‘talent scouts’ were usually one of the Australian engineers and me. Initially my selection was because of availability, having no pressing duties once the ship arrived in port, but experience showed that a Scottish accent made more headway than many of the English varieties. We would alternate with our cajolery, just in case there was a preference for the home-grown product, giving each other character references and pouring on the charm, as much as is possible over the restricted medium of the telephone. Graham Warland from Melbourne and Roger Cunningham from Maryborough were as Australian as Vegemite and Sao biscuits, bursting with good humour and a ready repartee, they introduced a leavening of Australian idiom to enrich the mix.

This technique brought many more acceptances than refusals, particularly as our invitation was unrestricted in numbers or age. As long as the ladies were willing to come to an impromptu party, they were welcome. Acceptance set the entertainment wheels in motion, a monetary contribution ensured a fund for the provision of party snacks—some bought ashore, others per favour of the ship’s catering staff—and mixers for the drinks.

The smoking room was beautified with white tablecloths, polished glasses, and silverware; the record player checked and records sorted for soft music and, hopefully, dancing. The open deck on either side was cleared of any moveable obstruction to provide dance floors, and a secluded retreat or two created on the boat deck, where developing friendship could be further fostered.

At the appointed time, all the officers congregated about the smoking room, perhaps having a quick courage-booster from the Bols Gin bottle, in readiness to assist the ladies ascending the gangway and to welcome them aboard. If the men were wearing tropical dress, they were sure to receive approval, thanks to crisp starched white uniforms per courtesy of the Chinese stewards. Additionally they were all unusually tall, between 5'11 and 6'4; I at 5'6", the only exception. I had to hope there was a girl with a fear of heights!

These social occasions were always a great success, with the fellows on their best behaviour and out to impress. Conducted tours of the ship presented opportunities and excuses for a little ‘hands-on’ when negotiating steep ladders in bridge and engine room areas! In concluding a tour, he might nonchalantly say, ‘The only part you have not yet seen is the accommodation’, or better still, she might ask, ‘And where do you actually sleep?’ More often than not, such ship parties led to stronger relationships for dinners and shows while the ship was in port, and laid the foundation for repeat parties on future visits.

One day our sailing orders contained a new destination of which no one had any first-hand knowledge—Portland, in Victoria—where we were to discharge the remainder of cargo subsequent to off-loading the bulk in Melbourne. As our arrival was late in the day and departure scheduled for next morning, we did not follow our usual practice of contacting the nurses. As fate would have it, I was the only one to meet the nurses and enjoy their company and care!

Portland did not represent the ideal port, lacking any dock facility or even a breakwater to protect the wharf area from the effects of the sea. Though tied to the wharf, the vessel showed a distinct lateral movement alternately pushing up against the fenders then drifting out four or five feet, influenced by the outside swell penetrating the harbour. The vertical gangway had been rigged, paralleling the ship’s hull and terminating on a small platform at a sufficient height to clear the wharf as the vessel moved. A safety net had been slung underneath.

A number of us were keen to get ashore and soon found ourselves bunched up, impatiently waiting for the gap to narrow sufficiently. At the head of the queue, I judged the time right and jumped, landing on a baulk of timber placed just behind the raised edge of the wharf. The impact of my landing caused the timber to rock or roll forward slightly, throwing me off balance in a backward motion. There was nothing to step back onto and I went straight into the net thinking, ‘How stupid, to have a wobbly piece of timber as a step.’ Trying to take stock of my predicament, I firstly couldn’t see anything, it appeared I was in darkness; the darkness, I soon realised, was a wide creosoted pier virtually against my face. Being bundled up in the net, I had no idea how I was lying or which way was up. Then, to my horror, I felt the great pressure behind me forcing my face against the pier.

The traction technique was effective, the upper jaw being pulled forward, ever so gradually, the degree becoming apparent in the slackening of the wired teeth, which were immediately tightly re-wired. Eventually the desired aim was achieved as the upper and lower teeth coming together with a near normal bite and further improved with a little surface reduction of the molars.

The two irksome parts of the whole treatment were the incessant itching of my scalp under the plaster helmet, aggravated by the growth of hair, and the necessity to continue feeding through a straw. The absence of four front upper teeth facilitated the use of larger diameter straws enabling me to suck up spaghetti, scrambled eggs, and soups. Other than temporary relief, I had no cure for the itching, despite an arsenal of instruments begged and borrowed from the surgical ward and kitchens.

My treatment was beyond reproach, the specialist surgeon and dentist couldn’t have been more attentive and caring, going to extremes to ensure every stage of the recovery was properly conducted. From quite early in the program, I was permitted to disengage my ‘fishing line’ for short periods to exercise around the wards and grounds. Later the traction was augmented with, and finally replaced by, a tension adjustable apparatus built on to my plaster helmet, which placed my upper jaw under constant pressure. I resembled a smaller perambulating version of a radio telescope capable of receiving signals from outer space!

My social life expanded, the doctors encouraging me to go out, presumably believing I was in danger of developing some sort of reclusive complex. I knew there was no such risk but seized the opportunity to lead a marvellous existence, aided and abetted by my many nurse friends. Bush dances, balls, booze-ups, parties, race meetings, whatever the occasion, I was to be found in its midst, despite the cumbersome framework!

I was befriended by Mr Bill Henty of Portland, the patriarch of the famous pioneering family, accepted as the founding fathers of that part of the state of Victoria. Bill had many interests, including real estate, and as his sons were farmers in the district, he had multiple reasons for travelling far and wide. Often he invited me along, and through his friendship, I met many wonderful folk on their properties, getting a feel for the country, its people, and their ways, experiences that seldom come the way of seafarers.

The Hamilton hospital was my home for over three months and the staff was like family. As I was fully mobile for most of my stay, I took pleasure in lending a hand wherever I saw a need, becoming a roving assistant to nursing, as well as domestic staff. I was free to roam the hospital at will, making the acquaintance of patients in all wards. I can raise little sympathy for people who indulge in self-pity, so whenever I came across such a person, I endeavoured to introduce them to someone infinitely worse off, but of cheerful disposition. If that failed, I made a point of visiting them daily and telling them how dreadful they were looking and should they not be thinking of finalising their affairs. I came across a kindred spirit and between us we formed the Department of Humourology, dedicated to raising the laughter level in all wards. As a team we clowned for the patients’ benefit, devising some elaborate spoofs, involving borrowed uniforms and medical equipment to achieve our aim of A Laugh a Ward a Day.

Though it was obvious to me I had recovered fully and should be moving on, the hospital management appeared in no hurry to discharge me, persuading me to stay on over a long holiday weekend. This was followed by the offer of a position on the hospital staff. I was really touched by this gesture and seriously considered accepting. I had forged many close friendships in the community and felt I really could carve out a future ashore. However, one disquieting aspect was a lady, a few years older than I, whose interest in me caused me some concern, bordering on alarm. I wasn’t ready for any commitment, so I elected to resume my seafaring career. For someone used to goodbyes and partings, I could barely cope when I bade them all farewell.

Man proposes, God disposes.

Who could have guessed that through this unfortunate and terrible accident I would, within four months, meet the girl who would become my wife (and on the high seas at that!) and who would become my lifelong partner, to make a home for us in Antarctica and Central Australia, and would bear me two wonderful daughters?

Late in September 1952, in Brisbane, I joined the MV Afric, a medium-sized general cargo vessel with four hatches, two forward and two aft of the centre housing which contained lounges, saloons, officers’ accommodation, and cabins for twelve passengers. She was attached to the South African division of the Shaw Savill Line, with Durban considered her home port. Deck and engine room ratings were Zulus, the catering staff Indians of South African origin, and a number of the engineer officers were South African whites. Deck officers, cadets, and the senior engineer officers were British. She plied between Australia and the East Coast of Africa, Australian ports being Brisbane, Sydney, and Melbourne with an occasional diversion into Bunbury, Albany, or Fremantle. On the other side, Capetown, Durban, Port Elizabeth, East London, Lourenco Marques, Beira, Dar-es-Salaam, and Mombassa, the round trip taking approximately three months.

With cargo being handled in bales, barrels, crates, and boxes, it entailed days in port loading and unloading, together with periods of idleness in anchorages awaiting a berth. In all about a third of the time was spent in port, which played havoc with my shipboard finances. Having been used to tankers which were only in port two or three days a month, I had great difficulty balancing the budget on the Afric. I was employed by a radio company which leased out the equipment and the radio officer to shipping companies; the standard arrangement allowed the radio officer to draw up to eight pounds a month through the ship’s account, i.e., about 15% of his monthly salary. Consequently I periodically bled my UK bank account.

Though the passenger accommodation was filled each voyage, there was nothing luxurious about life on board, the passengers faring little better than the crew. Too small to have a swimming pool, the passenger amenities were restricted to deck games and a meagre library. They couldn’t even look forward to the meals, which were fairly basic and bland; the cook’s idea of a sauce being a red oily liquid that accompanied fish, flesh, and fowl alike. One thing they did receive was the atmosphere of a working cargo vessel and those true devotees of sea travel, who revelled in the feel of a lively ship and the taste of salt spray could be assured of their money’s worth on the Afric in anything over a fresh breeze.

My second voyage got off to a bad start, the deck gang having wrecked the main wireless transmitting antenna during cargo loading. I had to wait until the derricks were stowed before I could set to and make a new one. It took me the bulk of the afternoon and I only finished when the pilot was being dropped off out in Port Phillip Bay. I was in ill humour, having missed out on the regular attraction of watching the passengers embarking, when we entertained each other in trying to guess their professions, where they were going, etc., letting our imaginations run wild. Single ladies drew particular speculation, as likely victims of the two notorious predators, the captain and the chief engineer. With whom would they finish up? Additionally I was in fragile health, having spent the previous evening roistering around Melbourne with Graham Warland, who happened to be home on leave.

I was scheduled to take my first watch as the ship cleared port, with barely time to get cleaned up, change, and hurry down to dinner. I had to eat quickly with no time to linger over the meal, but obviously I had missed out on something really special as the conversation revolved around two attractive sisters, estimated to be in their early twenties and travelling to Durban. The lads vied with each other, in noisily laying claim to the girls, some claiming privilege by rank, others convinced their charm or overt masculinity would give them the upper hand. As I hurriedly left, carrying my cup of coffee, I heard Red, the South African sixth engineer who liked to use Australian idiom, say, ‘They are the best-looking Sheilas I’ve seen, you blokes can have the blonde, but that little black-haired one is mine!’

Deck games comprised quoits, deck tennis, and croquet and it was customary for officers to participate in the tournament arranged for the passengers’ benefit. Indeed, for some, it was mandatory—cadets and junior deck officers would abstain at their peril lest it result in an unsatisfactory comment in their voyage report—engineers were under less pressure, but the chief liked to see his department represented in the competitions. Overall, the officers’ attitude to this duty could be described as unenthusiastic, but a preferred option to many that their superior could proscribe in its stead.

On the first morning of the voyage after finishing my early morning shift, I ambled up to the sports deck and was astonished at the crowd I found there, brimming with enthusiasm and excitement, all clustered around the notice board and bobbing up and down as they tried to read the draw for games and partners. Other than those on watch, every officer was there, dressed and polished to perfection and behaving in a quite artificial manner. Then I remembered—of course, the girls—but there was no sign of them, I could only presume they were somewhere in the middle of the crush.

Then I heard a girl’s voice, ‘Who is George Brown?’

‘He’s the Sparks, he’s a Scotsman,’ replied one of my colleagues.

‘It doesn’t sound like a Scot’s name to me,’ said the voice again, accompanied by a merry laugh.

‘He’s just arrived,’ said Red, ‘That’s him over there.’

As I stepped forward, the crowd parted and I was about to speak when I saw the black-haired girl and was immediately struck a shattering blow; Cupid having changed his pathetic little bow and arrow for a high-powered crossbow and steel bolt! I could only stand and stare. To me she was the most beautiful, vivacious, and delightfully natural girl I had ever met.

I don’t know how long I stood there, mute and stunned, but she broke the spell by coming to me and extending her hand.

‘I am Nan Stirling. You and I are partners in the deck tennis tournament.’

Taking her hand, which boiled further emotions within me, I formed the reply, ‘I think you are the most wonderful and adorable girl. We will not only be partners in the deck tennis, we will be partners this year, next year, and forevermore.’

Unfortunately it didn’t come out; instead I gave a fair imitation of a slack-jawed loon, stumbling and muttering inanities, inwardly berating myself for being so stupid and inarticulate.

‘Please, God, help me, let me say something witty or amusing to bring out that delightful laugh again.’ But he wasn’t listening.

If my clumsiness and inner turmoil was apparent to her, Nan was too kind to comment and suggested I teach her the finer points of the various games. This was solid ground at last and something in which I did have some aptitude, so I organised a game with a couple of the lads. I tried, in vain, to get my brain functioning sufficiently to match my friends’ wit and jokes, which had my partner in a constant bubble of amusement. Then, to cap it all, I had to vacate the field to do another two-hour watch, giving them both the complete advantage.

The radio room was on the sports deck, so I could hear the fun and hilarity through the open porthole. I controlled the urge to look out; instead, during my idle moments, I relived the previous two hours, the two most important hours of my life and re-ran the conversation. All the clever, witty words I wished I had said now sprang to the fore to torment me further. As soon as my stint was finished, I headed straight out to find her once more. The two-hour break served to get me back to normal again but in no way did it diminish the feelings that had engulfed me for this wonderful girl.

My dilemma was how did she feel about me? I looked for some sign during the ensuing days as we won round after round of the tournament before going down in the final. Nan seemed to enjoy my company as a much as I enjoyed hers, but try as I could, I wasn’t able to persuade myself that I meant any more to her than Don, Red, or any of the others. Many of my off-duty hours were spent in the company of Nan and her sister Pat, either playing games or just talking, but always with an attendant group of fellow officers. With about twelve young men of comparable age, the girls never lacked company. They only had to appear on deck and the lads gathered round like bees to nectar.

The girls were off on what was intended to be a prolonged overseas working holiday, commencing in Johannesburg where Nan, a secretary, and Pat, an accounting machine operator, had secured positions with National Cash Register Company. They planned to continue on to London at a future date.

One day Nan discovered the radio room and called a greeting to me through the porthole. This was our first ‘alone’ meeting; though far from an ideal trysting place, it was better than nothing. At five feet two inches, her eyes were barely level with the bottom of the porthole when she was tippy-toed, but at least I was able to look out. I told her how lonely it was to be shut up in a radio room being driven mad by Morse code and how wonderful it would be if she would come and talk to me occasionally. As a stimulus, I lent her some books.

In the ensuing days, many a watch was brightened with a porthole tête-à-tête and then one day she returned one of the books and asked me a most startling question.

‘What does houghmagandie mean?’

I was nonplussed and sought how best to phrase the answer. I knew the answer and also where she had found the word—in a novel with a Scottish historical theme.

Finally, after much brain racking, I said, ‘Houghmagandie is an old Scottish word for fornication’, and immediately wondered what such a statement would have upon her. To my astonishment, there was no reaction, I might as well have told her it was ‘Half past two.’

This girl really is full of surprises, I mused, wondering where the conversation would lead to next.

‘Is that so,’ Nan said next, mulling it over further. ‘And what is fornication?’

This conversation can’t be for real, I decided. I’m surely having my leg pulled by an expert. I searched her face looking for a twinkle in her eye or a twitch of her mouth, but no, the look attested to the honesty of the question and her puzzlement at my lack of reply.

Well, here goes, I thought, the end to a blossoming friendship.

‘Fornication is the term applied to sexual intercourse outside of wedlock.’ Her cheeks flushed immediately. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to answer your question,’ I added somewhat lamely.

‘I really didn’t know,’ Nan said, looking very embarrassed.

‘Don’t think about it,’ I replied. ‘It shall be our secret. It’s after four o’clock so let’s organise a game of tennis.’ I felt so protective I wish I’d had a wing to tuck her under!

The feeling was so intense that I deemed it necessary to protect this wonderfully innocent girl from people even like me. From there on I commandeered her into a pseudo brother/sister relationship, spending as much time as possible in her company, still playing games with the passengers and officers, but developing a closer rapport. My ardour grew by the day and I began to sense that Nan preferred my company to that of the others, but I couldn’t be sure, perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part.

One evening after dinner I invited her for a walk, such as the confines of the ship would allow. To obtain privacy I took her aft, past the hatches and the after-end accommodation which housed the Zulu deck and engine ratings and the Indian stewards. At the taff-rail, we absorbed the wonder of the night, sharing a beautiful intimacy in a most romantic setting. The moon and stars were shining brightly in a cloudless sky above the sleeping ocean, the moonlight reflecting from the creaming wake which stretched behind to the limit of our vision, like a marine highway taking us to our destination, and eventual parting. The edges of the broken water tinged with the delicate lights of blue green phosphorescence glowed eerily and the whole wonderful panorama swayed gently from side to side as the vessel rolled to the slight wave movement, occasionally throwing us off balance, just as if Mother Nature was saying, ‘Get on with it, what more do I have to do for you?’

Nature had created this night for romance, supplying every necessary ingredient and weaving a magic spell over the scene, a spell I was too afraid to break. I soaked up every minute of this spiritual union, the silences, the periods of quiet conversation as we probed to learn more about each other than had been revealed during the earlier days of sport and noisy group activities, but most of all, a soothing balm of contentment, the like of which I had never before experienced.

I wanted to hold, caress, and kiss and let my passions run free, but the belief that it might be too soon, and might fracture our relationship, held me back. The moon and stars shifted across the sky as the hours passed but we were unmindful of time; our blissful state unaffected by the muted tones of the ship’s bell, drifting back to us from the bridge as the watches were changed. Finally the chill of the night air broke our tryst and we reluctantly returned to the midships accommodation, now darkened and silent.

In the few days remaining before arrival in Durban, I spent many wakeful hours soul-searching, examining my feelings and generally trying to come to grips with my perplexing situation. Were my feelings for this girl different to others in the past? I resurrected former girlfriends, from the Wren in Cowes prior to D-day who allowed me liberties and thought me older than my 16 years, and with who I was head over heels in love—until she dumped me for a Free Frenchman—to those most recently acquired on the Afric’s previous voyage.

The bulk of them shared a common fate, their attraction gradually waning until disappearing altogether after a spell at sea. Experience showed that a month of good clean sea air cured even the worst ‘attacks’ of love. One or two lasted longer but I always sheared off at the first hint of wedding bells. Now, here I was, ensnared to a far greater degree than ever before, to the extent that I was bringing family and finances into the equation.

My family in the UK was expecting me home, I having been away over two years; the sea had been my life for just on ten years, a life which suited me admirably and I only had a hazy idea of my financial situation. Marriage had never figured in my scheme of things, though on occasions when the subject arose in shipboard discussions, I always affirmed that one should have a stake of about a year’s salary in the bank, and I doubted if I was even halfway there. Fate had taken a queer twist, the trusted cure had now become the major factor in inflicting the worst ever attack of the malady!

My dilemma persisted until the ship was moored at the wharf, I had been engrossed in end of voyage reports and returns, but broke off to come on deck for a breather, just in time to see that Nan and Pat had disembarked and were in the process of having their luggage loaded into a taxi. She was leaving without saying goodbye! Shock! Horror! Throwing caution to the winds, I was down the gangway in seconds, earnestly asking that she meet with me before departing for Johannesburg.

To my relief, they had planned to remain in Durban for a few days, though had not yet made a hotel booking. We arranged to meet next day at the beach in a group with Pat and some off-duty shipmates.

A fun day of swimming, splashing, and laughter was capped off by dinner at the home of Bill King, the South African fourth engineer, whose mother invited Nan, Pat, and me as guests of honour to a formal dinner served by African domestic staff. During the course of the meal, a bat entered through the open doors and flew about the room, confused and disoriented, colliding with objects and swooping low over the table, creating alarm and minor panic among many of those present. Nan was quite untroubled by it, which impressed me enormously.

I was in my usual financial predicament, the three-week voyage having done little to build up my credit in the ship’s account, through being overdrawn at the time of leaving Melbourne. I wheedled four pounds from the captain, which left me with three pounds in my pocket after paying my mess bill. With two days to go, it fell a long way short of enough to make an impact upon the girl who had come into my life so unexpectedly and transformed me. Flowers and candle-lit dinners were out; I had to settle for a night at the cinema, meeting after dinner of course, with a moment of panic when Nan asked if I would invite Pat along also, as she didn’t like to leave her alone so early in their travels. Chocolates and supper reduced my fortune but not my feeling of blissful happiness, as I trudged back to the docks after taking the girls back to the Mayfair Hotel.

The following evening was our final one together, the girls having to depart early next morning by train to Johannesburg. The evening was spent dancing in the Mayfair, followed by a walk in the park, our first time alone since the evening spent at the stern of the Afric. On this occasion Mother Nature gave us a second-class setting—a wet park bench, under a tree, on a dismal rainy night. There, soaked and bedraggled, we declared our love for each other and avowed that only death would part us. We planned a formal engagement when the Afric returned to Durban on the following voyage.

It was a whirlwind shipboard romance, taking only twenty-one days for the seed to grow into the full-bloomed flower.

Upon arrival in Mombassa, I received a letter from Nan telling me that her mother was seriously ill and the girls were returning home. A study of shipping schedules showed that Nan could leave South Africa on the Corinthic, arriving Fremantle about the first of May. The Afric’s schedule, if it went to plan, would see us in Melbourne about the middle of April. So much for our planned reunion and engagement in Durban!

When in Melbourne, I went off to meet Nan’s parents and younger brother, feeling somewhat anxious I must say, having annexed their younger daughter without so much as a by-your-leave. The gang knew my mission and a few scurrilous remarks were thrown as I left the ship. ‘Be sure to tell Nan’s father that you have good prospects, Sparks, and that you earn eight pounds a month… He’ll be impressed!’

My fears were unfounded as I was warmly welcomed and generously dined, her brother James delighting in producing album after album and presenting me with a veritable avalanche of ‘Nan’ photographs, from toddler through teens to the current model. As Jim Stirling was a professional photographer and film producer, there was no dearth of material. Nan’s home was clearly one of love and affection and I related readily to my future in-laws.

Afric and Corinthic passed in the Southern Ocean a couple of hundred miles apart, but quite contactable by wireless telegraphy. I asked my opposite number on Corinthic to arrange a Morse code rendezvous with Nan in his radio room. We had a great old chat with the radio officer acting as intermediary. He was a very obliging fellow and didn’t mind at all as we exchanged messages for about fifteen minutes. It turned out to be a rather public conversation as upon its conclusion and exchange of final farewells the radio officers of two other ships somewhere in the Southern Ocean joined in with their best wishes for our future! It would have been an interesting little interlude in their watch!

When homeward-bound, and halfway across the Indian Ocean, I received orders for the captain to make Melbourne the first port of call. This was exceptional and most welcome news, implying a sequence of Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Sydney, and again Melbourne—a distinct bonus for me after a five-month-long separation since our farewell in the rain-sodden park in Durban. Nearing Melbourne, I had the worst ever attack of ‘channel fever’, an affliction of a mix of excitement and apprehension that besets seafarers when approaching a home port. The term originated in the days of sail, when the windjammers neared the English Channel after a four-month-long voyage round Cape Horn, bringing grain cargoes from Australia. The excitement was getting back to their wives and loved ones; the apprehension, were they still there waiting?

I need not have feared, Nan was on the wharf to meet me, to the delight of all. In the four-day stay, we bought the engagement ring, sapphire and diamonds, and had a riotous party on board to celebrate. Mandatory occasions were promotions, birthdays (officers and their kin), births, engagements, and weddings. Ours was the first engagement, and a special one at that having been founded on board. The chief engineer appointed himself as official photographer, going through a couple of rolls of film before reaching a state of incapacity. A few days later, he developed them to find completely blank film. There was not a photograph of that memorable event!

The Afric was a bit of a love boat in effect as both the third engineer, Curly, and the second mate, Don, subsequently became engaged, the former to his girl in New Zealand and the latter to a Melbourne girl. In all Melbourne girls accounted for three of the crew as Ernie, the fourth engineer, also married in Melbourne. Cupid did not overlook the passengers either, as on the previous voyage to Mombassa, we carried a bride-to-be of 63 years, on her way to her second—or it may have been her third—marriage. She was a very sprightly and active lady with an up-market wardrobe and a fine taste in underwear, which we were privileged to admire when pegged to a line in a sheltered area outside her cabin. Cupid went awry, however, with the ardent farmer from Nairobi who took passage out of Mombassa en route to New Zealand, holding a return passage for his wife and himself. When the newly married couple returned with us, the new wife spent as much time in other cabins and beds as she did in her husband’s!

Three days later, we were off again, ahead of schedule due to cargo complications; it turned out that Melbourne office should not have altered our voyage pattern. Still we benefited from the error. Nan commenced arrangements for the wedding in Melbourne next time round—early November—and I wrote to my employers requesting to be relieved at that time. I also wrote to Shaw Savill seeking a two berth cabin on which ever of their passenger vessels was departing for London closest after the expected wedding date. Hopefully we would only have to pay Nan’s fare, but there was no surety about this. In the normal course, a shipping company would repatriate crew as supernumeraries, not as passengers. As I wasn’t even their employee, I was drawing a long bow indeed.

The first night at sea, I lined up after the late watch for tea with the third mate when the captain intervened, bearing his thermos flask. Sympathising with me for the abrupt termination to my resumed romance, he talked me into having a cup of his midnight broth instead of tea, telling me that I must build myself up for the forthcoming nuptials. He was quite right, as I was all of fourteen pounds underweight for my height and had never been otherwise while at sea.

My two resolutions for the last voyage were to put on weight and to withdraw from amorous pursuits. Both were equally difficult. I was put to the test on the latter when in Brisbane at a party which started off in the chief engineer’s cabin, progressed to others, and finally finished up in mine. The numbers dwindled as couples broke away responding to other demands, until there were six, then four, and finally two. The girl clearly expected me to make a move on her, but I played innocent and held back. She then took over, firstly by lounging about on the settee, then putting her feet up saying, ‘It would be nice to have my feet massaged.’ Woodenly I replied, ‘I don’t know anything about massaging’, inwardly marvelling at my stoic restraint. A few minutes of silence, as she wriggled about trying to get more comfortable and showing more of her thigh, then, ‘I’m fortunate in being with a gentleman, you know, you could shut that door and I would be quite powerless—if you weren’t a gentleman.’

‘I could never take advantage of a lady like that,’ I replied self-righteously.

By this time she was looking at me in sheer disgust, with her mouth curling in disdain. Finally she sat up, tidied her clothing, and said, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you like me?’

When I told her I was marrying soon, she was slightly mollified, but still thought I was distinctly odd!

My aim of increasing weight received a shot in the arm when the senior cook signed off in Durban to be replaced by his assistant, and a former second cook, a very good baker, joined as his assistant. Elimination of the red oily sauce improved the food overall, and with a supplement of good bread, I began to put on some weight. I nearly brought about an attack of apoplexy in the chief steward, when he bustled into the saloon making an announcement; seeing me tucking into equal thicknesses of toast and butter, he stopped and stared as his voice trailed away. Finally, with a disbelieving shake of his head, he said, ‘I’d rather keep you for a week than a fortnight!’

Mr Bean, alias Beanie, was the calibre of steward any ship-owner would wish for. Frugal in every way possible, always reducing costs, dispensing with quality in favour of price and utilising everything long after its use-by date. That which became stale and rancid was doctored to make it halfway palatable and meals maintained a monotonous similarity voyage after voyage. Like all professional ship’s stewards, he had a hide like a rhinoceros, rending any scathing comments quite futile.

On the run home, I received a most welcome and long-awaited message from the shipping company to say that Radio Officer Archer, a supernumerary on the SS Largs Bay, was en route to Melbourne to relieve me and that a two-bed cabin was booked to London for Nan and me. This was a magnanimous gesture on Shaw Savill’s part as we only had to pay one fare.

I paid off in Melbourne at the end of October, the wedding day having been set for the third of November with the Largs Bay sailing for London on the fifth. The customary party was memorable, being a combination of the standard farewell and the first recorded marriage party. I’d bought the wedding ring in Durban, and Graham Warland was available to be my best man.

The Afric had moved on and my friends at the wedding were Graham’s mother and immediate family. I was sorry none of my family could attend, but I had the consolation of my wife and my mother coming together in the very near future. I had never taken a girl home to my mother, having always believed that when I did, she would be the girl I would marry. Between first meeting and marriage, we had spent forty days (and no nights!) together, over a period of ten months, and Nan was prepared to leave her close family and go to the other side of the world and into an unknown future.

We were married in the Davies Memorial Presbyterian Church, Mentone, Victoria, on 3 November 1953 by the Rev. A. C. Karmouche.

The honeymoon commenced on the fourth, when we embarked on the Largs Bay, not the third. There seemed little point in going anywhere, or disrupting the domestic arrangements for one night; after such a sporadic courtship, what was another night’s separation, even a wedding night? I spent the night in solitary, in the family caravan. After all I had spent nights in weirder places and I certainly didn’t want my wife to let it be known, on some future occasion, that she had spent her wedding night in a caravan!

It was the final voyage for the Largs Bay; she was bound for the breaker’s yard after spending most of her peace time sailing on the Australian route. This warranted a bigger-than-usual farewell, the wharf packed with well-wishers and a mass of coloured ribbons connecting those on board with family and friends. Despite the gaiety, cheery music, and humorous exchanges between the divided groups, there is always an underlying sadness on these occasions, a sorrow that becomes almost tangible as the gap between ship and shore widens and the streamers and ribbons begin to break.

I often wonder how many travellers would succumb and rush ashore if the gangway was to be reconnected at this point.

I felt Nan’s hand grip mine tighter as her fistful of streamers broke the link with her family, relatives, and friends. We stood close together and waved until our arms were tired and individual faces on shore could no longer be recognised. Then we took stock of our new situation.

A door had shut, another had opened; relatives and friends were no longer a daily force impinging upon our lives, expressing opinions and influencing our decisions. Whether this was for the better or the worse, we would find out. We were no longer individuals but had become a team with each having someone else to care about and consider as never before. We had five weeks of carefree co-existence ahead; nothing to think about other than extracting the maximum pleasure and intimacy to make up for the previous months of separation and celibacy. We made no friends of our own age, finding all the companionship we needed in each other. We were the ultimate honeymooners! I cannot recall any of our fellow passengers, other than a group of children who were the only ones, apart from Nan and I, to use the ship’s small swimming pool.

The vessel made a brief call into Fremantle to pick up passengers, enabling us to spend a few hours with Brother Harry, his wife Mavis, and their children.

The crossing of the equator a few days after departing Fremantle was celebrated in the traditional manner. Nan and other novices were initiated into Neptune’s realm by a group of polished performers, who had repeated the performance twice every voyage—for more years than they’d care to remember.

In Colombo the vessel moored in the harbour with passengers being ferried ashore. We spent the day in the Galle Face Hotel, enjoying the splendid swimming pool, so reminiscent of Roman baths, and tucked into a sumptuous afternoon tea served in the tropical lounge. On our walk back to the harbour, we encountered an elderly snake charmer who insisted upon displaying his skill, making a swaying cobra rise from the basket in response to the shrill notes blown on his bulbous flute. He had a basket of assorted snakes, which he handled most casually, and a rather mangy mongoose which appeared to suffering from a skin disorder. For a fee he would pit the mongoose against a snake, we could even choose the snake. No, we could not nominate the cobra! As there were no other spectators to contribute to the stipulated fee, we declined, being unable to finance a command performance.

The voyage continued to Aden and Suez, ports that had long since ceased to interest me. As they were new to Nan, I found unexpected pleasure in both centres again in showing her around and observing her delight and interest in everything. She, on her part, thought me no end of a worldly fellow as I tossed off the sort of Arabic phrases that every seafarer picks up, to trade insults with the hawkers, touts, and other pests who descend upon passengers venturing ashore.

In Port Said the Gully-Gully men were permitted to come aboard, as is the case on most passenger ships. These are very entertaining conjurors whose main prop is day-old live chicks, which they appear to produce from the most unbelievable places, including eyes, ears, and noses from the spectators. Each Gully-Gully man must have scores of chicks hidden within his robes. Despite their finger skills, they are not known for dishonesty, which is more than can be said for other vendors who try to come on board. The most blatant thief in my experience was one who sat in a second mate’s cabin exhibiting leather craft. The officer was very conscious of the thieving abilities of these salesmen and was most relieved when he’d completed his purchase and dismissed the fellow. Later he discovered a pair of shoes had disappeared and been replaced by a pair of well-worn, very smelly sandals.

A call into Malta was a new experience for both, my previous visit having been too short. On this occasion it coincided with a major religious celebration. The predominantly Catholic population was out in force, dressed in their best, and the day commenced with processions and open-air church services and progressed into merrymaking, dancing, and drinking before culminating in a spectacular fireworks display set against the backdrop of the ancient fortress at Valetta and the Grand Harbour.

We spent hours exploring the maze-like passages and stairways in the densely built-up residential areas, too narrow for any form of vehicular traffic, and so steep as to place severe strain on legs grown accustomed to the lesser demands of life at sea. The dwellings, largely dazzlingly white in the bright Mediterranean sunshine, were attractively presented, with decorative shutters of many colours folded back from open windows. The prolific use of window boxes with displays of brilliant flowers made the whole picture so pretty and natural that the absence of garden space and trees largely went unnoticed. It was in Malta that I first became aware of Nan’s infectious interest in so much of what she saw and encountered. She would happily squat or sit on the kerb beside a vendor to examine or enquire about a handicraft product.

Our honeymoon voyage ended in Tilbury Docks in December. We spent a few days in the Merchant Navy officer’s club in London, seeing the sights and exploring the shops in the Oxford Street area before heading off to Liverpool to meet my mother and family. Mother had divorced my father a few years previously, both remarrying. Mother married a former beau, Fred Whitelaw, electrical engineer superintendent with the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, who took her off to Liverpool, with sister May subsequently marrying Terry Sarsfield, a monumental sculptor, also of Liverpool.

Nan was received most warmly, and as I imagined would be the case, they hit it off really well. Mother remarked that Nan was the first girl I had ever brought home and she couldn’t have wished for a better. She would also have been immensely relieved, as I had teased her from time to time by sending photographs of maidens from every part of the globe—Chinese, Malay, Thai, and buxom bare-bosomed damsels from New Guinea and Zululand!

We stayed with them over Christmas—Nan’s first Christmas away from home and my first Christmas with family in seven years. We then moved on to Edinburgh