Saltwater Messiahs

By Wayne Ward

Seamen in the past were a breed of their own, nurtured by loving mothers who weaned them far too early for a life at sea. Suffering ships masters and officers who endured their presence collectively referred to them as conniving schemers and habitual belligerents with a divine penchant to avoid work. Boisterous anti-authoritarians who boldly strode the world stage only to fall victim to Shakespearian dogma, dragged kicking and screaming from life never to be heard of again.

Saltwater Messiahs is a glimpse of an era long gone, a far too short a period where a united labour force ruled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781490790442

Wayne Ward

Wayne Ward is the author of six novels all with a maritime theme, reflecting his long life at sea. Joining his first ship in 1955 he soon realised the bond that united seamen and made them warriors of the working class, the forefront of struggle against the establishment. It imbued in him a sense of belonging to a band of self-efficient men who at sea couldnt call the fire brigade, emergency services, ambulance, confessor, or respite from the fiercest and most unforgiving element on earth, the sea. Saltwater Messiahs barely ripples the surface of an era when the working class with a united voice could and did dictate terms to government and employers. Sadly, no more are the seamen who briefly coloured this drab world with their presence, their unconquerable spirit and their grim determination to right wrongs. Many renowned writers have written about the sea, some even experiencing it, Wayne Ward the latter recording an era far removed from the sterile environment of modern shipping. His three sons are master mariners, a single partner in life living on the serene shores of Wangi Wangi, Lake Macquarie.

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SALTWATER

Messiahs

WAYNE WARD

© Copyright 2018 Wayne Ward.

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 written prior permission of the author.

Print information available on the last page.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9045-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-9044-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Trafford rev. 08/28/2018

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Contents

Disclaimer

1

One

Two

Threea

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

2

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

3

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

DISCLAIMER

SALTWATER MESSIAHS AND THEIR wild eccentricities, alcohol fuelled insaneness, rebellious contempt for authority and governance, sadly no longer infuriating those who crossed their paths, were not the cause of the demise of the Australian maritime industry, that travesty a deliberate political act plotted and enacted by both sides of the parliamentary divide capitulating to their corporate masters. The final reprehensible act in this maritime genocide, the abolishment of cabotage, effectively swept the Australian coast of an Australian shipping presence in preference to substandard shipping crewed by ruthlessly exploited low-cost seamen.

Australian seamen, without equal in the world, generous to a fault, frontline unionists’, worldly informed, fought to the bitter end for the cause of all workers of the world. Soldiers’ without a uniform or a chest dangling with establishment medals, held in fear by those strutting in their slick business attire who until the benumbed masses awake from their induced lethargy ruthlessly exploit and oppress with the dread of debt and insecurity.

History has shown over the eons a distinct tendency to repeat itself, and one day the tide will eventually turn and the now voiceless and stripped of the right to withhold their labour will decry enough is enough and hound from office the right-wing conservatives and their parasitic handmaidens who blight this world.

There are a couple of items of trivia that should be recorded for history, a pointer to a not always congenial relationship between seamen and shipowners and society in general. Some years ago, two ABs on a British tramp in the United Kingdom loading stores on the wharf noticed a smudged stencil on the lid of a carton: -

Not fit for Human Consumption. Use as Animal Feed/Ships Stores.

Fast forward to modern and more enlightened times a Port State inspection in the United Kingdom found in their survey of a ship flying a flag of convenience preparing to load cargo some defects which caused a degree of concern for life and the environment: - Lifeboats unable to be launched, frozen in their davits. Fire main corroded and holed. Emergency generator and oily water separator inoperable. Excessive oil in engine room. Accommodation filthy, cockroach and vermin infested. Linen unchanged, one blanket each cabin. Door missing from galley refrigerator, food preparation areas unhygienic. Charts out of date and not corrected. Steel hatch lids warped and not watertight, some badly corroded. Second officer and third engineer not certified. No record of drills or internal ship management and safety audits. Summary, a complete breakdown of the ISM Code. At this juncture, possibly fearing for his life the ship might sink at the wharf, the surveyor terminated the inspection.

This ship, and the world is full of them, without inspection would have loaded her cargo without comment and sailed off to plaudits of British exports competing favourably on the world stage. British farmers and industrialist ecstatic with the exceptionally low freight rate offered by a shipowner and his minions who if justice prevailed in an equal world should have been pilloried.

Also by Wayne Ward

The Last Seaman

28men

Old Union

The Chinese Seamen’s Children

A Product of Their Time

…….Captain Craddock chose the wet dish on the menu, spaghetti bolognaise, adept at eating the challenging delicacy with the expertise expected of a senior officer and a gentleman dining in company. Long strands of pasta dripping sauce slipped from his fork and splattered on the plate, showering the white starched linen tablecloth with finely minced meat, onions and tomato puree. Recently released from a lunatic asylum, a long-term inmate! Sitting opposite him in his saloon, a new-age seaman! His saloon! Eating with his mouth open, apple sauce and gravy streaming down his chin! Addressing him by first name……

Elvis Fleck, IR, new-age seaman!

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1

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ONE

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THE BOY MATURED SLOWER than defined normal into adolescence, a true blessing and wonder to cloistered parents, industrial martyred Albert and doting Agatha Fleck. In the awkward formative years, the educational system assessed the child slow to comprehend, to the upholders of a failed public school system fodder for a stiff straw broom and shovel at the Newcastle steelworks. This observation did the boy a small injustice, following at a pace set within his own parameters absorbing the basic necessities required for joining the mainstream of life while remaining relatively stagnant when measured against his more gregarious peers.

Elvis Fleck grew gangly, clumsy, burdened with the usual sobriquets bestowed upon children perceived different in the schoolyard, a favoured target for those struggling with their own identities, an object of ridicule. On top of his head grew a thatch of spiky fair hair, likened by spiteful tongue-poking children mustered in giggling huddles to a storm ravaged palm tree.

Albert believed himself an accomplished hairdresser, saving considerable money overpriced hairstylists gouged from those condemned to exist on the threshold of penury surviving on minuscule pensions. Agatha’s stainless-steel mixing bowl proved an adequate grooming device, and not once did he ever draw blood or cause a wince of pain. Unfortunately, Albert’s scissor and comb butchery highlighted his son’s large ears and brought even more taunts, especially from the acerbic tongues of frustrated girls searching for boasting deformations in their blouses.

Elvis experienced his adolescent growth spurts in his final year at school, charged with youthful vibrancy for a wild dash for freedom. Of no concern those around him planned to further their education. Bright young idealists set on becoming mining engineers, metallurgists, architects, accountants, plumbers, carpenters, boilermakers, fitters. Elvis knew with a resounding certainty where his future laid, the fixation brought to fruition slamming shut the school gate Christmas 1968. Attired in his shabby school blazer, loose tie and a flap of shirt hanging loose, shoes worn at the heel and glossy paper-thin grey trousers, he sauntered into the cramped office of the Newcastle branch of the Seamen’s Union of Australia. With buoyant confidence, he planted both hands on the scarred front counter, and in a loud voice requested his name be placed on the union’s list of deck boys.

Tall and broad shouldered, thick dark brown hair and challenging eyes, Branch Secretary John Brennan gave the scruffy schoolboy with a curious haircut a cursory glance. About to ignore him and reach for the telephone an amused scowl from his secretary wife behind her desk reason to give the interruption to other matters on his mind a brief hearing.

Elvis with credible willpower fought the urge to pick his nose while he searched for what next to say, something crushing to strengthen his cause. Just gave them the finger at school. I’m here to go to sea.

Obviously nurturing no ambitions to advance your knowledge with higher education, the branch secretary said dismissively. Son, going to sea is not everyone’s ideal in life. It can be a difficult and challenging occupation. Above all it demands unfettered allegiance to the union.

Elvis confidently expanded his chest; just being in this cramped office placed him in the ranks of seamen. Gripped with excitement, his voice trilled: Only planning to start off as a seaman, yeah. Bit later on become a captain.

Which of course those barely used text books you’ve just tossed in the schoolyard bin will support that high aspiration. Son, go see the shipping master. He has a list of deck boys with your grand motivation.

Nope. Elvis shook his head, barely unable to keep his finger out his nose. Want my name on the best list.

What list would that be? The branch secretary’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Union’s list.

Is it common knowledge around the schools the union has a list of deck boys? One you would rather have your name on than the official shipping office list? Shipping office or mercantile marine office which arranges medical examinations with the navigation doctor and has the after-hour’s resources to man ships?

Then Elvis did something that caused the branch secretary to flinch; he cocked his head and winked.

We do have a list of deck boys, those boys usually the sons of union members. Even so you can’t circumvent the shipping office. Do you have family at sea? He could easily be related to a few of his members who came immediately to mind, those who could well spend their leave in mental institutions.

John, please help the poor boy, Elaine said, her maternal instinct blossoming. He needs directions to the shipping office who will arrange a medical. Just as importantly a consent form from his parents before the shipping office will proceed with registration.

Hear that? Shipping office is across the street in the Customs House. Street’s busy this time of day, don’t get run over.

Look right, then left, then right again, Elvis tittered, on the precipice of a huge leap forward in life. Or the other way around, probably doesn’t make a difference.

It probably did in a matter of life and death which might possibly give the maritime industry a reprieve, the branch secretary thought, feeling the presence of his wife beside him who reached under the counter for a leather-bound ledger.

I’ll take your name and address for future reference, then you will have to go and see the shipping master Mr Mulumby or his assistant, Mr Morris-Reece, she said, smiling reassuringly.

Elvis Fleck. Elizabeth St, Tighes Hill. Who?

Mr Mulumby. Quite stern and officious and not known for his genial disposition to junior ratings, but you will find Mr Morris-Reece more amiable.

Elvis’s attention focused on the thick ledger now open on the counter and the long list of names, many with lines drawn through them.

Have your parents a phone? she added, her voice exuding motherly warmth, the boy obviously in need of a gentle approach.

There’s a phone box down the street.

No, the shipping office or union would need to contact you personally. Is there someone close in the family?

Uncle Drew.

Does your uncle live close?

Yeah, Brisbane.

Elaine glanced at her husband who grimaced, now certain the youth retarded. How is your Uncle Drew going to contact you from Brisbane?

Elvis’s brow furrowed in thought, a blob of tongue jammed in the corner of his mouth. Uncle Drew’s got a car.

Ship sailing in an hour? No deck boys on the roster?

Uncle Drew drives real fast.

Curious, are there any seamen in your family? Maybe this speedy uncle of yours? the branch secretary inquired.

"No, but seen a lot of them staggering out of the Star Hotel and Terminus."

We will need a contact number, Elaine persisted with extreme patience. If not finding you at short notice to join a ship will be impossible. Where did you say you live?

Elizabeth St, Tighes Hill.

Number?

Number fell off the wall long time ago. Dad never replaced it, reckoned it put off them pests collecting money for charity.

Surely you know it?

Might be forty-seven, left a shadow on the wall Dad’s going to paint over one day.

With a brusque nod, the branch secretary ended the interview, more important matters to attend to with Broken Hill Proprietary’s industrial department, a ruling in respect of the Iron Knight over disputed payment of noise money under the coke loader.

Teachers reckon you don’t need academia or some big word like that to go sea, right? Elvis watched Elaine replace the ledger under the counter, his name on the bottom. Registered as a seaman!

Purple and pulsing, a vein activated at the branch secretary’s left temple. Not right! It would have been more fortuitous for your future if you imprinted in your mind some academia or whatever name you want to put on it! he said gruffly, no doubt in his mind this travesty of the gene pool would eventually drift in the direction of the BHP steelworks, or even more mind numbing a pot of grease and a brush lubricating switch points in the Broadmeadow railway marshalling yards.

≈

Elvis successfully crossed busy Scott St looking right then left, then right again, negotiating the wide concrete steps without tripping to enter the imposing colonial sandstone edifice of the mercantile marine office. Within its cool and dark interiors of polished mahogany and gleaming brass, a long counter separated officialdom from a broad and diverse collection of seamen joining and paying off ships in the port of Newcastle.

Mr Morris-Reece, rotund with rosy cheeks flushed with good health, short of statue and nearing retirement, took note of the obviously excited boy. Bad posture, poor diction, brash, and of course the hair. Over his long years of officialdom many such catastrophes of the public-school system stood on the other side of this divide, many becoming seamen. Passing over the counter a parental consent form, he arranged a medical with the Newcastle navigation doctor, Dr Hamilton, the following day. In his official role he harboured no ill feelings to seamen, in fact he considering most of them as extended family if a little boisterous in their attitude to life. On occasions similar to now it passed through the genial public servant’s mind there being a scholarly evaluation in the stringent seagoing medical for aspiring young seaman not overly bright Elvis Fleck would certainly fail.

≈

Elvis held his father in high esteem, his success in life a role model, after school sitting beside him reposed as he did most days in his comfortable leather lounge chair on the front veranda observing the world passing by. Prematurely retired from the workforce after winning an industrial claim against almost insurmountable odds, achieving folk hero status among the legion of broken bodies, the crippled and maimed who hobbled or crawled for the last time out of BHP’s Newcastle main gate.

Our unique Fleck gene is not associated with brawn or exertion. Or sweat and pain associated with manual labour. Sound philosophy espoused from a man who beat the system.

Certainly made good use of our gene, Dad.

That I did. Our gene rare and exceptional, son.

Albert Fleck as a young man protected from active service for his country in the steel industry, amazingly convinced a battery of BHP doctors and modern medical imagery of industrial trauma, in addition to a nest of BHP industrial vipers, of chronic debilitation caused by exposure to industrial particulates and toxic gases. His claim succeeded as did achieving a government disability pension, and with yearly reviews permanent redundancy from the workforce assured. BHP mustered its marauding sharks and fought back against this obvious malingerer, a last-ditch stance to keep conniving young Albert Fleck on the payroll on light duties. Long days loomed of scrubbing foul smelling toilet blocks, crib shacks, change rooms inches thick with iron ore and cinder dust, glutinous boot trampled mud when it rained.

Albert with notable patience bided his time, growing weaker every day until finally departing the steelworks through the main gate in an ambulance on life-support, never to return. Length of service posed a challenge for a more comfortable financial settlement, the extent of any claim against the company significantly diminished, and of course BHP’s legal team’s assertion the company completely blameless of not providing a safe working environment.

Matrimony solved one financial problem, Agatha gainfully employed as a telephonist for the Postmaster General’s Department. Contingencies Agatha after her confinement returning to the workforce until advancing years would gradually worsen Albert’s condition necessitating greater attention to the invalid’s creature comforts, a carer’s pension.

Stuffing envelopes with advertising material and licking them offered possibilities for additional income, needed though a keen eye over the back fence for lurking government inspectors, or to be more specific, welfare spies. Head of the household he felt it his rightful duty risking what strength reserves remained in his stricken body, to add his share to household coffers and the expense of rearing a child. Unfortunately, his overworked tongue became inflamed, critically swollen, adding to growing fears of a permanent speech impediment.

≈

Elvis, his appearance not overly enhanced with an exceptionally severe short back and sides haircut recommended by his father to improve his chances of securing a berth on a ship, teased the hacked strands of what hair remained on top of his head with a wide toothed comb. Attending the pickup Monday morning oblivious to an intense undercurrent, furtive eyes searching for missing faces of those top of the roster allocated for standbys for two Iron-boats over the weekend.

By 10:00am a large crowd of seamen assembled in the asphalt sealed compound accessing the weatherboard clad pickup shed adjacent the shipping office. Many socialising, curious, some waiting for the hotels to open, parting to allow the shipping office clerk passage to pin the roster on the noticeboard. Interest heightened as the clerk selected a piece of chalk to print the day’s jobs on the engagement board. This board occupied a large proportion of one wall, painted drab olive green with a white grid designating ratings, ship, destination, departure: DATE: SHIP: DEST: DEPART: BOS: DKYM: AB: GREAS: FIREM: BATT: OS: DB: CATT:

Nervous shuffling and coughing as the clerk hesitated, all aware of the BHP ships berthed at the steelworks. Australian National Line’s Lake Macquarie loading coal in the Carrington Basin, of particular interest to those on top of the roster. Also, the parcel tanker Express at the Throsby Creek oil terminal. Though any hope of joining her on par with a miracle; sharing equal time between Sydney and Newcastle permanently manned from Sydney.

Berthed in the murky waters of the south arm of the Hunter River, polluted with what spewed night and day from a forest of smokestacks, treacle like substances oozing from drains, open channels directing surface runoff from the steelworks into the river, five Iron-boats loaded and discharged; Iron Derby, Iron King, Iron Knight, Iron Warrior, Iron Monarch. Midnight sailing the Lake Macquarie took manning priority, followed by the Iron-boats.

Usually at this juncture anxiety niggled at the minds of those on top of the roster, a ray of hope rumours circulating of a run-job to Singapore picking up a Bass Strait rig tender, given even greater credence with the sighting of a well-known agent in shipping circles seen in the shipping office prior the posting of the day’s roster.

Nervous twitches as the shipping office clerk in neat block letters printed in the ship column: Iron Derby. Chalk poised with the barest hint of a smile on his face in the AB column: 2. Another pause warranting a deep breath, in the DB column: 1. DEST: Port Kembla. DATE: 27/12. Loaded to her marks with 12,500 tons of Yampi Sound iron ore, the Iron Derby discharged at the ore jetty. Only calling two ABs shocked doomsayers of the pickup, expecting the usual mass bailout of deck and engine room. Shunned as workhouses ruled by brutal taskmasters, the Iron Derby and her three ugly sisters, Iron Yampi, Iron Wyndham, Iron Kimberley were named after the Buccaneer Archipelago in Western Australia, of great commercial interest to the BHP.

Even with an exodus of crew there usually remained a bosun and storekeeper, possibly a few ABs resigned to their fate, seamen from Newcastle and Port Kembla given up hope of more amiable and ruminative employment. Cynics proffered an opinion the dregs of the industry well suited to throwing 120-pound iron ore impregnated hatch boards and toiling mindlessly bell-to-bell under mates with dispositions akin to hungry white pointers. Other sceptics added their debased opinion, seamen who could court no favour with the union and so destined to never sail in tankers, tenders or man oil rigs.

Never to wait expectantly with a packed seabag in the hallway, in an instance prepared to leap to the call no matter the day or hour. Drop everything and dash to the airport for overseas run jobs; tankers, oil rigs, tenders. Staunch militants willing to sacrifice precious family time, the rewards though substantial inconsequential to martyrs.

Elvis now sensed the tension, the subtle manoeuvring, the charged atmosphere. Wondering why the fidgeting and shuffling, catching a hushed rumour of a tanker picking up in Rotterdam. One-week R & R in London accommodated in The Lanesborough. Mingling, boasts of rig tenders and chocolate coated ice creams, inch thick filet mignons, chocolate bars, yoghurt and money, lots of money.

Stabilisation in the early 1960’s ushered in wide-ranging changes to the maritime industry, ending the Australia-wide wanderings of normally nomadic seamen able to ship out in any port that took their fancy. Unfortunately for the Seamen’s Union a downside losing its control of engaging its members. Government intervention with stabilisation brought about a pseudo permanency to the industry, daily appearance money and a small white card nominating the seaman’s designated homeport. With a few standbys added to appearance money a single seaman could survive, the committed more stringently and stressfully, on the shipping office roster.

Those who lamented government intervention ignored the old degrading bull system which preceded the union’s well-ordered and non-discriminatory roster. Seamen forced to stand in line for selection by masters, chief engineers and ships’ agents. Competing against a smug elite with a white handkerchief tucked in a lapel pocket, a newspaper folded under an arm, a feather in a hat, a purple tie, even yellow socks.

Aloof from the emotions generated by impending employment, voluntary or enforced, the shipping office clerk first called the ABs roster, only the top five of the nineteen men listed required to attend. Stabilisation gave each seaman a unique number, a number he would carry for life, this number when on the roster the number what appeared in the public notices of daily newspapers in the major ports.

Grumblings arose that by only calling in a small number of seamen this lessened the chance of manning ships in outports, a change from the normal Newcastle fare of BHP ships.

Pearce, Lovejoy, Morgan, Ramsey, Montgomery, the young public servant intoned; their faces to memory he needed no reply or received none. "Iron Derby two ABs. Those joining will need passports and current inoculations."

Hold on there a minute, No.1 on the roster retorted, a fierce grimace and a belligerent finger directed at the engagement board. Up there if I’m not blind is Port Kembla. Why the passports and jabs?

Apologetic, the shipping office clerk printed in brackets beneath Port Kembla: Manila.

After discharge she’s loading billets and topping up with tinplate in Port Kembla, BHP’s agent Billy Timmins said from his desk, the smaller of two in the pickup. If you haven’t passports the shipping master will make arrangements for their issue. For those signing on I will arrange transport to the steelworks medical centre for vaccinations.

Initiating a commercial presence in Asia BHP converted coal burning Iron Yampi to oil firing, shipping from Port Kembla the first steel cargo in an Australian vessel since the 1926 gifting of the Commonwealth Shipping Line by the federal government to British shipowners. Gift terminology could be argued as a small down payment did come with the British signatures, the final payments forgiven for a few regal taps on the shoulder for senior management. Loading steel, the Iron Yampi an ideal size with five large hatches discharged with single sets of five-ton derricks doubled-up to ten-ton and reliable steam winches. Crewed with fifty-four officers and seamen this manning level far less than competing foreign ships in the trade manned with Asians and sub-continent ratings numbering in the high seventies and more. Expanding trade now included Hong Kong, Keelung and Kaohsiung.

Preened like a fighting cock Elvis knew instinctively what he must do, and patting down his sprung hair advanced with a strut in his step to the engagement board. "I’ll take the Iron Derby."

Beg your pardon? the shipping office clerk said, bemused.

Elvis glanced around and saw no one close to his age who might be a deck boy, repeating in an even louder voice: "I’ll take the Iron Derby."

No, you won’t! Who are you?

Elvis Fleck. My name’s in two books. Hoping a pimply faced youth sitting on the bench against the front wall reading a comic not a deck boy, an ordinary seaman.

Which means exactly nothing until the shipping master ascertains there are no seagoing deck boys available. If there are no deck boys due on the roster before the ship sails that list will then be referred to.

Can’t see any deck boys interested in being here to join a ship, Elvis persisted, following his father’s advice to go forth with perseverance; the head of the household calculating another income in the family would not be amiss, especially with the festive season so close. Ship might have to sail now, what then?

"BHP has assured us the ship is not sailing. Take notice the Iron Derby is on the board to sail on the 27th."

Should count as something, Mum’s already packed my suitcase. Superfluous school clothing, worn thin and patched. More fatherly advice; a hungry terrier gnawed at the bone and gnashed the teeth.

Commendable a mother offering her offspring to the maritime industry, the shipping office clerk said with finality, adjusting his thick framed spectacles on his nose and allocating the two top men to the Iron Derby.

Elvis worried the bone even harder. What if no one wants the ship? Anyone thought about that?

Following long-term tradition, the shipping master will refer to our list of deck boys, and if none volunteer in descending order the opportunity would be yours to offer for the job. Then and only then.

Youth intent on a maritime career on deck experienced a slender window of entry, at age eighteen excluded. Though those with higher scholastic credentials could and usually did apply for apprenticeships, time served at sea accompanied by examinations progressing to the rank of officer and finally master.

Elvis even though slamming shut the school gate behind him and dumping his text books in the closest bin confidently aimed for the peak of maritime achievement. Attaining this nautical miracle would take time, but eventually the goal would rest on his shoulders symbolised by four gold bars. Elvis stumbled at the first scholarly hurdle, able to read and write but baffled by words of more than three syllables. Crashing at the second with a mathematical level equating public school year six.

Albert offered fatherly advice, sipping a mug of green tea, beef bouillon and a warm check blanket for his legs deferred until autumn and winter’s return. Accredited within the family as a font of wisdom, he dismissed educational accomplishment as inconsequential to success. As long as you can sign your name, son, you will achieve. Take me, do you see beads of sweat forming on my brow? Sitting on a still warm ingot of steel eating your mother’s cheese and onion sandwiches? Queuing with the multitude to expedite a call of nature? My body further tormented and broken by arduous toil? Attack as a rapacious terrier with a bone between your teeth and success is guaranteed. Albert in high spirits, the government raising his pension by $1.05 a fortnight.

≈

Many on the shipping master’s list of deck boys approached the cut-off age, some with a change of mind opting for other professions or trades. Accordingly, a list of thirty could narrow down to five willing to ship out immediately, and of that small number a few could be on family holidays, sick, or more interested in a pretty girl recently met at a dance.

With three and five weeks leave remaining two deck boys were not due on the roster, both not interested except for a near frenzied volunteer for the Iron Derby blocking the path of the shipping office clerk about to call the Tuesday roster.

Almost with relief and a wry shake of his head, the shipping office clerk said: Mr Timmins will take your particulars for allotments and vaccinations. When you sign on Mr Morris-Reece will arrange for your passport.

Elvis near screeched: "Iron Derby?"

One of two deck boys, yes.

Elation! Father’s subtle wisdom and industrial strategies, terriers niggling bones and grinding teeth, worked!

Going to sea you will need to see Mr Brennan of the Seamen’s Union for your white card, the clerk said, wondering if the halfwit could write its own name.

TWO

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MANY SWORE IT FACT Bubbles with a voice likened to a foghorn could project his remonstrations from the focastle head of an Iron-boat berthed at No.4 jetty Port Kembla and be heard with crystal clarity in the Steelworks Hotel public bar over a mile away. George McNaughton did have a loud voice, a sonorous locution he usually kept in low range when reasonably sober. It did expand on occasions, especially midnight square-ups with an inebriated mixture of Port Kembla and Newcastle seamen rolling king and queen beams capable of supporting a block of flats, followed by 1200 single hatch boards. Watertight construction of such magnitude finally came to a merciful end with the spreading of three rock hard tarpaulins likened to circus big tops.

Bubbles, so called because he resembled a beach ball and in gait rolled like one, rarely stood in critical judgement of his fellow seamen miraculously balancing on the edge of king beams. Placing thick wooden planks in darkness, savage winds, rain, hail, under gantries dripping iron ore sludge and caked grease. Bubbles identified with comrades, schemers, revolutionaries, the sloth and the outright insane, and even though he called Newcastle home, loathe condemning his Port Kembla brothers the exception being Sydney homeporters.

High esteem from among his fellow seamen came from his total disregard for authority, especially those who strode the deck proudly with BHP insignia on their large peak caps, their kaki clad shoulders adorned with BHP gold braid. Over the years suspensions from the industry became legend, a born survivor escaping the ultimate, life on the beach. Fighting from the trenches took its toll first on his head, losing all but a few strings of hair that sprung from his shiny scalp, in addition to a succession of Board of Trade cooks who tried hard to poison him but only succeeded in turning him into blubber; a mystery of medical science. Bubbles crafted his leadership qualities over many years to became a supreme commander of men as well as a frontline disciple of his union, the Seamen’s Union of Australia. Assuming a leadership role among working-class warriors came with benefits such as not getting his hands ingrained with grease, ingesting the stench of rancid tallow mixed with white lead whitening down shrouds and stays, dredging mummified rat carcasses from bilges and chipping and scraping deckheads. Some bosun’s, Bubbles among them, approached the job with a sense of attainting the pinnacle in their seagoing career, a challenge to motivate men continually at war with their employer.

Content with his lowly lot in the scheme of maritime accomplishment, though of a keen and absorbent mind, he never contemplated stepping a few rungs higher up the ladder. In fact, as bosun he considered himself far superior to those he answered to on the bridge, the freedom to walk up and down any gangway he chose and ship out of any port, though disgruntled stabilisation restricted that liberty.

Achieving governance on deck came in varied ways; old bosuns retired, died on the job, or went mad under the pressure of despotic mates and masters. Bosuns were sometimes called from the pickup, though rare and only if the available talent aboard so insufferable choosing a replacement deemed impossible.

Without a single qualm, Bubbles could be called upon at any time to man the barricades against shipowners and multinational corporations. Known to have a notable voice at stopwork meetings, a growl like a mangy dog motivating his unenthusiastic warriors. Bib-and-brace kaki overalls adorned his ample frame, comfortable attire to poke his nose in here and there. Keeping well clear of swishing fish oil mops, cotton waste wads soaking backsprings and breast wires, flying rust pustules and spattering paint.

Elevating his reputation for resilience he attained permanent folk hero status when bosun of the River Burnett discharging iron ore at No.4 jetty Port Kembla. Berthing at midnight and stripping her five hatches, swinging the gear over the side, Bubbles knocked his weary men off, job well done. Himself not all that well after ingesting a flagon of tawny port with the carpenter purchased from the wine man at the end of the Whyalla jetty. Craving to rest his throbbing head, his parched troops destined for the early opening Steelworks Hotel, Bubbles retired to his bunk in his thick and warm flannelette pyjamas.

Grabs slamming into the hatch coamings, thudding on the ceilings, clapping gantry wires, all failed to interrupt his slumber until voices in the cross alleyway outside his cabin eventually stirred him. Bubbles chomped his jaws in irritation, definitely in need of a heart starter. Authoritative voices raised to be heard against the background noise of the grabs, not in argument more investigative.

Not a stranger to mixing in higher company Bubbles sensed an air of importance about the group, uncomfortable and itching in business attire under assault from a fine dust cloud of iron ore, crowding together at the railing outside his cabin. Miffed at this unwarranted disruption to his repose, he threw open his door and grunted his chubby legs over the storm step, rampant and challenging, an alpha cock claiming his henhouse.

Stretching, his open pyjamas exposing a belly like a beached whale and a partial erection warranting the need to empty his bladder, Bubble’s scratched and chomped. Frowning at the unusual gathering, especially one whom he recognised instantly; assistant federal secretary of the Seamen’s Union, Pat Geraghty. Not so Judge Gallagher of the arbitration court and the seven others representing the maritime unions and shipowners.

Pat broke away from the group, his body attempting to block from intense scrutiny Bubbles now finding an itchy spot close to his rectum. Where is the crowd? he hissed, hoping his voice didn’t carry. This is a work value inquiry for crissake! Here I am telling the judge and shipowner representatives you blokes are worked close to death and worth a barrow load of money, and I can’t find a delegate or anyone who looks like a greaser or a seaman!

Sharing an elixir might temper Pat’s grumpy mood, probably blamed on roused Irish blood. In an act of modesty, Bubbles made himself somewhat presentable with minor adjustments to his pyjamas and leaned close to the red faced assistant federal secretary. Thinking about cracking a fresh goon in chippy’s cabin, Pat. This one’s got a bit of vintage, not like most of the shit Moggy peddles on the wharf in Whyalla.

With the inquiry convened on another ship with a more stringent leader and diligent crew, the union eventually won its claim.

Remembering well his formative years, Bubbles avoided the hobnailed boots of cranky bosun’s and the amorous advances of some willing to jeopardise their union books in pursuit of forbidden pleasure. Deck boys were tougher then, not pampered pets fresh from their mummy’s tender embrace. Deck boys swam or sank back in Bubbles past, and of course the constant threat of the bosun’s well-aimed boot gave rise to learning on deck quickly.

Herding them like wayward sheep, Bubbles took the two deck boys and ordinary seaman, Eddie Harper, whose miniscule mind drifted somewhere between his belt buckle and groin, forward to tighten the head lines. There’s not a single living brain cell between the three of you, two of you who should know something, anything, but nothing. Now I’ve got a first tripper wearing a broom on its head and a vacant expression that can only mean an IQ of zero. What the hell are the schools turning out these days? My most serious question though is what’s the bloody future of the industry with specimens like you three coming through the ranks? These thoughts were placed in the vault for later regurgitation as he ran the water out of the windlass steam chests, ordering his gang to stopper off the port head line and take it to the drum end.

Glowering inwardly, earlier his day ruined with a vision of four impeccably attired ABs, clean shaven, showered, reeking of deodorant, aft tightening the stern lines. Where seamen from Newcastle, even drunks out of Port Kembla, dug their hands in grease and waded gleefully in glutinous fish oil, these cowboys sashayed in their fancy washed pale blue denims reminiscing about making rope dogs for swooning old spinsters. Sleazy eyes peeled for a breeze to blow up the dresses of those younger and shapelier on the saloon deck. Relic passenger ship doyens allocated from the Sydney roster last trip in Port Kembla, shanghaied for two weeks incarceration enduring a Whyalla iron ore cargo before loading overseas steel. Normally these whinging dandies would have thrown their hands in on arrival, their bags unpacked, but with a deep-sea voyage offering made a communal decision to extend their martyrdom.

Even worse than this morning a day earlier bearing witness to his quads after discharge shifting ship from under the gantries to the cranes; full washout and bilges. Miracle to behold, the entire foursome bedecked in pristine passenger blues while his staunch troops, Iron-boat men through and through, might have been dragged from the bottom of a BHP sullage pond!

Elvis, school clothes bearing up well to arduous labour, now felt a fully-fledged seaman sleeping aboard. Applying all his strength he managed to wrestle the first turn of the heavy six-inch sisal mooring line over the drum end, his two backups tripping over slack line on the deck. About par for the course and expected of cretins, Bubbles thought, wondering if the blood rushing to the first tripper schoolboy’s face might be a precursor to a heart attack.

Another bloody couple of turns! Christ, cursed with idiots! Even the poof quads aft can do better than this! Bubbles demeaned, though doubtful if the prima donnas of his wrath could do anything except stack deck chairs and wash passenger vomit into the scuppers. Amazingly able to square-up and strip while dancing their fancy two-steps without a single smear of grease or skid mark besmirching their fashionably faded passenger blues. Bubbles in disbelief waited, expectant for the first errant smear of grease, drop of wire rope oil, fish oil, to mar flared dungarees, a cause for jubilation, even breaking out a flagon.

Forming a tightknit clique, the quads claimed the rarely used table at the after end of the ABs messroom. Starboard side aft inboard of the crew’s accommodation block abutting the galley slide, its role normally for stacking spare tablecloths and tea towels, newspapers and journals. Specialist seamen still lamenting the passing of the coastal and overseas passenger ships into history, shanghaied to a purple topside monstrosity of five hatches and ten derricks, a black funnel with two blue bands. Cynically referred to as a blue ringed octopus. Seventy-five men behind them on the Sydney roster, confidence almost a smirk surviving the call of four ABs for the Iron Derby in Port Kembla sailing at 1:00am. Why not with a roster of the desperate, the hounded fleeing matrimonial bondage, political cadres pursued by government security agents and gamblers nervously looking over their shoulders?

ABs Ian Thompson, Jerry Curtis, Fred Williams and Ray Stevenson, their self-assurance turned to despair, reduced to stunned, open-mouthed disbelief. Trembling hands packed white duck canvas seabags, white duck canvas carry bags with square sennit handles and varnished toggles. Final confirmation of their impending internment issued tickets and meal money for the 5:00pm train to Wollongong, met by the BHP agent on the platform for transport to the ship to be signed on by the master. Finality, passing through the BHP main gate, their doom sealed.

For the truly traumatised a final option remained to escape on arrival at Wollongong station, request as a matter of life and death to be taken to the Port Kembla doctor known for his empathy for seamen impressed by BHP. Ailments ranged from dragging a twisted foot, shortage of breath, palpitating hearts and facial contortions frightening to small children. When all else failed, morose acceptance to fate, drawn despairingly into the badlands of the Port Kembla steelworks buried under its long red cloud. Somewhere hidden among gasometers and iron sheeted buildings seeping hellish plumes of cinder laden smoke lay their prison, the Iron Derby.

Called out at 7:00am to take up the slack of the mooring lines meant Bubbles could stretch the normal 8:00am turn to 8:30am, freshen up with a few stimulants. Feeling a little peckish after watching the antics on the focastle head, he waddled in the messroom for his seven-bell breakfast, a stiff jolt of Captain Morgan rum adding an extra tinge to his generally ruddy face. With a scowl noticing his quads at their table eating bacon and fried eggs, black pudding and corn fritters. Useless the four of them! Not worth a single Newcastle or Port Kembla AB! Flopping down at the table next to the sink, he stifled a groan witnessing Elvis attempting with both hands to cram two slices of toast packed with bacon and two fried eggs oozing yolk in his mouth.

Reckon a four-fathom boa constrictor slinking around the Amazon for a feed couldn’t swallow that. No surprise to me in the least the farming community wanting to keep you around for what drops out of your ring piece, son, Bubbles muttered, acknowledging Bluey Forsythe nursing a mug of black coffee, a painful expression on his heavily pocked face, a