Tales of Capt Robbie Mack: Up the Creek

By Roy WV Donaldson

The Tales of Captain Robbie Mack – Up the Creek His attention wavered. The man was having an epileptic fit right in front of him, no-one else about. And yet his eyes were drawn to that damn chicken stoating around seasick drunk in the shower. Robbie Mack couldn’t have been further from being a Captain at this point. He was just a lowly sea cadet. But this incident was just one of many experiences that took him from being a naïve wee lad from the Scottish village of Menstrie to becoming a successful and valued contributor in the global marine industry. Up the Creek takes the reader from 16-year old Robbie’s earliest voyage around the world, seasick, homesick and bullied incessantly to attaining the seemingly impossible position of vessel Master. Sailing with shipping lines such as Cunard, P & O, Blue Funnel and many more, these tales will resonate with seafarers around the globe. But the reader doesn’t need to be familiar with the marine industry to enjoy the characters in this first of several manuscripts. Like Tosh the schizophrenic cook or the gun-toting Angolan mercenaries. Or Irish Marie who knew how to keep hubby asleep and out of her hair. Sometimes dangerous, occasionally tragic and often hilarious, Robbie’s adventures taught him some important life lessons along the way. As a chief engineer said to him, ‘Och Captain, I have poot the fire oot but yae need to go easy on the thruster.’ With such guidance, how could he fail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665502337

Roy WV Donaldson

Born in post-war Stirling, Scotland in 1953 to a large miner’s family, Roy WV Donaldson learnt a strong work ethic in his early years. Never an academic, he quickly realised he would need to expand his horizons to make himself a decent living. Working his way up from deck boy to ship’s captain in the merchant navy, then into senior management, Roy embarked on a more than forty-year career in the global marine industry. Having sailed with some of the best known shipping lines, including P&O, Blue Funnel and British & Commonwealth, Roy moved into management at the first opportunity. Despite a long and distinguished career, and tantamount to his commercial value to his employers, he only ever worked for three companies: OIL, Seabulk and BUE Caspian/Topaz Energy & Marine, being promoted to senior levels as a result of remarkable success within each. Most experience was gained in the North Sea, West Africa and the Middle East. Alongside writing stories about his lifetime’s experiences – sometimes dangerous, occasionally tragic but often hilarious – and sharing with the reader the colourful characters to be found in his adventures, Roy currently also manages to find time to provide a consultancy service to the marine industry. Recognised as a leader in his field, Roy writes articles for key shipping industry publications and he is a regular source of valuable operational, management and investment guidance to offshore operators, international oil companies, shipyards, vessel managers, financiers, brokers and global investors.

Book preview

© 2020 Roy WV Donaldson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/26/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0040-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0041-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-0233-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919104

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1     Sweeties – Hearts and Caramels

Chapter 2     Jackie

Chapter 3     Balls – Round and Oval

Chapter 4     Shortbread and Bellbottom Trousers

Chapter 5     Sea School and James Bond

Chapter 6     Discovering the World and a Dear John

Chapter 7     Some Rash Decisions

Chapter 8     Ballast and Unexpected Holidays

Chapter 9     Getting Stuck In

Chapter 10   No Stars But Plenty Toilets

Chapter 11   The Luck of the Irish and Happy Sailors

Chapter 12   Lessons Learned

Chapter 13   Ups and Downs

Chapter 14   Legless and Eyeless

Chapter 15   Muck and Riots

Chapter 16   The Walrus and a Baby

Chapter 17   Tragedy and a Baby

Chapter 18   Mercenaries and Captain Donnie

Chapter 19   Captain at Last

Chapter 20   Conflict

Chapter 21   Quiz Supremos and Natural Wonders

Chapter 22   Kung Fu and a True Hero

Chapter 23   Scary Legs and Hairy Drivers

Chapter 24   Dangerous Neighbours

Chapter 25   Near Misses and the Tiger

Chapter 26   Cows, Fish and a Chicken

Chapter 27   ‘Go Slows’ and Nine Lives

Chapter 28   Sneaky Goings On, the Gu’vnor and Arnie

Chapter 29   Old Mates and the Devil Drink

Chapter 30   Bravado Whilst Biting My Nails

Chapter 31   Pulling a Fast One And Moving Up

Chapter 32   Daily Challenges

Chapter 33   Doggy Tails

Chapter 34   Golf in Flip Flops

Chapter 35   Pirates of a Different Sort

Chapter 36   Kidnap

Chapter 37   Influence, Courage and a Rat

Chapter 38   Negotiations and a Paper Bag

Chapter 39   Switzerland - Briefly

Chapter 40   A Whole New Culture

Chapter 41   The Big House and the Ritz

Chapter 42   Four Legs and Coffee Beans

Chapter 43   Unpleasantries

Chapter 44   Heart and Hose

Chapter 45   Recovery and Respect

Chapter 46   Police and the Price of a Pint

Chapter 47   Higher Stakes

Chapter 48   Betrayal of a Friend

Chapter 49   Golden Goose or Christmas Turkey?

Chapter 50   Conspiracy

Chapter 51   The Demolition Job

Chapter 52   Fishy Days and Namedropping

Chapter 53   Depression and Destiny

Epilogue

Biography

PROLOGUE

I parked the Porsche Panamera in its usual No.2 place in the underground car park and made my way up the lifts to my 58th floor office a little later than the usual 8am.

I’d a smile on my face, nonetheless. Indeed, I was feeling a bit smug. I had landed in Dubai from Kuala Lumpur just a few hours earlier at around 3am having secured a deal that represented a saving for my company of US$2M.

I felt I deserved a smile. As I strode through the front door, I was warmly welcomed back by the receptionist and advised in a semi-whisper that the ‘big boss’, the Chairman, had a directors’ meeting in the board room.

As Chief Operating Officer, I’d been expecting to chair the monthly ‘deep dive’ at 10am in that room with all the Regional Directors flown in from Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Qatar, West Africa as well as my local guys in Dubai.

But I was told this was re-scheduled for 10am at a nearby hotel. I’d hardly dropped my briefcase in my office, when my PA, Elizabeth, stuck her head round the door to say I was needed immediately in the board room.

With near 11 years of working with these guys, I knew all the directors very well. I was looking forward to the opportunity to tell them the good news and outline the deal I’d just secured.

I nipped along the corridor and on entering the room, I skimmed its occupants recognising the group Chairman, the group CEO, the company CEO, the HR Director and a number of other directors.

At a glance, I also noticed the company’s UAE sponsor and a few others unknown to me.

But I thought nothing of it.

The bigger the audience, the better for me.

The Chairman greeted me and invited me to sit.

He then asked for a debrief on the work I’d been doing over the last 48 hours. I was happy to oblige. And I concluded by advising of the extent of the successful deal. I wasn’t looking for a round of applause, but I certainly wasn’t expecting what followed.

‘Robbie, we are here to discuss something much more critical,’ the Chairman said.’

At the end of this meeting you will no longer be an employee of this company.’

On 12th February 2015, in a few minutes, I went from being an experienced, valued and influential employee in a great company, to being a criminal stripped of my job, my pension, all shares and benefits.

And threatened with prison…

But this is not the end; it’s only the start and indeed the reason for my story.

CH 1

Sweeties – Hearts

and Caramels

B UT LET’S GO BACK A bit. Back to when my approach to life was established.

I’m surprised my mother wasn’t locked up as a foreign spy. She was just 20 years old when, along with many others from a heavily bombed London, she was evacuated to Scotland. She found herself in a very countrified little mining village community, in a country where the language was the same - but the dialect almost incomprehensible to her.

At that time, country life in Clackmannanshire was shielded from the rest of world. With a population of less than 2,000, and with her broad cockney accent, her arrival probably caused a bit of a stir in sheltered little Menstrie, due East of Stirling Castle.

Menstrie is not only the home of my childhood but also that of Menstrie Castle, nestled at the foot of the Ochil Hills. This is the seat of the McAlistair clan.

But Alistair Mor, Lord of the Isles and Kintyre, was an opponent of the infamous Robert the Bruce and he died after being imprisoned for his lack of loyalty. His titles and estates were given to his brother, Angus, who had supported the Bruce during the Wars of Independence.

This of course has absolutely nothing to do with a young Robbie Mack, the surname of whom seems to have originated further south just north of England.

It’s believed the original spelling around the 15th century would have been Mack. I have no idea of my genealogy dating any further back than my father’s grandparents. That may well be another project for another day.

After the Trauma of Margaret who would have been the 3rd born had she not been stillborn, there remained three brothers and four sisters, my siblings and I managed to produce another generation of twenty children, including my own three daughters. Not surprisingly, I have lost track of the number of nieces and nephews I have - or indeed how many great nieces or nephews I’ve gained in recent years. However, given my family’s propensity to breed, I would not be surprised if there are a few out there.

My father and his father were born and bred in Menstrie and the Macks are one of the oldest families in the village. I say ‘village’ but I suspect Menstrie may now be classed as a town rather than a village.

My mother rarely spoke of her family, but I do know she was raised by her grandparents and had at least one sister in London. You may consider it strange that my brothers and sisters and I didn’t quiz her on the matter. We did of course. But although she told stories of the blitz, she chose not to speak of her family.

And in those days, we children did not challenge our parents: we simply accepted what we were told and that was that. Anyway, I quite liked the idea of her being the magical woman of mystery.

One of my mother’s favourite stories was how she met Dad.

My father was in the Royal Air Force during the second World War. And as a rear gunner on a Stirling bomber aircraft, he would have been seated right at the back of the fuselage. These guys were completely isolated from the main part of the plane and the rest of the crew whilst in mid-air and I can only imagine that feeling of hurtling alone through the sky.

No comfortable British Airways flight for them.

It’s perfectly understandable, therefore, that Dad would have been keen to find some feminine company when home on leave.

He met my mother at a wedding and, whilst not quite hitting it off right away, he persevered in asking her for a date. Mum initially refused. This possibly might have been due to the fact that my father was vertically challenged and not much endowed with good looks. These attributes were later found to be hereditary. I can hear my wife chortling behind me as I write.

Despite these negative factors, my father was nothing if not determined. His dogged perseverance won through eventually and Mum agreed to meet him the following evening. Showing a disconcertingly deceptive trait - which I assume could only have come from her English blood - she told us that, at that point, she had no intention of turning up.

The next evening came. According to both Mum and Dad, it was a typically Scottish autumn evening with that drizzly rain that cannot be described as torrential but is very fine and soaks the exposed in minutes. In my younger days, Menstrie Burn was endowed with trout. But the depth of water in the burn could vary significantly from one day to the next. On dry, clear days, it was a small bubbling burn (i.e. stream) of beautiful clear water. Villagers could easily cross by using a series of steppingstones.

But on seriously wet days - like the evening my father was to meet/not meet my mother – Menstrie Burn became a torrential river of brown murky water pouring down from the Ochil Hills. In such weather, locals had to cross via one of three bridges.

The first of these was the ‘back row’, the oldest but rarely used and cars could pass only in single file. The second bridge on Main Street provided direct access through the village and, as such, was the main crossing. The third crossing was a small pedestrian bridge, only around forty yards from the main gate of the mill.

My mother had found work in the local woollen mill which sat on the banks of the Menstrie Burn. At the end of the working day, the deafening sound of the works’ klaxon emanated from the mill, reverberating around the village.

This particular day, the workers streamed out, all wearing heavy weather clothing and most with umbrellas; many turning right to the main part of the village and some left to cross the small bridge. The latter walked through trees and undergrowth down the path that led to Burnside Road.

It was here that my mother found Dad standing. He had waited in the dismal rain for her to come out of work to ensure she was still coming that evening. His perseverance paid off.

‘How the ‘ell could I turn ‘im down after that,’ she laughed. She never lost her Cockney accent.

And that was the start of a near 60-year relationship. After a hazardous tour of duty in Egypt to assist in the defeat of Rommel, my father returned to marry Mum on the 26th December 1947.

57503.png

‘How much are your penny car’mels, Charlie?’, I asked.

The village of Menstrie was small with few shops and limited products. But we had the necessities - Church, Co-op, Post Office, drapers and a sweetie shop named ‘Charlies’. I used to drive Charlie mad by dithering with my sweetie selection and asking the same question every time.

In those days, Charlie seemed quite old to me and I vividly remember his thick, nicotine-stained fingers. Presumably, he smoked but I never saw him doing it.

When Charlie died and the shop changed hands, it became – perhaps inevitably - a fish and chip shop.

Apart from home in Burnside Road, school was the other major element in my life in those early years. My time at Menstrie Primary was largely normal, and many childhood friends linger in my memory. Some of them were legends to me: Teddy Morris, Bobby Frew - and Jimmy Thomson, who for reasons still unknown to me, we called ‘Book’. All I do know is that this nickname had absolutely nothing to do with his propensity for study. The only book I ever saw ‘Book’ read involved graphic photographs of women’s nether regions in various undressed poses.

In those days few of us had a television - but our very posh next door neighbours, the Cormacks, did. On one occasion, I’m told, they were watching a war movie, when a young blond Italian boy appeared - with an uncanny likeness to their little blond boy neighbour.

Hence, at the tender age of four years old, I acquired the nickname ‘Tino’. It was considered quite cool as a kid to have a nickname and, much to my brothers’ annoyance, the older Jim was called ‘Big Tino’ and the younger Peter referred to as ‘Wee Tino’.

But don’t get the wrong idea here. I was never leader of the pack and was always much too shy to take any kind of social advantage from having a cool nickname. Sadly.

The title barely remains today and only those who knew me way back then, on my all too infrequent visits to the village, still call me Tino.

As youngsters, outdoors Menstrie was our playground. It was a typical Scottish village of the ‘60s, where mums would scream our names out of the window as an indication that some form of nutrition was ready. When we played war games, it usually involved flying an aircraft that was cleverly disguised as a tree - or commanding a submarine that was simply a cleared area by the side of the burn. It was not unusual to have twenty-five or thirty participants in any of these games, appearing as they did from the depth and breadth of the village.

We rarely had a wooden bat or a leather ball for the popular game of rounders. Natural improvisers, we used a tennis racket and a tennis ball instead. It often took so long to find the ball in the outlying fields, where it had soared high above the two storey houses of Burnside Road, that many of the team had already gone home.

But scores were high.

My unfailing attendance at Sunday School within the church had nothing to do with any early religious conviction. My mother would give me one penny for the collection box. After buying a halfpenny caramel, the remainder went into the Church’s red collection bag. My fear of retribution – from either church or Mum – held considerable sway for me in those days, otherwise it would have been two halfpenny caramels - and eternal damnation or a good thrashing.

But my turning up at Sunday School come hail or shine, was also an early indication of a desire to succeed. I wanted, with an absolute determination, to win five awards for perfect attendance - which entailed five years’ attendance without missing one day. One might say a high price to pay for a young lad, but boy, I enjoyed that caramel.

By the tender age of 9 and 10 years old, I already had a part-time job with Gallagher’s farm, delivering milk with a grumpy old guy, Bert Brogan. Bert always wore a cap and a brown overcoat, and everything was done from a horse and cart. I rarely visited the sharp end of the cart - where the horse had a propensity to bite - and therefore, cannot recall the horse’s name.

But I remember her smell. Having been sprayed by her frequently whilst hanging off the back of the cart en route to destinations, trust me, it’s just one of those things that you never forget.

And it’s just dawned on me why Bert wore that awful same brown coat and cap.

In the bitter winter months, with nowhere to hide from the cold and nowhere to get any heat, parts of my fingers stuck to the inside of the frosted bottles that had been left on the doorstep all night. I earned my money that’s for sure.

I’m a firm believer in moving with the times. But for door-to-door deliveries like dairy products, I think there is an argument for environmental efficiency in using a horse and cart. Even a cost-efficient electric van requires the driver to constantly move the van around the route. Whereas that old horse knew exactly where to go, when to stop, when to start - with or without the driver’s guidance.

By 1963, pasteurisation was commonplace in Scotland. But, unless you were lucky enough to have a fridge, milk would still only last one day before going sour. Nowadays, everyone has fridges and the requirement for daily deliveries is no longer quite so necessary.

Around this time, I was at a Cubs jumble sale. I proudly wore my new Leaping Wolf badge, awarded for the attainment of three proficiency badges which involved tying knots, cookery and embroidery skills.

None of which, I might hastily add, had any influence in my later life.

However, it was a Friday evening and my mother came to look at the stall I was manning, when Mrs Johnstone of No. 38 Burnside Road came in - with the news that no-one of my era forgets.

It was 22nd November 1963 and, live on television for all the world to see, President JF Kennedy had been assassinated.

CH 2

Jackie

M Y FATHER, WHO BORE THE proud nickname of ‘Tiger’ Mack, was a rear gunner on Stirling bombers in the 2 nd World War. Like many veterans, he rarely spoke of his experiences but he did keep a log book which gave an indication of the risks he endured regularly whilst on duty.

So proud was I of my father’s contribution to the expulsion of Hitler, that I used to wear his airman’s cap at Hallowe’en on October 31st. Like every other kid of our generation, for this event, we trekked round the streets knocking on the doors of neighbours. We were expected to either be dressed up or to do a little repertoire of some kind, eg a joke, a song or dance, and were compensated with either some coppers or some sweets.

I always used to stand at the back of the group. My thinking was that, if there were many of us, the recipient would be bored by the time he/she got to me and would just give me the money anyway.

And let’s be honest, wearing a hat at an obscure angle hardly warranted the term ‘dressing up’. Alternatively, we would sing as a choir and, in the darkness, I could just mime and no one would notice.

Before the war, Dad was a very proficient footballer which was where he got his nickname from. This was not, as you might expect, because he played like a tiger; but rather, he was a defender and once when he fell with an opponent, in desperation he bit his ankle.

After the war, Dad became a miner and his favourite pastime was to breed small birds. With nine children, he was clearly very adept at being a breeder of children too. It took me many years to understand why he always opted for permanent night shift. I often wonder now, if that might have been an instruction from my mother…

Out in the back garden, he had three aviaries and kept such varied feathered creatures as bullfinches, siskins and goldfinches - all fine specimens of our native wild British birds. Occasionally, he used to show the birds and ultimately became a senior judge of small birds.

Now, keeping birds as a hobby does not a Dr Doolittle make, but everyone within miles seemed to believe Dad could repair birds - broken wings, damaged legs, missing eyes and other ailments turned up at our door. He never turned any away, and if the birds were repairable, he would spend hours working on them - sometimes being scraped and pecked to pieces. But, in most cases, it inevitably meant putting them out of their misery humanely.

I was nine years old when a young jackdaw was brought in. It had obviously fallen from its nest and could not yet fly. Dad told me if we fed it bread mixed with milk, it would gain strength and eventually fly off. This task I took seriously. However, I also spent ages just playing with the young, aptly named, ‘Jackie’.

It took around two months before Jackie was fit to fly as well as any other bird. But he had no intention of leaving. Jackie was not allowed in the house but as soon as I stepped outside, he would land on my shoulder. He became very protective of me too: woe betide anyone who shouted at me or, worse, pushed me - even in jest.

Once I had left Menstrie primary school, the journey to Alva Academy meant a two-mile bus ride. I came home for lunch each day so that meant making the trip four times a day. Jackie initially would wait until I returned for lunch or at the end of the day but he (or she, as I never managed to find out which) knew that if he followed the bus, I would get off at the other end. So, then he started following me to secondary school. He seemed to recognise the playtime bell and be back ready and waiting for my exit - and the obligatory landing on my shoulder.

At first it was a novelty but it became a bit of a hindrance when I was supposed to be playing rugby or cricket. Jackie always made the stumps before me and would attack anyone who tried to tackle me on the rugby field.

Jackie was a fine pet but we had to try and get him back into the wild where he belonged. Dad and I one day walked up to what we called the Third Glen at the back of the Ochils with Jackie. But no matter how much shooing we did, he followed us all the way back to the village. We even took the car and dropped him off some seven miles away. He just followed us back.

Eventually, Dad decided I should try on my own. I took him as far back up the hills as my knowledge or little legs took me.

Jackie, however, was not stupid.

He seemed to understand that if I saw him, he would be chased away. So what did he do? He hopped behind me hidden in the grass and ferns. I didn’t realise he was still there until I was all but home.

We decided not to feed him (or at least Dad thought I wasn’t). But in any case, his food was reduced. And it did, in fact, turn out to be the beginning of the end of our relationship – although not exactly as planned.

In the village, there lived a small lady named Nora Argo. To say she was rather round in shape would be unkind but my childhood memories recall – rightly or wrongly - that her posterior protruded by almost the same distance as her height.

Anyway… I believe it was now 1965 but, by the sounds being made by Nora one fateful day, we thought the Germans had returned. When I went to the door to see what all the hullaballoo was about, the vision that met my eyes will remain with me forever. Nora was running down the street with a ‘jeely piece’ (i.e. jam sandwich) in her hand, with Jackie doing a fine impression of a dive-bombing Stuka plane. All he wanted was the sandwich and all it took was a firm shout of ‘Jackie’ from me, for him to stop.

But the damage was done.

I never really thought we would lose Jackie. For all that, I came home from school one day to see my Dad’s hands covered in blood and Jackie locked in the back lobby. I was given the task of catching him and putting him in a Wellington boot of all things. He was then, I believe, taken some ten miles away in a friend’s car that was not returning to Menstrie and he was released.

It took him four days - but Jackie made his way back again.

This time Dad sent him to Nottingham in a transport cage with other birds that he was showing, with the instruction to colleagues that Jackie was to be released.

He never returned after that.

I was desperately sad even though I had known this day would eventually come. But I liked to think that Jackie lived happily ever after in a Sherwood-like forest with Robin Hood and Maid Marion.

Whatever the truth about Jackie’s ultimate end, he or she was the epitome of loyalty and he was a devoted friend to me as a young boy. In life, only some of us are ever likely to experience that kind of unconditional love. RIP Jackie mate

CH 3

Balls – Round and Oval

I LOST SOMETHING VERY PRECIOUS TO me when I was a kid.

My education – or at