Silas and the Angry Cook

Everybody has to eat! If we stop eating our bodies get thinner and we lose the will to earn the wages that we are paid, then we have no money to buy food. Remember when scurvy was a common problem on the old wooden sailing ships? What I am saying is that cooks are a very important cog in keeping moral and a ships crew together. A cook plays a vital role in keeping all crew members well fed and thus happy.

Big Joe .
I remember Big Joe very well even after the twenty years that should have dimmed the memory of him. I never normally have problems with cooks, they cook and I navigate and I never cross over that invisible line, except that is just this once.

Joe is a very big lad, keen and fast moving. He is from Morocco as were most of the crew on this mighty vessel and a gentle lump of meat he was. Until that is his cooking skills came under attack. I presumed that his normal calm and quiet behavior might be open to a gentle hint but on that I have never been so wrong in all my life.

Dinner Time .
Joe could only cook three dishes for dinner. These dishes were churned out in rotating succession every day of the week. Monkey Brains, Oxtail and boiled Chicken. If it was Oxtail tomorrow it would be Boiled Chicken Today and would have been Monkey innards yesterday. The meals came around with monotonous regularity and without fail or change in presentation or ingredients.

I hate Oxtail, and monkey brains have never appealed; I would rather have eaten rat had there only been some on board. Chicken I can take but not boiled whole in a pot with little else to brighten the serving. Normally I let these things go and I live on side dishes and beer. I often have to drink beer just to relieve the sharp hunger pangs that attack my stomach at any time of the day! I could have sacked the guy but bad cooks are like leaves on a tree - there are thousands of them and the next one could be worse, believe me!

Anyway I ate one meal out of three and for many weeks I survived. The other meals being a fully liquid diet through beer, whisky and dreams of steaks and salads! The single meal that I forced myself to attend and begged my stomach to accept despite, the fact that a near revolt was always bubbling at the surface, was the chicken dish! An over-boiled mysteriously turned grey chicken leg that lay next to a scrap yard-like and over-salted lump of mashed potato and a whole carrot that had been tortured and maimed. All goodness dragged from it by the best in the world.

The day I went scavenging ..
For the other two meals between this enforced one I lived on beer, whisky and water from which I pulled the necessary sustenance to last another day. The beer and spirits, although allowing me another day of continuation, must have caused havoc by bombarding my empty stomach and thus my brain cells with wrong signals. It was thus that I found myself on edge and angry and determined to correct this disastrous situation.

One night with a hole in my stomach the size of a football and legs that could hardly keep me walking in a straight line I wobbled down to the galley - an area that I only visit during inspections and then with a blindfold on. I went down to the galley in full-uniform and started to whip up an eclectic mixture of nibbles. I was feverish and desperate, oblivious to all else around me - like I had just crossed the Sahara desert without water.

Big Joe catches me in the act ..
Cheese on toast, sardines sandwiches and tinned peaches, cheese in my pockets and crackers in my hand I was busy trying to motivate my non-answering legs to return with the goods when the most unfortunate occurred. Big Joe happened to come along and saw me with my treasure chest of appropriated food stuffs.

“My dinner no good, Captain” he said in what seemed to be an excessively unfriendly manner.

“Not for me, I can’t stomach monkey brains and such like”, I said and regretted my rash reply as soon as I had opened my mouth.

“I cook all day, and you no like! Maybe you no like me eh”, said my now visibly aggressive opponent.

It was not the way that he said the last but the fact that he had picked up this rather large meat cleaver and was busy chopping at some invisible lump of matter on the counterpane that frightened me.

I suppose my mind was not functioning normally as my next words seemed to put the flame to the fuel - the fat in the frying pan, so to speak.

“I need some real food today”, was all that I stuttered out as I collected together my sandwiches, pickles and opened cans of fruit. Simple words but ones that opened a Moroccan flood gate of every swear word in that language - I think he was swearing anyway judging by the hand waving and saliva that was bubbling out of his mouth. He even followed me up the stairs as I gripped tight to my salvation and made a dash for safety.

The Great Escape ..
I was positively shaking from my toes to my brain when I at last managed to slam the door of my cabin behind me. By the time I had shut, locked and installed a chair under the handle I had squashed sardines pasted down my previously clean white shirt, remains of melted cheese down my trousers and what looked like pickles draped over my shoes.

“Why me,” I screamed at nobody in particular.

After a period of calming down I decided that I would need to eat what was left of my forage. I emptied what was left of the can of peaches down my gullet along with some bread that had managed not get mixed up with the pickles and washed all down with about ten beers.

Unfortunately it did not end there as Joe was not quite over the slight he felt on his cooking ability. He must have had a chip the size of a tree trunk weighing heavily on his shoulders as just about the time when I was deliberating whether to pick off some of the dried-up and stringy cheese from my trousers a massive ruckus erupted outside my cabin door.

I could here Joe shouting to me through the wooden separation, “Captain, I want apology, I want you say sorry”, he screamed.

This continued for a little time as I cowered in my bathroom, only venturing out to get a shot of whisky and two to calm down my shaky nerves. Eventually though and after eating the remains of a mangled brie-covered peanut butter sandwich that I had found in my pocket, all went quiet.

Rescued from my prison cell
It wasn’t until even later that I was rescued from my prison cell by a very welcome Chief Engineer and Mate. They told me that they had removed Joe to a safer place and had replaced the fire axe that he was about to break through my door with. I was released from my torment and had a few thankful drinks with my rescuers. I certainly needed them after all of that, the beers I mean.

Joe goes home and life goes on ..
Joe was suitably removed from the vessel the next morning still bearing ill-will against me. Life returned to normal and I hooked back my door feeling light and secure for the future and the rest of the trip.

With his departure I certainly felt lighter in my movements and I could see light for a fuller stomach in the coming weeks. Sadly though for the remainder of that trip all did not pan out as I expected as I found myself unable to participate in any further meal onboard that vessel.

The new cook objected to what I had thought was a carefully crafted suggestion that he tidy up his galley (which had become home to a large family of cockroaches during Joes tenure) but this did not sit well with him. Under fear and threat of him spitting in my soup or frying up a cocky or two with my steak I found myself unable to eat anything served up.

I can honestly say that I survived that trip though the nourishment gained from the odd can of beer, without which I would have shriveled away to nothing.

They sacked me at the end of that trip, suggested that I should do a man management course but that they were not willing to pay for it. They also said that they where not happy with the amount of alcohol that I consumed on a daily basis - they certainly had no idea of how I survived the four months I spent on that boat.

I would have died had it not been for beer and an odd whisky or two.

Joe Larkin on Silas

Ah, Silas! Yes, I’ve bumped into him now and again. I sailed with him a few times over the years on one vessel or another.

I certainly don’t want to kick the guy down by speaking about him, plenty of others have done that over the years and he is a very nice and well meaning skipper, one of the better ones around, I suppose. Slightly wobbly on his legs most of the time and with his head in the clouds but he mostly gets the job done and his ships are usually happy ships.

He reminds me of a Captain in a film about strawberries. Not about the fruit but the one were Humphrey Bogart is the skipper of this cruise vessel and he starts to go mad. He nearly causes mutiny because he thinks somebody has stolen his strawberries. Silas is like that, I always have the feeling that something is about to happen, that a disaster is always around the corner or that the safety valve is about to blow on one situation or another.

Ach, poor man, He’s a good man at heart and as I said before it would be a pleasure to sail with him again. Good at his job too, runs a smooth ship and knows his job inside out. Just not quite the full packet up top! Somehow he can never think in straight lines like everybody else and he has a certain knack for always misjudging situations, maybe due to the copious amounts of alcohol that he pours down his gullet or maybe not! Might be genetic or the workings of a highly developed mind, but then again he does drink from morn-till-night.

I met him first many years ago, when both of us had more energy and stamina and were at the peak of our careers. I as Chief and Silas as Captain we crossed paths on many a wreck that took us around the globe one way or another. During those days I could stand can for can with the man (in the evenings I mean). Supping beer of an evening and watching the wake froth out behind became a standard for us and so I say it myself - I am no saint either.

The only time that he really lost the plot, big style, was when his wife was onboard with us. He was about 39yrs old or so and his wife, a pert blonde haired and intelligent girl a bit younger than him. A proper little filly and what she ever saw in Silas I will never know.

Anyway, for the first weeks of that voyage everything flowed smoothly and we did what we were paid to do and enjoyed ourselves to boot. Silas navigated, I kept the old engine ticking over and Betty his wife ran circles around the poor cook and organised movie nights, fancy dress parties and quizzes - as wives tend to do. All was going well till one day I noticed that Silas was starting to glower at the second mate. I first noticed his bushy glower in the bar and it sort of sprung to his face every time the second mate spoke. Not that Sam seemed to notice or if he did he didn’t care but it seemed to be totally against what I knew of the skipper’s nature - went against the grain. He was more an amiable old fart who just sits in a bar with a permanent and inane grin on his face. But here he was actually staring with utmost hatred pouring out of his features - and for no apparent reason.

By the following week after my initial observations he had stopped talking to everybody unless absolutely essential and sat in the bar glowering at all who happened to be present.

By the end of another week he was not talking nicely to anybody, period! He had in fact started to slam doors in people’s faces, leave rude notes on the chart table and he took to deriding or slagging off anybody that was not present. His wife also started to suffer from his sudden mood swings and most of the day she stayed in their cabin, tucked away behind locked doors. All bar quizzes and fun was naturally suspended!

By the end of two months the ship was in turmoil. The Deck Cadet was a constant waterfall of tears as he took daily abuse over his navigational skills, or rather his lack of them. The second mate was quite happy as he had been banned from the bridge and so spent his days sunbathing on the deck or drinking his life away in the bar (if Silas was not present). The cook, after a series of blistering attacks on his chicken dishes had taken to sharpening knives at all hours of the day and the Chief Officer had just threatened to resign. My engineers started to keep a low profile and shifted their drinking activities to the mess room downstairs. And I? Well, I just carried on before and took Silas stares, grunts and abuse with a pinch of salt.

Another week of this and I am sure we would have found the cadet swinging from the mast, the second mate heaved overboard or the cook throwing knives, but luck came our way, I am glad to say. Just after the Cook was seen sharpening a knife outside the skipper’s cabin door we arrived in New Orleans and the skipper and his wife (both of whom had not left their cabin for three days) re-emerged. The wife came out of that cabin with bloodshot eyes and a suitcase, and without even a goodbye or a shake of the hand she was down that gangway and into a taxi - faster than I could stop the engine and before the last rope was thrown to the jetty.

Silas himself saw her off and came back onboard with a smile on his face. He came up that gangway and marched straight into the bar, poured himself a beer and for all we could tell the past weeks had never happened.

He sat in that bar and muttered something about how everybody had been leering at his wife. One word could cover that, jealousy, but he certainly took the reaction to extremes. A mountain out of a mole hill and he was seriously in error as nobody would have dared to have leered at his wife - pretty though she was. Needless to say she never came to sea again. In fact they separated not soon after that incident (small wonder). And we on the ship returned to normal as if nothing untoward had ever occurred. The cadet put away his rope, the second mate returned to work albeit looking like a beach bum and the cook kept his sharpening to the galley. My engineers and I retuned to the bar for our sociable beers and well, alls well that ends well.

Yes, that was the only time that Silas ever really lost the plot and I am still to this day unsure as to the real reason for his breakdown. But it didn’t surprise me, he has always been near the edge of instability, always thinking tangentially instead of laterally and always off the main rails and into some siding that nobody else is aware of. Other trips have come and gone and we have got along like Captains and Chief engineers do, he drinks more and more and I drink less and less.

He’s a good man, don’t take me wrong, is old Silas Parks. And as I said before I would sail with him again - hope he leaves the wife at home though!

The Old Tin Can

This episode occurred around 1967, a time when I was at the very peak of my career, or at a time when I should have been at the peak but due to reasons not of my own making, I was not. Circumstances had made for me to leave my previous employ or face a case being made against me, so to keep everybody happy and in the interests of all concerned I looked for alternative work.

The company that I ended up with was a complete one horse outfit: a horse with three legs and chronic bronchitis. Some madman had decided to resurrect a vessel that had twice foundered, once sunk and currently lay nearly upside down off the coast of Scotland. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and feeling low and in need of some self-esteem I listened to this madman and accepted his offer of a job.

She was a wreck; I say that honestly and without hesitation, a wreck that should never have been allowed to set sail this time and the many times before. I stood by her during the dry-docking: a period of refit for a waterlogged tin-can and from the very beginning I regretted ever having accepted this job.

I Captain Silas E Parks, Master (Foreign Going) Class One, Captain of Cruise Ships, Flag Ships and New Buildings - now reduced to this thirty year old, 90 meter long leaking bath tub of a coastal vessel whose future I could not see!

At the interview this madman said, “Silas, you are the man we need for this job. You have the experience and knowledge to make a fine working vessel out of the nuts and bolts that we have here”.

This was certainly a boost to my deflated confidence after my previous trip and so well puffed up and primed I sat there and took nothing in. “Of course”, he continued, “as the vessel is not currently on the market we would not be able to pay you a full salary but we hope that you will enter this project as a partner and when the ship is up and working we can reimburse you with extra”.

I accepted this rosy offer and to this day regretted my hasty decision.

After the dry docking and whilst laid alongside in Newcastle my future crew started to appear like tramps around the town clock. Shuffling and without interest they heaved and winched themselves up the gangway and with hardly a breath for a “hello” they disappeared into the warren of an accommodation. Over time, certainly they pulled some straws out of the hat and thick black smoke started to puff out of the stack and good smells emanated from the galley, but this crew had certainly been drawn from the local prison, from the bars and watering holes dotting the dockyards and from the gutters around.

It was at this point that I took a nip of the old stuff, just a nip to keep the cold out and the feeling that I had made a big mistake at bay.

SETTING SAIL
Taking a ship away from port is not a difficult job, not for me anyway. With one engine and a rudder it does not require a degree in mathematics to work out which way either should go. And so on a fine winter’s day, I moved the things that needed moving and we left Newcastle and the Tyne River with very little ado and plenty of billowing black smoke that I am sure had the port authorities scrambling for their cameras and the housewives for their umbrellas. I had by this time come to know a few things about my crew and the knowledge had me aching for my bottle of gin and the off-license for more.

We left the bay and the deep blue sea with me and the mate on the bridge and the Chief Engineer asleep in his bed (he seemed to assume that the engine room was not a place for him).

We left the UK bound for Balboa on the Spanish coast to load grain back to the UK. A pleasant enough trip it would be if the Bay of Biscay behaved with the weather and the Chief had loaded enough fuel for the voyage, I would not be surprised if the engine ground to a premature halt half way across the bay! The mate himself seemed to be a willing partner, although when I offered him a beer in my cabin he started to shake and nearly fell over the side in his rush to get away. Not at all sure about that one but apart from this upset over being offered a beer his navigational skills seemed in order and he can talk which is more than I can say for the chief snoring in his bunk.

Down in the galley below things were not as rosy as had been first thought. The food that was served did not do justice to the smells that had wafted up: the over boiled carrots and the undercooked potatoes that somehow ‘blobbed’ together on a rubber shoe sole tasted worse than it looked.

AT SEA
Sailing across the ocean in this reconditioned block of rust certain aspects of the vessel started to come out and they kept us busy for the duration. Just little things like leaking tanks, that had somehow missed inspection and pumps that never worked that had missed the Chief. Salt water showers became an everyday occurrence (certainly saved the cook having to salt his boiled carrots) and hourly fire alarms had us all running like rabbits - except for the Chief who wore his earmuffs twenty-four hours a day as a result of the noise.

The cook managed to deliver up some of the most amazing disasters I have ever seen out of food that had seemed decent and usable when delivered to the vessel. The Second Engineer, a big brute of a lad who seemed enthusiastic as far as the engine room went started to mutter threats against the cook should he not improve but I suppose he was only voicing what we all felt and so at the time I thought nothing more of his aggressive threats to the thin air.

The mate carried on talking to me and seemed to go peculiar every time he saw me with a beer and I carried on living a life and dreaming of the money that may or may not be going in the bank. I managed to keep on going through a mixture of gin, dreams and sleep that took me from one day to the next, and should I have ever looked around at the vessel or at the crew onboard I would have saved myself the bother and have topped myself there and then.

WHEN THINGS STARTED TO GO WRONG

The Mate
I cannot actually state when I noticed that all was not as it should be. Maybe just before we arrived in Balboa or maybe just after we had left. In retrospect I am sure that if I had known that disaster was about to break before we had arrived I would have done something about it before we left, but truth be told we sailed and that was that.

I suppose it was in the morning of the day after our departure from Balboa that I noticed that something was not quite as it should be. When my alarm clock buzzed in the early hours of the morning I found myself gripping the backboard of my bed tightly to prevent myself falling onto the floor. The vessel was sailing along at such an angle as to suggest that we were either sinking or that we had a serious problem with the ballast pump or tanks down below. I would say, at the moment of deciding whether to walk on the wall or the floor, that we had a thirty degree list on the vessel. I may be exaggerating but with the vessels rolling and the effects of my drinking the night before I am not certain of the exact figure. But regardless of its size I knew then that we had a serious problem and upon immediately phoning the mate on the bridge (to try and find out why we had such a list) I became aware that the problem was larger than the leaning of the vessel.

This is how my conversation went with the mate as far as I can remember it:

“Jon, what the **** is going on?”

“Hi Captain”, said this strange person in a breathless and highly excited voice, “do you like the fairground?”

It was at that point that I rushed along the walls and the deck to get to the bridge, arriving their in my underpants and little else. The mate, if that was who he still might be, was standing at the steering wheel and taking the vessel through a zigzag course that would have made WW11 convoy leaders jealous. He was weaving through the oceans whilst holding a conversation with himself: sweating profusely and wearing a pair of green and blue Donald Duck pajamas (he had certainly not been wearing them when he arrived on the bridge last night).

I deliberated on whether to push him away from the steering wheel and taking control or trying to sweet-talk him away. The talking never got off the ground as an extra large wave, our extra large list and a ‘zig’ that bore no relation to the ‘zag’ sent us all flying into a jumbled heap against the port bridge exit. The mate continued to lie curled up whilst mumbling something about dragons and fairies whilst I took myself as quickly as possible back to the steering wheel to try and salvage something of the disaster that had hit.

It surprised me greatly at the time that nobody else had come to the bridge to see what the problem was, but after this latest attempt to visit the seabed the Chief Engineer did stick his head around the door (still with ear muffs in place) and to grunt in my general direction. I must certainly have looked a right site with my hair sticking up straight in the air and clad only in my underpants. And to do damage to an otherwise terrible situation, the wildly chatting mate in the corner dressed in his night gear may have led anyone believe the worst of me.

The Chief did not grunt further and disappeared with his muffs back to bed or wherever he came from. I slowed the vessel down and stuck the auto pilot on to get us back on a straight course and then started to look at the next step of the problem - our excessive list.

The Second Engineer ..
I didn’t recognize the Second Engineer when he came onto the bridge so complete was his body armory of oil and grime. He came up to the bridge leaving a river of oil streaks and dirty hand prints that would put a smile to any forensic experts face and thumped himself down in the chair that I had once called my own. I looked at him without much hope and enquired politely as to what the problem might be.

“We seem to have a slight problem here Sam”, I said as calmly and restrained as I could.

“Yep”, he replied from his slouched position amongst the oil spill. “We certainly do, I have knocked the cook out and so there will be no breakfast this morning unless you cook it yourself”.

I was thrown considerably away from my previous state of acceptance into a jumbled heap of confusion upon his statement. I could not for the life of me work out how the cook had any input to the list that the vessel was laboring under. Pictures of the cook shifting his stores from the port side to the starboard side did not conjure up more than a one degree list and the idea of him annoying the second by entering the engine room just seemed impossible.

I decided at that point to enquire further into this mystery if only to clear some of the now choking cobwebs that were enveloping my tired and overloaded brain.

“Sam”, I said as calmly and clearly as I could, “what about the list”?

“The list” said Sam

“Yes, the list” said I trying to exercise undue patience in the face of extreme adversity.

“Yep”, said Sam whilst levering himself out of the chair that now resembled a 200ltr drum of waste oil, “must go and look at that”.

The Chief Engineer .
After Sam had left on his mission to solve the problem of our excessive list I decided to call my chief Engineer: to try and get some increased action on the problem. The telephone to his cabin produced no result, as did my call to the engine room. After a glance at the Chief Mate blubbering on the floor I decided that a quick visit to the chiefs Cabin would be in order.

He was draped across his day bed, propped up by a lifejacket and three pillows and with his ear muffs taped to his head for better insulation - I left him there and proceeded to my cabin for a can of beer and a cigarette! The latter habit having only recently been picked up on .

The Cook .
The list did in fact get better. It did in fact improve from about 30degrees to about twenty five and although it was by no means perfect it was in the right direction. I was busy taking a fly nip from my bottle of whisky that I had stashed amongst the flags in the locker when the bridge door crashed open. Turning around whilst attempting to disguise the bottle as the National flag of Jamaica I couldn’t see anybody. Further peering downwards and I saw what looked like the cook, covered in blood and dragging himself across the floor like a beggar with no legs.

I pulled the cook upright and made sure that his bleeding was not life threatening. He was blubbering away like a baby”he hit me, he hit me, he hit me!”

From the other side of the bridge I could hear the mate joining I the fuss “he hit me too”, was his repetitive voice over.

THE DISASTROUS END TO A DISASTER
I now had on my hands two total madman. I had one madman covered in blood and crying like a newborn baby and the other repeating everything that the first one said. In fact whilst repeating everything the mate was busy leaping like a frog around the confines of the bridge. Very upsetting to say the least! I would have welcomed a bit of help from someone with an ounce of brain in them but that was not to be.

The door did open whilst I was attempting to prop the cook up but it was only the Chief who suggested that I should keep the noise down before he disappeared back down from whence he came.

And again a few minutes later whilst I was attempting to remove the Mate from the chart table so that I could gain some perspective as to our position did the door open. This time it was the Bosun who informed me without pause for breath that the crew had gone on strike - something about not receiving overtime pay! And then he disappeared - job done successfully!

Not soon after that we ran aground. With a large crunch and what seemed at the time a notable starboard list we hit rocks and breached the bottom of the boat. The starboard list was I presume a result of the Second Engineer having forgotten his original task and whilst pumping the ballast let it run longer than it should have. I do remember one point when we where upright but I was busy trying to stop the Cook stabbing himself with the chart table calipers and the Mate from helping him achieve this.

I myself ended up without a job and an overdraft deeper than the boat I had just left. The once-kindly manager blamed me for everything that had occurred and so did not feel it necessary to reimburse me a penny for my troubles. The cook left and decided that he should come out of the closet, in fact the Second Engineer forgave him and they are now living together in Selby. The Chief Engineer slept through it all and I am sure never actually realized what had gone on - maybe to him the final crunch was just part of his dream.

And the mate? Well, he just walked off the vessel and more or less toddled up the gangway of another - life goes on.

And I took the blame for the whole disaster.

The Incredible Fart

I do not want to use these memoirs as a means to portion out blame like a five course dinner but certainly on this occasion (and on many others) I feel that the truth must be told to free myself from the swamp that I found myself being sucked into.

The actual situation occurred before any inkling, knowledge or warning came to my attention. In hindsight I might have said that the cook was partially at fault for allowing us to run out of varied breakfast ingredients so early on in the trip. Half way across the Atlantic Ocean and we had been eating baked beans for breakfast, pork sausages in baked beans, and ravioli in baked beans and more recently just baked beans with baked beans. We had no eggs or bacon left, no black pudding or cereals to have a change from the fried and the baked beans.

I could also blame the Chief Officer for not having checked the cook’s requirements and empty shelves, or the chandler for giving us the brand of beans that he did. The manufacturers of the baked beans could also be a suitable candidate for investigation: decaffeinated coffee is easily available and cheap so why can we not have had the option to buy ‘defarted’ beans?

I could even go so far as to blame the Venezuelan Patrol Boat Captain whose skills did not rise to his position and rank, but this is all after the event occurred and as I said before it is not my aim to blame. By writing this, I simply want to put my side of the story forwards, to clear my own name.

At the time that this particular incident arose, it was baked beans for breakfast or nothing at all!

 

How it all began
I think for clarity of the situation I must start right back at the beginning, when events started to occur that led up to this unusual situation and disastrous result and to the reason why I found myself sitting in a Venezuelan jail cell surrounded by the most villainous looking bunch of potential drug pushers and lice breeders imaginable.

One fine day of many we were seventeen souls crossing the Atlantic Ocean from the UK to Brazil: chugging along through fine seas to meet the horizon that managed just to keep that little distance away from us. Always there yet never close enough to touch. Happy Bob was doing the early morning watch (the four to eight) and I was doing the eight to twelve watches with Erdengo doing the twelve to four (the hot sun watch). And the trip was nearly over. By last nights reckoning I had calculated that we would be in port by three the next afternoon, tied up and half drunk by six pm at the latest.

That was the plan anyway and when I got up that morning with a slight sore head from the previous nights drinking session I followed my usual routine of shower, coffee, and the now dreaded plate of baked beans before toddling up to the bridge for the start of my watch.

 

Bobs very own farting machine .
I arrived at the bridge door still half asleep and suffering and in no shape or form did I imagine or expect what greeted me as I opened the bridge door. As I pushed the door wide the foulest smell hit me right in the pit of the stomach, a smell so putrid and sickly, so potent and nauseating that it took all of my courage to step further into the wheelhouse rather than turning tail and running for fresh air.

Holding my breath I looked desperately around for a possible sighting of a three week old dead kipper or a kid with a stink bomb and saw Happy Bob outside on the bridge wing.

Squashing my nostrils together I rushed through and out. I asked him quickly, “Bob, what the hell is that foul smell inside of the bridge?”

Bob, sucking furiously on a cigarette and standing as far as possible from the offending area without falling over the ships side said; “just a slight stomach problem it will clear up a bit later I hope”.

“Well, just open up all the doors and windows as you leave, please and BOB” I said through lack of anything else to say. It is maybe not a good idea to light a cigarette up in your cabin with that amount of methane around”, I added as an afterthought.

Bob departed the offending area having opened up all of the doors and windows as he went and within twenty minutes and after much re-checking I deemed it safe enough to re-enter.

The endless line of the horizon was now seriously disturbed with effects of solid land getting closer. Hills were by this time starting to take shape, and other vessels were drawing pretty lines on our radar. It was time to contact the port authorities for clearance and all the usual stuff that customs and immigration requires and I had already delayed this necessary contact until the smells had cleared and I could breathe without fear of gagging.

I started all of the necessary and I remained busy for the next hour or so as we drew closer to land and as buildings and the shape of a port began to be visible to the naked eye.

 

My very own farting machine
I was on the radio to this patrol boat that seemed to be using the whole ocean as a training field for the blind pilots association when I heard this massive gurgling sound that could have been the remaining water draining out of the pacific ocean though a twenty inch drain pipe.

Along with this previously unheard and awesome sound that could have drowned out an intercity train at full speed, came a long and uninterrupted fart that had potential to light up downtown New York for a week.

I am not saying that I have never farted before, I am just saying that what manifested itself on this occasion was well beyond normal expectations and well out with the boundaries of known records for size, sound and upset to the system. Everybody is subject to a slight pollution of the atmosphere around them whether they admit to it or not but what came out of my rear on this particular occasion, apart from its size and voracity was a smell that a skunk would have been proud of.

The smell that hit my nostrils could have had the potential to cut short Hitler’s advance through Europe and would have made Saddam Hussein welcome in Bush to his country. Had I managed to capture this smell in a bottle stink bomb manufacturers would have gone out of business and my name would have been in the Guinness book of records - should they have farting achievement records. It was though impossible to even consider all of this when the situation arose and the only thought or possible body movement was a rush for the door and the fresh air that beckoned outside.

 

The Venezuelan Skipper on my Bow
In actual fact the smell was so bad that I was outside and sucking in air before I realized something, that I had dropped a task uncompleted, a task that certainly did not brook any delay on its completion. In all honesty it never really sank in that I should be doing something else until I saw the whites of the eyes of a Venezuelan skipper who most certainly should not have been onboard my boat at that exact moment in time.

To cut along story short and to rid myself of these upsetting memories, I had at the time of the foul smell release neglected to complete a conversation regarding courses and direction with the Captain of a Venezuelan Navy Boat. It was thus due to the unsure direction that he would have to take to avoid a collision that he chose to take the wrong one and thus he found my bows neatly wedged into the side of his vessel, just under his bridge wing where he had been standing.

I had in retrospect actually managed to drop two tasks that I had been in the process of doing, the first was as mentioned previously of plotting courses with the navy boat and the second was turning over the autopilot to hand steering.

I came to realize all of this just after the bows hit with a large smash and as the stricken vessels captain came head over heels off his bridge wing, from where he had been waving hysterically, and landed on my bow - just below my basin of fresh air that I was sucking into my lungs like it was going out of fashion.

 

The Venezuelan hell
It might have been that upon leaving the steering console my vessel swung off course and still being at full speed ended up pointing directly towards the Naval Boat, but I would still strongly question why the captain was standing waving his arms on the bridge wing of his boat when he should have been inside navigating his vessel safely. Maybe if he had been inside doing his job then I would not have found myself inside of a Venezuelan prison cell eating baked beans with my fingers and drinking water that was yellow in color.

Somehow having grasped the essentials of the accident my captors thought it funny to feed me a diet of baked beans for the duration of my stay. Baked beans with bread, baked beans with water: but the strangest thing about this was that I never managed to produce a fart again, not even a little squeak - much to their consternation. Maybe my system had shut down in fright or this South American Nation had managed to invent ‘defarted beans’, I know not, but luckily for me it did not produce any effects in my innards.

They gave me a lawyer after three months, he spoke no English and I only knew how to order a beer in Spanish. It went on for weeks. Weeks of endless days without a beer or drink to lighten up the situation, days of living in a filthy and damp cell with only my drug addicted cell mates for company. One “amigo” who spoke a mangled form of English informed me that they had found an empty bottle of whisky in my cabin after the event and I suppose this did not go towards helping my situation.

 

My Escape from Hell ..
After three months my lawyer suddenly appeared with a weedy guy who said he was the British consul. He said “sorry old chap, didn’t know you where here” and a week after that I found myself on a plane home. In actual fact the consul told me that they had decided not to press charges, mainly because the navy found the whole situation amazingly funny. The judge was supposedly in hysterics when the jist of events was explained to him and he was unable to continue with the case. The consul also said that I had been very lucky due to the fact that they managed to salvage the Naval Boat without much effort - supposedly the fact that my vessels bows were wedged so tightly into the patrol boat prevented it from sinking there and then and they managed to bring both vessels into port and to safety without too much trouble.

 

The End ..
I am glad that somebody found it funny and that the situation had a lighter note. The owners of the vessel and my previous employers did not see any humor in the situation; in fact they fired me upon my return even though they received a huge whack of insurance returns for loss of time and for future repairs. I thus found myself on the streets without a job and with hardly enough money to buy a can of baked beans…….. Not that I would have bought any if I could have.

So yes, I could have blamed the cook, the chandler or the Venezuelan boat Captain for his lack of attention to what was happening around him. But it is water under the bridge and as I explained before it is not my aim to discredit others or to portion out blame like a teacher giving homework but to put onto paper actual events as and when they come to me.

And you will see from above that I cannot in anyway be blamed for the events as they occurred and that the company was fully unjustified in releasing me from their services.

The Royal Australian Navy

Certain members of the Australian Royal Navy, or whatever they call themselves, have no sense of humour. ‘Stuck up’ is my description of the Commodore of the fleet and his henchmen who caused a large black mark to be placed against my good name. Just because he has a nice big vessel, a smart uniform and an ego the size of crate of good Scotch whisky was no good cause for his reaction to a certain incident that he was confronted with.

Just before this incident occurred I and my fellow officers were enjoying ourselves thoroughly and it is a crying shame that the fully suited Admiral (or whatever he was) and his merry men could not have joined in the fun or at least allowed us our happiness of the moment.

The scene of the crime
It was in Rabul in Papuan New Guinea where the true colours of the ARN where hauled up the mast for all to see. Rabul Bay and at anchor between the mountains and the islands! We had steamed in that morning; dropped the hook and were not due to go alongside the jetty until the following day. Lovely place is Rabul and at anchor, ideal for a few beers whilst watching the sun set. I get bored though, I usually do if we are not steaming along or busy loading discharging cargo and by ten o’clock in the morning I was itching for a bit of action - the thought of waiting until the sun set was agonising. A bar ashore would have done me fine but Rabul is not well known for its hostelries and welcome comfort.

Sitting at anchor and waiting is a killer that no amount of beverage consumption will cure and I was busy finishing off a can of beer when I happened to glance at the small boat that we use for painting the ships sides. The jolly boat was just sitting there doing nothing - and an idea sprang into my mind. I fetched another beer and went to stand beside this sorry excuse for a boat to get let this idea ferment in my brain. By the end of that second can I knew exactly what this little wooden sieve with the ten HP motor on the back could do for me.

Off on an adventure ..
The third can of beer was working its way down my neck as we left the ships side, heading in the direction of an island across the bay. It looked deserted and ideal for an afternoon’s fun and thus I found myself squashed between the 2/M and the Chief Engineer with the Third Engineer gripping the throttle of our trusty machine. Off us mighty souls set: loaded with stores and goods and heading into the last outback of civilisation and the unknown!!!!!

Wedged like a sardine in a can with more water in our boat than we could get rid of, we reached golden shores of safety - only just and probably never had we not demolished a few of the many cans of beer that we had brought with us.

We had a great time on that Island. The chief managed to root out some locals and with a piece of driftwood, a coconut and some beers to quench the thirst we thrashed them at cricket. It was a great day and by the time the sun was starting to diminish in strength we decided that a return to the big ship was in hand. It would have been great had we just returned to our vessel and drank some more before retiring to bed, but that just never happened. Unfortunately the man in white came down out of the sky and ruined the day for us big style.

The Admiral .
The admiral accused us of recklessness, misconduct and drunken and dangerous acts that where directed at a vessel of the Australian Royal Navy. He also included somewhere in his lengthy diatribe about us causing rabble like behaviour towards his officers and crew by making lewd and disgusting gestures and he ended up saying that we where a disgrace to the Merchant Navy and all who sail the seven seas. He certainly put it on to us big style and had my company not been brought into the situation via his many letters of complaint I would not have been so put out about the whole situation.

The end to a good day ..
We loaded up our boat with the many empty cans that had somehow littered the beach, and set forth back to our vessel in our very slow and unreliable piece of drift wood. Somehow the engine kept puttering and the ingress of water remained manageable and we worked our way at a snails pace back to our vessel in the anchorage. Along the way we happened to pass the rather large destroyer that had entered the bay that afternoon and which now stood darkly in our way.

As we chugged past the bow of this mighty fighting vessel we happened to notice that its crew where all standing to attention in their smart white uniforms. Their seemed to be hundreds of them lined up on the main decks, the gun platforms and the bridge wings. The whole vessel was filled with these white machines and for some reason what we saw made us stand up and to sing a rather loud and raucous rendering of “Rule Britannia”.

In fact as we came along the side of the vessel our efforts on the song front increased and we found ourselves standing up in our unsteady platform whilst bawling out our song as loud as we could shout. I am not sure if it was the Chief or the Second Mate who decided to show a ‘moonie’ at the boat, but the last half of our voyage down the destroyers side saw the four of us bent over forwards with our bums pointing upwards towards the serious crews on deck.

By the time we had passed the stern we fell into a collapsed heap in the bottom of our boat. We continued our slow process towards our vessel and basically thought nothing more of the situation.

The aftershocks ..
Needless to say our actions upset the finer workings of the mighty military machine of Australia and a letter landed on my desk the following morning. The letter arrived via the hand of some poor abused man in white who scuttled away like a frightened rabbit, feared of us hardy sailors, or feared of his serious captain I know not. But anyway the letter stated that we where a disgrace to the Merchant Navy and that the Admiral of this mighty boat would welcome an apology for our dangerous and upsetting disturbance of the other day.

I was actually going to draft out an apology, best to smooth ruffled feathers, but I after a few drinks over lunch my attitude and opinions changed. I could not see where we had gone wrong and if he (the admiral) could not see the funny side of the occurrence then why should I take the brunt.

We sailed later that afternoon without having made the apology and I suppose had I just left the situation as it was nothing more would have been heard of the occurrence - apart that is from the mad ramblings of a miserable Admiral in some seedy bar in Sydney. But I took it upon myself to show my disdain for his rude and obnoxious letter. I steamed close to his vessel as we left and with the volume turned full on I played Rule Britannia over the loud hailer system. Worked a treat and had all the islanders lined up with smiles on their faces. I am sure though that the stuffy Rear Admiral did not crack any lines on his grumpy face - in fact he sent a strong letter of complaint, resplendent with hundreds of official seals and stamps to my boss in Head Office back in London.

I suppose I should never have got so carried away but even after the reprimand that I received I have no regrets.

Stuffy Old Guy!

The Lost Christmas Speech

Christmas is for the family, not for a bunch of seasoned seafarers! Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the occasion that I find hard to swallow; it’s just the fact that all the glitter and glamour doesn’t do much for me at all! It’s for the children, for the family reunion and whatnot! I’m just a simple Captain who has spent most of his life on the ocean waves and Santa is as far removed from my life here as is my ex-wife!

I’m getting on in years and x-mass is well, just another day in the year! Anyway, the younger lads like to be at home so it’s me that ends up onboard, keeping the flag flying if you know what I mean! I would rather be in port of course, then everybody will go ashore and I can just hideaway in my cabin with a little glass of rum to sip on and a good book to read!

This particular Christmas, the one that I recall as if it was only yesterday, turned out to be a disaster, not one of my own making but a series of mishaps and mistaken words of no small proportions and a Christmas that left me with no option but to leave the vessel earlier than I was supposed to!

It all started well before the officers, crew and I had even thought about hanging up the decorations, before the cook started to grease the baking tray and well before the hamper arrived from the office! It all started in November when somebody just happened to mention in passing that he had sailed with me before and that he had heard my Christmas speech! That simple utterance, just a conversation piece I suppose, meant that I would have to prepare a new speech! I couldn’t repeat the one that had been heard before now could I? You see, I can drive ships; I can navigate my way from one end of the world to the other but I could never put pen to paper! I mean when I do give the speech anyway, they all look at me with blank expressions, the Chiefs tend to hide their yawns behind oil-stained hands and those at the back, the thirds and cadets are all hiding smirks - I know they are!

Whilst the cook ordered cranberry sauce and worked overtime on mince pies, as the crew eventually located the now rusty Christmas tree stand and resurrected the dusty decorations, I took to spending more time in my cabin to complete the task given to me! My life was a mess! I could not get two sentences onto paper before coming to the conclusion that what I had written down was complete and utter garbage! It all went through my head, the “call-to-duty”, the “thank you” from the company and the toasts to everyman jack and his dog but when I tried to put it onto paper it just made no sense whatsoever.

The cook didn’t help at all! He ran around the ship one day screaming that somebody had stolen his cooking wine and brandy, just when he was ready to make the Christmas cake. All a fuss about nothing really! I admit that I might have helped myself to a glass or two of his brandy as all we had in the ships bar was beer, but it was only a little glass I took to help myself think. A tiny little glass was all I had!

As November turned into December I was no further along! Now it seemed that work was always getting in the way, ports to visit, cargo crisis to look into and telexes to send regarding food orders and more brandy for the cook! I also had to submit the order for some wines and liqueurs for Christmas day otherwise the whole crew would have been on my back, never mind just the cook! The steward seemed to be emptying my bin on a daily basis now, bits of screwed up paper overflowing from it as I pulled my hair out! I realize that I might have been making a very large mountain out of a very small mole hill but the speech is very important and it can’t be messed around with! This has been a maritime tradition since time began; the Captain is expected to give an upbeat and slightly humorous speech before the wine bottle is uncorked and the Christmas lunch demolished! And here I was with absolutely nothing to say!

As Christmas day came closer I struggled harder to get something down onto paper. I asked the Chief Engineer if he had any ideas or thoughts on the matter but he said “can’t you see I’m busy”! I approached the Chief Officer on the bridge one day and he muttered “hummmph”. Doesn’t say much that man! I also asked the third engineer but all he said was “if this carries on much longer we will need to order some more Whisky and Gin”.

Well, the days passed by and before I knew it I found myself standing at the head of the offers table with a blank piece of paper in my hand, a steaming turkey in front of me and twenty-five expectant faces looking for me to say something! I must admit at this point that I might have had a couple of drinks that morning, sort of Dutch Courage if you may for the speech ahead! It was all a bit of a blur really! Through the haze of my stage fright, the fact that so much was being demanded of me and the thought of complete failure I decided that a quick gulp of the wine in front of me would probably set me into action. It didn’t but the second or third glass did!

I can’t remember much after that! I do remember everybody cheering and clapping when my speech was finished, I sort of remember the blood as the knife slipped whilst I attempted to carve the turkey but not much else! I think the effort that I had placed into my speech had caused me to be overworked and be all stressed out, so my brain had shut down for a rest once it was all over! Shame really, as I would have enjoyed a few drinks with my officers, especially since the speech had been so well received!

I recovered a couple of day later! Got my head back on and functioning! I did though wonder what was going on in the ships bar that evening when I stepped in for a night cap! The Chief Officer was actually talking and quite animatedly about pay rises and new ships that the company was buying! The Third Engineer was nodding his head happily and saying “will probably get my promotion now and on a new vessel too”! In fact everybody was all smiles and laughter and talk of increased wages and promotion seemed to be the general topic of conversation! I must have missed something whilst recovering in my cabin for the last two days!

I asked the Chief Officer about what was going on! He ‘harrumphed’ and slapped his knee whilst saying, “come on old man, have you forgotten the good news already”! And the Chief Engineer said “the best Christmas speech ever it was”!

I must admit that as the story unraveled itself and as it came to light that I knew absolutely nothing about pay rises and new ships and things the room went very cold! One person said later that the beer froze over but I think they might have been exaggerating a tiny bit! It seems that they had mistakenly heard me say in my speech something that I certainly had not said! Well, I can’t remember what I said, I have it written down on a piece of paper somewhere but all this seems a bit far-fetched to me! I mean, a couple of drinks wouldn’t have made me talk such rubbish now would it?

Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on the past, as I’ve said before I just want to get my life down on paper before I get too old to remember it all! Looking back on that fateful Christmas day I can only think that somebody had drunk a little bit too much and started some rumors that had gotten a little bit out of hand! All that fuss about the cook missing some brandy and the Third Engineer suggesting that we needed more drink sort of all fits into place now!

Not sure why I was blamed for the end-result but regardless, I left the ship to stop any further recriminations and bad feelings and as nobody was talking to me (as they thought it was all my fault) I decided that greener grass might be the best option! I asked the company for medical leave as I had been working too hard and was feeling stressed-out and so before I knew it I was on a plane home!

Never did find that piece of paper with my speech on it!

The reason for me being here!

My name is Silas E Parks, a Captain in the Merchant Navy and here I am going to lay my life to rest!