Chapter 21

⚓ The Esso Liverpool - My first of two oil tankers 
Having left the then Persian Gulf, the Esso Liverpool groaned as it cut through the Mediterranean sea on route to Marseille in the South of France, her hull swollen with crude oil and her decks slick with salt. She was no beauty—just a floating slab of steel and sweat—but to the twenty-three souls aboard, she was home.

Below deck, the engine room pulsed like a heartbeat. Chief Engineer Micky wiped his brow with a rag blackened by diesel and time. He’d been on tankers since he was seventeen, and he could tell by the pitch of the turbines when the sea was about to turn. “She’s talking,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the ship.

Up top, as the cook, I was wrestling with a busted oven and a stubborn batch of corned beef hash. The galley smelled of onions, grease, and the faint hope of hot sauce. Mo had a ritual: he played old blues tapes while I cooked, letting the music fill the void between steel walls and distant memories. “Food’s the only thing that tastes like land,” he’d say, ladling stew into tin bowls.

The crew rotated through shifts like clockwork—six on, six off. Deckhands scrubbed rust, checked valves, and watched the horizon for pirates or squalls. The bridge was quiet, save for the hum of radar and the occasional crackle of radio chatter. Captain NUTTER (that's what he was nicknamed), a man of few words and many logbooks, kept a weather eye on the charts. He trusted the sea, but not the sky.

We were overloaded a metre below the line, no wonder they called him Captain nutter. What extra wages was he pocketing for exceeding the tonnage limit? How much oil money was pouring into his bank? 

At night, the tanker became a cathedral of silence. No birds, no waves—just the low drone of engines and the creak of steel. The men smoked on the aft deck, trading stories about ports they’d never see again and women who’d stopped writing. One of them, young Torres, had brought a guitar. He strummed quietly, the notes drifting into the dark like messages in bottles.
Then came the storm.

It hit without warning—a wall of wind and water that turned the deck into a skating rink and the sky into a strobe of lightning. Alarms blared. The crew scrambled. Rafi cursed in three languages as he secured the engine room. Mo tied down the galley with rope and prayer. Singh stood firm on the bridge, his knuckles white on the wheel.
They rode it out.

By dawn, the sea was glass again. The Esso Liverpool steamed forward, battered but unbroken. The crew emerged, blinking at the light, soaked to the bone but grinning like fools. Mo served breakfast—eggs, toast, and a shot of rum for courage. Torres played a tune called “Steel and Silence.”
And the ship kept moving.

At last, we could see Marseille in the distance.

Chapter 22

⚓ My French Mademoiselle Mary Macarius  

The three weeks I spent aboard the Esso Liverpool were a whirlwind of awkwardness and hilarity that I’ll never forget. Picture this: I was just a young sailor, armed with a daily allowance of 450 new francs, strutting around dry dock like I owned the place. My first two nights ashore led me into a colourful world I never anticipated—a brothel owned by my first French madam, who welcomed me like a lost puppy among the sun-kissed streets of Marseille. The Cafe Bar Antoine was run by her husband, a proud member of the French Foreign Legion, whose tragic past seemed more like a plot twist from a soap opera than real life.

Upon entering the Bar Antoine, I encountered the culinary masterpiece known as spaghetti Bolognese. Let me tell you, that rich sauce was a flavour explosion, and just as I was savouring my first bite, I managed to spill it all over myself. There I was, looking like a walking marinara advertisement, while trying to impress the locals. It was also there that I met Mademoiselle Mary Macarius. Her vibrant presence sparked an unforgettable mishap in my heart—and possibly a few embarrassing memories to go with it.

Each day until 14:00, I worked tirelessly alongside another steward, scrubbing and polishing every corner of the ship's catering facility before abandoning ship for my adventures ashore. I wanted to ensure the place gleamed like a diamond—until I discovered that my enthusiasm likely made me the most overzealous cleaner in history. I was practically polishing the floor so much that I slipped and did an unintentional faceplant one afternoon, much to the amusement of my fellow crew members.

As fate would have it, my fascinating experiences took a ridiculous turn when the Esso Company, intrigued by my Mademoiselle's sultry charms in the cobbled streets of Marseille, inquired about my well-being. A letter from her, meant for both Esso and me, somehow landed in my family home—talk about a plot twist! 

When my family opened the letter, they must have imagined they’d found the Holy Grail; they hoped it contained urgent news about my trip. Years later, my sister shared how the Esso Liverpool stamp ignited their curiosity, like pirates finding buried treasure. My parents, however, when discovering the content, flipped out, thinking I’d joined a cult instead of taking a trip. In their quest to protect my honour, they decided that burning the letter would somehow erase my perceived sins, like trying to delete embarrassing browser history.

Now, who first discovered all the scandalous content, you might ask? My sister later let slip that Mary, with her fancy French convent education, could write beautifully enough to make even the most mundane letter sound like Shakespeare. She fondly reminisced about taking my virginity and somehow turned it into the stuff of legends. My sister emphasised that this revelation knocked the wind out of our father—he probably started plotting a super-protective dad action movie at that moment. I suspect he was the one who found the letter first, ready to save the family name by incinerating it—because what’s a little diplomatic embarrassment, right?

This chaotic chapter left me entirely without a forwarding address, drowning in uncertainty as I realised I might’ve spelt Mary’s surname wrong or forgotten key details—like the bar and brothel’s names. D’oh! My hopes of receiving a heartfelt reply vanished faster than my dignity that night at the Bar Antoine. 

On June 20, 1963, I jumped ship onto the shores of Melbourne, Australia, having run away from all that madness, ready to embrace a new chapter in my life, and vowing to keep my spaghetti off my shirt from then on. I wouldn’t return to England until 1972, a fact that didn’t exactly help with the “I promise I’m responsible” narrative. When I finally chatted with my mother about the chaos, she responded with a knowing laugh, observing that children often deviate wildly from the path their parents expect. To make amends, I gifted my parents their first overseas trip: a two-month holiday that was probably less dramatic than my escapades. This adventure not only illuminated their lives but also filled my heart with joy, proving that sometimes the most embarrassing moments create the best stories.

At the age of 81, I find myself reflecting on my life as I sit down to write this story, compelled by the vivid memories of my enchanting days with Mademoiselle Mary that unexpectedly surge to the forefront of my mind. It’s remarkable how these rich recollections, which should have faded into the quiet corners of my memory 60 years ago, continue to shine brightly like cherished jewels. 

⚓ “The Way of the Sea” — A Shanty for a Cook of Thirty Years

Don't forget to hover your mouse over the following images as you scroll down this homepage.

 

(Verse 1)
Oh, I signed aboard as a galley lad, With a skillet, a knife, and a grin, Through thirty years of gales and storms, Where the sea decides who’ll win. From Fremantle’s heat to the cold North Sea, through ports where the wild winds blow, I learned my trade on a rolling deck, and the sea taught all I know.

• (Chorus) So heave away, boys, heave away, For the truth rides every wave. The sea is the straightest life I’ve known, and the only one that saved. Wine and women and songs at night, and the dawn with a sailor’s plea— learned right from wrong on a heaving deck, for that’s the way of the sea.

(Verse 2)
In far‑off ports with lantern lights, where the taverns never sleep, I tasted life in a hundred ways that the land could never keep. But the sea was honest, hard, and fair. She’ll break you or set you free—And every scar on my weathered hands was earned with dignity.

• (Chorus) So heave away, boys, heave away, For the truth rides every wave. The sea is the straightest life I’ve known, and the only one that saved. Wine and women and songs at night, and the dawn with a sailor’s plea— learned right from wrong on a heaving deck, for that’s the way of the sea. 

(Verse 3)
But when I stepped ashore at last, after thirty years afloat, I found no honour in the halls where the landbound men all gloat. I saw shadows behind their smiles, and deeds no man should see—Corruption deep as the ocean trench, and treachery running free. (Bridge) Oh, the sea may roar, and the sea may rage, but she never lies to me. It’s the land that twists a good man’s heart with its quiet cruelty.

• (Final Chorus) So heave away, boys, heave away, For the truth rides every wave. The sea is the straightest life I’ve known, and the only one that saved wine and women and songs at night, and the dawn with a sailor’s plea— learned right from wrong on a heaving deck, for that’s the way of the sea.—On absentjustice.com, he writes of the way of the open sea → Alan Smith - 20/03/2026

Vindicatrix: Vindi Boys tell their story of what it was really like!