During my first grand adventure across the vast, shimmering sea, I was utterly swept away by romantic notions of what sailing would be like. I pictured myself serenaded by the sweet melodies of nightingales, gathered around a flickering fire on a sun-kissed tropical beach, sharing raucous laughter with rugged sailors belting out woefully off-key sea shanties—each one sporting a twinkle in their eye and a smile that possibly featured a few missing teeth.

Oh, how naïve I was! As days morphed into weeks, reality crashed over me like a rogue wave at a synchronised swimming competition. Turns out, those whimsical daydreams of sailing required more than a pocketful of fantasies and a few coins for passage. Instead of the hearty crew I’d envisioned, I found myself cooking for a peculiar group of madams. Yes, madams! My luck couldn’t have been worse! Their demands were as unpredictable as a crab trying to order a salad at a fancy restaurant.

Picture this: instead of swabbing decks and hoisting sails under a brilliant sky, I was juggling pots and pans in a cramped galley while dodging absurd requests like, “Can we have lobster tonight? But make it flambé, darling!” Here I was, a greenhorn seaman lost in the vast expanse of the ocean, tasked with whipping up exquisite meals for a gaggle of diva-like madams who treated me like their personal sous-chef. Seriously, if I’d had a frilly apron, I could have starred in my very own culinary soap opera!

I quickly learned to navigate the absurd personalities around me, from the demanding diva who insisted her chai must be brewed using only the purest Himalayan water (as if I was running a five-star spa) to the madam who thought caviar was an acceptable substitute for peanut butter. In the insanity of this culinary circus, I discovered a hidden talent for chopping onions at lightning speed—perfect for both cooking and pretending I had something in my eye to escape to the deck for a breath of fresh air!

But here’s the twist: amid all the madness, I somehow emerged stronger and more resilient than I ever thought possible. I realized that even when I was knee-deep in garlic and melodrama, there were unexpected opportunities for gluttonous growth (pun very much intended!). I embraced my new identity, not merely as a madam’s cook lost at sea, but as a young man discovering that sometimes life’s adventures don’t come from sun-kissed shores but rather from the sizzling chaos of a kitchen that could double as a reality TV show gone awry. Who knew a lad could achieve self-discovery through sautéing? Thank you, culinary fate!

Now, let’s rewind to the 1960s through the 1980s. Gay men were often seen as pariahs—looked down upon as perverts, and only acknowledged as intriguing when a beefy sailor was far from home and the comforts of a woman. Ah, yes, those were the days! Learning to use a long-neck brandy cognac bottle, with a hole in the neck for a manila twine rope that could double as a makeshift handcuff, became essential. It was my trusty weapon against admirers who mistook my steward uniform for an invitation. Spoiler alert: I was not an all-you-can-eat buffet!

Once you escaped the overly watchful eye of the bosun or the head cook, it was survival of the fittest. Being in the galley as a cook or steward was no simple job; it was more like high stakes cooking challenge where the secret ingredient was sheer desperation. And if you ever found yourself battling an army of diva madams demanding five-star meals while you were still figuring out how to boil water—that’s a stark reality that still makes me chuckle (and weep) to this day!

On the other hand, some of the most trustworthy and dedicated seafarers I have encountered come from the gay community. After spending five unforgettable months living aboard the ship and experiencing the highs and lows of life at sea, I often found that a gay shipmate could provide some of the best company.

During my time in Europe in the 1960s, after returning from New Zealand with a cargo that included rich butter and luxurious wool, I would step ashore in lively cities such as Hamburg, Bremerhaven, Rotterdam, Dunkirk, and Antwerp on our way to London. The nightlife was vibrant, filled with laughter, music, and the occasional mischief that only sailors seem to know how to conjure. Nightclubbing with my gay colleagues was an experience like no other. Not only could they entertain us with their musical talents—many were adept at playing the piano or strumming guitars, filling the taverns with heartfelt songs—but they could also lighten the weight of being far from home with their wit and humour.

Of course, it wasn’t all laughter and song. Life at sea had a harsher side. We faced long hours of gruelling work, unpredictable weather, and the loneliness that came from being away from family. Yet, those moments of camaraderie, filled with outrageous stories and bursts of laughter, helped us endure the tough times. I still recall nights spent crammed into a bar, with free beer flowing as payment for my friends' impromptu performances, creating an atmosphere that was both hilarious and warm.

It’s essential to show all sides of this story. Life aboard those ships was a delicate balancing act between laughter and hardship, with moments of sheer joy punctuated by the harsh realities of life at sea. Capturing both the humour and the reality is vital to conveying what life was truly like on the ocean. 

I've cooked through cyclones, breakdowns, strikes and shutdowns. I've fed crews who spoke ten different languages, and I've watched hardened men cry over a slice of birthday cake. I've seen how food can bridge divides, soften grief, and restore dignity. And through it all, I never lost sight of the more profound truth: that behind every plate was a story, and behind every story was a man trying to make it through another day. Ihave treasured these formative experiences for decades, sharing them only with a select few. Now, at the age of 81 in 2025, I feel inspired to recount these vivid memories and the timelessness of my youth, hoping to encourage others on their journey 

 

My Story Begins.

I was born in May 1944, as World War 2 moving towards finishing. My sister, Mavis, was 2 years older.

Growing up in London’s poorer areas in the 1950s is something that never leaves me. The damp walls, the overcrowded rooms, and the smell of coal smoke that clung to our clothes are etched into my memory as clearly as yesterday. Poverty was everywhere, but so too was a sense of community. Neighbours looked out for one another, and we children carved out our own world in the derelict corners of the city. The streets were narrow and noisy, lined with washing strung across from one side to the other. You could hear the rattle of carts, the cries of market sellers, and the chatter of women leaning from doorways, swapping gossip while keeping an eye on the children. We had little in the way of toys, but we had imagination, and that was enough.

Street games were the heartbeat of childhood in the 1950s. With little money and few toys, we made the pavements and alleyways our playgrounds. I can still picture the clatter of boots on cobblestones, the shouts echoing between rows of houses, and the laughter that carried long into the evening until mothers’ voices called us back for tea.

We played hopscotch chalked onto the pavement, marbles flicked across the gutter, and “kick the can,” where an old can become the centre of endless chases. Skipping ropes were shared, and even a length of washing line could do the trick. Games of “tag” or “British bulldog” filled the streets with energy, and every child seemed to know the rules without needing them written down.

There was a rhythm to it all: the slap of a ball against a wall, the scrape of chalk on stone, the clink of marbles, and the sound of children counting out loud as they jumped or ran. We invented worlds with whatever scraps we had, turning broken bricks into goalposts and lamp posts into bases.

The old bomb shelters, left behind from the war, were our playgrounds. To adults, they were ruins, damp, dripping, and dangerous, reminders of fear and destruction. But to us, they were secret kingdoms. I can still see us clambering down the cracked steps, torches in hand, our laughter bouncing off the concrete walls. “Quick, you be the soldier, and I’ll guard the tunnel!” one of us would shout, the words echoing like orders. “Don’t go too far, it’s spooky down there!” another would warn, though we always did. “Look, this brick is our treasure—hide it before the enemy comes!” someone would declare, clutching rubble as if it were gold.

Most kids in Britain in the 1950s did not have it easy. Families were still living under rationing, and luxuries were rare. A single bar—or half a bar—of dark chocolate was a treasure, condensed milk sweetened what little we had, and meat was something we only saw occasionally. Yet my mum and dad never let us go hungry. I can still smell the flour-and-water dough baking in the oven, scraps of food tucked inside, strips of cheese rolled up to make what we proudly called cheese straws. They came out warm, crisp at the edges, with the cheese melting into the soft centre.

There was homemade toffee too, boiled until golden, poured onto a tray, and left to cool before being broken into shards and stored in a glass jar. I remember the sound of the lid being lifted, the clink of the jar, and the sweet smell that filled the room when we dipped in for a piece. Those simple treats felt like riches to us.

Many children did not even have what we had, so I cannot say we kids had it hard. My dad never beat us; the worst punishment was a slipper across my backside for pulling my sister’s hair. I never saw my mum or dad drunk. A bottle of wine left from the previous Christmas would still be sitting in the cupboard until the following year, untouched.

The shelters smelled of rust and damp earth. Our shoes squelched on the wet floor, socks heavy with moisture, but we hardly noticed. Broken bricks became weapons or treasure, torchlight turned shadows into monsters, and every echo was a drumbeat for our games. Above ground, the slum streets had their own rhythm. 

I realise those shelters weren’t just ruins. They were stages for our imagination, places where hardship was forgotten, and where resilience was born in the laughter of children playing in the shadows. We didn’t know we were poor, not in the way adults measured poverty. We knew only that we had each other, and that the world, even in its brokenness, could be turned into adventure. Those shelters, the damp streets, the coal smoke, the mothers’ voices calling us home—all of it is part of who we became. We were children of the poorer side of London, yes, but we were also children of imagination. And in those bomb shelters, playing soldiers and treasure hunters, we built something that poverty could never take away: the enduring spirit to carry on.

Looking back, those games were more than just play. They were our way of building friendships, learning resilience, and finding joy in the simplest things. The streets may have been grey and rationing still lingered, but in our imaginations, they were alive with colour and adventure.

⚓ Misguided Youth

On reaching fifteen, I had left school behind and found myself hustling three nights a week, hawking the "Evening News" at the bustling Hendon and Wembley Greyhounds and the roar of the speedway. The thrill of earning money for myself was intoxicating. Early on in my ventures, I fell into a risky routine of pilfering brand-new magazines from the newsstands while delivering the paper. I'd slyly sell them for thirty to sixty per cent less to corner news vendors, cleverly keeping my pockets lined with cash.

The next step in my dubious education was fencing—buying stolen cigarettes from newspaper shops. The bigger boys had the boldness to swipe them, and their bravado created a supply chain for smaller runners like me. One of the most fortunate moments in my youth was when my next-door neighbour, Mr Jackson (a police officer), caught me. His discovery turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Then there was that reckless night when I decided to steal a bottle of wine, leaping over the back fence of a nearby hotel. Just as I landed, I nearly fell directly into the arms of Mr Jackson, who, on that evening, was moonlighting—not in uniform, but watching the streets, always on the lookout for mischief-makers like me. The thrill of the chase only heightened my sense of adventure in those wild, formative years.

Now what’s it to be, Alan? Do I tell your dad, report you to the Hendon Police Station or do we take that bottle of wine to the hotel manager and you can clean out the cellar and wash his empty bottles before they are returned to the depot. That’s if the hotel manager does not want to pursue this through the courts; it’s up to you.

I was fortunate to embark on a unique adventure. For two bustling weeks, each evening after school, I found myself immersed in the nightly routine at the George Hotel, where I washed bottles and tackled general cleaning duties. The hotel manager, affectionately known as 'Mattie,' allowed me to set up my Evening News paper stand right in the welcoming entrance of the pub. The hustle and bustle of the place was electric, and most paper carriers paid a modest five shillings each Saturday for their own stands, adding to the atmosphere.

After a long night of selling papers to eager patrons, I pitched in to arrange the worn but sturdy tables and chairs, scrubbing them clean and setting a welcoming scene for the drinkers at the bar. Two young seamen, perhaps just a few years older than I, regaled listeners with their captivating tales of adventures in the West Indies—stories filled with laughter and enchantment where ladies seemed to be just waiting to be swept off their feet. 

In that moment, amidst the lively chatter and the clinking of glasses, I realised that I yearned for something more than the familiar streets of London. My heart began to wander toward the sun-soaked islands of Curaçao and Aruba, as well as the landscapes of Caracas, Venezuela. 

This epiphany ignited a bold decision within me. I chose to join the merchant navy and set sail—not as a runaway from home, but as a determined soul escaping a looming world of crime that surely awaited me if I had chosen to stay.

I did not want to end up in jail, a grim fate that loomed ominously as I watched the lives of many of my friends spiral downward into despair. Their stories felt like poignant tragedies, each one marked by the absence of fathers lost forever in the chaos of the Second World War—a monumental conflict that ripped apart families and was supposed to be the war that would end all wars. These young men fought valiantly, fueled by a fierce determination to secure a brighter future for their children and loved ones. Their mothers, left to bear the weight of their absence, often lay in bed gazing blankly at the peeling ceiling plaster, pretending that the baker from down the street was their beloved husband. This bittersweet charade provided only fleeting solace, as their true loves had made the ultimate sacrifice for family, leaving behind an emptiness that could never truly be filled.

I was fortunate to have a father whose expertise in telecommunications placed him at the helm of the Maida Vale General Post Office (GPO) in central London, now known as the British Telecom fault service. During the war, when uncertainty and danger permeated every corner of the city, a reliable telephone infrastructure became a vital lifeline. My dad worked tirelessly, often on night watch with the Home Guard, ensuring that communication lines remained open amid the din of distant explosions and the anxiety that hung in the air like a fog.

My mother, on the other hand, faced her own battles with remarkable resilience. Working long hours in a laundry, she developed painful varicose veins from standing for hours on the unforgiving, cold concrete. Despite their struggles, my parents persevered; through their combined efforts, we had food on the table, though our resources stretched thinly over the essentials.

In stark contrast, my friend mourned the loss of his father, a casualty of the relentless war. With no income coming through their door his family’s existence was marked by relentless hardship. The thought of resorting to theft—robbing the elderly lady down the street by stealing from her gas meter while she struggled to make ends meet—filled me with a sense of dread that settled like a stone in my stomach. The grim reality of such an act loomed large in my mind, serving as a stark reminder of the desperation that poverty could breed.

I imagined the trouble that would surely follow such reckless decisions, casting a shadow that would stretch like an endless night over my future. I couldn't shake the feeling that such actions could transport me into a deeper spiral of despair. In contrast to my friends, I considered myself fortunate, but with that fortune came an overwhelming sense of guilt. Watching my friend’s mother sacrifice her health and well-being, her body worn and weary, in a desperate bid to provide for her son was both profoundly inspiring and heartbreakingly tragic.

While I enjoyed a relatively stable upbringing, my playmates were painted in shades of hardship, their lives punctuated by uncertainty and a sense of inevitability tied to their circumstances. I often questioned my own resolve, wondering if I could keep making excuses to avoid the temptation to leap the fence at the local hotel off-license and steal empty bottles destined for return. The allure of the full bottles of fizzy drinks shimmered enticingly in the sunlight, stacked precariously, inviting mischief. However, I understood that associating with my less fortunate friends—those lacking a father's guidance—could lead me down a perilous path, turning me into someone I desperately wanted to avoid becoming.

The reality of our living situation compounded my desire for escape. Our cramped upstairs flat felt stifling and suffocating, reduced to a small box marked by the passing of time.

Ultimately, I resolved to break free from this cycle by joining the Merchant Navy, convinced that this choice would chart a new course toward a brighter future. It felt like a lifeline, a chance to set sail toward horizons filled with hope and the promise of change, leaving behind the constraints of my upbringing and the shadows of my childhood. And so, I embarked on this journey, becoming a seaman, ready to navigate the open seas toward a life of adventure and possibility.

After I submitted my application, I was scheduled for a medical examination at the esteemed training school in Gravesend. The drive with my mate's dad in their family car filled my heart with a thrilling mixture of excitement and nervousness. The world outside my window blurred into a vibrant tapestry of colours, each mile taking me closer to a profound turning point in my life. As we pulled into the training grounds, the crisp morning air enveloped me, and I was struck by the sight of trainees milling about, all united by a shared dream and an unmistakable sense of anticipation.

The medical examination itself was both comprehensive and a little intimidating. It involved various physical tests and assessments, each procedure meticulously analysing my readiness to face the gruelling demands of maritime life. The hours felt prolonged, and finally, I was met with the exhilarating news that I had passed—the wave of relief and joy surged through me like a tidal wave, as though I had just crossed a significant threshold.

Soon after, a letter arrived, its envelope crisp and official, announcing my acceptance into the training establishment, T.S. Vindicatrix, nestled in the picturesque town of Sharpness, Gloucester. I would report in February 1961—an important date indelibly etched in my memory, shining brightly like a beacon guiding me toward my destiny

 

⚓ The Vindicatrix

As the morning of my departure dawned, an exhilarating current flowed through me as I made my way to the railway station. Clutching a rail warrant that outlined the route for my journey, I felt a mix of enthusiasm and apprehension about the path ahead. This journey would take me from the streets of North-West London to the heart of London town, traversing the underground before heading west to Gloucester and finally to Sharpness.

The train wound its way toward Sharpness, and I gazed out the window, soaking in the countryside—a patchwork quilt of fields, hedgerows, and cottages that danced by in a kaleidoscope of colours. When I arrived at the station, an instructor welcomed me with a smile and a handshake, instantly calming my nerves. After a brief introduction, I joined a line of fellow trainees, our collective excitement building as we set off on a three-mile walk to the camp. The sun warmed our backs as laughter and chatter filled the air, creating an electric atmosphere; each step amplified our anticipation of the adventure unfolding before us.

The camp resembled a village, composed of Nissen huts, each capable of housing 30+ trainees. Surrounding these huts were other facilities: the quartermaster's store, administrative offices exuding a sense of purpose, a recreation hut buzzing with banter, a guardroom radiating vigilance, and classrooms humming with the energy of learners. Scattered among them were spaces dedicated to relaxation, a sick bay for recuperation, a games room alive with laughter and competition, a reading room for moments of solitude, and washrooms to scrub away the day's muck. A bungalow stood proudly in the background, housing the Captain Superintendent and adding a splash of colour to the camp’s charm.

Upon entering the camp, I received my room assignment: hut number I cannot recall, my new home for the foreseeable future. My bunk, the top, was nestled among a group of new friends, each of us settling into this shared space filled with camaraderie and laughter. The mingling sounds of voices and the rustling of bags created a comforting ambience, and I could feel friendships blossoming as we exchanged stories that led us to this moment.

Once we were settled, the excitement peaked as we were escorted onto the ship for our first communal meal—a rite of passage that felt monumental. The Vindicatrix towered before us, a magnificent ex-sailing vessel built in 1893 and named initially Aranmore. Despite her masts having been removed long ago, she exuded an undeniable majesty, her weathered hull whispering tales of past adventures. Transformed into a bustling training centre, her spacious holds transformed into a mess hall and a classroom, alive with the sounds of laughter and conversation. The rich aroma of hearty, home-cooked meals filled the air, emerging from the galley like a warm embrace. While the scent may not have been entirely perfect, it symbolised resilience and hope, a welcome reminder of comfort and nourishment after enduring a long stretch devoid of a warm, satisfying meal.

Aboard the ship, we navigated the polished wooden decks until we reached the mess deck, alive with the chatter and energy of our fellow trainees. Long wooden trestle tables stretched across the space, and as we settled into our seats, a sense of belonging enveloped me, intertwining with nervous anticipation. The catering cadets bustled about, serving our first meal; it was a scene bursting with laughter, the clattering of cutlery, and an electric energy of mateship. Although I couldn't recall the specifics of what was served, the atmosphere felt significant—an initiation into a new life.

The following day promised another exciting chapter as we prepared to visit the quartermaster's store to collect our uniforms. The induction papers indicated that the uniform would cost £4.00d, a considerable sum that would be deducted from my cash account. Walking into the quartermaster's store felt like entering a treasure trove crafted for aspiring sailors. The expansive Nissen hut welcomed us, with a linoleum-topped counter stretching the length of the room, behind which lay an array of uniforms, each piece symbolising the journey that awaited us.

“We embarked on an intense and transformative journey at the T.S. Vindicatrix Ship and Camp, a hub of training and camaraderie, where our stay lasted anywhere from 2 to 3 months. This time frame was contingent upon our ability to successfully complete the rigorous courses designed to prepare us for life at sea. Each week was a whirlwind of activity, filled with six or seven demanding sessions that pushed us to our limits. However, the unpredictable nature of ship life meant that a bout of mischief could earn anyone an unwanted additional week of training. I learned this lesson the hard way. One fateful evening, buoyed by the intoxication of youth and a careless spirit, I decided to vault a daunting seven-foot wire fence to slip past the sentry guarding the camp. The attempt was nothing short of absurd; the next morning, I limped back, my arms scratched and raw, a visible testament to my folly, and my pride thoroughly bruised as my fellow trainees looked on with a mix of amusement and sympathy.

Every week, I eagerly awaited a beloved food parcel from home, overflowing with treats and nostalgic flavours. The delightful scents and familiar comforts contained within wrapped not only food but also a piece of home that warmed my heart. With an open heart, I shared this treasure with my fellow hut mates, many of whom were less fortunate, not having a sister like Mavis, who consistently sent me boxes filled with sweet and savoury indulgences.

Breakfast for the inmates felt like a scene from a gritty prison drama. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a mess hall, with the clatter of metal trays and the murmurs of hungry diners. The first course was doled out by the training stewards, me included, as we carefully served warm, steaming bowls of porridge to those eager to start their day. Next came two slices of toast, generously coated with a dark, sticky beef extract that bore an uncanny resemblance to Vegemite, the beloved Australian spread. Each meal was accompanied by a choice of coffee or tea, offering a brief moment of comfort amidst the austere surroundings.

As lunch approached, the menu shifted to hearty homemade baked beans stewed by the relieving stewards. These enthusiastic volunteers sought to hone their culinary skills under the vigilant guidance of the seasoned camp cooks. The cooks imparted wisdom on the art of stirring two enormous stockpots of soup, wielding massive wooden paddles as if conducting a symphony. They encouraged us to close our eyes while stirring, claiming it helped maintain focus and avoid distractions. 

While some chose to block out the chaos with ear muffs—preferable for tuning out the ominous sound of a mouse splashing into the soup—it was a challenge to ignore the murky shadows floating just below the surface. With eyes shut, the dark bits bobbed along, moving in a breaststroke rhythm that could easily be mistaken for cooked ingredients. However, all too often, these were indeed large cockroaches that vanished into the mix with each vigorous stir, blending in with the braised steak, onions, and assorted vegetables simmering within. This was documented by other students of the Vindicatrix program. 

Once I was officially sworn in as the ship's steward, I found myself thrust into the revered tradition of silver service, a practice steeped in elegance and precision, reserved for serving the officers of the T.S. Vindicatrix. I can still recall the first time I balanced a magnificent silver terrine, hot and glistening, filled with a kaleidoscope of colourful vegetables—vibrant orange carrots, fluffy mashed potatoes, and the ever-elusive emerald green peas—nestled in the crook of my left arm. My right hand, albeit trembling with nervousness, had to wield a shiny silver fork and dessert spoon, poised and ready to serve with an air of sophistication. It’s safe to say that most of the peas staged a grand escape, scattering across the table rather than settling on plates! By the end of my second day, after a comical series of mishaps, I discovered the secret to scooping and collecting the rebellious peas for reuse, since leftover food was generously given to the lower-deck crew—a gesture of kindness toward our fellow trainees. Mistakes were not something you could afford to make repeatedly; each evening required diligent practice until I could skillfully and elegantly lift a single pea and place it upon a plate with grace.

In that bustling first week, I also mastered the meticulous art of making passengers' bunks, where each fold of the sheet and blanket had to be precisely tucked into the corners to create a neat, inviting appearance, reminiscent of a sealed envelope. Should I accidentally crease a corner while preparing a test bunk, I would repeat the folding process countless times until it was flawless—each imperfect attempt only serving as motivation to achieve the perfection expected in our craft.

It became increasingly clear that we needed to be prepared to showcase our skills to various Chief Stewards, highly experienced professionals seconded from illustrious passenger ships, including the grand Queen Elizabeth and the majestic Queen Mary of the Cunard Line, as well as her counterpart from the Shaw Saville Line. These seasoned Merchant Navy officers arrived with an unmistakable air of authority, scrutinising us with keen eyes, evaluating our potential to serve passengers aboard those sprawling, opulent vessels. After two rigorous months at this lively holiday camp, the world of maritime service awaited us. Suddenly, we were thrust into the workforce, each of us needing to be prepared for whatever responsibilities lay ahead, which often included sharing a cramped four-birth cabin with three other eager trainees, all navigating the exhilarating yet daunting journey into our new lives at sea together.”

The Vindi was an extraordinary institution, a remarkable sanctuary where young men confined within the austere walls of the ship could savour meals that outshone their bleak surroundings. In the biting cold of winter, frost would lace the inside of the windows, creating intricate, crystalline patterns that transformed the dreary environment into a breathtaking spectacle of nature's artistry. As the ice gradually melted, it offered an unexpected refreshment—a natural way to wash one's face each morning, invigorating us for the day ahead. Many of us couldn't shake the feeling that the officers resembled figures from a horror film; their stern expressions and sharply pressed uniforms hung in the air like an unsettling tension, looming over us as we navigated this world. We arrived as bright-eyed, naïve lads but left as changed men—transformed and armed with resilience, a relentless determination to conquer the world beyond those imposing walls.

The term "Vindi Boys" evokes the image of a spirited crew, yet it refers to the 70,000 boys who journeyed through the picturesque port of Sharpness between 1939 and 1966. Most were caught in the tumult of adolescence, typically aged 15 to 17, filled with dreams yet burdened by their circumstances. Those who have not had the opportunity to "touch the tits of the bare-breasted figurehead of Vindicatrix" will likely miss that chance forever; the youngest among them, who spent their final years at the school in 1966, are now edging toward 80, if they are still alive. Regardless of their age, all carry a profound pride in their identity as Vindi Boys—a bond forged through shared trials, remarkable growth, and hard-won triumphs.

Although Sharpness may seem an unconventional choice for nautical training, it was strategically selected for its safety, as it was shielded from enemy air raids that threatened the region during the war. This was long before modern container vessels filled the seas, and the escalating demand for skilled workers in the Merchant Navy was palpable. The training courses were nothing short of rigorous, typically lasting 12 weeks for deckhands, who immersed themselves in the intricate and thrilling world of navigation and ship life. Meanwhile, stewards embarked on an intensive eight-week course, mastering vital hospitality and service skills to ensure the comfort of those aboard. The promise of a life brimming with adventure and the chance to explore distant horizons was irresistible to many young lads.

During the wartime era, government propaganda fervently promoted these enticing prospects, reassuring both eager boys and their anxious parents that a life at sea was a path to excitement and a brighter future. However, the grim reality of serving in the Merchant Navy during the war was fraught with peril. The spectre of death at sea loomed large, with the likelihood of dying being six times higher than that faced by soldiers on land, underscoring the immense bravery required to embrace this life. Tragically, many Vindi Boys who arrived in Sharpness lost their lives to the turbulent waters, their dreams of adventure snuffed out far too soon. Others set sail, dedicating their lives to the vast ocean, revelling in the freedom it offered, and discovering the beauty of faraway lands that danced in their imaginations. A fortunate few climbed through the ranks to become captains, exemplifying courage and leadership amid chaos.

The Vindicatrix was docked at the scenic Gloucester & Sharpness Canal, where the current Sharpness Marina now thrives, teeming with life and commerce. The charming red-brick building that stands there today, now transformed into a busy chandlery, was once a simple toilet block—a humble remnant of the Vindi's significant past. It serves as a poignant testament to a unique chapter in the lives of the Vindi Boys, its walls echoing with the youthful dreams and ambitions of those who walked its corridors. 

My First Ship

I remember strolling past that unassuming toilet block on my way to the King George Docks in East London, excited yet anxious as I approached my first ship, the Brisbane Star. With only two days left of leave—today being Friday and my sails set for Monday—there was no time to waste; I was ready to embark on a journey to an uncertain destination.

With a heavy seabag slung over my shoulder and dressed in a uniform from the Vidicatrix stores, I found myself standing at the threshold of a new life as an aspiring sailor. My battle-blue trousers—baggy and practical, though far from flattering—were paired with a fitted battle top that echoed the standard army wear of the time. For the modest sum of £4.00, I had managed to acquire two pairs of trousers and two pairs of steward’s trousers, which gave me a sense of readiness, if not quite style. The battle dress was designed purely for function, stripped of any flair or elegance.

Catching a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in a shop window, I chuckled to myself, realising I looked less like a dashing sailor and more like an escapee from some less illustrious fate. Even prison garb, I thought, seemed to carry a certain formality that my outfit lacked.

For those curious about the seabag itself: it was a canvas calico sack, about four feet long, traditionally used to carry a seaman’s mattress before the days of the ship’s hammock. Made of light fabric, it was practical and versatile, allowing a sailor to pack a spare pair of shoes, perhaps some underpants, sea vests, a shirt, dungarees, and even a sewing kit to darn socks and mend clothing. It was not elegant, but it was indispensable—a companion to every sailor stepping into the uncertain world beyond the shore.

On that overcast Monday morning, I navigated the bustling streets of East Ham after catching the Sunday night train from my home in Kingsbury. A sense of anticipation buzzed within me, but I was unprepared for the challenges that lay ahead. That evening, I had found refuge at the seamen’s mission called the Flying Angel, a modest haven for those like me, costing just five shillings. For that small price, I was treated to a warm mug of rich cocoa that soothed my frayed nerves and a steaming bowl of porridge that provided a comforting start to my day. The entire experience was an eye-opener, abruptly immersing me in the realities of life at sea and marking the beginning of what felt like an entirely new existence.

Gone were the familiar faces of the captain and bosun who had expertly guided us through our training at Vindi. Instead, I found myself in the company of eight other seamen, navigating the twilight of their maritime careers during the sixties. Each man carried his own unique story, sharing a bond forged from years spent on the turbulent open water, yet they bore the weight of lost homes and faded dreams, their memories of interesting lives receding like the horizon.

A crucial lesson hammered into us during our time at Vindi involved a peculiar yet pragmatic approach to securing our finances: we were instructed to sew every ten-shilling note from every three pounds we earned into the upper creases of our floppy battle dress trousers. This often took place in the privacy of a toilet stall, a necessity in the dormitory-style accommodations at the mission, where privacy was a luxury few could afford. This sly tactic served two vital purposes. If I found myself tempted to indulge in too many pints of ale while ashore, the inconvenience of having to cut open my trouser flaps would effectively act as a deterrent, often saving me from returning to the ship completely broke. Although the money stashed in my trousers wasn’t a fortune, it represented a critical lifeline in a world where currency dictated one’s ability to navigate life—and where a lack of funds meant vulnerability, a risk I was not willing to take.

As I strolled along the lively wharves affectionately referred to as 'KG-V' (King George V Dock), I was on a mission to find my ship, the Brisbane Star. At 8:00 am, the wharf throbbed with energy, alive with sailors and dockworkers moving about with purpose. The Blue Star Ships stood majestically at their moorings, each vessel a proud testament to maritime tradition, their silhouettes stark against the soft morning light. With six Blue Star Ships nestled along the busy wharf, confusion tugged at me as I squinted to find my ship’s name emblazoned on the bow or stern—naval terminology I was still struggling to master.

By the time I arrived at 8:30 am, having lost thirty vital minutes, my heart raced as I approached the imposing port side of the Brisbane Star. It loomed before me like an enormous steel behemoth, requiring only one tugboat to assist it in departing the wharf. In those days of lower tonnage, a single tug was more than sufficient to guide our vessel down the river and into the vast, rolling sea. Climbing the steep gangway while struggling with two unwieldy suitcases would have felt like scaling a mountain. Fortunately, like most sailors, I chose to carry a shoulder-length bag slung over my left shoulder. This made it easier to navigate that incline, especially when the ship was high in the tide.

As I finally climbed aboard, a gnawing anxiety settled in; being over half an hour late felt like an unthinkable affront. I had been instructed to report to the bosun promptly at 8:00 am and then to the second steward by 9:00 am to receive my work orders. The severity of the situation hit me hard: my first lesson at sea was unmistakably clear—NEVER be late for your orders or your station at any point during a voyage, unless a severe injury rendered you unable to crawl to your duty station to explain your absence.

I reflected on my hasty miscalculation; I should have started my journey from the seaman's mission at 6:30 am, allowing a full hour for walking, not accounting for potential delays with taxis or trains. Arriving ahead of my scheduled duty time was essential to ensure I was present and fully prepared to receive instructions. The act of reprimanding a latecomer would be serious. In that moment, I realised my determination to adhere to the unspoken rules of life at sea, knowing that every hour and every minute counted.

After receiving a sharp reprimand from the second steward—his voice cutting through the noisy din of the galley—I realised I had unwittingly stitched a layer of trouble into my already complicated day. My tardiness had landed me an unwanted role: supper duty, with no hope of earning extra time off to compensate for my slip in punctuality. The atmosphere felt thick with unspoken tension, as my actions rippled through the crew. The other steward, already exhausted, had been forced to extend his shift by half an hour. This delay meant that the ship's gallery boy, tasked with hauling food from the freezing depths of the ship’s freezers, found himself racing against time, now having to make two trips instead of one. I could only imagine the scowl that would greet me upon his arrival.

My new quarters were cramped and disconcertingly close. I was allocated to a four-bunk cabin, sharing the tight space with Mark, the gallery boy, who claimed the top bunk with a grin. Below him, I occupied the bottom bunk, where the narrowness of the cabin quickly became evident. The atmosphere felt oppressive, with only one small table at the far end, too tiny to accommodate more than two people comfortably. In this confined space, all leisure activities—reading, chatting, even daydreaming—had to be crammed into our bunks or relegated to the mess room. This common area was often filled with the raucous sounds of boisterous sailors. 

Mark, a jolly Welshman with a hearty laugh, often tried to lighten my spirits, his thick accent lending warmth to our conversations. Yet, despite his best efforts, I found myself adrift in my thoughts, contemplating the impending journey as the ship rocked gently in its mooring. The subtle sway wasn’t from the open sea but rather the result of tugboats deftly navigating nearby vessels in the narrow passages of the harbour. These industrious little boats, their engines humming like busy bees, moved with precision, manoeuvring ships safely into position for loading and unloading cargo.

Our scheduled sailing time loomed just before midnight, the hour marking the transition into a new day. At precisely 12:00 a.m., wharf fees for the following day would begin to accrue, a countdown ticking down to 12:01 a.m. when the clock would strike against our budgets. On this day, my duties found me in the pantry, surrounded by the clinking of dishes and the fresh scent of soap as I washed an endless stack of plates and cutlery, many of which had languished untouched. Keeping me company was another boy, also in the lower ranks aboard the ship; his face was often twisted in concentration as we both tackled our menial tasks.

One particularly odd job assigned to me involved cleaning the ship's accommodation portholes using a long metal tube known as Brasso. This shiny instrument was crucial for polishing the interiors, leaving them gleaming and clear for the crew’s use. At the same time, the portholes in the cabins remained the responsibility of the sailors themselves—a task they proudly undertook. Just then, I received the news that we would soon set sail for Curacao in the Dutch West Indies, where we would load much-needed fuel for our long journey to New Zealand.

We felt a rush of excitement as we signed our seamen's papers, knowing we were about to embark on a remarkable journey. Our primary destination lay thousands of nautical miles away in the stunning landscapes of New Zealand, and our course would be a direct route across the vast Atlantic Ocean to Colon, located at the entrance of the Panama Canal. 

As I pondered these assorted responsibilities, unease settled in the pit of my stomach. The lively banter among the crew, which had always helped alleviate the strains of life at sea, now felt like a thin veil over my rising anxiety. 

Before embarking on these adventures, though, we still had to navigate the notorious Bay of Biscay and into the Mediterranean. This stretch of water was infamous among sailors for its unpredictable temperament, which could transform from calm to rough in moments. As the crew shared vivid accounts of tumultuous storms, towering waves, and perilous conditions they had faced, I felt my excitement begin to fade, replaced by a gnawing apprehension. Each tale heightened my awareness of the challenges to come, and I couldn’t help but question my ability to endure the unpredictability inherent in the life of a sailor.

For those who may not be familiar with this region, the Bay of Biscay should not be mistaken for Biscay Bay in Canada or Biscayne Bay in the United States. Renowned in Spain as the Gulf of Biscay, this vast and awe-inspiring bay stretches gracefully along the rugged western coast of France, seamlessly melding into the Spanish border while running parallel to Spain's northern coastline. Its western edge unveils a landscape adorned with dramatic cliffs, picturesque fishing villages, and interesting coastal flora.

The bay is characterised by a myriad of inlets and shallow areas, which—paired with its expansive waters—contribute to the notoriously churning seas that have forged its fearsome reputation. This region is infamous for its fierce winter storms, when dark, menacing clouds gather overhead, and violent winds lash out, transforming the ocean’s surface into a tumultuous dance of frothy waves. The Bay of Biscay is home to some of the most severe weather patterns in the Atlantic Ocean, frequently unleashing towering waves that crash thunderously against the craggy coastline, sending sprays of saltwater soaring into the air.

Historically, navigating these treacherous waters has posed a great challenge, with merchant vessels often succumbing to fierce storms, particularly before the advent of modern weather forecasting and navigation technology. The bay's mercurial nature serves as a constant reminder to sailors of its unpredictable power and stunning beauty, making it a formidable force in the maritime world.

And here stood Alan Smith, brimming with a mix of excitement and trepidation on his first voyage at sea, poised to enter one of the roughest expanses known to those who rely on the ocean for their livelihood. As the day wore on, his thoughts were consumed by an unsettling premonition—how would he withstand what was likely to be an overwhelming ordeal of seasickness on these wild and unforgiving waters?  I hoped for a smooth journey and calm waters ahead.

As the day drew close to midnight, the atmosphere grew charged with anticipation during dinner, shared with about 12 passengers aboard. Their presence signified that we were certainly set to sail that night. I glanced at my watch every half hour, my eyes drawn to the ship’s Red Ensign flag billowing proudly at the stern. This flag, a symbol of our maritime identity, communicated clearly to those in the port and to any onlookers with binoculars that we would be departing before midnight.

In the moments before leaving port, the British ship displayed the national flag, the Red Ensign, at the stern. This flag is not merely a piece of fabric; it is the standard civil ensign for British merchant vessels and private crafts. With its rich red background adorned by the Union Jack in the canton, the Red Ensign serves as a distinguished emblem of our maritime heritage, waving proudly as we prepare to embark on our evening voyage.

With my head nearly submerged in the deep, metal pantry sink, I was surrounded by a large assortment of pots, pans, and dishes from the officers' and passengers' last meal. The sink, nearly two-thirds of a meter deep, called for a thorough scrubbing with Ajax detergent, the pungent scent of the cleaner filling the air. To my right, in the cosy saloon, the soft murmur of laughter and chatter flowed as officers and passengers engaged in spirited games of cards and dominoes, the familiar click of tiles punctuating the evening. The clock ticked past 8:00 PM, and I realised that my day had stretched nearly twelve continuous hours, with only a brief respite of an hour and a half spent in my cabin, engrossed in a book. As this was my first day at sea, sleep was far from my thoughts; the powerful engines of the ship were roaring to life, vibrating through the steel hull as they warmed up and adjusted before our scheduled departure at 11:00 PM.

After completing my chores for the day, I stepped into the steamy embrace of the communal shower, joining two other crew members. The hot water cascaded over us in torrents, filling the air with a mist that clung to our skin and seeped into the shower’s surroundings. Unbeknownst to me, a watchful, seasoned sailor stood in the shadows, his stern gaze fixed on us, ensuring that no unruly seaman would dare to exploit our moment of vulnerability.

We had officially joined the Navy, and the first night under the watchful eye of the robust second bosun's mate marked the beginning of our initiation into the realities of life aboard the ship. As we dripped water, still buzzing from the day’s activities, we were about to receive an essential lesson in protecting our male virginity.

Despite the warnings we had received at Vindi Training School, nothing could truly prepare us for this environment. I quickly learned a vital survival tactic: always carry a barrel key instead of a flat Yale key into the shower. This way, when the moment arises, your grip around the barrel stem remains firm as you drop to the slick, tiled shower deck. With calm determination, you can then aim the key fiercely at the other person’s kneecap. A single, well-aimed strike is all it takes to send a clear message and ward off any unwanted advances.

Now, feeling refreshed and clean, I pulled on a new pair of trousers and a heavy battle dress designed for braving the icy temperatures of the ship's freezers and cool rooms. I stepped onto the deck, cradling a mug of rich, thick cocoa in my hands. It was a brand I had never encountered before, dark and robust, warming me from the inside out. As we prepared to sail from this first of many ports, the excitement coursed through me; it was no longer just a dream — it was becoming my reality.

The Brisbane Star’s deck crew worked diligently as the London Port Tug deftly manoeuvred to pull us away from the wharf. One crew member expertly tossed a thick, resilient manila rope to the Tug, while another grasped it tightly, pulling it through a specially designed opening in the ship’s side. With practised ease, they looped the robust rope over the sturdy iron bollard, ensuring a secure connection that would allow the Tug to reverse gracefully out into the winding waters of the River Thames. As our vessel slowly turned its bow toward the open river, I marvelled at the transition unfolding before my eyes. 

In that moment, I felt an exhilarating rush, three metres tall and one metre wide, in my newfound freedom. It was as if I had stepped into a grand adventure, leaving behind the mundane. This was the beginning of my new life at sea.

However, five hours later, that excitement had faded into a deep-seated longing. I lay in my bunk, feeling the ship’s gentle rolling against the choppy waters, still trapped in the confines of the Thames estuary, with a daunting seven hours ahead before we would finally reach the vast expanse of the North Sea. The journey, although relatively short at about 100 nautical miles, felt interminable as turbulent thoughts churned in my mind. 

As much as I wished to portray myself as having slept like a baby, the truth was starkly different. Instead of the restful slumber one might expect, I felt vulnerable and disoriented, as if I were regressing to a state of infancy—a sensation that clung to me throughout the day and into the next. I found myself consumed by a desperate longing, wanting to plead with the captain to turn the ship around and ferry me back to the safety of land. I was determined to find a way to cover any costs; I just needed to feel solid ground beneath my feet again.

A relentless wave of nausea surged within me, crashing like a tempest that swept away any last shred of comfort. Without warning, last night’s cocoa erupted from my stomach, a violent expulsion that forced its way back up my throat, leaving a bitter, cloying taste that settled thickly in my mouth. In a frenzy, I began retching, the remnants of my poorly chosen meal spilling onto the cabin floor—a grim mix of barley, diced carrots, and stringy celery creating an unappetizing mosaic of my unfortunate ordeal. Finally, all that came up was a murky, colored water, a cruel marker of the seasickness that had claimed me. It was disheartening to realise that we weren't even in the North Sea yet, where fierce winds had been foretold, leaving me confined below deck with no chance of experiencing the fresh air I craved. The relentless weather forecast had warned all hands to brace for two full days of howling gales and roiling seas.

Into this mess strode the second steward, a figure of authority amidst the turmoil. At last, I thought, someone to grant me respite, someone who might allow me to retreat to my bunk and find solace. However, that hope was quickly dashed as I faced the harsh reality of my situation. I was too weak, too dizzy to crouch down and clean up the mess I had created, as the last vestiges of my stomach continued to rebel against me. Each wave of nausea felt like an unwelcome companion, making every effort to steady myself an agonising challenge. I felt utterly wretched and needed to lie down, but even the idea of walking to the communal toilets to wash up felt insurmountable.

With a voice that cut through the fog of my illness like a steel blade, the second steward issued his orders. I had ten minutes to present myself in the pantry, dressed in a clean uniform. Failure to comply would result in a grim consequence: a refusal to work would be logged, and I would lose two days’ pay for each day I did not fulfil my responsibilities. Moreover, I would be assigned the unenviable task of scrubbing both the port and starboard alleyways, where my fellow crew members had unceremoniously left the remnants of their last meal. This sight was not only embarrassing but disheartening.

And just like that, the second steward strode away, decidedly not my ally in this struggle. Fifteen minutes later, I found myself drenched in sweat and shivering from the cold air, scrubbing the grimy portside alleyways with every ounce of strength I could muster. Each stroke of the brush felt like a Herculean effort, interrupted only by the need to retch into the bucket—a tool intended for washing the dirty decks, now stained by my own illness. As hours dragged painfully on, I subsisted on nothing but dry biscuits, my stomach in knots. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I managed to gather the remnants of my strength and push my way to the pantry. What awaited me was daunting: a foot-deep sink, stained with the remnants of countless meals, piled high with dirty dishes, standing like an Everest of grime that I had no choice but to conquer and to prepare for the relentless lunchtime rush ahead.

At 81 years old in the year 2025, I carry the heavy burden of a lifetime filled with diverse pain and suffering, with each chapter of my life contributing to the complexities of my existence.

Among the many discomforts I faced, the specific agony of seasickness stands out. Struggling to gain my proverbial sea legs became one of the most torturous experiences I have ever endured. I spent five consecutive days battling the unyielding waves of the Bay of Biscay, my stomach in revolt against the ship's constant motion. Each lurch of the vessel was a relentless reminder of my predicament.

When I finally spotted the Rock of Gibraltar, relief flooded over me. I watched as the Brisbane Star gracefully transitioned from the tumultuous Atlantic Ocean into the tranquil embrace of the Mediterranean Sea, merely 30 kilometres from the Spanish border. Gibraltar is an awe-inspiring sight—a heavily fortified British air and naval base that vigilantly guards the Strait of Gibraltar, the solitary gateway to the Mediterranean. This iconic landform, affectionately referred to as "the Rock," symbolises British naval power dating back to the 18th century. Its rugged cliffs and imposing fortress loom large, etched into the memory of anyone fortunate enough to behold its grandeur. Once seen, it becomes an indelible image, forever etched in one’s mind.

As I took in the sight, hope began to flicker within me, pulling me from the depths of my earlier misery, as I had now laid eyes on my first foreign land. Unfortunately, our ship did not allow for any shore leave; thus, the ship’s officer escorted the passengers, and I missed the chance to set foot on land and capture the moment through photographs for posterity.

Instead of heading to Port Said, nestled in the waters of the Suez Canal on our way to Egypt, we were to journey across the Atlantic and toward the Panama Canal, cutting our voyage down by at least two weeks, a reminder that sometimes, changing course leads to new adventures.

My sea legs remained shaky, and my stomach continued to protest heavier fare, making fatty foods like pork entirely unappealing. Instead, I opted for a simple, hot bowl of thick soup, hoping to quell the turmoil within.

Although the Blue Star Line was recognised as a reputable shipping company, the provisions provided to the crew were unremarkable compared to those of other shipping lines. The Vesty family, owners of the Blue Star Line, was among the wealthiest families in the United Kingdom, with historical ties to the British royal family. On February 12, 2021, it was revealed that the 3rd Lord Vestey, who had passed away at the age of 79, was not only half-Australian but also an heir to a significant meat fortune, a great-grandson of the legendary opera singer Dame Nellie Melba. This family built its wealth by cleverly repurposing discarded meat offcuts from South American beef farms, transforming them into corned beef products that helped sustain the British Army during both World War I and World War II. I mention the Vesty name now because I will recount a lesser-known incident involving them later, one that may even escape the awareness of their own family.

Yet, the harsh realities of life at sea dictated that strict budgeting was a necessity, making overindulgence in provisions for the crew an unattainable luxury. In such an environment, pilfering from the ship’s kitchen became a means of survival for the catering staff, cooks, and stewards. Likewise, deck crew members often felt it necessary to take excess supplies such as ropes, sailcloth, hardware, and paint to supplement their meagre wages—wages that, it is worth noting, were frequently two-thirds less than those earned by their Australian and New Zealand counterparts in the 1960s.

Through these struggles, I felt the weight of both history and human resilience weave itself into my character. Not long ago, I roamed the streets of London, selling the evening news, where my once fervent ambition to become part of seafaring lore was now overshadowed by a different desire—to carve out a new narrative for myself. In less than three months, I had transformed in ways I could hardly have imagined. This short yet profound journey inspired me, thirty years later, to offer a pathway to new lives for other boys and girls—lives they had never dreamed were within reach. This passion ultimately led me to purchase the Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp, nestled on the picturesque shores of Cape Bridgewater Bay, just 18 kilometres from Portland, Australia.

But that was three decades later. At present, I was slowly recuperating from the nauseating grip of seasickness and steadily rebuilding my strength. Our ship’s journey from the sun-kissed Spanish coast to the Atlantic in 1961 spanned approximately 22 to 28 days, a period filled with both anticipation and discomfort. As we navigated through the Atlantic Ocean—a lifeline connecting this part of the world to South America—I was in awe of the vastness around us.

My primary duties involved crafting cosy bunks for the twelve passengers on board, ensuring their cabins were comfortable and spotless, and serving up hearty meals throughout the day—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Scrubbing down the narrow, echoing alleyways of the ship and polishing the brass fixtures along the stairways, cabin door keyholes, and portholes which became part of my daily rhythm. As a pantry boy, I found myself amidst the flurry of activity, serving up plates to the stewards, who would then enhance the dishes before serving them to the passengers and officers with a flourish.

Initially, I catered to just five passengers, meticulously attending to their every need in my role as pantry boy. After my second voyage, I advanced to the position of steward, where I managed up to twelve cabins, deftly balancing service for fourteen passengers and officers. Each week, the dirty laundry would be folded with care, tightly packed for counting—sheets nestled in one bag and pillowcases in another. By marking the soiled linens with a coded system, the responsible person could easily tally the four pairs of sheets and four sets of pillowcases each trip, all while making allowances for selling any surplus linens further down the line.

Every job on the ship came with its unique advantages, and it was these "side money" opportunities that allowed the crew to make ends meet on a modest wage. To truly master the complexities of running a large hotel complex, as is often highlighted in the world of catering, one usually begins one's journey as a ship's steward. Many successful hotel managers and owners have climbed the ladder, gaining invaluable insights into the business from the ground up—this “seafarers’ training” equips them with the skills needed to run an establishment effectively.

The decision to adopt these strategies while serving in such an environment ultimately lies with the individual. However, sharing these insider tips or side money perks with a superior is strictly off-limits. Reporting a fellow crew member for slacking off is also considered a serious breach of trust. Each crew member has the freedom to forge their own path, unbound by traditions that may feel outdated or morally ambiguous.

Lagging, or failing to fulfil one’s duties, is only deemed acceptable aboard a ship under extreme circumstances—specifically when it involves exposing the abuse or misconduct of another crew member, or reporting the use of illicit drugs that lack medical justification. Beyond these serious matters, any other personal shortcomings among the crew are typically kept under wraps, creating an unspoken code of silence on board. 

Just a few days out of Colon, which is the entrance to the Panama Canal via the Atlantic Ocean, I was struck by how much I had learned during those two weeks at sea. I was steadily progressing toward earning my first-class steward rating.

As I recount this part of my journey, a wave of cherished memories washes over me, reminding me of the responsibilities I embraced as a pantry boy and later as a steward during those transformative 18 to 21 days aboard the ship. Although the specifics may fade, the essence of the experiences I gathered remains vivid within my mind, each moment intricately woven into the fabric of my growth.

Every third day, my hands would dive into the essential task of scrubbing the staff toilets and showers. These spacious, tiled showers were designed to comfortably accommodate four individuals, complete with scuppers that direct cascades of dirty water away, ultimately mingling with the vast expanse of the sea. I took pride in scrubbing the duckboards that provided safe footing, ensuring they were left gleaming in the sun to dry, their surfaces basking in the sunlight. This ritual not only championed cleanliness but also underscored the importance of nurturing a healthy community. Armed with a long screwdriver, I would meticulously clear hair and debris from the minor, often overlooked scupper holes, symbolising the dedication we had to maintaining a pristine environment. The captains and Chief Stewards would conduct rigorous inspections, reminding the crew of our collective responsibility to uphold the highest standards of hygiene.

In my transition to steward, my role expanded, enveloping me in the lively world of passengers. I soon discovered that meticulous attention to detail was vital; the passengers' toilets and showers were cleaned daily, with fresh towels adorning their cabins every other day and crisp linen changed routinely. Hand basins sparkled under the soft glow of cabin lights, carpets were vacuumed until every fibre stood upright, and each porthole reflected the sun's rays thanks to careful polishing with Brasso. The cabin steward often became not just a caretaker but a familiar face, attending to the same group of passengers during meals in the grand saloon and cosy sick bay, transforming routine interactions into cherished memories. A truly exceptional steward would enhance the experience by providing thoughtful extras, such as a tropical fruit basket or indulgent nuts, fostering a bond that transcended mere service.

One particularly poignant story illustrates the magic of these connections: an Australian sheep grazier swiftly singled out his steward upon boarding to request a specific, hard-to-find chocolate. In a remarkable display of initiative, the steward ventured ashore, returning just before we set sail with the coveted chocolate, a small treat that would carry a weight of significance. After the ship had left the dock, the sheep farmer inquired about this special chocolate, leading to an unexpected and generous exchange when the farmer rewarded the steward handsomely. Five English five-pound notes changed hands in gratitude, symbolising not just a generous tip but the promise of opportunity that awaited the steward in Australia.

This anecdote serves as a testament to how exceptional service and kindness can create lasting connections that resonate far beyond the immediate moment. The roles of the ship's cook, steward, and pantryman are not just jobs; they are gateways to fostering profound relationships, echoing the engaging dynamics celebrated in the beloved English TV shows "Upstairs, Downstairs" and "Downton Abbey." Each experience aboard that ship was a stepping stone toward a greater purpose, reminding us that our actions, no matter how small, can leave a lasting impact on those around us.

⚓ King Neptune Ceremony:

The equator line-crossing ceremony is a vibrant initiation rite celebrated in various English-speaking countries, marking the moment when an individual first crosses the equator. This age-old tradition may have its roots in ceremonial practices that took place upon passing prominent headlands, evolving over time into a whimsical yet meaningful ritual designed to boost morale among sailors. Alternatively, it might have been developed as a rite of passage to test the mettle of seasoned seafarers, ensuring that their new shipmates were fully capable of enduring the trials of long, often tumultuous sea voyages.

Typically, these ceremonies are grand occasions, featuring the legendary figure of King Neptune, the god of the sea, who presides over the festivities with a flourish. While these rites are widely embraced in naval contexts, they also add a touch of theatrical flair to passenger experiences on civilian ocean liners and cruise ships. Moreover, they are celebrated within the ranks of the merchant navy and aboard sail training vessels, fostering camaraderie and a sense of belonging among participants.

Historically, however, line-crossing ceremonies have at times veered into perilous territory, resembling dangerous hazing rituals. In response to such risks, most modern navies have implemented strict regulations prohibiting any form of physical assault on sailors participating in the line-crossing ceremony, ensuring that the event remains a safe and enjoyable initiation.

This ceremony, rooted in maritime tradition, involves a "baptism" of those crossing the Equator for the first time, often presided over by someone dressed as King Neptune. UK to New Zealand Route: passes through the Atlantic Ocean, crosses the Equator, and then continues through the Pacific Ocean. The exact location of the ceremony would depend on the specific route, the ship's course, and the Captain's discretion at the time of crossing, or near the edge of the crossing. 

1. Prepare the pudding basins

• Grease four large pudding basins (or more smaller tins).

• Line each base with greaseproof paper.

• On ships, cooks often used whatever tins were available — even old coffee tins scrubbed spotless.

• In the biggest mixing bowl in the galley (or a clean stainless‑steel sink, as was common), combine:

• flour

• suet

• dried fruit

• brown sugar

• breadcrumbs

• mixed spice

• cinnamon

• nutmeg

• salt

• Mix thoroughly by hand or with a wooden paddle.

• Pour in the beaten eggs, milk, and treacle.

• Mix until the batter is heavy, sticky, and slow to fall from the spoon.

• Add more milk if needed — the mixture should be dense but workable.

• Stir in rum or brandy if using.

• On many ships, this was considered essential for “crew morale and cook’s sanity.”

• Spoon the mixture into the prepared basins, leaving 1–2 inches (3–5 cm) at the top for expansion.

• Cover each basin with greaseproof paper and foil.

• Tie tightly with string.

• In rough seas, cooks wrapped the basins in cloth and lashed them to prevent sliding.

• Place the basins in large stockpots with boiling water halfway up the sides.

• Steam for 4–5 hours, topping up the water regularly.

• In heavy weather, pots were wedged between galley rails or secured with rope.

• Turn out onto serving platters.

• Serve with custard, condensed milk, or warmed rum.

• On festive voyages, the chief steward often insisted on a splash of brandy set alight.

• These puddings keep extremely well — ideal for long voyages.

• Many cooks made them days ahead and reheated them in the steam oven.

• Dried fruit was a guarded commodity; stewards were known to “inventory” it daily.

• The smell of four giant plum puddings steaming at once could lift the mood of an entire ship.

 

Still at sea 

To provide a vivid account of my four remarkable journeys from England to New Zealand and Australia, I began with my adventure aboard the Brisbane Star, which took me to New Zealand's breathtaking landscapes. This journey commenced on April 20, 1961, and continued until August 4, 1961. My second voyage was on the South Africa Star, which departed from London and sailed to New Zealand between October 19, 1961, and March 10, 1962. Then, I embarked on the Imperial Star, a magnificent vessel that set sail from Liverpool, UK, to the distant shores of Australia and New Zealand. This trip spanned from May 11, 1962, to my return to the UK on October 16, 1962.

Each of these journeys was unique as the ships navigated different maritime routes and timeframes, sometimes traversing either the Suez Canal or the Panama Canal. I want to focus on my first journey aboard the Brisbane Star, which charted a course through the enchanting Panama Canal on its way to New Zealand. For my return to the UK, I sailed back through the historic Suez Canal. This iconic structure has long inspired travellers and explorers.  

In the bustling port of Port Said, Egypt, the small boats known as lighters serve a vital purpose, seamlessly ferrying passengers and crew from the towering ships to the welcoming shores when docking options are limited by size or draft. These vessels, bobbing gently in the harbour, are an essential lifeline for those aboard the immense ocean liners. As my cabinmate and I, along with our spirited group of three other boys, prepared for our adventures, we approached each excursion with a blend of excitement and caution. We seldom ventured ashore with seasoned seamen, opting instead to wait until we found ourselves in safe harbours.

In 1961, we observed a carefully structured protocol: three crew members would typically disembark, with a few opportunities for extras; yet, it was customary for no fewer than three to make the journey ashore. As we strolled through the vibrant streets, it was impossible to ignore the simmering frustrations of the local populace, rooted in the historical grip of British influence over the Suez Canal. This discontent was more than just a passing sentiment; it was a deeply rooted response to years of European control that had fueled a burgeoning wave of Egyptian nationalism.

The British initially opposed the canal due to concerns about losing control over critical maritime routes. However, the power dynamic dramatically shifted in 1875 when Khedive Ismail Pasha, entangled in debt, sold his shares to Britain. This act not only bolstered British dominance but also laid the groundwork for subsequent military interventions and the British occupation of Egypt in 1882. As Egyptians became increasingly aware of this encroachment on their sovereignty, a fervent desire for independence ignited, fueling a spirit of resistance and an unyielding determination.

The nationalisation of the Suez Canal by President Gamal Abdel Nasser in 1956 was a courageous declaration against colonial powers and the catalyst for the Suez Crisis. This bold move triggered military responses from Britain, France, and Israel, prompting a significant reaction from both the United States and the Soviet Union, who jointly pressured the invaders to withdraw. This critical juncture not only reshaped global power dynamics but also elevated Nasser as a symbol of Arab nationalism and resilience against colonisation.

With this rich historical context in mind, we navigated the colourful streets of Egypt, aware of both the dangers and treasures that lay in wait. While the allure of cheaper liquor without taxes was tempting, our true aspiration was to create lasting memories among friends. The all-night trading bazaars became a wonderful tapestry of experiences, imparting lessons that would inform our future quests.

In this vibrant marketplace, tins of condensed milk emerged as coveted items, substitutes for fresh provisions, transforming into precious commodities for barter. We discovered that three tins could yield four times their value, while a mended jacket made from camel hide, or fashionable jeans, represented more than mere survival; they epitomised the triumph of creativity and resourcefulness in the face of challenges. Our exploration of the value of Scottish Aberdeen Kippers—hailed as treasures almost on par with gold—added to the intrigue alongside the international allure of Wrangler and Le Rider jeans.

After an exhilarating six hours of adventure, we eventually made our way back to the ship, our hearts and minds enriched by the vibrant experiences of our journey, ready to embark on the following passage through the Suez with newfound wisdom and an invigorated sense of resolve.

The Galley

When the cook is cheerful and truly engaged, the entire crew flourishes in an uplifting environment. Conversely, if a cook faces personal challenges or feels overwhelmed, it can dim the mood, casting a shadow over our collective spirit. It’s remarkable how these dedicated individuals tackle the demanding task of preparing nourishing meals three times a day, every day of the week. Rising before dawn, they fill the early morning hours with warmth and sustenance, setting a positive tone for the day ahead.

The crew lights up with joy when our favourite cook steps aboard, their presence radiating not just the promise of good food but a genuine sense of happiness and camaraderie that permeates the ship. I vividly recall an impactful story shared by an instructor from the T.S. Vindicatrix training school during my training. He emphasised the vital connection between a team’s morale and the quality of the food they receive. A simple brown-bag lunch may satisfy hunger, but it pales in comparison to the heartwarming effect of a steaming hot meal or a colourful array of choices.

⚓ Travelling through the Panama Canal

Here I was, sailing towards the Panama Canal in late April 1961, a fresh-faced and eager seafarer ready to embrace the vastness of the ocean. Although I was set to pass through the Canal without taking substantial shore leave, I was about to uncover the extraordinary lives of those less fortunate.

Travelling through the Panama Canal in the 1960s was a transformative adventure, each journey brimming with the promise of discovery as travellers set sail from the shores of Europe to the sun-drenched allure of the West Indies and beyond. Despite its length and the various challenges posed by the open waters, this voyage revealed a breathtaking tapestry of diverse cultures, offering glimpses of the jungle, nestled between rugged landscapes, and the Indian Ocean, where lush greenery meets the sparkling sea.

This voyage marked a pivotal milestone, as travellers felt the thrill of anticipation surging through the air, igniting an infectious spirit of adventure. Ships glided smoothly through the narrow, serpentine channel of the canal in single file, revealing unobstructed views of graceful fishing boats and small ferries with local Panamanian fisherman as they navigated their daily routines. The sight of these majestic vessels manoeuvring through this engineering marvel inspired awe, a remarkable testament to human ingenuity set against a backdrop of sunlit waters.

Opportunities to disembark at exotic ports beckoned travellers to plunge headfirst into a rich kaleidoscope of cultures and landscapes. They embarked on unforgettable tours filled with breathtaking vistas, exhilarating views of the towering trees twisted into the jungle vegetation, traversing sun-scorched patches of green jungle, and unimaginable giant leaves.

The Panama Canal features two primary ports: Balboa, pulsating with the dynamic energy of city life, and Cristóbal, where a rich tapestry of history and culture is woven into every corner. Travellers departing from the UK with a cruise itinerary that includes the Panama Canal crossing will likely disembark in Colón, a charming city offering a glimpse of a tropical paradise abundant with colourful markets and friendly smiles, rich in the potential for exploration.

However, in 1961, venturing ashore alone was not advised. I remember our crew walking in formation along the wide pavements, deliberately grouping ourselves to allow others to pass by with ease. Those near the roadside often faced small hands darting into pockets, while playful fingers slid down naked arms, creating unexpected moments of tension. Watch bands risked breaking as they were snatched away, turning a stroll into a vivid lesson in vigilance and awareness.

Though far-off lands possess their unique enchantment, awareness and alertness are paramount. When it came to drinks, only bottled beverages with metal caps that fizzed upon opening were deemed safe, each sound symbolising refreshment and trust. Anything lacking that effervescence was best avoided, serving as a poignant reminder of the importance of caution during your journey.

Ultimately, this experience reinforced a vital lesson: never venture ashore alone. Safety in numbers deepens your connection to the beauty and wonder that awaits you at every destination, ensuring that each adventure is not just a journey through landscapes but a collective exploration of shared experiences and unforgettable memories.

Each stopover pulsed with its own energy, as eager travellers collected unique souvenirs that told stories of faraway lands, savoured tantalising new dishes that delighted their palates, and engaged with customs that illuminated the rich heritage of each port. These enriching encounters provided invaluable insights into the extraordinary lives and traditions that were both different and intensely captivating.

Experiencing life without knowing the outcome felt like a thrilling narrative waiting to unfold, a reality that many might have only read about. Immigration to distant lands, such as New Zealand, Tasmania, and Australia, felt as distant as Mars, until migration became the new path of hope and renewal. The 1960s ushered in significant technological advancements and profound shifts in global trade dynamics, transforming the Panama Canal into a vital artery for the transportation of goods and people. This thriving waterway not only enriched countless journeys but also broadened the horizons of those who sailed its storied waters.

For many, the canal served as a crucial lifeline, offering a pathway to dreams and opportunities in far-flung lands where the promise of a better life awaited, particularly in the tropics and the East, which we were to travel later in this new world I had chosen instead of the back streets of London.

The canal voyage presented an unparalleled opportunity to immerse oneself in a multitude of cultures and unusual landscapes, significantly broadening the horizons of those who had previously existed in relative isolation. This experience not only opened eyes but also hearts to the interconnectedness of the world. While some travellers sought prosperity and fresh opportunities, others revelled in leisure, captivated by the exotic allure of pre-jet age travel.

Yet, underlying these journeys was a complex blend of curiosity and a sense of superiority, colouring how travellers viewed the West Indies as they approached them, balancing wonder with an awareness of their own privilege. 

Travelling through the Panama Canal in the 1960s was not merely an adventure; it was a rich journey filled with cultural encounters and diverse ways of life. During this captivating era, the wide-brimmed Panama Hats of all colours emerged as a vital artery in the intricate fabric of global trade and migration, forever shaping the destinies of those who traversed its storied waters.

⚓ Now for the Aberdeen Kippers

Aberdeen Kippers stand out for their traditional preparation methods, high-quality fish, and the captivating smoky flavour they deliver. Made from carefully selected herring caught in the  waters of Scotland at their peak condition, they are smoked over beech wood using age-old techniques. This artisanal process produces a distinctive, savoury flavour and a beautiful golden-brown colour.

Beyond their exceptional taste, Aberdeen Kippers embody affordability, nutritional richness, and convenience, making them a cherished choice for breakfast or any meal. 

The highlight of breakfast was the exquisite Aberdeen Smoked Kipper, a delicacy that had earned its place as the star of the meal. Each crew member and passenger received one kipper on a Sunday, which was carefully retrieved by the steward from the ship’s storeroom and chilled freezer. On my first Sunday at sea, I struggled with the discomfort of seasickness, preoccupied with keeping my stomach settled, which meant I missed out on that savoury experience. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to enjoy it the following Sunday.

The pantry boy had the important responsibility of taking food orders from the Chief Cook each morning, ensuring that everyone received their fair share of food. The bacon—a single, mouthwatering slice of streaky bacon served twice a week—was carefully counted by the steward for a total of eighty hungry crew members, officers and passengers. This precise amount was then distributed by the steward, much like the solitary egg that was also served twice weekly.

With eighty people to cater to, I was assigned the task of arranging the eighty kippers on four or five flat cooking trays once the Second Steward completed the order. However, just as I began my task, the Chief Cook stepped in with an authoritative tone and said, “No, not on this ship,” as he pulled me aside, leaving me curious about his reasoning.

The Chief Cook revealed that we had about six more Sundays, perhaps even five, before we finally reached the picturesque shores of Dunedin in the South Island of New Zealand. A hefty 28-pound wooden box filled with rich, smoky Scottish kippers was valued at $14 NZ sterling—a considerable sum. To put it in perspective, my wages in 1960 amounted to a mere £14 a month, which included my food and ship accommodation. To think, one box of those delectable kippers was worth almost an entire month’s earnings, yet it felt like I was stepping into the big league, with far more rewards on the horizon.

That Sunday morning, I took the initiative to rise early, tasked with cleaning the narrow alleyways of our ship an hour ahead of the usual muster. This early start allowed me to place five trays of kippers in the oven, filling the galley with their tantalising aroma. I cooked each order as it came in, after the five trays had been cooked. I efficiently managed the breakfast rush, ensuring everything ran smoothly.

In a moment of boldness, I found myself standing in the galley, filled with the scent of spices and sizzling dishes, as a sixteen-year-old rookie with no sea time to my name. With a sense of determination surging within me, I approached the Chief Cook, a seasoned professional with a no-nonsense demeanour. I asked, “As the Chief Cook, can you order whatever you want, as long as you can justify your choices for the food?” 

He considered my question for a moment, then replied that he could indeed change the menu as he pleased, as long as the Chief Steward didn’t object and the storage could accommodate my selections. That response felt like a green light, igniting my enthusiasm to take initiative. 

Seizing this moment, I suggested an innovative approach: cooking six kippers at a time on a much smaller tray after the initial four large trays had been prepared and safely placed in the warming oven. The idea sparked in my mind like an exciting culinary challenge. The Chief Cook nodded in agreement, though he expressed concern about possibly running out of kippers, highlighting the balance between creativity and practicality in the kitchen.

With confidence, I asserted, "In just two weeks, as we introduce kippers to our menu every second Friday as well as on selected Sundays, the crew will inevitably lose their enthusiasm for them." I paused, looking around the galley, which was filled with the aroma of the sea. "But who would notice if no one is diligently monitoring what our cooks are preparing and what gets tossed aside as waste due to carelessness?" While en route to New Zealand, we could meticulously order the exact quantity of kippers needed, ensuring no excess. However, on the return journey, the focus on conserving every single kipper wasn’t a priority. Interestingly, rather than cooking items individually, as the duty messman and salon steward suggested, we adopted a more economical approach by using four trays at once. This strategy ultimately translated into increased profits for the shipowner, thanks to our unwavering diligence and reduced waste.

Reflecting on those memorable experiences, I recall how the Chief Cook acknowledged my resourcefulness. He rewarded me with six payments of $14.00 each—an amount equivalent to six months' wages. Such small incentives and opportunities began to emerge, setting the stage for an exhilarating journey ahead, filled with promise and potential. Fast forward thirty years, and I found myself at the helm of Rob's Carousel, the largest restaurant in Melbourne, beautifully perched along the sparkling waters of Albert Park Lake, where the Grand Prix is staged each year. This establishment, which could seat 200 patrons at a time, became the perfect outlet for me to channel my seafaring expertise. I managed to outperform the achievements of both managers at the other two Rob's Restaurants—Rob's Drive-In on Queens Road and Rob's Restaurant in Mount Waverley, an outer suburb of Melbourne. Over 18 months at the Carousel, my staff turnover dropped, and profit margins significantly exceeded those of the other two restaurants combined, particularly in terms of waste.

⚓ The Island of Curacao

After leaving Panama, we headed for Curacao in the Dutch West Indies, embarking on our journey toward the Dutch-owned island, a place brimming with fresh adventures, opportunity, and the promise of new beginnings awaiting me. The town of Willemstad was where all the action was for seamen, other than the notorious brothel, nicknamed by seamen as the ‘Happy Valley’.

If you're curious about Willemstad and its significance, you'll find that it's Curaçao's capital. One of its most iconic landmarks is the Queen Emma Bridge, which connects the lively districts of Punda and Otrobanda. Stretching 167 meters in length and 9.8 meters in width, this bridge stands as a true marvel of engineering.

No visit to Curaçao is complete without basking in the beauty of the Caribbean Sea. Among the island's many beaches, Kenepa Beach shines as a true gem and a paradise for beach lovers. Its powdery white sand feels heavenly beneath your feet, while the crystal-clear turquoise waters shimmer under the sun, inviting you into a slice of paradise. 

As I prepared for my first visit to the island of Curaçao, I found myself immersed in a deep and captivating conversation with a deregistered doctor. The exchange unfolded like the island itself—vivid, intricate, and filled with unexpected twists. This man, whose life had been overshadowed by a haze of alcohol that led to his deregistration as a qualified physician in Holland more than sixty years ago, recounted his fascinating tales with the fervour of someone who had witnessed the world in all its bizarre glory.

He leaned closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially as he shared his thoughts with a British seaman about creating a substance purported to be ten times more potent than penicillin or streptomycin. This remarkable concoction was intended as an injectable medicine to slow the growth of cancerous tumours. With a distant look in his eyes, he claimed to have observed the Indigenous peoples of the South American jungles using this very treatment.

Over the years, I have recounted this surreal story countless times, even to esteemed doctors and politicians, whenever the medicinal potential of lemon juice came into play. The process he described fascinated me: placing a raw egg in a glass vessel and then drenching it with lemon juice until the egg was completely submerged, carefully preventing any evaporation. The egg needed to remain entirely coated. After some time, the egg would dissolve, leaving behind a custard-like substance that was as mysterious as the doctor himself. However, fueled by white rum, my memory of what he said about this white substance blurred; I vaguely recall that he mentioned mixing it with fungi found in the depths of the Amazon jungle. The duration of this transformation remains a mystery to me. Still, I remember the doctor's voice breaking as he spoke of horrifying growths on the legs, arms, and genital areas of Indigenous people—markings so persistent that they left lasting scars.

Saltwater Guardians: 

Among the many traits that define seamen—resilience, grit, loyalty—there’s one that often goes unnoticed but runs deep: a quiet, unwavering bond with children and their welfare. It’s not something you’ll find in a job description or a ship’s log, but ask any seasoned mariner, and they’ll tell you—there’s something about the sea that sharpens your sense of responsibility toward the young.

Maybe it’s the long stretches away from home, where thoughts drift to sons and daughters growing up without you. Maybe it’s the memory of being a child yourself, watching ships from the shore and dreaming of far-off places. Or maybe it’s the simple truth that when you’ve weathered storms and seen the fragility of life, you come to value innocence and safety with a kind of reverence.

On cargo-passenger ships, stewards and deckhands alike often took special care when children were aboard. Meals were served with extra attention, cabins tidied with a touch more warmth. A child’s laughter on deck could lift the mood of an entire crew. Even the gruffest bosun would soften when asked to help fix a toy or point out dolphins in the wake. It wasn’t just kindness—it was instinct.

Seamen, especially those who’ve spent years in harsh conditions, often carry a deep sense of justice. They’ve seen exploitation, hardship, and neglect. So when it comes to children—whether their own or others—they become fierce protectors. Many donate quietly to orphanages, send money home for school fees, or carry photos of their kids tucked into oil-stained wallets. Some write letters filled with advice and stories, hoping to pass on the lessons learned from steel decks and stormy nights.

There’s also a kind of symbolic connection. Ships are vessels of passage, of transition. Children, too, are always in motion—growing, learning, becoming. Seamen understand that journey. They know the importance of guidance, of steady hands at the helm. And though they may be far from shore, their hearts remain tethered to the futures they hope to protect.
In ports around the world, you’ll find retired mariners volunteering at schools, coaching youth sports, or simply sitting on benches, telling stories to wide-eyed kids. They don’t seek recognition. They just know that the world is rough, and children deserve calm seas.

Because for seamen, the measure of a man isn’t just how he handles a storm—it’s how he shelters the next generation from it.

⚓ Dunedin - New Zealand

My second voyage to New Zealand aboard the South Africa Star, from London to the stunning shores of New Zealand, took 41 days. This journey involved traversing vast seas, where the ship battled the mighty waves in search of the cities of Auckland and Wellington. Upon reaching New Zealand, the ship would linger in its picturesque waters for another 28 days, making stops at various ports to load and unload a colourful array of cargo. The ports in the South Island, including Dunedin, Nelson, Port Chalmers, and Timaru, stood out for the, town-like atmosphere. The crew would mingle with the locals, absorbing the unique culture and spirit of each place while diligently unloading cargo and restocking with goods for the return journey.

One particular Christmas night in Dunedin is forever etched in my memory. I vividly recall seeing a mother and her young daughter, Mary, wandering along the wharf, where our vessel, the South Africa Star, was gently swaying at anchor after we had savoured a sumptuous Christmas dinner. As they strolled towards the gangway, secured firmly but bouncing slightly with the rhythm of the port waters, I called out, "Happy Christmas!" Their joyful reply echoed back, "And the same to you!" Seizing the moment, I invited them aboard, and before they could respond fully, I was already on my way down the gangway, excited to show them the ship.

I received a nod of approval from the engine crew, with the stipulation that the mother and daughter wear appropriate footwear—thankfully, they had on sturdy shoes. Half an hour later, we ventured into the crew's mess room, which was alive with camaraderie but notably low on supplies. The crew, short on provisions, animatedly conversed while I served as their unofficial host, leading the awestruck mother and daughter into the galley and pantry. They were visibly amazed by the warm hospitality extended to them and taken aback by the kindness shown.

A golden rule among the crew while in an overseas port is the importance of discretion: never offer alcohol to a woman within twenty yards of the gangway. Instead, I offered them tea or coffee, which they politely declined. After escorting them off the ship around 3:00 PM, I made my way to my quarters for a refreshing shower before serving up a delightful spread of cold meats, fresh salad, and other leftovers from our Christmas feast.

As the clock approached 5:00 PM, I suddenly heard my name being called. A man stood at the gangway with the duty watchman, eager to speak with me. Intrigued, I approached, knowing full well that I didn’t recognise anyone in Dunedin. To my surprise, it was Mick, the father of the young girl who had visited our ship. The moment he introduced himself, he exclaimed, "I’ve heard so much about you from my daughter and wife! “Alan showed us this, and Alan showed us that.” With a gleaming smile, he recounted how his daughter and wife visited the South Star ship's galley and were warmly welcomed, and how the boat was showcased in ways that left them utterly enchanted; it was clear that the crew were all true gentlemen.

Mick had come to the ship to see firsthand what real gentlemen looked like. After witnessing their warmth and charm, he enthusiastically invited all eight members of the galley and pantry crew to join him for a late Christmas tea at his home at 7:00 PM. He assured us that his friend, who operated the local taxi service, would be notified and ready to pick us up around 6:50 PM, since his house was nearby. He insisted that we couldn't refuse the invitation.

All I can say is that the entire galley crew felt as though I was delivering them a second Christmas.

Ships cooks and Stewards 

Ship's cooks and Chief Stewards hold a unique and inspiring position onboard, often beginning their journey in the galley. Beyond being culinary experts, they are vital morale boosters. With a warm smile and a silver tongue, they expertly navigate the complexities of ship life, diffusing tense situations both aboard and ashore. They are problem solvers, using a blend of discretion and occasional white lies to prevent conflicts from escalating.

Aboard the ship, a cook must possess a genuine passion for the meals they prepare. Each dish reflects years of experience at sea, combined with a deep understanding of flavors that transform even the simplest ingredients into something extraordinary. A skilled cook knows how to elevate flavours in an environment where food enhancers typical of hotel kitchens are absent.

Consider the meticulous process of braising a quarter of a side of beef. This culinary feat involves skillfully using both the top and bottom shelves of two ovens, adding water and covering the meat with large, heavy cooking trays. When the weather permits, these deep trays allow the beef to slowly cook overnight in a low oven, from 10 PM to 5 AM. This method yields tender, succulent braised beef, accompanied by a rich bounty of flavorful juices and animal fat. By straining the fat and storing it in a cool room, the cook can produce pure cooking lard, which can be shaped into blocks for frying or transformed into a smooth roux, deepening sauces and enhancing the natural flavours of the beef.

While some may voice concerns about the health aspects of using fat for thickening, it is essential to embrace the realities of life at sea. In the isolation of the ocean, with no nearby supermarket to procure MSG boosters for dishes, this method becomes invaluable. It ensures the creation of satisfying meals while conserving both ingredients and precious resources, standing in stark contrast to the conveniences of hotel kitchens. Many health professionals argue that using fat sparingly can be more nutritious than relying on modern flavour boosters.

As for my journey, it unfolds like a well-loved sea shanty. I may have left behind a conventional life on land for the promise of adventure on the high seas. Or perhaps I have always dreamed of cooking on a ship, where waves and salt air seamlessly blend with the aromas of my meals.

Cooking at sea presents its own inspiring challenges, particularly the limited and often monotonous ingredients available. The ever-changing nature of supply requires resourcefulness, allowing me to draw upon culinary knowledge from diverse experiences in hotels, mining camps, and a busy shearing shed in South West Victoria, near the town of Dimboola. Amid the shearing's clamour and camp camaraderie, I have learned to transform basic staples into exciting and satisfying meals, lifting the people's spirits amid challenges at the time.

Imagine you are the ship's cook or pantryman on a lengthy voyage across the vast sea. The crew is composed of rookie sailors. Each one of the crew is grappling with the challenges that the ocean throws their way. The ship's relentless motion tests your cooking skills and determination like never before. Even as you battle the waves of seasickness, you summon the strength to press on, knowing that the crew relies on your culinary expertise.

As you lean over the hot stove, the air is thick with the savoury aroma of simmering ingredients. The galley staff, wearing expressions of concentration, ladles the mixture into a large pot, preparing a hearty meal to nourish the weary sailors on the next deck. With a firm grip on the rope attached to the pulley system, you ready yourself to lift the heavy pot. Just as you stretch to secure it, you feel the pot slipping from your hands. A sudden lurch of the ship sends you reeling, your legs buckling beneath you as another wave crashes against the hull, yet your resolve remains unshaken.

In that pivotal moment, you are confronted with a challenging dilemma: will you prioritise saving the precious food prepared with dedication and hard work, or will you bravely embrace the challenge of navigating the greasy, dangerous galley deck? The tiles beneath your feet are already slick with remnants of the heavy stockpot’s contents, which had earlier simmered on the stove, promising to become a hearty lunchtime soup. With only half of it remaining in the pot and the other half cascading in a messy spill, the grooves of the tiles, choked with the remnants of your culinary efforts, are threatening to throw everything into disarray. Your resolve ignites a fierce determination within you. Each movement becomes s a vivid display of resilience and courage on this journey. You won’t allow yourself to be left with just a fraction of today’s meal; you are committed to salvaging what you can and reclaiming the spirit of your labour.

In 1960, stewards aboard cargo passenger ships were essential architects of travellers' experiences at sea, ensuring an atmosphere of comfort and satisfaction throughout the voyage. Their diverse roles mirrored those of modern hotel and cruise ship stewards, encompassing a wide range of responsibilities dedicated to crafting unforgettable journeys across the vast, open waters.

One of the stewards' most significant duties was food service, executed with a finesse that transformed each meal into a grand occasion. Meals were delivered in an elegant style known as "Silver Service," in which attentive, meticulously trained staff gracefully presented exquisite dishes from polished serving platters, creating a visual feast in the stunning dining saloon. This sophisticated presentation demanded not only a keen eye for detail but also an extraordinary level of skill and adherence to the highest standards of etiquette. Stewards approached table setting with artistry, folding crisp white napkins into intricate shapes, positioning gleaming cutlery with precision, and arranging tasteful decorations that effortlessly transformed the dining area into a warm and inviting retreat. After each meal, they swiftly and silently cleared away dishes, ensuring the dining area remained pristine and ready for the next gathering.

Stewards were also tasked with the daily upkeep of passenger cabins, transforming these private quarters into serene oases of comfort and relaxation. They meticulously made beds with freshly pressed linens, dusted every surface until it sparkled, polished brass fixtures until they gleamed, and replenished essential supplies, such as fluffy towels and luxurious, aromatic toiletries. Attuned to the nuances of guest expectations, stewards often catered to specific requests—whether adjusting the room temperature to create a cosy ambience or promptly addressing any cleanliness concerns—anticipating each need with a diligent and attentive disposition.

As the primary point of contact for passengers, stewards were the welcoming faces that guests relied on throughout their journey. They expertly assisted with baggage handling, ensuring a seamless embarkation and disembarkation experience while providing clear and engaging information about the ship's numerous amenities and activities. Their warm demeanour and genuine eagerness to assist created a reassuring presence, fostering a sense of home and familiarity amidst the boundless expanse of the ocean.

In certain situations, stewards were equipped with essential first aid training, empowering them to respond competently to minor injuries or health issues that could arise on board. Their knowledge of first-aid procedures was crucial, enabling them to act swiftly in medical emergencies and ensure passengers received immediate attention until specialised care arrived.

Furthermore, stewards played a vital role in maintaining order and safeguarding the well-being of all passengers on board. They educated guests on crucial safety regulations and procedures, particularly during emergency drills or real-life incidents. Their vigilant presence during these intense moments instilled confidence, providing an invaluable sense of security as passengers navigated the unpredictable sea.

In addition to their primary responsibilities, stewards performed various general maintenance tasks to ensure the ship operated smoothly. They polished brightwork, ensuring that metallic fixtures shone brilliantly, adjusted cargo hold provisions for optimal weight distribution, and handled simple repairs with aplomb, such as sewing buttons onto their crisp uniforms or mending their own and passengers' clothing.

Following four days at home on leave, I eagerly returned to the life of the London docks. The salty tang of the sea filled the air, accompanied by the creaking of ships, the clanking of cranes, and the spirited calls of dockworkers immersed in their tasks. 

I worked on two other Blue Star ships while remaining in port, utterly unaware of the thrilling adventures that awaited me just beyond the horizon. My days were filled with hard work aboard various vessels, including the sturdy Katalina Star, where the rhythm of the sea dictated my every move. When night fell and darkness enveloped the docks, I sought a different kind of adventure. Instead of indulging in the usual night's revelry of wine, women, and song, I craved a deeper connection with the vibrant community around me.

I immersed myself in lively seamen's pubs, such as the famed Round House, where the air buzzed with laughter and camaraderie. Surrounded by boisterous patrons and the rich aromas of hearty meals, I gained valuable insights beyond any classroom. As I diligently scrubbed and polished glasses, I listened to seasoned sailors share their colourful tales of the sea, each story brimming with adventure and friendship.

This work became a crucial stepping stone in my maritime journey.  Because, by working in catering facilities during shore leave, such as pubs and restaurants, I discovered joy in learning to cook vegetables, meat, and pastry, as well as in attending to tables and serving the food I had seen cooked and had assisted in cooking. This gave me experience across all facets of the food industry, fully engaged in the lively atmosphere around me. Within two weeks, I embraced the role of a beer runner, confidently calling out familiar bar chants to snag beers from fellow seamen. Navigating the crowded pub, I proclaimed, "Anyone who wants a beer, give me your orders!" This nightly routine transformed into a dance of connection and laughter as I enthusiastically took on their requests.

Through this unconventional evening ritual, I earned far more than pocket change—I became a fixture in a lively, salt-of-the-earth community. The publican welcomed the surge in sales, and I relished the rewards of my efforts: not just monetary, but social and deeply fulfilling. At just sixteen, I could pocket up to three pounds Sterling on a night, all while enjoying rounds of beer generously offered by newfound mates.

I basked in the laughter and forged bonds with sailors who, more often than not, squandered their wages on pub girls and drank themselves past the point of remembering their winnings. Their forgotten rewards became my windfall—unclaimed, unmissed, and thoroughly enjoyed. I slipped past long queues at the bar with ease, not as a customer, but as someone who belonged. In those moments, I wasn’t just earning—I was living..

Between Linen and Diesel

Being a steward on a cargo-passenger ship was a peculiar kind of balancing act. You weren’t quite crew, not quite service staff, and certainly not a passenger—but you touched every part of their lives. The ship itself was a hybrid beast: part freighter, part floating hotel, hauling crates of machinery and barrels of fuel alongside a dozen or so paying passengers who expected civility in the middle of the sea.

My day began before sunrise, when the galley was still dark, and the corridors smelled faintly of salt and polish. First task: wake-up trays. Tin cups of tea or coffee, a biscuit or two, and a polite knock on cabin doors. Some passengers were cheerful—retired couples chasing adventure, missionaries bound for remote islands. Others were curt, businesslike, or seasick. You learned quickly who wanted conversation and who preferred silence.

After breakfast service, the real work began. Cabin cleaning was no small affair. Each room had to be tidied, beds made tight as drumskins, towels folded with military precision. You scrubbed sinks, emptied bins, and wiped down surfaces that collected salt overnight. The ship rolled gently most days, but in rough weather, you learned to brace yourself with one hand while scrubbing with the other. I once cleaned a cabin during a squall with my boots sliding like I was on a skating rink.

Laundry was its own saga. Sheets and uniforms were boiled, wrung, and hung in the belly of the ship where the heat and humidity turned the air into soup. You’d emerge from the laundry room soaked through, smelling of starch and steam, and still have to smile when a passenger asked for extra pillows or a fresh towel.

Lunch and dinner service were more formal. The dining saloon had white cloths, chipped china, and a view of the endless horizon. We served soup, roast meats, and puddings—simple fare, but presented with care. You learned to carry trays through narrow passageways without spilling, to pour coffee without sloshing, and to nod politely even when a passenger complained about the gravy being too thin.

But it wasn’t all drudgery. There were moments of quiet joy: watching flying fish skim the waves while folding napkins, sharing a smoke with the cook behind the galley, or hearing a passenger say, “You made this voyage feel like home.” That meant something.

At night, after the last dish was washed and the cabins turned down, I’d walk the deck alone. The cargo hatches were sealed, the engines throbbed below, and the stars hung low over the sea. I wasn’t just a steward—I was part of the rhythm of the ship. Serving, cleaning, listening, surviving. Between linen and diesel, I found my place.

This exercise in connection and resourcefulness became a powerful practice throughout my seafaring career, a unique method of learning that propelled me through the ranks to become a Steward and Ship's Cook. I have treasured these formative experiences for decades, sharing them only with a select few. 

⚓ My next Two Trips – Blue Star Line

At just sixteen years old, I was a bright-eyed youth from Kingsbury, London, when I first embarked on the Brisbane Star. This ship was a rugged vessel, and the experiences I had onboard were both challenging and unforgettable. Little did I know that I would soon be moving on to the exciting yet daunting life aboard an oil tanker. My journey began in earnest when I signed on to the Scottish Star on September 1, 1961, for a short trip to the port of Liverpool and the city of Glasgow in Scotland.

Upon our arrival at the Clyde near Glasgow, the ship was docked for necessary repairs, leaving me with limited responsibilities. Most of my time was spent cleaning the vessel, a task that felt mundane in the shadow of the grand adventures that lay ahead. This brief pause, however, became the backdrop for tales that still echo today in the lively dockside pubs that connect London, Liverpool, and Glasgow.

On 19 October 1961, almost three weeks after leaving the Scottish Star, I found myself as a crew member aboard the majestic SS South Africa Star. We were also en route to New Zealand, but this time we were travelling through the bustling shipping lane of the Suez Canal. This was the route we were originally destined to take on our way to New Zealand. The air was charged with anticipation, and the unmistakable scents of saltwater and industrial activity filled the air. The sight of towering cargo ships and the cacophony of crew members shouting as they manoeuvred their vessels heightened the sense of adventure that coursed through me.

On board the South Africa Star—a sturdy all-steel steamship affectionately nicknamed "the bucket"—I experienced a unique camaraderie. This vessel, once an aircraft repair ship during World War II, rang with the creak of metal and the roar of the sea. Every bunk and clothes locker in the crew's quarters was solid steel, embodying the ship’s resilience, while the walkways shimmered underfoot. I joined her on October 19, 1961, at my home port of King George V, London, where the salty breeze carried whispers of adventure. My second journey was six months after my first trip to New Zealand. 

Politeness at Sea: 

Two months at sea aboard a cargo-passenger vessel teaches you many things—how to fold a towel with military precision, how to scrub a deck while bracing against a swell, and how to serve soup without spilling it on a rolling floor. But the hardest lesson, and perhaps the most vital, is learning to be polite. Not the shallow kind of politeness you find in hotel lobbies or scripted greetings, but the deep, deliberate kind that keeps tempers cool and spirits intact when you’re all trapped in a steel box floating on saltwater.

Politeness on a ship isn’t just etiquette—it’s survival. When you’re living shoulder to shoulder with passengers and crew, sharing meals, corridors, and the occasional bout of seasickness, every word carries weight. A careless remark can sour a shift. A raised voice can echo through the bulkheads like a cannon shot. You learn quickly that kindness isn’t weakness—it’s ballast.
Serving passengers demands a special kind of grace. Some are seasoned travellers, others are landlubbers who think the sea should behave like a swimming pool. They complain about the food, the motion, and the noise. They ask for fresh towels during a storm or want their tea hotter than the galley kettle allows. You smile, nod, and deliver what you can. Not because they’re always right, but because they’re always watching. Your politeness becomes part of their voyage, a buffer between discomfort and dignity.

But it’s with the crew that politeness becomes a true art. You’re all tired. You’re all sore. You’ve all cleaned the same cabin three times because someone tracked in sand from the deck. You’ve seen each other at your worst—bleary-eyed, salt-stained, and fed up. And yet, you say “please” when passing the mop. You say “thank you” when someone covers your shift. You learn to apologise quickly and sincerely, because grudges at sea fester like rust.

There’s a rhythm to it. A steward greets the cook with respect, even when breakfast is late. The deckhand helps the steward lift a mattress, even when he’s off duty. The engineer shares a cigarette and a joke, even when the engines are misbehaving. These small gestures form the invisible rigging that holds the crew together.

Politeness doesn’t mean pretending everything’s fine. It means choosing dignity over impulse. It means recognising that the man who snapped at you over a spilt coffee might be missing his daughter’s birthday. It means knowing that your own frustration is valid—but not always useful.

By the end of the voyage, you’re changed. You’ve learned to speak gently in rough weather, to listen when someone needs to vent, and to offer a cup of tea not just as a beverage, but as a balm. You’ve learned that politeness isn’t just about manners—it’s about mercy.

And when you step ashore, blinking at the land and the noise and the space, you carry that lesson with you. Because if you can be kind in the middle of the ocean, you can be kind anywhere.

⚓ Fraser Darrah Collection 

Cargo passenger ships were a quieter, more relaxed, and less energetic type of journey than cruise liners offered. 

However, the golden age of cruising elegance began to wane in the 1970s with the advent of the Jumbo Jet. This groundbreaking aircraft transformed air travel, making it accessible to the masses and shifting the graceful, leisurely experience of sea voyages into a more practical, “cheap and cheerful” affair. While some passengers in the 1960s still adhered to formal dress codes, it became increasingly clear that the travel landscape was evolving toward a more democratised and less exclusive environment.

Despite this decline in traditional cruising elegance, the fascinating concept of passenger-carrying cargo ships remains overlooked, mainly in maritime travel. Typically limited to just 12 passengers, these vessels were subject to strict regulations requiring a doctor to be on board when accommodating more travellers. This unique limitation not only allowed shipping companies to supplement their earnings but also enabled them to cultivate connections with influential figures stationed overseas during a transformative period in global history.

Embarking on a journey aboard a cargo ship could offer an exceptionally refined experience, though not to the extravagant standards of the luxury liners famously known as “A” Boats. The cargo ships designed by Blue Star Line in the 1950s and 1960s epitomised a perfect blend of functionality and elegance. Their interiors boasted high-quality furnishings and thoughtfully curated designs, enveloping passengers in a warm, inviting atmosphere that ensured their comfort while showcasing the era's delightful aesthetic.

Travelling by cargo ship offered a more personal and intimate experience, particularly during a time when globalisation had yet to blur cultural distinctions across nations. Passengers savoured the attentive, superior service, relishing the opportunity to forge connections with fellow travellers in a cosy setting, fostering a sense of belonging amid the vastness of the open sea.

Blue Star Line actively promoted its passenger capacity, creating visually stunning and informative advertising materials that captured the enchanting allure of sailing with them. These promotional efforts not only highlighted the unique experiences aboard their ships but also sought to rekindle the spirit of adventure that characterised a bygone era of maritime exploration. The historical materials preserved from this time reveal the charm and sophistication that once dominated the world of sea travel, inviting us to dream of the open waters and the captivating stories they hold.

⚓ The Imperial Star

The Imperial Star was the third ship on which I proudly donned the title of assistant steward, marking my second voyage in this role. As I stepped aboard, I was ready to uncover the rich tapestry of life on a cargo passenger ship. This world promised rewarding experiences and was bound to be markedly different from my past role as a pantry boy. Reflecting on three decades of my career, I often wonder if my sentimentality for my time as a pantry boy stems from the nostalgic glow of it being my very first job at sea. It felt like the beginning of an adventure.

As I navigated the initial phases of my career, I was learning the ropes. This expression proved true as I grappled with the many responsibilities that came with the position. It had been a year since I parted ways with the TS Vindicatrix, and I felt invigorated and hopeful, envisioning myself on the grand Cunard ships, the majestic Queen Elizabeth and the regal Queen Mary. With excitement bubbling within me, I believed I was finally ready to confront the dynamic hustle and bustle of a large passenger vessel, leaving behind the more tranquil environment of a smaller cargo ship.

However, aboard the Imperial Star, things took an unexpected turn. My voyage began with my first altercation—a questionable initiation—involving another steward who believed that an aggressive approach would facilitate a game of “mums and dads” during our five-month jaunt. The encounter culminated in a swift bout of self-defence on my part, leaving him with twenty-seven stitches on his right cheek and a nearly shattered kneecap. This steward, either Roddy or Reddy, decided on the wisdom of abandoning ship just a day before our departure. Surprisingly, I have harboured no sour feelings toward those who challenge conventional gender norms; this acceptance has remained steadfast, even as I now navigate my 81st year.

In my previous life running the Octagon Motel in South Yarra, I had the pleasure of hiring a talented chef named Werner and his assistant, a housekeeper. Our relationship blossomed into a strong friendship over more than twenty years, only coming to an end when Werner passed away, and Gerry relocated to Sydney. 

Initially, the atmosphere aboard the Imperial Star seemed rather bleak and uninspiring. The ship exuded an air of dullness that clung to every corner, particularly on the day of my arrival. I was laden with my suitcase and kit bag, huffing and puffing my way up the gangway and onto the after deck, where the Chief Steward was engaged in a serious discussion with the Chief Mate about the placement of storage for dry cargo—potato bags and vegetables waiting for their designated home.

In stark contrast, the ship's storeroom was undergoing fumigation, its contents shrouded in a fog of chemicals. The first face I encountered was that of the Second Steward, who soon became a close friend when our paths crossed again aboard the Esso Liverpool in Cobh, County Cork. That ship would soon become a significant chapter in my sea-going adventure story.

In my tale of life at sea, the Imperial Star stands out as the ship that deeply captured my heart amidst the four cargo passenger vessels I had the privilege to work on. This magnificent cargo passenger ship was more than just a vessel; it was a floating sanctuary where my passion blossomed. The enchanting women of New Zealand, who graced its decks, became a source of inspiration as they passed through my realm.

I endeavoured to reflect the love I felt for my surroundings, striving to excel as a steward in the burgeoning hospitality industry awaiting me.

The Imperial Star, despite its humble identity as a cargo ship, ignited a fire within me, propelling me on a transformative journey. When I stepped off its gangway on that unforgettable October 16, 1962, a profound awareness enveloped me, revealing that my future would intertwine with the worlds of culinary delights and heartfelt connections, both at sea and ashore. With this ambition firmly grasped, I eagerly seized every opportunity to expand my knowledge and skills—watching seasoned professionals with keen eyes, immersing myself in the intricacies of culinary literature, and sailing on various ships beyond those of the Blue Star Line. This rich tapestry of experiences laid the groundwork for my introduction to the culinary arts, which I soon came to recognise as the key to unlocking my dreams and aspirations for success.

Because my first four trips in the British Merchant navy from the UK to Australia and New Zealand spanned more than two years with other trips to and from various ports in Germany, Holland, France, Belgium dropping off cargo from Australia and New Zealand before embarking from those four trips, which also took in the West Indies, and various ports in the far east telling a story about each port and what was my most rememberable would again be enough to complete another book. I absolutely loved Germany, the Netherlands, France, and Belgium. Being put in jail in Antwerp for disrupting the peace was not an experience worth writing a two-page essay about, but trying to convince the reader, who has already read part of my story, that I was entirely innocent of all charges is not going to sit well with the reader.

The Belgian police charged half the crew with the same crime, and we also received a penalty from the skipper for the damages caused by a load of drunken young priests before they went back to their college, which is not going to be believed either. I could hardly say the bosun’s mate caused the brawl, as calling the priest a black misfit and a devil in disguise is taboo. This is also because when a group of sailors go ashore together, they return to the ship together, and no single crew member is to blame. It is usually the very potent different brand of alcohol that causes damage or blindness to the Hotel owners who cannot differentiate between a sober sailor and a drunken one. 

If I had to choose my favourite experience from the four countries I've explored, it would undoubtedly be my time in Marseille, even though it's in the South of France. 

⚓Suez and Panama Canals 

As for my journeys along the canals of Panama and Egypt, I had a life-altering experience in 1962, where I was saved while also saving one of my rescuers. 

Firstly, and perhaps most significantly, the reason I am here on this earth today is the result of two very young, quick-thinking Egyptian boys.     

In late October or early November 1961, when I was sixteen years old and on my third trip to sea as a crew member on the South Africa Star, which became part of a convoy anchored in the shipping lane of the Suez Canal. Stupidly, I decided to climb down a self-made knotted rope to swim ashore so I could have a look at the scenery and the distant pyramids.  Later, however, tired after walking in the heat and then swimming back to the ship, I found I didn’t have the strength to climb back up the knotted rope to the deck.  I couldn't alert the other crew members to my plight.

Unbeknownst to me, a couple of Arab boys (as we referred to them at the time) noticed my situation, and one of them bravely climbed down the rope to help me. I watched, too young to recognise the heroic yet foolish risk he was taking, as he slipped about halfway down and fell into the water beside me. I wondered what was going through his mind because, amid spluttering in both Arabic and English, he managed to tell me that he couldn’t swim. It was then my turn to help this young Arab hero. I hadn’t seen the movie “Lawrence of Arabia” at that point, but later, when I did watch it, one of the Arab boys that Lawrence befriended reminded me of my young hero.

With my heroic saviour speaking in broken English/Arabic, he eventually managed to tell me, while I held him up with one arm and the other clutched to the rope, that a rowing boat that I could not yet see was coming to save two very foolish boys.  An even more petite Arab boy, maybe twelve years old, had seen our plight and managed to commandeer a rowboat tied to the gangway on the other side of the ship, which had been used to transfer the shore gangs working along the Suez Canal from ship to shore.

Finally, rescued and on board the ship, I realised that I didn’t even know the names of my rescuers, and so that I could thank them properly, within the hour of returning to the ship, we were on the move with the other ships in the convoy.

As for scenic views, the Panama Canal is far greater than the Suez Canal.

Throughout my years at sea, I have never encountered anyone who disdained or undervalued the day they traversed the magnificent Panama Canal. This journey, often highlighted as a pinnacle of seafaring experiences, resonates deeply with the love we share for the ocean.

In those days, stepping ashore in Panama came with its own set of risks. Going out meant navigating a landscape where seamen had to be cautious, especially when it came to modest hotels that fit within our budgets. Many of those establishments on the bustling waterfronts in Colon, Balboa, and Panama City had reputations that made one think twice, much like certain hotels in Sydney and Melbourne during the sixties, where danger seemed to lurk around every corner. 

As a result, my memories of Curacao, with its heady atmosphere and colourful culture, came to overshadow any late-night escapades around Panama's waterfront. When we did venture into the cities, it was always as a closely-knit group of seamen. Straying from the pack was not an option; safety in numbers became our guiding principle, a testament to the bonds forged through shared adventure and caution at sea.

⚓ Opportunities 

In addition to my stewarding duties, I explored the lucrative opportunities presented by trading various food products, thanks to the ship owners. These side ventures could yield extra wages, sometimes equivalent to an entire month’s earnings. For instance, during a trip, I took the initiative to purchase Wrangler Lee-Rider jeans for five Dutch Guilders, a deal that returned three times what I invested, thanks to the help of New Zealand wharf labourers. By saving this additional income for my upcoming journey to Suez, I planned to invest in Indian art, Persian rugs, and leather goods, which I knew could be resold in the UK for significantly more than what I paid in Suez, Yemen, and Aden.

Being at sea has significantly sharpened my observational skills and business acumen. By the age of eighteen, I had successfully purchased my first five acres of land in Emerald, in the Dandenongs, Victoria, Australia, laying the groundwork for a promising future.

During the mid-1960s to early 1970s, smuggling wristwatches, luxurious silk, and the coveted National 10 Japanese radios became a profitable venture for seamen navigating the waters from Geelong, Victoria, Australia, to the tropical destinations of Nauru, Ocean Island, and Christmas Island. Many sailors whom I knew engaged in this practice by carefully limiting their contraband to no more than two items of each product to avoid drawing attention.

In stark contrast, possession of child pornography and hard drugs painted a much darker picture. Seamen caught with such illicit materials faced severe repercussions. They were shunned by their fellow crew members, experiencing a palpable sense of isolation and disdain. The threat of being left behind became a grim reality; rather than staying aboard their ships, they would often have to disembark in port, fully aware that remaining on the vessel could result in dire consequences, including being abandoned to the merciless sea, far from the safety of land.

On a lighter note, one of the most profound lessons that seasoned seamen learn over two decades at sea is the power of storytelling. There’s a unique magic in sharing a true yarn, a narrative that resonates deeply in the company of fellow mariners. As you stand before your audience, you can feel the weight of their anticipation, scanning their faces as you open your heart to them. 

⚓ Introduction - Port Lyttleton 
Jumping ship from Port Lyttleton in June 1963, my last British ship, led me to join many Australian and Canadian ships.

On my fifth English ship, en route to New Zealand and Australia, I joined the Port Lyttelton in Liverpool on 23 March 1963. Just eight days later, on 31 March, I signed off again for a brief stay in London, working aboard other Port Line ships while the Port Lyttelton underwent maintenance at Victoria Docks. I was to be appointed assistant steward the day she sailed.

On 10 April 1963, I signed back on, expecting the usual five-month voyage—hard work, long days, and a route through the Panama Canal, then Curacao, maybe Caracas in Venezuela, and finally Australia. I thought we’d be back on English shores by late September. Little did I know that this would be my last voyage on an English ship for four years.

The trip began like any other. But sometimes, the smallest gestures carry strange weight. To bend down and tie my runners was, unbeknownst to me, an invitation—one that signalled I was ready for playtime in a world that didn’t play fair. What followed were tales that many readers might find hard to swallow. But they happened. And they deserve to be told.

I quickly learned to navigate the catering staff's personalities. There was the demanding diva who insisted on being called Stella, her offsider named Spangles, and another crew member who, instead of being called Freddy (his birth name), preferred to be known as Freda. Rather than cooking steak and onions, I was being shown how to serve caviar and savoury dishes, which certainly wasn’t what I had learned at the Vindicatrix Sea Training School.

I want to clarify that I am not prejudiced against gay couples—far from it. However, being confined on a vessel at sea for five months, where the cooks and stewards were mostly gay, was not an enjoyable experience for me. Instead of burly seamen and roughnecks, the catering staff of the Port Line ships were more like fairies, not from an island, but those who found men more attractive than women. 

From Silence to Resistance
The saloon may have gleamed, but the shadows behind it ran deep. What I endured aboard that ship wasn’t just bullying—it was a system designed to isolate, humiliate, and break those who didn’t conform. I didn’t lodge a formal complaint. Not because I lacked evidence, but because I knew how the system worked: the moment you speak, you’re marked. And once you’re marked, the knives come out—figuratively and literally.

Two complaints were lodged against my name. Fabricated. Weaponized. That’s how easy it is to set someone up when the culture rewards silence and punishes integrity. But I didn’t forget. I documented everything. I learned to write not just for memory, but for survival. Every insult, every sabotage, every threat—I recorded it. Not because I thought it would save me then, but because I knew one day, someone would need to understand what really happened.

That ship taught me something I never forgot: when truth is inconvenient, institutions will bury it. But if you keep the records, if you hold the line, if you refuse to be gaslit into silence—then one day, the truth will surface. And when it does, it will be undeniable.

This experience didn’t just shape me—it steeled me. It laid the foundation for everything that came after: the fight against Telstra, the betrayal in arbitration, and the years of advocacy. It taught me that dignity isn’t given—it’s defended. And that the most potent weapon against corruption isn’t rage—it’s documentation.

Ink Against Injustice
In the years that followed, I came to understand that silence is the ally of corruption. What I lived through aboard that ship—the sabotage, the humiliation, the threats—could have been buried like so many other untold stories. But I refused to let it vanish.

I write down every incident, not just the big ones, but also the small ones. The stolen silver. The swapped napkins. The bruises that didn’t show. The names, the dates, the patterns. My diaries became more than records—they became armour. Each page was a protest. Each entry is a refusal to be erased.

I mean no offence to the shipowners of the Port Line Shipping Company, but I often thought of escape; otherwise, I might have been wearing a skirt upon arriving back in London after this trip. 

In the end, there was only one reasonable solution: I decided to jump ship on 26 June 1963 in the Port of Melbourne, Australia.

“I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.”
— Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Life on the sea

There comes a moment in every seaman’s life when he must decide whether to tell the story as it happened—or soften it for the land-bound listener. The temptation to dilute the truth is strong. After all, who would believe that trust between strangers can be forged in minutes, that a cook can calm a crew in a cyclone with nothing but stew and sarcasm, or that a ship leaving port becomes a world unto itself, governed by different laws, different loyalties?

But to halt the story here—to hesitate, to second-guess—would be to betray the very essence of life at sea. The truth is, once the mooring lines are cast off, you enter a realm where time stretches, where men become brothers not by blood but by necessity, and where the unbelievable becomes routine. You learn to trust a man not because you want to, but because you must. Six months at sea doesn’t allow for slow introductions.

I learned this early, aboard the Hopepeak, a voyage that marked me in ways no tribunal ever could. It wasn’t just the cargo or the route—it was the moral weight of what we were asked to carry, and the quiet defiance of saying no. That decision, made in the belly of a ship, would echo through decades of advocacy and resistance. It taught me that truth isn’t always convenient, but it’s always worth defending.

Years later, battered by betrayal and exile, I found healing in the company of Canadian seamen—men who didn’t ask for explanations, just offered respect. Their camaraderie was immediate, unspoken, and deeply human. In the galley of an Ingram tug, I rediscovered dignity. We shared stories, meals, and laughter that stitched together the torn fabric of my spirit. That bond, forged in salt and steel, reminded me that the sea still held grace.

To those who’ve never sailed, this may sound far-fetched. But to those who have, it’s gospel. The sea doesn’t lie. It strips away pretence, exposes character, and demands resilience. It’s where laughter becomes a lifeline, and every shared hardship becomes a story worth telling.

This book is not just a memoir. It’s a ledger of truth, a tribute to the cooks, deckhands, engineers, and quiet heroes who lived these stories beside me. Some tales may stretch belief—but none stretch the truth. If they inspire wonder, good. If they provoke doubt, better. Because in that tension lies the power of the sea: to humble, to heal, and to remind us that the most extraordinary adventures often begin with a simple introduction and a shared meal.

Between Brothers, the Story Tells Itself

Storytelling is straightforward between seamen. Like army buddies, we trade tales not for applause but for understanding. You don’t need to explain the smell of diesel in your clothes or the ache of missing land—you nod, and the other man knows. Between us, the stories flow freely. No one flinches when you say you once cooked through a cyclone or patched a hull with chewing gum and prayer.

But how do you tell a story that sounds corny—make-believe—to someone who’s never lived that life? How do you explain that in the Port of Marseilles, you fell in love with a French woman old enough to be your older sister—almost your mother—and that it wasn’t a fling, or fantasy, but something real? Something that left a mark deeper than any storm.

It began simply. I wandered into a small 'café bar ' tucked between a florist and a tailor, looking for a quiet place to sit. She was behind the counter, humming softly, wiping glasses, and watching the world go by without needing to be part of it. I ordered in broken French, and she replied in perfect English; we laughed at the mismatch. That was all it took.

I came back the next day, and the next. We talked. Not about grand things—just life. Her garden, my ship. Her memories, my stories. There was no rush, no agenda. Just two people who found comfort in each other’s company. And somewhere in that rhythm—between the coffee and the quiet—we fell into something more profound. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just love. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission or explanation.

To the reader, it may sound like a sailor’s yarn—romanticised, exaggerated, maybe even a little sad. But I tell it not to impress, only to confess. Because love at sea doesn’t follow rules. It arrives like a rogue wave—unexpected, undeniable, and unforgettable. And when you’ve lived a life where trust is forged in minutes and goodbyes are always looming, you learn to hold onto the moments that matter, no matter how improbable they seem.

So yes, I fell in love with a French Mademoiselle in Marseilles. And no, it wasn’t corny. It was human. And if you’ve ever found grace in an unlikely place, then maybe you’ll understand.

⚓ 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.

⚓ 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 how 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. 

⚓ Princess of Tasmania "The POT" for short. 

I vividly recall my first journey on the Princess of Tasmania, a ferry that gracefully sailed between Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, and Devonport, Tasmania. We set off at 19:00 hours, carving our path through the waves and arriving in Devonport just thirteen hours later, all while skillfully navigating the unpredictable Australian weather. The Princess was designed to accommodate up to 300 passengers, showcasing the beauty of teamwork and unwavering dedication among the crew. Crew meals were served at 17:00 hours, while passengers delighted in their dining experience from 18:00 to 19:00 hours, the dining space transforming into a haven of warmth and hospitality for another day of service. By 20:00 hours, the atmosphere shifted as stewards expertly prepared for the following day, setting up the breakfast spread in anticipation of a new morning, with service scheduled from 07:00 to 08:30 hours. Disembarkation began at 09:00 hours, revealing an organised chaos akin to a well-rehearsed dance, as vehicles and goods were seamlessly ushered ashore.

The ferry spent the weekends anchored in the serene beauty of Tasmania, departing every Sunday evening at 18:00 hours. Each week, the Princess of Tasmania (POT) undertook three journeys from Melbourne, embodying a rhythm of reliability for passengers. I dedicated eighteen months as an assistant cook, stepping into my role with a sense of purpose and gaining invaluable experience along the way. Our schedules were designed to reward hard work, offering a refreshing two weeks off after every six weeks of dedicated service.

The meals served aboard were a true celebration of teamwork and culinary creativity, presenting a diverse array of exceptional dishes that catered to both crew and guests. A typical dinner menu for passengers might feature crispy battered fish and chips, savoury delights like beef stroganoff or fragrant curry, a selection of juicy steaks, a perfectly roasted joint, and fresh salads, each plate a labour of love crafted with care.

My experience on the POT afforded me opportunities to work in four different hotels in Melbourne, each step intensifying my passion for the culinary arts.

On smaller vessels, the norm is often to have just one Chief Cook, underscoring the significance of every individual role in the kitchen. Aspiring chefs embark on their journeys from entry-level positions, gaining qualifications and training, with each step acting as a building block toward realising their culinary dreams.

When I departed from the POT, I embraced an exciting new challenge as Chief Cook at a remote mining camp near the outback town of Kalgoorlie for Broken Hill Proprietary (BHP)

⚓ Mount Munga – Kalgoorlie Mining Camp

This is a vivid and gripping account—raw, humorous, and deeply human. It captures not only the harshness of the Kalgoorlie desert but also the absurdity and quiet resilience that define life in such remote camps. The imagery is cinematic: the makeshift latrine over a mine shaft, the snake-proof trenches, the flickering battery lights, and the tin mess hall with its “SHUT THE DOOR” warnings. It’s a slice of outback life that few have lived, and fewer still have documented with such clarity.

Here was the dignity of hard work, the vulnerability of isolation, and the quiet injustices that often go unnoticed in places far from power.

I left the Princess of Tasmania expecting a three-month swap—a kind of working holiday. What I got instead was a desert ordeal that tested every ounce of patience, grit, and humour I had. The company, unable to secure another cook, was preparing to overwrite my contract and keep me at the camp indefinitely. I had to leave suddenly, but not before living through one of the most bizarre and unforgettable chapters of my working life.

The camp was nestled an hour’s drive from Kalgoorlie, in a harsh stretch of land known as Mount Munga. Twenty-two men, forged together by the ruggedness of the terrain and the isolation of the job, became my comrades. From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in for something different. My first urgent need was to find the toilet. The foreman—a towering figure with a build that reminded me of an ape—pointed casually to a plank laid across two stumps, perched above an abandoned gold mine shaft. That was the latrine. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

The ground was brutal and unforgiving. We stomped as we walked to scare off snakes, especially those lurking near the dunny holes. Hygiene was rudimentary. A forty-four-gallon drum cut in half served as a washbasin, with wastewater trickling from a pipe affixed to the galley roof. I washed my hands religiously. Most of the men didn’t bother.

My introduction to the group took place during a business meeting. Black John pointed in my direction and declared, “That’s the new cook from Victoria.” I’ve never felt more exposed—or more welcomed.

The camp’s only tin building had a concrete slab floor and signs on both doors: “SHUT THE DOOR.” Not for privacy, but to keep the snakes out. They slithered in after dusk, drawn to the cool concrete. Our tents were ringed with trenches lined with paraffin-soaked rope, a makeshift snake barrier that had to be refreshed every few days.

Lighting came from underground battery setups. Flickering bulbs gave our tents a ghostly glow. The sun was relentless. Rain was rare. At 2 PM, the heat peaked, pressing down like a weight. BHP was chasing nickel, following a reef with promising readings. We were chasing shade, sanity, and the occasional laugh.

Reflections from the Dust

This wasn’t just a job—it was a lesson in endurance. In the absence of comfort, you find character. In the absence of structure, you find improvisation. And in the absence of justice, you learn to speak up.

Mount Munga was a world apart from the arbitration rooms and legal battles that would later define my life. But it was here, in the dust and heat, that I first understood the quiet strength of ordinary men doing extraordinary things. It’s a story worth telling—not just for its humour and hardship, but for the dignity it reveals.

Breakfast was served promptly at 6 AM, and around that time, the six to seven Land Rovers and drilling rigs would pull out without delay, each loaded with plastic ice chests brimming with crisp salads, coleslaw, cucumbers, uncut tomatoes, and an assortment of fruits. Our main meal unfolded at night around six, but a variety of fresh meats, steaming and aromatic, were also available from the large refrigerator in the kitchen galley.

My daily routine included a seventy-kilometre trek to Kalgoorlie and Boulder, where I would fill the massive tanker with fresh water and gather supplies for the mining crew. Each man had accounts set up with the local industrial store. Additionally, I took on the task of cashing checks for the boys with BHP wage accounts, ensuring they had cash in hand should they decide to make the lengthy drive to the nearby brothels. These establishments, often referred to as the starting stalls, were the closest places where they could indulge in some fleeting pleasures after long, gruelling days in the rugged terrain.

Gold, Grit, and Shadows: The Social Undercurrents of Kalgoorlie
The BHP camp at Mount Munga wasn’t just a remote outpost—it was perched on land steeped in history. During the 1870s gold rush, thousands of dreamers descended upon this unforgiving terrain, lured by the promise of striking it rich. Some did. Most didn’t. Their hopes were often dashed within days, swallowed by the harsh reality of the land. Yet they left behind a legacy—a golden myth that still clings to Kalgoorlie’s red dust.

From the Vindicatrix to the open-air movie nights, a lesson that never faded.

Miners in the region often boasted of finding nuggets, only to lose them in a single minute. The gold rush was as much an illusion as it was ore. And in that illusion, a culture was born—one of bravado, hardship, and quiet desperation. No matter the country, whether at sea or in a desert camp, when men are away from home for months, the same truths emerge: loneliness, longing, and the need for connection.

On warm evenings, open-air movies would unfold under a blanket of stars. Deck chairs lined up in neat rows, the screen glowing softly against the night. And there, in that flickering light, an unwritten rule held firm: no clandestine encounters with the ladies from the brothels. Much to their credit, these women were treated with respect. They sat in the front rows, alongside other moviegoers—not hidden, not shamed, but acknowledged. They were recognised as deserving of dignity, regardless of their profession. In that moment, life transcended class and circumstance.

But as the years passed, something shifted. The landscape of respect—for the ladies of the night, and for everyday women—mothers, daughters, sisters—began to erode. The compassion and courtesy that once defined interactions gave way to indifference, even cruelty. What was once a shared understanding of humanity became fractured.
Amidst this changing tide, one lesson held firm among the crew at sea: when sharing a date with someone—whether casual or serious—treat that person with the same care and respect you would want for a cherished family member. That principle, simple and profound, became a quiet code of conduct. It reminded us that behind every encounter is a human being, deserving of dignity.

During my sea training days at the Vindicatrix, I learned from the educational films that visiting a brothel could leave you with lifelong health problems. That truth, stark and unvarnished, helped me shy away from those activities. But more than fear, it was respect that guided me. Respect for myself, for others, and for the quiet wisdom passed down from shipmates who’d seen the cost of forgetting it.

Meeting Barney 

Very early in the three months I spent at the BHP camp, one of my routine duties involved disposing of the camp's rubbish down one of the many unused mine shafts dotted throughout the area. Each of these shafts had been meticulously mapped by BHP, with large wooden posts marking their locations to prevent accidental falls. The posts stood solemnly at regular intervals, each emblazoned with numbers like 1A, 2A, 3A, and so on, with others labelled 4B, 5C, and 6D, spaced perhaps a hundred meters apart. These markers not only indicated where extensive nickel readings had been monitored but also served as essential waypoints for those of us who might wander too far from camp and risk getting lost. The geologist would later return to our camp to analyse the readings, which could span a ten-mile radius, skillfully pinpointing where the nickel concentrations were highest.

As I approached my usual dumping site, I was suddenly startled by a peculiar scraping noise against the rugged rock face. Curiosity piqued, I decided to venture a short distance toward an old mine shaft—a remnant of a once-thriving operation that seemed far grander than the smaller mines scattered around the region. 

The scraping noise persisted, echoing through the air, emanating from the larger mine instead of the smaller ones nearby. Intrigued, I edged closer and leaned cautiously over the rim of the disused mine shaft, which, as it turned out, was anything but abandoned. A flickering glow illuminated the dark interior, courtesy of a small petrol generator that buzzed softly, casting shadows on the rough walls of the shaft. Peering deeper, I spotted a man—later I would learn his name was Barney—who was diligently chipping away at the rock, wielding a large, pointed hammer.

I called down, "Hello," and to my surprise, a robust yet slightly worn voice responded confidently, "I will be up in a jiffy," implying he would emerge almost instantly. 

Within about five minutes, an older man appeared from the depths of the shaft. Once a strong figure, he now carried the weight of his years, his back hunched as he climbed. He introduced himself with a straightforward, "My name is Barney," his tone warm despite the rugged surroundings.

I spent about half an hour chatting with Barney, who then asked if I could drive him back to his shack, just ten minutes away, after he shut down his generator. Ten minutes later, I found myself at his secluded shack, nestled near a pair of scraggly half-dead trees, which he insisted offered some shade, even if it didn’t seem very practical. The doors, lacking locks, were crudely secured with an old truck fan belt, wrapped tight with wire and held in place by a clasp.

Barney hadn’t been home for three days, and the shack exhibited signs of neglect. A dilapidated veranda wrapped halfway around the structure, its sagging roof offering minimal cover. Inside, a well-worn leather couch, likely meant for four, boasted a spring that protruded awkwardly at one end. I dangled my legs over the edge of the veranda, allowing my feet to brush against the parched, sandy earth that circled the shack. Barney cautioned me to lift my legs to avoid attracting the attention of dugite snakes—highly venomous and potentially lethal serpents native to Western Australia. These were the very same snakes we had taken measures to ward off by digging trenches around our tents.

A question nagged at me, which I only dared to ask days later: how did Barney manage to reach his claim? When I finally inquired, he explained that he would walk there in the early hours of the morning, a journey of about three-quarters of an hour, armed with food supplies he had stored at his mining site. A few days later, I extended an invitation for him to join the lads at the camp for a meal. I had transformed a plastic industrial detergent drum, complete with a tightly sealed lid, using tools from our camp workshop. Every couple of days, I diligently dropped food into the drum, ensuring Barney had a variety of meals waiting for him at the mining shaft. He later expressed that this gesture was the best thing to happen to him in years, and he could hardly believe his good fortune.

The land that BHP was mining was once part of the third-largest sheep station in Western Australia, as of 1964. While I was there, I was fortunate to cross paths with the owner’s son, who was working alongside two others to mend fences. These fences were crucial, as emus and kangaroos would often stumble, injuring themselves and sometimes dying from the stress of being ensnared or attacked by wandering dingoes (wild dogs). The fences stretched for miles, a testament to the vastness of the landscape. The son, whom I think was named Michael, kindly informed me that I could take a lamb whenever I needed one to cook for the boys at the camp. I gladly took him up on that offer three times over the course of three months.

Barney’s last name was Campbell, and whenever I made the trip into town for supplies and to cash the BHP cheques for the lads back at the camp, he would hand me a $200 cheque to cash at the Palace Hotel on bustling Hannan Street, right in the heart of Kalgoorlie. Hannan Street, named after a man from the 1880s, was steeped in history as the location where one of the largest gold nuggets ever found in Western Australia was unearthed, a nugget that forever changed the landscape of Kalgoorlie.   

⚓ Repercussions of Expired Contract 

As I neared the completion of my three-month contract at Mount Munga, I found myself reflecting on my experience. Although I truly loved the work, embraced the numerous challenges, and treasured the unique lifestyle the Australian outback offered, I felt a strong desire to explore new opportunities. During one of my trips to Kalgoorlie, I took the initiative to contact the Marine Cooks Association. I wanted to inquire about the current shipping list for cooks, specifically whether there are any new job openings or overseas trips scheduled.

As I completed my contract, I eagerly prepared to embark on the next chapter of my life. However, unforeseen obstacles emerged. A missing key thwarted my departure, presenting a challenge that ultimately reinforced my resilience and determination. With no new cook available to take over my position, the journey continued, reminding me that every experience—no matter how daunting—contributes to an inspiring story still unfolding.

To my delight, I learned that the BP Endeavour Oil Tanker was seeking a second cook, and I needed to be prepared to start in just two weeks. This timeline conveniently aligned with the end of my three-month contract with BHP. Excited about the prospect of a new adventure, I accepted the position and promptly requested the necessary documents to confirm my role. I assured them that I would fulfil my duties wherever I was needed on the ship.

After securing my new position, I contacted BHP's head office in Perth, Western Australia, to formally submit my resignation. I informed them that I would complete my contract by the agreed-upon date.

However, on the day I was scheduled to leave, I received an unexpected message from BHP stating that they had been unable to find a replacement for my position but were making every effort to do so. I immediately shared this news with Black John, my supervisor, but after a week, there was still no progress, and no replacement had been found. 

As the days passed, I felt the pressure mounting. With only four days remaining to travel to Tasmania and board the ship, I knew I had to act quickly. That evening, when I told my colleagues I would be leaving soon and needed to take the camp ute into town for supplies and preparation, I encountered an unexpected roadblock. I discovered that all the keys to the trucks and Land Rovers had been taken out and secured, leaving me stranded without transportation. This added to my frustration, as I now faced the daunting challenge of reaching my destination without a reliable means of getting there. Time was running out, and I felt stuck and uncertain about the next steps I needed to take.

The challenge of being confined to the camp had finally been overcome. Over the years, I devised a clever trick to secure my freedom: I would have a copy of an ignition key or a house key made. Then, I’d carefully unscrew the number plate from the car or Ute, slip it into a thin ring, and replace the ring in its original position, where the screw belonged. This little manoeuvre meant I always had access to the key for the house or car, knowing that any slender tool could easily unscrew a standard number plate screw.

While the camp staff engaged in lively games and discussions, I seized the moment, my heart racing with excitement and anticipation. I stealthily unscrewed the camp Land Rover that had been assigned to me and slipped away into the velvety darkness of the night. My adrenaline surged as I steered the vehicle towards Kalgoorlie, determined to put as much distance between myself and the camp before anyone realised I had escaped. I believed my plan was foolproof—until unexpected challenges confronted me. 

After two relentless days of heavy rain, I found myself navigating the slippery terrain in a four-wheel-drive Ute, only to have the vehicle unexpectedly slide off the wet road and tumble into a gully. Just when I desperately needed to find traction under the wheels, two Utes full of rugged men appeared. “Am I returning to the camp or not?” I questioned, my resolve unyielding. I refused to be forced back. Leaving my bag behind in the Ute and clutching my wallet tightly, I boldly told them they could do whatever they pleased. With determination, I marched away, reminding Black John that I had a long memory and an even longer stride.

I had journeyed through the dark into Kalgoorlie, arriving just after 11 AM, after more than twelve hours of gruelling trekking in the relentless desert. To stave off the chill of the early morning, I had clutched a rough tree branch under my arm, pressing it against my skin whenever I began to shiver, hoping to stir the blood and warm myself. 

As I trudged through the night from 8:00 PM to 11:00 AM, the blisters on my feet protested with each step, but I pushed through, driven by the vision of freedom. Finally, I spotted the inviting lights of the Palace Hotel, a beacon of hope. After enjoying a warm shower that washed away the grime and weariness, I managed to hitch a ride to a nearby truck stop. There, fortune smiled upon me as I found a truck preparing to head to Perth, even though my flight had already departed.

Reflecting on those hours, I realised they were more than just a physical struggle; they were a consequence of my audacity to leave camp without a proper cook's role. This position was more than just a job; it was a demanding experience where I served 22 miners who braved the unforgiving heat and dust of the outback. Each day, as the sun beat down mercilessly, they depended on my meals as their lifeline, a crucial support that helped them endure the harsh realities of their labour.

To counterbalance these dismal conditions, I provided fresh scones and rolls, filling the air with the tantalising aroma of baked goods as I prepared pastry patties to bring comfort to the miners during their evening meals. Ironically, supper was a time when I didn’t receive any pay. Yet, what Black John and his team conveniently failed to acknowledge was that I had already surpassed my contractual obligation by more than a week.

I, too, empathised with their plight, knowing my own situation was hardly better. Every night, I wrestled with the gritty sand that infiltrated my bedroll, a constant reminder of the surroundings we confronted. Still, I had my own life to navigate beyond the camp.

That chapter closed with the experiences I gathered in Kalgoorlie, but less than twelve months later, new adventures awaited. After taking leave from the BP Endeavour, I found myself working as a cook over the Christmas period at the Club Hotel in Lakes Entrance, a charming seaside resort owned by the Hallett sisters. 

⚓ The Meeting 3,200 kilometres from Kalgoorlie 

I unexpectedly ran into Black John and one of the Mount Munga employees at the Kalimna Hotel. This charming establishment sits invitingly on the left as you journey from Lakes Entrance toward the vibrant city of Melbourne.

In a remarkable twist of fate, 3,200 kilometres away from the parched earth of Kalgoorlie, I stood in Lakes Entrance, Victoria, face-to-face with the very man I had once challenged. As our gazes locked, a blend of disbelief and recognition swept through us, palpable in the charged air. "COOKY, holy crap!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise as he extended his hand toward me. Our handshake was firm and electric, laden with the weight of our shared history

"Quiet, boys!" he called out to a raucous group of eight or nine men gathered around the bar, their animated laughter and the clinking of glasses creating a lively background. One of the former Mt. Munger miners, his voice booming over the cheerful din, proclaimed to the half-full hotel, "I've been mining for sixteen years, and what just walked in is the best all-around cook I've encountered during that entire time."

A wave of embarrassment washed over me, flooding my cheeks with warmth and stirring a blend of humility and astonishment. It wasn’t just Alan Smith—the talented cook from Mt. Munger—standing there with me, but also a skilled ship’s cook, a true master of his craft. In that moment, as memories of our past intertwined with our present, I felt a profound respect for the remarkable journey that had ultimately brought us back together.

⚓ Club Hotel - Lakes Entrance 

This opportunity promised to be yet another catering adventure, but of a different flavour altogether. About three to four weeks before the holiday celebrations, I was assigned quaint, rustic wooden cabin accommodations under the employment agreement. Strict rules dictated that these cabins were not to be used as resting places for the temporary catering staff, who often joined us during the festive seasons, including Christmas, Easter, and long weekends. Many of these workers were spirited university students, keen to earn some money to support their studies while enjoying the atmosphere.

I was careful to uphold my commitment to the Hallett sisters—two of whom I knew pretty well. There was also a third lady who exuded authority at the Club Hotel. She could navigate the facilities with ease, walking freely without needing an escort. I had always understood that she was related to the hotel owners, possibly even a blood relative, which added an intriguing dimension to her presence among us.

During these three weeks, I immersed myself in the world of local fishing boats, observing the dedicated skippers and their loyal crews as they expertly followed the Fishing Cooperative's guidelines while mooring along the foreshore of Lakes Entrance. I also discovered those who embraced a collaborative spirit with a talented local cook at the Club Hotel, where the tantalising aromas of freshly prepared dishes wafted through the air. By committing to work every second Sunday and a designated weekday, I crafted an invaluable opportunity to escape the confines of the hotel for two days each week. This allowed me to cultivate a thriving trade in succulent fish and delectable lobster for the hotels along the busy route to Melbourne. On my return journeys, I would bring back fresh tomatoes and crisp lettuce, sourced from passionate market gardeners in the fertile regions of Dingley and Clayton, and deliver these treasures in small, carefully curated quantities to the Hallett sisters.

On Christmas morning in the Club Hotel Lakes Entrance, I had just finished cleaning three enormous turkeys on the central kitchen bench. On all Australian ships, regardless of the type of meat brought up from the cool room, it must be cleaned to ensure that any dried blood around the joints hasn’t attracted flies or other pests. Even today, I briefly drop all my meat into a boiling pot of water—not long enough to cook it—so that it can be effectively cleansed. 

In the Club Hotel kitchen that day, I followed the same process with each turkey. This ensured that no blood or body fluids seeped out, which could otherwise become slimy and allow bacteria to build up if the turkeys were left in warm weather and started to sweat. It’s common for people to come home from a restaurant or hotel after a meal and experience a mild stomach virus, leading them to visit the bathroom more often than usual.

I used this method, placing the turkeys in three large kitchen pots of boiling water after removing them from the stove, allowing them to soak for five minutes. After taking the turkeys out of the water, I tied their legs together. I positioned them outward, as if they were making a spirited entrance and eagerly awaiting the stuffing that would transform them into an enjoyable feast. At that exact moment, I was revelling in a bit of humour with two cheerful female kitchen staff members, all of us clad in pristine white uniforms. I wore a white-and-black checked bandana, my way of adding a touch of flair to our busy morning. 

The two girls brought over a deep tray brimming with rich, savoury stuffing. I grabbed my cook's apron and draped it theatrically over one of the massive turkeys. With a playful glint in my eye, I made an inappropriate gesture with the turkey, hidden partially by my apron. The sheer size of the bird meant that my apron only covered it partially, adding to the ridiculousness of the scene. Just as I began to move my lower body suggestively, the two-kitchen staff erupted into uncontrollable laughter.

Suddenly, a resonant voice cut through the merriment, reverberating against the kitchen walls. One of the ladies at the doorway called out firmly, “Mr Smith, not Alan, as I am usually called. I don’t believe the turkeys aboard the ships you may have sailed on are seasoned as you seem to be instructing the staff of this hotel!” A wave of heat rushed to my cheeks as I realised the gravity of the moment. The laughter instantly ceased, and the lady instructed the two girls to continue with their tasks, provided Mr. Smith permitted it.

Later, over a glass of rich port while discussing the Boxing Day menu with the Hallett sisters, not a word was said about the embarrassing incident. Even now, 60 years later, I still have a sense that both sisters were stifling laughter, though I would never know for sure. In the world of ship's cooks, playful antics are often employed to lighten the tension of daily duties, where the pressure to please every patron looms large. In this instance, however, I was caught in a moment of foolishness that would stay with me long after the holiday season had faded.

These entrepreneurial ventures enabled me to pay off the land I owned in Emerald, Victoria, which helped shape the dynamic lifestyle I was cultivating at the time. My resourcefulness flourished from the invaluable lessons learned at sea, as I kept my eyes open to the myriad possibilities around me.

Lakes Entrance has left an indelible mark on my life, both on the shimmering waters and the vibrant community that surrounds them.

⚓ BP Endeavour Oil Tanker 

Having left the Club Hotel and taken the position of second cook aboard the nearly new oil tanker, BP Endeavour, I quickly became acquainted with the dynamics of ship life. Behind my back, the demoted previous second cook disparagingly referred to me as a "jumped-up cook's steward." This comment was rooted in jealousy and meant to belittle my role, suggesting that I was merely an ambitious steward trying to climb the culinary ladder. However, I embrace that label with pride. Anyone familiar with the intricate responsibilities of a ship's cook knows how demanding and multifaceted the job can be, coupled with the equally essential duties of a steward.

Completing the rigorous training at a prestigious sea training school like Vindicatix stands as a badge of honour in my career. The fellow who made the snide remark failed to comprehend that he was clinging to bitter memories rather than reaching out for support. Had he approached me for guidance, I would have eagerly shared my insights and even encouraged him to reapply for the position. After all, what could be more compelling than a glowing reference from the very person who succeeded him, now writing a letter of commendation on his behalf?

For years, I dedicated myself to the art of victualing, ensuring that the crew and passengers, often numbering between 50 and over 100, enjoyed three hearty meals each day, along with freshly baked bread and a midnight snack to satisfy their hunger. All of this was accomplished within a constrained daily budget, which honed my resourcefulness and management skills. This foundation served me well in future endeavours, particularly from 1972 to 1975, when I managed a hotel-motel as a licensee, a 200-seat restaurant, a cosy ski lodge nestled on the slopes of Mount Hotham during the winter season, and the Malaccota Hotel for the esteemed Rudge Family while on leave from the Melbourne Tugs.

As a ship's cook, I am passionate about highlighting this often-overlooked, unglamorous profession. I want to extend a heartfelt commendation to all the cooks out there. Suppose you can keep a crew nourished and in high spirits with limited supplies while navigating the ever-changing tides of the workplace. In that case, it is an achievement that truly deserves recognition. This realisation is why I am blending my maritime adventures with my time spent ashore, working in hotels, restaurants, and a variety of other culinary settings, all of which I look forward to sharing as you embark on this journey through my story. 

One of the most transformative cooking experiences of my life unfolded on the high seas, in the same waters where I reconnected with Black John at the Kalimna Hotel in Lakes Entrance, December 1967. That town—Lakes Entrance—was more than a dot on the map. It was a living memory, a place where the sea met the soul, and where the Club Hotel stood like a sentinel of warmth and tradition. It wasn’t just a hotel. It was a heartbeat. A place where fishermen came in with salt still crusted on their brows, where stories were swapped over pots of stew and pints of ale, and where I, a young cook, learned that food was more than sustenance—it was connection.

The Club Hotel is gone now and replaced by something modern, polished, and hollow. The new building bears the same name but lacks the soul. It’s like putting a tuxedo on a ghost. That part of Lakes Entrance—the part that smelled of wood smoke and fresh catch, that echoed with laughter and the clink of enamel mugs—has faded into memory.

I remember the fishermen knocking on the kitchen door, their hands rough from nets and salt, offering lobsters, squid, and prawns fresh from the boats. Most of their haul went through the Co-operative, a noble effort to support the trawlermen. But the real magic happened in the quiet exchanges—bartering fish for a hot meal, a bottle of beer, or just a warm place to sit. It was a rhythm older than commerce, a kind of trust that doesn’t exist in spreadsheets or contracts.

That was history. Just like the ships I sailed on in the 1960s and ’70s. Cargo ships that groaned with character, not just tonnage. The 200,000-ton container giants of today may be efficient, but they’re soulless. They don’t creak. They don’t sing. They don’t carry the scent of oranges in the hold or the laughter of deckhands playing cards under a flickering light.

And the passenger ships—don’t get me started. The old Cunard and P&O liners were floating cities of elegance. Grand lounges with velvet chairs, polished brass railings, and promenades where you could walk under the stars with a breeze in your hair and a tune in your heart. There were dances, deck games, and conversations that stretched into the night. Today’s cruise ships are malls on water. Loud, crowded, and sterile. Out with the old, in with the neon.

So much of the old way of life has disappeared. Not just the buildings, but the spirit. The slow, deliberate pace. The handshake deals. The respect for craft. The joy of a simple meal made well. The dignity of hard work and the pride of a job done right.

I’ve cooked in galleys that rocked with the sea, served meals to men who hadn’t seen land in weeks, and traded fish for stories in towns that no longer exist as they once did. And I carry those memories like heirlooms. Because they matter, because they remind me—and I hope they remind you—that there was a time when life was rougher, yes, but richer too.

If you’ve never stood in a country pub as the rain lashes the windows and a fisherman tells you about the one that got away, or danced on the deck of a liner as the moon casts silver across the waves, then I hope this story brings you close. Close enough to feel the warmth, the salt, and the soul of a world that’s slipping away.

I remember one night at the old Club Hotel in Lakes Entrance that still makes me smile. It was the kind of evening that could only happen in a fishing town—equal parts chaos, charm, and devilment.

The fishermen had come in early that day, their boats heavy with squid and lobster, the kind of catch that made the Co-operative hum with activity. But a few of the old boys—men with hands like rope and eyes that had seen every kind of storm—preferred the back door of the kitchen to the front counter of the Co-op. They knocked gently, as if asking permission to enter a sacred space. One of them, a wiry bloke named Mick, held up a bucket of prawns like it was a peace offering.

“Trade you for a feed and a pint,” he said, grinning through a face weathered by decades of salt and sun.

I didn’t hesitate. That was the rhythm of the place. No invoices, no ledgers—trust. I tossed the prawns into a pan with garlic and butter, and within minutes the kitchen was alive with the scent of the sea and the sound of stories.

The bar was packed that night. Locals, deckhands, a few tourists who’d wandered in looking for something real. The jukebox was playing Slim Dusty, and the floorboards creaked under the weight of laughter and boots. I remember stepping out from the kitchen, apron still on, and being handed a schooner by the publican with a wink. “You’ve earned it, Cookie.”

Later that night, one of the old trawlermen stood up and began telling a story about a storm off Gabo Island that nearly took his boat. He spoke like a poet—rough, honest, and full of heart. As he said, the room fell silent. Even the tourists leaned in, drawn by something they didn’t quite understand but could feel in their bones.

That was the magic of those nights. The Club Hotel wasn’t just a building—it was a gathering place for stories, for memories, for the kind of connection that’s vanishing from the world. The new hotel might have polished floors and fancy menus, but it’ll never have that soul. It’ll never have Mick at the back door with a bucket of prawns and a grin that says, “We’re all in this together.”

And the ships—those grand old liners with their velvet lounges and teak decks—they were floating versions of the same spirit. You could dance under the stars, share a drink with a stranger who’d become a friend by morning, and feel like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The sea was the great equaliser. It didn’t care who you were—it just asked that you respect it, and each other.

I remember one night aboard the Triaster—one of the old cargo passenger beauties, with polished brass railings and velvet lounges that smelled faintly of pipe smoke and sea air. The dining room had chandeliers that swayed gently with the motion of the ocean, and the waiters moved like dancers, balancing trays with the grace of seasoned performers.

After dinner, I wandered out onto the deck. The moon hung low over the water, casting a silver path across the waves. A small band was playing near the stern—soft jazz, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in a dream. Couples danced slowly, their silhouettes swaying against the night sky.

I stood there, leaning on the rail, watching the water slip past. The ship moved like a whisper, and for a moment, everything was still. No engines, no chatter—just the sea and the stars.
A steward passed by and offered me a drink. I took it, nodded my thanks, and stayed there for what felt like hours. It was one of those rare moments when time stops, and you realise that you’re part of something vast and beautiful.

That’s the world I came from. A world of smoky pubs and moonlit decks, of fishermen named Salty and ships that felt like home. It’s a world that’s fading, but it lives on in stories like these—and in the hearts of those who remember.

Yes, the old ways are indeed fading, but they live on in stories like this. In the memory of a hot pan, a schooner shared, and a night when the whole town felt like family.

⚓ Supply Vessels 

The Bass Strait and the Gas platform, and the supply vessels known as 'Tenders', became much of my life in the merchant navy and for years after I left the sea in 1987.

In the third week of February 1968, I found myself aboard the Fitz Ingram Tug, from one of Canada's largest and most formidable tug companies, navigating the expansive, meandering waterways of the St. Lawrence River. Yet, amid the unpredictable, choppy waters of the Bass Strait oil fields in Victoria, Australia, serving as an oil rig security vessel felt much like attempting to find balance on a surfboard while cooking dinner in the Canadian rapids, while navigating the turbulent, treacherous waters of Bass Strait.  

On deep sea tugs—not the ones that nudge ships around port, but the ocean-going beasts that wrestle with gales and tow broken hulls through black water—cooking was a test of nerve, balance, and pure instinct. These weren’t gentle swells. They were fifteen-foot waves that lifted us high into the sky, only to drop us into the trough with a gut-wrenching thud, the tug groaning like a wounded animal before catching the rebound and climbing again. It was a rhythm you felt in your bones, a dance of gravity and grit.

In those conditions, the galley became a battlefield. You couldn’t serve plated meals or delicate sauces. You needed food that held its shape, that could be gripped with one hand while the other clung to a rail. Salads were stuffed into bread rolls, not laid out on plates. Soups weren’t really soups—they were thick, hearty substances, closer to stew than broth. They had to be dense enough to stay in the bowl when the tug rolled, but smooth enough to comfort a stomach that had been tossed around for hours.

Cooking that kind of soup was an art all its own. You couldn’t just simmer it and walk away. The bottom of the pot was a danger zone—one moment of distraction and the whole batch could scorch, leaving a bitter taste that no seasoning could mask. I learned to read the pot like a compass, adjusting the flame, stirring with a rhythm that matched the roll of the sea. Sometimes I’d wedge myself between the stove and the bulkhead, bracing my knees while ladling out portions as the deck tilted beneath me.

There were nights when the storm howled so loud you couldn’t hear your own thoughts, when the tug pitched so violently that the galley felt like a carnival ride gone wrong. And yet, the crew expected a meal. Not because they were entitled, but because they needed it. 

From the 1960s through the 1980s, in the unforgiving waters of the Bass Strait oil fields, deep-sea tugs stood sentinel beside offshore rigs—insurance vessels on two-week rosters, two weeks on and two weeks off. These weren’t port tugs. They were ocean-going workhorses, stationed far from shore, braving the worst that the Southern Ocean could throw at them.

Relief crews couldn’t be flown in. Helicopters were useless in those conditions. Imagine trying to lower a rope from a chopper to a tug that could rise twenty feet in six seconds, only to drop just as violently. The risk was too significant. Only supply vessels could reach us—bringing food, oil, and fresh crew. And if your tug happened to be the last one scheduled for relief, you might leave the shore base at 8:00 a.m. and not arrive until 5:00 or even 7:00 p.m. that evening. That’s how rough the weather could be. That’s how long the journey could take.

If you've ever watched someone attempting to tie their shoes while under the sway of alcohol—almost capturing the elusive eyelet but ultimately missing the mark—you can grasp the level of patience and fortitude required of a ship's cook during the gruelling six-week journey. By the time the two weeks of well-deserved leave finally arrived, cooks would disembark with legs that felt like jelly, yet with an unbreakable spirit—ready to embrace the next challenge that lay ahead.

On my first day back, I boarded the Fritz late in the afternoon, after the vessel had spent the day hopping from one oil rig to another and from one security tug to another. We had departed the port of Barrys Beach at 09:00, and it was nearly 16:00 by the time I was thrown back onboard. The cook who had replaced me during my absence appeared significantly thinner—an unsettling sight that hinted at the chaos I was stepping back into. As I settled in, I braced myself for the crew's account of the past two weeks—a period when my relief was rarely present in the galley.

To set the record straight, there was never actually a proper galley on board the Fritz. Cooking took place in the main duty mess, which served as a communal area for all nine crew members, from the skipper to the first mate and chief engineer. To further complicate matters, our food pantry was nearly empty; the relief cook had neglected to order any replacements, leaving us in a precarious situation with dwindling supplies.

When I prepared our first meal around 18:00, it was uninspiring and far from exciting. Despite this, I was determined to make the best of what we had. I aimed to whip up an Italian-inspired carbonara, but the lack of essential ingredients, such as tomatoes and peppers, forced me to improvise. My creative solution was what I hoped the crew would affectionately call “sea pizza”—a kind of focaccia topped with chopped bacon, mushrooms, and whatever else looked salvageable from the fridge. It was a way to use up leftovers, and I hoped it would suffice until the skipper managed to radio a proper food order in line with my culinary arts.

The baking trays, square-shaped but elongated, allowed me to cook on three different oven shelves. I had just finished showering and was feeling somewhat more like a cook juggling the tasks that proved crucial in the chaotic environment around me. Just then, a long sliding tray filled with leftover ingredients began making its way across the deck. A crew member called out, “Tray coming, cook! Grab it after the next roll!” Understanding this meant I needed to catch it the next time the tug dipped to either starboard or port. I braced myself as the ship rolled beneath my feet. 

With the deck swaying and my balance wavering, I felt like a joyous drunk, moving along with the rhythm of the ocean. Here I was, back in the thick of it all, ready to embrace another six weeks of life aboard the Fritz Ingram.

What was I going to prepare for lunch today? The situation was becoming increasingly clear: the new order had been dispatched via radio, indicating that the supply vessel needed to stop at two rigs before reaching ours. This would undoubtedly delay our lunch, probably pushing it well past noon.

Despite the persistent rocking and rolling of the vessel, the galley remained relatively steady. However, just as I was gathering my thoughts about what to cook, a container of food that I had been handling after breakfast suddenly leapt out of the open fridge. I hadn’t managed to slam the door shut in time before the deck shifted dramatically beneath me. My knees buckled as the chopped cabbage, still not quite transformed into coleslaw, tumbled precariously into my hand; along with it, the grated carrots, prepared and ready to mix in, also seemed eager to escape from the fridge. I couldn’t help but grimace at the thought of the cabbage being three weeks old, hoping against hope that the crew would believe it was fresh if I just tossed it in some vinegar. 

I successfully subdued the rebellious cabbage, wrestling it back into its makeshift vessel while another bowl of salad was patiently awaiting its turn to be washed in the sink. Kneeling beside the fridge, I paused for a moment, hand resting on the door, with my heart racing, waiting for the tug to steady itself before I dared to open it again. I was praying that nothing else on the shelves would decide to make a break for it.

As luck would have it, the tug righted itself, achieving a more stable position. This motion was familiar to all of us on board—the crew had learned to gauge these shifts instinctively. With the coleslaw now teetering on the edge of chaos, the tug remained stable for a brief moment, almost as if it were balanced on calm waters. That stability was short-lived; abruptly, the tug pitched to the port side. I lurched forward, suddenly wide-eyed as the contents of the fridge hovered briefly in mid-air, appearing to defy gravity before crashing down onto the deck with a loud thud.

In a scramble, I clung to my belt, which was secured to a centre clip on the tug's bulkhead, my feet trying to maintain control around the eight-burner stove. The fiddles—iron rods designed to prevent the pots from rolling off—were firmly in place, but the situation called for caution. Each pot needed to be filled no more than two-thirds full, especially in such treacherous weather conditions. If the lids weren't tightly secured, the risk of food splattering around the galley mess room was high, creating a dangerous scene that resembled a skating rink.

The day dawned with a heavy cloak of dark, ominous clouds swirling across the sky, heralding the harsh trials that lay ahead for the crew. As the tugboat churned through the swirling waters of the Bass Strait, fierce winds howled and whipped the ocean into a chaotic frenzy. Towering waves crashed violently against the hull, each impact resonating like a thunderous drum, a stark reminder of the perilous journey they were undertaking. The monstrous swells seemed intent on testing their mettle, while the biting cold seeped through their layers, numbing fingers and toes in an icy grip.

On deck, the deckhands worked with relentless determination, tethered to the heavy ropes securing the colossal oil and gas pipes that swayed precariously. The ceaseless thrum of the engine vibrated beneath their feet, a constant reminder of the fragile balance between control and chaos. A momentary falter of the main engine could plunge them into a harrowing uncertainty, leaving them exposed in those wild, surging seas. The mental strain bore down on them, demanding every ounce of their focus and stamina as they battled the elements.

Amidst this turmoil, thoughts of a warm meal glimmered like a beacon of hope. The ship’s cook, undeterred by the swaying of the vessel, navigated the galley with dogged resolve. With practised hands, skilfully transformed the remnants from the meticulously organised supply box into a hearty dish—a veritable treasure trove of dry goods. As the mouthwatering scent of sizzling bacon mingled with the tangy ocean spray, it served as a comforting reminder of life's simple pleasures that could pierce through the harshness of their reality.

When the crew finally gathered for their meal, it felt like stepping into a sanctuary amid the storm. The steaming food poured into bowls provided a soothing warmth against the chill and rekindled energy in their weary bodies. Each savoury bite was a testament to the camaraderie forged through their shared struggles, a welcome reprieve from the relentless elements outside. As they devoured their nourishing meal, laughter bubbled up, and stories flowed freely through the galley, creating an unbreakable bond that could withstand even the fiercest tempests. In that moment, the weight of the day’s hardships lightened, and spirits soared, ready to face whatever challenges the relentless sea would unleash upon them next.

Amidst this flurry of activity, my thoughts drifted to a significant date etched in my memory: February 26, 1968. That was the day when Australia’s indigenous boxer, Lionel Rose, defeated "Fighting" Harada in a gruelling 15-round unanimous points decision to claim the World Bantamweight title in Tokyo, Japan. I remembered that fight vividly; it was a moment that felt almost personal to me. After the bout concluded, I felt as if I had been standing in the ring alongside them, leaning against the ropes, trying not to falter amid the electric atmosphere. That night, I felt victorious in spirit, just as I had experienced many triumphs during my time on the Ingram Tugs in the treacherous yet beautiful waters of the Bass Strait.  

This was the life. Not glamorous. Not easy. But real. And for those of us who lived it, it forged a kind of quiet pride—one built not on medals or recognition, but on endurance, grit, and the knowledge that we kept the wheels turning in places most people never see.

In 1969 and 1970, the Barracouta platform emerged as a critical oil and gas rig in the vibrant and often challenging waters of Bass Strait, located off the southeastern coast of Australia. Commissioned in 1969, this platform symbolised the beginning of offshore oil and gas exploration in the region, opening up new frontiers for energy extraction. The Glomar III drilling rig played a pivotal role in the newly established industry by uncovering the Marlin gas field, sparking excitement and ambition within the rapidly expanding energy sector. Major companies like Esso and BHP took centre stage, solidifying their positions as key contributors to the fascinating narrative of Bass Strait's development.

As I reflect on my journey through the gas fields, I recall how the number of operational platforms grew from sixteen to twenty-one in a short span. Life aboard a tug supply vessel was nothing short of exhilarating; the combination of adventure and routine often required quick thinking and adaptability, especially for those of us in the galley. My time on the Fritz Ingram, positioned near the Barracouta Platform, was filled with invaluable lessons. We were tasked with critical operations for the Marlin gas fields, including delivering essential gas pipelines to various locations. Our skipper, a highly experienced French Canadian with a rich background navigating the waters of the Mississippi and other lakes, exemplified true mastery in his craft. His ability to manoeuvre the tugboat with grace and precision was not just impressive but also served as a powerful reminder of the importance of skill and composure under pressure. 

Each skipper had their own unique style, but his calm demeanour and relaxed approach to navigation instilled confidence among the crew as we approached platforms and other vessels amid choppy waves. Every transfer of pipes on and off the barges was a testament to our resilience and teamwork. Still, his steady leadership helped us tackle the unpredictable swells with determination and unity.

In my role, I often collaborated closely with Albert Abella, the providore responsible for sourcing vital supplies. His meticulous planning ensured we had everything we needed, ranging from everyday staples to special treats like Chukka, Russian salmon, and succulent fillet steak. One significant advantage of working on a supply vessel was the unwavering commitment to high-quality food, which played a crucial role in maintaining crew morale. Companies understood that to foster happiness and productivity among their crew, delicious meals were a necessity, not a luxury. We invested in nourishing, diverse meals because they were crucial for maintaining a motivated crew willing to confront the demanding conditions of offshore work. The cooks were given the creative freedom to curate menus that not only met nutritional needs but also uplifted the crew's spirits and enriched our time at sea.

During an unforgettable journey to the distant shores of Curacao and Panama, I discovered a spark of inspiration through a lively conversation about the rich, succulent flavors of Venezuelan beef with a fellow cook from a Panamanian-registered vessel. Unlike the hearty meals typically served on English ships, the culinary offerings aboard these vessels faced significant challenges but shone brightly with their extraordinary beef. 

Cooks on Panamanian vessels were masters of creativity, transforming even the most unremarkable cuts of meat into dishes that could grace the finest tables. This experience highlighted the incredible power of resilience in the kitchen. I became fascinated by the idea of elevating South American beef dishes through braising, turning humble cuts into exquisite A-class rump steaks filled with flavour.

Exploring the butchering process revealed a world of possibilities. By slicing the bullock differently from Australian butchers, I discovered new opportunities. Cuts like Porterhouse, Fillet, and Rump were just the beginning. These alternative cuts could be infused with bold flavours, like the sharp tang of mustard and the richness of robust red wine. This innovative preparation method could yield superior goulash at a fraction of the price, especially for those who secured the best cuts before they were ground into mince.

Revisiting the topic of Panamanian food has become increasingly essential as I reflect on how much better Albert Abella would have been if I had helped him procure meat directly from the abattoir rather than relying on the butcher's offerings. The butcher misled him about the meat's processing, and this realisation drove home the importance of integrity in our choices.

When I sat down with Albert Abella and laid out the advantages of purchasing directly from the abattoir, I could see the understanding dawn on his face. He would not only acquire prime cuts but also benefit from the rendered fat and offal, adding layers of profit from each bullock. Moreover, various cuts of meat could be tailored to meet the needs of the sixteen supply vessels and sixteen gas platforms, creating a flow of hundreds of beef cuts—thousands weekly—crafted for speciality dishes. This foresight empowered the ship’s cooks to plan their menus, minimising waste while meticulously maximising flavour.

In that pivotal moment, a golden opportunity unfolded before me: I could organise the entire setup for a negotiable wage. As I proposed this enticing offer to my wife, Faye, emphasising its reasonableness, I quickly realised that the prospect of living in the tranquil hills of Gippsland, far from our home in Melbourne, didn’t resonate with her. She had just launched a thriving sewing business in South Caulfield, and leaving her friends behind was not part of her dream.

It was during my time on the Bass Strait supply vessels, having only been married in April 1969. We were heading into the new year of 1970, and I had first met Faye in mid‑1968 while I was with the British Phosphate Commission, cooking on the Triaster and Tri-ellis. The offer to serve as the catering officer for all offshore supply vessels, rigs, and associated operations came up. But with Faye very much the businesswoman, loving Melbourne, and the idea of moving 150 kilometres into the country not appealing to her, it didn’t seem the best way forward so early in our lives together.

Throughout the 1960s and 1980s, I faced numerous tempting job offers, each more alluring than the last, yet I ultimately declined them all. As a family man, I placed a high value on the stability and security that came with a seafaring job, reminding myself that sometimes we must choose the path that ensures our loved ones’ well‑being and embrace the challenges that help us grow.

In addition to my experiences aboard the Ingram Tugs navigating the challenging waters of the Bass Straits and the iconic Princess of Tasmania, affectionately known as "The Pot," I have held various culinary roles on a range of vessels. One of the highlights of my career was working on the Tri-Ellis, a sister ship to the Triaster, which has left an indelible mark on my memory as my favourite among all the Australian vessels on which I’ve served. 

⚓ Mathew Flinders - The Dredge 

I also had the opportunity to work on the Mathews Flinders, a robust, heavy-duty dredge made in Australia. This dredge played a crucial role in maintaining the only entrance to my beloved fishing port of Lakes Entrance. Once again, Lakes Entrance takes centre stage as my charming fishing haven, serving as the launching point for my journeys to the Bass Strait oil rigs, along with Barrys Beach, which is not far away.

The dredegs were called the bottom feeders.

The Mathew Flinders wasn’t built for speed or beauty. She was squat, rust-streaked, and loud—her deck a maze of hydraulic arms, steel buckets, and hoses thick as a man’s thigh. She didn’t cut through the ocean so much as crawl across it, dragging the muck and memory of the seabed behind her.

Every morning started the same. The sun barely touched the horizon when the dredge crew rolled out of their bunks, boots thudding on steel floors. Coffee was strong, bitter, and served in mugs that had seen more storms than most sailors. As the cook, I was ready with the crew's bacon and eggs. Eat like you’re going to war, I'd say, slapping plates down with a grin. Lunch is at twelve.

Out on deck, the real work began. The dredge arm groaned to life, lowering its steel jaws into the deep. It wasn’t elegant. It was brute force—scraping, scooping, and sucking up decades of silt, sludge, and forgotten things. Sometimes they pulled up old anchors, rusted crab pots, even a porcelain doll once, its eyes still wide with surprise.

Mick, the deck boss who was a teetotaler, had been dredging for twenty years. He could tell by the smell of the slurry what kind of seabed they were chewing through—clay, sand, or the black ooze that stank of diesel and decay. “This ain’t just muck,” he’d say. “It’s history. It’s shipwrecks and storms and the bones of things that never made it home.”

The crew worked in shifts, hosing down the deck, clearing clogs, and checking gauges. The noise was constant—engines, winches, the slurp of slurry through pipes. Conversation was shouted or not had at all. But there was rhythm to it, a kind of dance between man and machine. They knew when to brace for a jolt, when to duck the spray, when to curse and when to laugh.

At night, the dredge kept moving. Lights cast a yellow glow over the deck, and the ocean turned black and bottomless. The crew played cards in the mess, swapped stories about ports they’d never see again, and listened to the hum of the pump like it was a lullaby. Dingo served stew thick enough to patch a hull and poured rum into tin cups when the weather turned foul.

One afternoon, we hit something big. The dredge arm shuddered, alarms blared, and the whole ship tilted like it had snagged a piece of the earth itself. Mick barked orders, the crew scrambled, and for a moment, it felt like the sea was pulling back. But the winch held. The arm rose, dripping with sludge—and there it was. An old anchor from days gone by. Old, barnacled, and heavy as sin. Maybe from a colonial wreck, maybe older. They hoisted it onto the deck and stared at it in silence. No one said much. They didn’t need to. It was proof that even in the dirtiest work, there were treasures. That even in the muck, there was meaning.

The next morning, Mathew Flinders kept dredging. The anchor was lashed to the rail, a silent witness to the grind. Mick was to have it dated; he looked out at the grey horizon and muttered, “Back to it, boys. The ocean’s not done coughing up any more secrets.”

And so we dragged on. That day, the crew, except myself and the steward, was to have the rest of the day off. Royalty was coming to look at how the other half of the workforce lived.

During this special, organised lunch, the Premier of Victoria at the time, Dick Hamer, attended the dredge event. Although he arrived on a tight schedule, mainly for photos, I wasn't sure if he would stay for lunch. The food may have been quite ordinary, but I saw an opportunity to create something memorable. To make the meal photogenic for the cameras, the government bureaucrats were invited to stay for lunch.

For the entrée, we served a very large German saveloy—a thick, red sausage. To elevate its presentation, I used an ice cream scoop to create two round servings of mashed potatoes, placing them on either side of the gigantic sausage. Fifty-five years later, I still recall this moment, and my hand, though unsteady, skillfully arranged the finely chopped pickled cabbage, or sauerkraut, around the sausage and the mashed potato scoops, creating a visual feast.

At the end of the saveloy-hot-dog, I added a dollop of homemade mustard sauce. I sent these oval white plates through the gallery lift, wanting the steward to understand how they should be presented at the tables. The steward, with tears of laughter in his eyes, appreciated my passion, and I remained steadfast in my conviction that I was responsible for the final presentation.

The steward later shared that two different government officials found it challenging to cut into the artistic creation due to the fact it resembled a part of their anatomy. This was only the entrée, yet it sparked laughter and surprise, ultimately inspiring a request for the next course to be less decorative. In that moment, I realised the power of creativity and the joy it brings, even in the simplest of settings.

⚓ Triaster  

This elegant passenger-cargo liner, completed on October 21, 1955, could transport 48 passengers and 12,000 tonnes of phosphates to ports in Australia and New Zealand. Its robust hull, crafted through precise electrical welding, was further enhanced with longitudinal framing along the sides and bottoms of the holds, complemented by transverse framing for added strength. The Shelter and Main Decks provided a seamless span from bow to stern, while the Lower Deck served as the crucial compartment for steering gear. A cleverly designed tunnel deck was positioned over holds 4, 5, and 6, and the hull was meticulously subdivided by seven watertight bulkheads and two oil-tight bulkheads, ensuring maximum safety and efficiency. Beneath and alongside the tunnel deck lay freshwater and ballast water tanks, while double-bottom tanks were ingeniously utilised to carry either fuel oil or water ballast. Among Triaster's two most striking features were its pillarless holds, designed with ramped boundaries to facilitate smooth mechanical handling of the phosphate cargoes, making these unobstructed holds a remarkable characteristic for a cargo liner of its size.

The vessel was gracefully rigged with a foremast that included a fixed topmast and three pairs of unstayed derrick posts, standing tall against the sky. It was equipped with a fleet of ten 5-tonne derricks, two 10-tonne derricks, and one heavy-lift 25-tonne derrick, all operated by a dozen advanced converter-type electric winches equipped with remote control for added convenience. Notably, cargo battens were not incorporated. The steering was achieved through an innovative electro-hydraulic four-ram steering gear, skillfully engineered by Brown Brothers & Co. Ltd. of Edinburgh. This sophisticated gear was managed via a telemotor installation within the wheelhouse, with mechanical control readily accessible from the aft docking bridge. The navigating bridge itself was a marvel of modern technology, fitted with cutting-edge radar, gyrocompass, direction finders, and an array of electric signalling devices, making it a pinnacle of maritime navigation.

⚓ Nauru

I have never encountered a negative word spoken about the Nauruans, aside from their island-style approach to life, which is often labelled as laziness. This trait has played a significant role in their current state. Criticism has also been directed at the practice of employing offshore labour instead of local labour to operate the phosphate distribution. As a result, both the island and its inhabitants find themselves in dire straits.

My first visit to Nauru was as an assistant cook, and in 1965, I became the second cook. I returned several times until 1973, always serving as an assistant or second cook aboard the vessels Tri-Ellis and Triaster. To secure the coveted position of chief cook, one had to employ rather drastic measures, such as getting the current cook inebriated and pushing him overboard in the middle of the ocean—such was the allure of that role and the thrill of the voyage itself.

In those days, we would smuggle inexpensive Australian whiskey onto the island long before its independence in 1968. The local Chinese shop owners would eagerly trade five bottles of whiskey in exchange for the cost of tailoring a suit, which would be ready just in time for the ship's departure, carrying its precious cargo of phosphate back to Geelong, Victoria, Australia. Interestingly, a .22 calibre Cooley rifle, which I had legally purchased in Australia, could be sold for three times its original price in Nauru. Sadly, our supply of rifles may have contributed to a decline in the island's bird population, corresponding with the frantic pace at which Nauru was selling off its phosphate.

The Pacific wasn’t just a stretch of water to cross; it was a world of its own, full of dangers, opportunities, and the kind of characters you only meet once in a lifetime. And in 1969, when the Tri‑Ellis and Triaster were drifting off Nauru for those long, punishing weeks, I discovered that the islands didn’t just offer phosphate — they offered a little side‑trade that made the waiting worthwhile.

Nauru in those days was a crossroads of sorts. Ships from every corner of the world came in hungry for cargo, and the Chinese traders on the island knew exactly how to make the most of it. Their shops were tucked away behind the phosphate dust and the heat haze, but once you stepped inside, it was like entering another universe — bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling, watches glittering under glass, radios, trinkets, and goods that had travelled further than most sailors ever would.

That’s where I learned the quiet art of bartering.

The Chinese merchants were sharp, friendly, and always ready for a deal. They knew the ships heading toward Christmas Island carried crews with pockets full of pay and a hunger for something new. I’d buy lengths of bright, patterned fabric — the kind the women on Christmas Island loved — and pack them carefully in my cabin. All perfectly legal, all above board, and all part of the fun of being young, curious, and a little entrepreneurial.

The real treasure was the watches. In 1969, you could walk into one of those little shops and buy a gold Omega for fifty dollars. Fifty. I’d take a few back to Christmas Island, and before long someone would offer me a hundred and fifty for one. Not a fortune, but enough to keep the bartering wheel turning — enough to buy more fabric, more watches, and the occasional half dozen bottles of something decent for the next passage.

It wasn’t about the money, not really. It was the thrill of it — the bargaining, the laughter, the feeling of being part of a living, breathing trade route that stretched across oceans and cultures. Every deal came with a story, every story with a memory, and every memory with a lesson about people, trust, and the strange little economies that flourish wherever sailors gather.

By the time we reached Christmas Island in the Indian Ocean, the word would spread quickly that the Tri‑ellis had arrived. The islanders knew the ships well, and they knew which cooks and deckhands had a knack for bringing in something special. I’d lay out the fabrics — bright reds, deep blues, patterns that shimmered in the tropical light — and the women would run their hands over them, smiling, choosing, bargaining. The watches went just as quickly. A hundred and fifty dollars wasn’t big money, but it was enough to keep the game alive, enough to make the long days at anchor feel like they had a purpose beyond waiting for the swell to settle.

Those little trades, those moments of connection, became part of the rhythm of the phosphate run. Between the storms, the drifting, the constant fear of ending up on the reef, there was this other life — a life of colour, laughter, and small victories. It balanced the hardship. It reminded us that even amid thousands of kilometres of scattered islands, there was always room for a bit of human warmth and ingenuity.

Looking back, it wasn’t the profit that mattered. It was the fun of it — the sense of being alive in a world that was bigger, stranger, and more generous than any chart could show.

By the time Nauru gained its independence in 1968, over a third of the island had been stripped bare by mining, leaving its people living on a narrow ring around a plateau filled with jagged, spiky coral and razor-sharp limestone pillars. During the interwar years and in the aftermath of World War II, Nauruan landowners received only token royalties, with small trust funds established to provide minimal support. The phosphate mining, while not outright theft, yielded a meagre share for the Nauruans, given the immense profits, environmental devastation, and high costs of restoring the mined land. Once independence was achieved, the Republic of Nauru sought to capitalise on its remaining phosphate reserves, ramping up exports despite being fully aware that these resources would dwindle within a generation or two.

To diversify its economy before the phosphate reserves ran dry, Nauru turned to offshore banking, granting licenses to around 300 foreign banks by the early 1990s. It was so easy to set up these operations that visiting Nauru was not even necessary; in fact, keeping bank records was entirely optional. By the mid-1990s, Nauru began offering economic citizenship, essentially selling Nauruan passports with minimal checks. Although this scheme generated millions of dollars annually for the Nauruan government, it transformed the island into a haven for tax evasion and money laundering, with tens of billions of dollars in illicit profits flowing through its financial system during that decade.

Reflecting on this poignant saga of Nauru while recounting my experiences as a ship's cook has become the most sorrowful chapter of my story, largely because of the deep affection I felt for the people there. Even before I married, when I was on leave, I would embark on the long, twelve- or thirteen-hour trek from Melbourne to Sydney, hiring a small bus to pick up a group of Nauruans returning home. The Nauruans exhibited no hate—only occasional flashes of anger, but never malice. How could I possibly charge five hundred dollars for that drive in 1968 when five hundred dollars felt like the equivalent of three thousand today in 2025?

The Solomon Islands and the Forgotten Wisdom of Seafarers

The Solomon Islands sit like a scattered necklace across the southwestern Pacific — six major islands and more than 900 smaller ones, stretching in two long parallel chains of volcanic ridges and dense forests. Honiara, the capital, lies on Guadalcanal, a name etched into history for reasons far beyond geography. The Solomons form part of Melanesia, bordered by Papua New Guinea to the west and Vanuatu to the southeast. From Australia, they lie roughly 2,000 kilometres to the northeast, close enough to matter, far enough to be forgotten.

What many Australian bureaucrats never understood — or perhaps never cared to understand — was how strategically important these islands were, and how much could have been achieved if Australia had invested in them early. We, seamen, saw it clearly. We lived it. We sailed through those waters, talked with the islanders, watched the ships come and go, and understood the pulse of the Pacific in a way no desk‑bound official ever could.

Back then, some of us suggested a simple idea:

Send a couple of Australia’s ageing warships north. Establish training bases. Teach engineering, seamanship, policing, peacekeeping — real trades, real futures.

The Solomons, Nauru, the Marshalls, even Indonesia — imagine what could have grown from that. A generation of skilled Pacific men and women, trained by Australians, building stability and goodwill across the region. It would have cost next to nothing compared to what later crises demanded. No one listened.

Governments forget that long before intelligence agencies existed, seafarers were the world’s first spies — not in the cloak‑and‑dagger sense, but through simple conversation. A ship’s mess room was a global news exchange. Sailors from France, Spain, England, Norway, Germany, and even Asian seamen from whom I learned so much — all swapping stories, cargo details, rumours, and observations. By the time a vessel reached home port, the captain often knew more about world affairs than the politicians did. History proves it.

France, Spain, England — their empires survived on the information carried by sailors. Cargo routes were the arteries of knowledge. A seaman stepping ashore brought with him the truth of what was happening beyond the horizon. We were the early warning system. We were the eyes and ears of nations. And yet, in the modern world, our role has been quietly erased.

Now, in my eighties, I look around and realise we are a dying breed. The old seafarers — the ones who crossed oceans without GPS, who read the sky like a chart, who learned the politics of the world from the mouths of other sailors — we are nearly gone. And with us goes a kind of wisdom that can’t be taught in a classroom.

The Pacific taught us things no government ever asked about. The islands taught us things no bureaucrat ever cared to learn. And the world, for all its technology, is poorer for forgetting the value of the men who once carried its stories across the sea.

⚓ Mick The Baker 

One unforgettable story also revolves around a ship's baker, whose penchant for brandy led him to stumble into my cabin in the middle of the night. After downing an entire bottle, he would often collapse onto my couch. As dawn broke, I would find Mick Myers there. He was an ex-rear gunner on a Lancaster Bomber in the British Air Force during the Second World War. 

The subtle haze of whiskey lingered in the air of the Lancaster bomber after the gunner had completed seven missions. 

This prompts me to pause, as I’ve often found myself in tears while reading about those brave tail gunners—men like Mick, who were invariably the first targets in the ominous sights of the German Luftwaffe, relentlessly pursuing the heroic Lancaster bombers. The sheer courage they displayed terrifies and moves me deeply.

I first encountered Mick while I was working in the galley aboard the British Phosphate Ship Triaster. The aroma of freshly baked bread and savoury dishes filled the air when Mick entered the baker’s shop, his enthusiastic demeanour and spirited laughter brightening the cramped quarters. He announced that he would be working with us for the next six or seven weeks, but hinted it could be much longer if the ship found itself drifting aimlessly while tied to a buoy.

In the late 1960s, some plain flour supposedly contained more raising agent than in the 1980s, which Aussie cooks fondly refer to as "gunpowder." This distinction becomes particularly significant in tropical regions, where many bakeries operate in sweltering conditions. The heat influences not only the dough but also how ingredients are stored—often at warmer temperatures than in cooler climates. 

These factors may have caused Mick to inadvertently add more yeast than usual to his recipe. Alternatively, he might have miscalculated the amount of water from the bakery's jugs, leading to an imbalance. Rather than using the customary yeast measurement for a recipe he had mastered over the years, he may have unwittingly altered the proportions by using old flour, which might have been stored in an old bakery and purchased by the ship's purser at a cheaper rate than the everyday flour purchased. Anyway, the mixing process in Mick's trusty Hobart mixer acted in a manner I had never seen before or have seen since.

After carefully combining the ingredients, Mick allowed the dough to rise for at least half an hour in the Hobart mixer, where it expanded gently, bubble by bubble. However, I suspected Mick might have left the active dough in the mixing bowl longer than a lazy cat on a sunny windowsill would, leading to spectacular overproofing. An empty brandy bottle sat nearby—a familiar sight in our kitchen—though I doubted it was to blame for the dough's wild antics.

The dough had exploded, likely just moments before I stumbled into the galley at 05:00 with my coffee mug, only to hear a grinding noise reminiscent of a teenager's attempt to start a car. It sounded like someone was holding the fan belt hostage, preventing the engine from turning, while the bakery to the left of the galley door was producing noises that could rival those of an old horror film. There was Mick, clad in his white running shoes and socks, half of his backside peeking out of those infamous white shorts, which were the cook's equivalent of summer fashion wear. He was kicking ever so slightly, with his head practically buried in a mountain of dough that had ballooned to three times its original size. If dough could talk, I'm pretty sure it would shout, "Help!"

I was now in a tug-of-war with the giant Hobart mixer, trying to pull Mick out of the gooey disaster that had evolved into a bread-related nightmare. I had two options: call the topside pantryman and break the news to the Chief Steward that a dough bomb had gone off in the bake house, risking poor Mick's job, or spare him the embarrassment of being the Dough King who met his demise in his baking extravaganza. Given the choice, I decided to protect my shipmate and his dignity—after all, I had just spent precious minutes clearing dough from parts of him I never intended to see.

As I pondered our fellow crew members and their undying hunger for bread, my thoughts soon raced to the forty-some passengers who would demand fresh bread for breakfast. So, I decided to sneak a taste of the dough from the Hobart mixer, hoping Mick hadn't left too many "special ingredients" behind during his doughy duel. Miraculously, Mick was now conked out on the bakery deck, with just a slight cough to indicate he was still alive and kicking—or at least half-kicking.

With newfound determination, I opened all thirty-two baking tins, yanking off the sliding lids and greasing each one like a champion preparing for the dough Olympics. Gallantly, I attempted to estimate the amount of dough to flatten and place inside. It took more effort than convincing a cat to take a bath to slide the lids over each tin, but before I knew it, it was well past 06:00, and all thirty-two tins were now nestled in the prover, waiting to do their best impression of fluffy clouds. I could practically hear the dough whispering, "Rise and shine!"

Next, I tackled the 100 rolls, which, in a bit of bakery magic, turned into 128. I rolled them onto two greased trays and placed wire netting over each to prevent them from becoming doughy giants. I proudly placed those trays in the prover oven, which was much friendlier than the baking oven that could turn them into gooey pancakes.

As I was hosing down the bakery deck, the other three cooks waltzed in with coffee in hand, blissfully unaware of the doughy drama that had unfolded. I casually informed them that I had spilt some cooked essence on Mick's deck—another day, another mess, right? With Mick safely in his cabin, I was frying up breakfast with the other cooks, who had no clue about the whimsical adventure we had just survived. After ensuring Mick was all cleaned up and smelling like a rose, I filled him in on the situation. It was now up to him to explain to the Chief Steward that in all his baking years, nothing like this "fermentation fiasco" had ever occurred before. Buckle up, Mick; you are now on your own.

After the rolls were taken from the bakers' ovens, I made an excuse for being in the baker's shop instead of the galley. I had to be present, Whako. Although the rolls were half the size of usual, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. When it came time to remove the lids from the bread tins, the loaves rose like haystacks, with only half a dozen or so bursting when the lids were pulled off. The traditional square-tin loaf, suitable for slicing, was no longer in play. All thirty-two loaves, while smaller, were still larger than average. Everything went smoothly.

However, for the evening meal, the rolls were served alongside the soup, and everyone, from the crew to the officers, welcomed the change. Though the rolls were much lighter in texture, Mick gave them a thumbs-up.

Even better was the remark made the following day when all hands were present, with everyone wondering why Mick hadn't thought of changing the bread sooner, as it was so light, though a bit harder to spread butter on. Once the butter had softened, the bread was world-class. Well done, Mick. The irony in this story from the ship's kitchen is that sometimes you don't just need to test the waters a bit; you also need to adapt.  

That moment encapsulates my memories of Mick—a man with a generous heart, navigating the challenges of alcohol, often due to circumstances beyond his control. Despite his struggles, he possessed a charm that drew me to him. As we shared a night that carried us into the early hours, I listened to his story, one that resonated with many Air Force personnel. He shared his World War II experiences and the deep camaraderie that arose from acknowledging that his battles were reflections of life as a tail-end gunner on a Lancaster bomber. Many airmen believed that surviving seven missions was a testament that your time was nearly up, and finding solace in a bottle of brandy became a way to face the uncertainty of the eighth or ninth mission with courage.

Mick often thought he was already dead or that he should be dead along with his airmen mates. Mick had survived nine missions. 

⚓ Leaving the family behind 

Most seafarers I’ve sailed with often share a poignant experience on that final day at home. It’s a bittersweet day filled with tender moments spent with loved ones, all overshadowed by an inner sadness that hangs in the air. This sense of grief and discontent must be addressed and overcome before they depart. 

For the wives, particularly those with children, it’s vital not to display sorrow. Instead, they can embrace a spirit of support and positivity, reassuring their loved ones that the money earned during these long months at sea is essential for the family’s survival. Financial stability becomes a lifeline in an unpredictable world, especially when others, who are less fortunate, might be at risk of losing their homes.

When they married, the wife understood that this life of seafaring was part of the commitment they made to each other. Parting ways can be painful, but by conveying to dad that they comprehend the necessity of his journey, they help ease the burden of his departure. 

While the wife and children grapple with their own heartache, they aren’t confined to a small cabin aboard a ship, isolated for months at a time. Instead, they have the freedom to enjoy life—sharing laughter at the dinner table, watching movies together, and participating in social outings with friends and neighbours. They can provide each other with comfort during tough times, sharing hugs and playing games to fill the quiet moments with joy.

Demonstrating resilience during the seafarer's departure not only helps him manage the deep emotions of missing his family—something many men in his position experience—but it also strengthens the emotional resilience of the entire family. This unity in the face of separation transforms sorrow into a shared journey of love and hope for the future.

On the other side of the coin, some seafarers, separated from family or lost to the tides of life, find joy in returning to the sea. I vividly recall two stewards whose enthusiastic steps on board radiated warmth and hope. However, one of them carried a burden—a purchased registration of a deceased seaman. By doing so, he sought to rewrite his past, crafting a new identity as if to escape his former self. Tragically, the steward who passed on left no one to honour his memory.

The other steward, a charming rogue, faced the weight of significant legal debt, with sheriffs relentlessly pursuing him. Yet in the face of adversity, I discovered a brighter story—a nurse and single mother striving for a better life for her fourteen-year-old daughter in need of critical treatment. This steward embarked on a journey as a cook aboard a Panamanian ship, taking the courageous step of borrowing against uncertain assets to provide for this young girl. The international organisation he supported offered hope through a transformative four-month program. When this steward, whom I’ll call Mat, departed from this world, he carried the knowledge that he had made a profound difference in someone’s life, gifting her a future filled with promise.

In contrast, I have witnessed seamen who, after setting sail from their homeland, would fade into the shadows of the ship, finding their own quiet reflections away from the duties at hand. 

During my second voyage as a second cook aboard the Triaster, I experienced a surge of elation when I learned that a car awaited me in the beautiful harbour of Nauru. The possibility of adventure fuelled my spirit as I prepared for the journey ahead. 

In the final days of our three-week trip to Nauru, I shared stories of the sea, fostering connections that transcend time and space. The tales of the two stewards came alive, echoing with emotion as we sat together beneath the stars, the salty breeze wrapping around us like a gentle embrace. We savoured a cherished night, one that cost little more than a few cans of beer—a reminder that true wealth lies in shared experiences. 

These are the nights seamen treasure, as we transform our small sleeping quarters into makeshift beds, crafting comfort from our surroundings. By turning our sheets into cosy sleeping bags, we prepare for the cool tropical nights, finding warmth in the togetherness we build as we gather to share stories. It is in these moments that we forge bonds, drawing strength from each other, inspired by the vastness of the sea and the resilience of the human spirit.

⚓ Australian Trader  

During my time at sea, I found myself engaging in a myriad of foolish pranks, which often brought laughter to others and left me with a sense of humility. These misadventures, sometimes at my own expense, have become vivid memories of my journey as a seaman. As I share these tales now, I recognise the fleeting nature of humour, much like the distant sound of waves crashing against the hull. The Australian Trader, another Tasmanian ferry, was no exception.

This unscripted encounter was not a fanciful prank but rather an unforeseen twist that enriched my seafaring life. In the blink of an eye, the atmosphere shifted, leaving me with valuable reflections on the unexpected turns life can take.

This particularly memorable incident unfolded aboard the Australian Trader. It was around 9:30 PM as we approached the mesmerising Lonsdale Rip, that narrow stretch of water connecting Port Phillip Bay to the open confrontations of the Bass Strait. The atmosphere onboard was bustling as usual. The assistant cook was hard at work, diligently peeling and cutting vegetables to precise sizes. At the same time, two enormous galvanised rubbish bins—gleaming and lined with plastic—stood in the cool room. These bins were about a meter and a half deep and were filled with ice-cold water to preserve the freshness of our ingredients. One was brimming with perfectly French-cut potatoes, while the other held ordinary peeled potatoes that had been thoroughly brushed to remove any dirt. This method ensured the vegetables remained crisp and fresh, ready for the delights we served to our passengers.

On a typical night, the ship would carry around 300 travellers on their journey, a routine that altered only on Saturdays when we anchored in Devonport, Tasmania, to await the return to Melbourne on Sunday night.

Now, let me share the story: One evening, as the waves danced around us, one of the stewardesses descended from the drinks saloon bar to the galley. She approached me with a light-hearted request for twelve lemons and asked if she could step into the vast, cool room where we stored all our fresh produce. Being a gentleman, I offered my assistance to help her over the large step into the cool room. I gently grasped her elbow to guide her in when, without warning, the ferry rolled slightly to starboard, a common occurrence as we left the sheltered waters of Melbourne Port Philip Bay near Point Lonsdale, venturing into the choppy embrace of the open sea.

In an instant, the stewardess lost her footing and, with a startled expression, tumbled into one of the icy potato bins just as the ferry righted itself. The shock of the freezing water sent her into a panic, and she let out a piercing scream, her legs flailing in the air, completely trapped and exposed in that frigid confinement. Clad only in a skirt with no stockings, the shock had her shivering in sheer discomfort. All she could manage to utter was my name, "Alan, Alan!" 

Seeing her struggle, I quickly reached for her, feeling the cold seep into my own arms as I attempted to rescue her from her absurd predicament. I wrapped her in an arm lock, pulling her from the biting cold of the bin and dashing toward my cabin, which was just a few steps away from the freezer.

Once inside, I gently placed her on my bunk, quickly covering her lower half with a soft blanket. With wide eyes filled with embarrassment, she hurriedly pulled down her panties as a wave of warmth flooded over us both. I knew what she needed, so I rushed to turn on a hot shower for her, and in mere moments, the stewardess—whom I will refer to as Ann—was able to regain her composure. She stepped into the soothing warmth of the shower and stood there for about ten minutes, letting the hot water wash away the shock. I then went to fetch a cosy dressing gown from the sick bay, allowing Ann a moment of privacy to process what had just transpired.

Haricot Oxtail 

To secure an extra two cans of beer from the duty storeroom, you only need to gather around 20 kg of succulent oxtail, 8 kg of rich stewing beef, and 1.5 kg of hearty haricot beans. This precious beer is distributed by either the second steward or the fourth officer. Still, it's typically the fourth officer, or an eager apprentice deck officer, who can be tempted first. These officers are still fresh-faced and not yet hardened by the rigours of their duties, making them more susceptible to a bit of persuasion. A well-prepared portion of last night’s splendid oxtail—crafted specially for such occasions—can easily sway them.

Back in the day, beer rations were drawn from the ship's stores and ticked off against your wages, much like personal items such as toothpaste and brushes. If you time your requests just right—when the queue is empty and no other crew members are around—you can often negotiate about a half-hour slot each day for your indulgences. By arranging this every other day, you could stockpile up to four cans of beer, which is quite a substantial prize at sea.

The key to success here is waiting until you can approach the second steward or the fourth officer alone and in good spirits. Start with a sincere compliment about how well they look; it’s a charming icebreaker. Then, with a playful smile, pivot to your main pitch: “How did you enjoy last night’s oxtail? Ha ha! I made sure to set some aside for you before we freeze it!” (Of course, that oxtail won’t be frozen; it’s merely a part of the informal deal.) This delightful dish of tender oxtail is no ordinary meal—it's a dish that a seaman would gladly swim the English Channel from Dover in England to Calais in France to savour!

The following recipe for a Hearty Oxtail Dish 

• Oxtail: 15 kg

• Braising beef: 8–10 kg

• Haricot beans (soaked overnight): 1.5 kg

• Plain flour: 2.5 kg

• Fat or industrial cooking margarine: as required

• Onions, diced: 5 kg

• Carrots, diced: 5 kg

• Swedes, diced: 4 large

• Stock: 10 litres

• Salt: to taste

• Black pepper: to taste

• Crushed peppercorns: 1½ cups

• Chives, chopped: a good handful

• Large industrial frying pans (hinged handles preferred for galley use)

• Deep roasting trays or hotel pans

• Large stockpots

• Oven or galley cooking rings

• Clean and wash thoroughly.

• In tropical climates, thaw overnight in trays.

• Blanch in boiling water for 2–3 minutes to remove dried blood and impurities.

• Skim off residue — this can later enrich gravies.

 

• Dry oxtail pieces and coat well in flour.

• Heat fat or margarine in large frying pans over low heat.

• Brown oxtail slowly for 1.5 hours, turning regularly.

• Add stock once browned.

• Cook braising beef separately, using the same method.

• Dice onions, carrots, and swedes.

• Boil until just tender, then strain.

• Reserve vegetable water for stock.

4. Make the Roux & Gravy

• Once oxtails are nearly cooked, strain off excess fat but keep residue.

• Add flour to the residue in trays to form a roux.

• Stir gently over heat until thickened into a rich gravy.

• Mix cooked vegetables and seasoning (salt, pepper, peppercorns, chives) into the gravy.

• Return oxtails to trays, dividing evenly.

• Place trays back in oven and simmer until meat falls easily from the bone.

• Test largest oxtail pieces for doneness.

6. Finish with Beans

• Reheat soaked haricot beans.

• Add to trays just before serving.

• Allow beans to warm through in the oven, absorbing flavour.

• Impurities: Always skim during blanching — it keeps flavour clean.

• Fat management: Reserve rendered fat for roux; it carries deep flavour.

• Serving: Each tray yields ~15–20 portions; prepare 4–5 trays for 80 serves.

• Texture: Meat should fall off the bone; beans should be tender but intact.

• Seasoning: Adjust peppercorns carefully — they give the dish its warmth and bite.

On a lighter note, one of the most captivating lessons learned by seamen who have navigated the vast, unpredictable sea for over two decades is the delicate art of storytelling. Many former sailors grapple with a familiar unease as they attempt to recount their adventures. The tales they carry within them often transcend the ordinary boundaries of reality, leaving their listeners both awestruck and sceptical. This discomfort frequently holds seasoned mariners back, stifling the rich, vibrant stories that vividly illustrate their experiences.

However, when they summon the courage to share, these stories ignite a deep sense of comradeship among fellow sailors. Imagine this: you find yourself in a cosy hotel bar, the air thick with laughter and the cheerful clinking of glasses. Amid the casual gathering, a friend joyfully calls out, “Hey Alan, why don’t you tell us about the time you fell overboard?” Laughter erupts, and someone else adds, “What about that wild swim in the Dead Sea when you had to be rescued?” Eyes widen in anticipation, and the space fills with an electric charge of curiosity.

Then there’s the unforgettable escapade of climbing down a rickety Jacob's Ladder into the shadowy hold of your ship, spurred on by whispers from the dockworkers about hidden treasure—two cases of rich malt whiskey destined for a distant island commissioner. Rather than securing the precious cargo for a quiet evening, you and your shipmates ignited a legendary party right in the ship's guts, revelling amidst the towering stacks of boxes and barrels, the air alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles. Who would ever believe such an extraordinary tale?

As these vibrant narratives unfold, a familiar pang of doubt seeps in. You begin to question the outrageous nature of your own stories, feeling exposed as you delve deeper into the colourful memories. What you’re expressing feels almost too fantastical to be true. Yet, in that captivating moment, you understand that you must press on; to hesitate would invite scepticism among your captive listeners. The challenge lies not only in telling the story but in capturing the extraordinary essence of a life spent navigating the open sea, where every wave holds the promise of a new adventure waiting to be discovered.

After completing my first or possibly my second week of cooking on land, I found myself overwhelmed by a deep yearning for the sea and the invigorating scent of saltwater that had once surrounded me daily. Waves of nostalgia crashed over me, triggering bittersweet memories of leaving my loved ones behind—a heart-wrenching experience I’ve detailed at times in this narrative. Yet, despite that ache, the allure of new adventures awaiting me somewhere on our expansive planet felt like an electric drill, buzzing with anticipation, ready to spring to life, even as its battery struggled for a recharge.

For seamen—including bosuns, deckhands, and ship officers—time off typically signifies a much-deserved respite from their responsibilities aboard the vessel. In sharp contrast, the roles of cook and steward come with their own unique set of challenges and demands. Each day spent preparing meals or managing provisions teaches vital skills that enhance a cook's and steward’s performance when they eventually return to the rhythm and energy of life at sea. The aromatic blend of spices wafting through the air, the constant hustle and bustle of the galley, and the tight-knit circle among the crew are not just fond memories; they are aspects of my daily life that I increasingly find myself longing for as each day slips by ashore. The thrill of teamwork, the satisfaction of a shared meal, and the sense of purpose that comes from fulfilling my role in the crew are the very elements that make my time at sea so exhilarating—and why I feel their absence so acutely during my time on land

⚓ AFTER THE STORY TELLING 

Some crew members, including myself, often face moments of solitude and introspection, especially when frustration arises after receiving a telegram from the ship's Radio Officer. On one six-week trip away from home, I learned from the Radio Officer that part of the back of my house had burned down. After the Radio Officer assured me that my family was all safe and staying with family, my thoughts immediately turned to the five kilos of silver I had legally brokered with a bullion company, which was stored in that very section of the house. Panic surged within me as I wondered if the fire had revealed its hidden location—was it discovered and taken? With only a week left until I return home, I grappled with these unsettling questions.

I realised I needed to send my wife a message, urging her to check that area of the house, but hesitation crept in. Although we had agreed on where to hide the silver, the shock of the fire might have clouded her judgment and caused her to forget about the silver bars entirely.

How can I maintain my composure during the agonising five days before we finally dock? The thought of asking the Radio Officer to send a message regarding the silver feels dangerously impractical, stirring a wave of anxiety in me. To keep my mind occupied, I dive into the financial implications of our situation. 

With silver valued at approximately $400 per kilo, those five shimmering kilos are worth around $2,000—a substantial sum that glints enticingly in my mind. I begin to ponder my accumulated leave—I had six weeks of leave owing. My sea training days were about to kick in, and my mind was now clearly working on the future, not the past.  If I decided to escape to a holiday camp lodge, which I was sure I could secure as a relieving butcher and cook, I could earn roughly $300 a week (the going rate back in 1972). This meant I could bring home around $1,800 over that timeframe. While accepting this new plan would require me to forgo six weeks with my wife, it unexpectedly presents a hopeful solution to our current predicament.

With just one child in primary school, I thought that taking a week off school, plus the two weekends on either side of the week off, would allow my wife to enjoy a complimentary stay in the on-site cabin at the lodge, making it a pleasant getaway for her. It was a win-win situation that would have addressed my concerns while providing Faye, my wife, with an opportunity for respite. No respite needed, the silver ingots were safe. 

Uncovering five gleaming ABC bullion-minted silver bars, hidden away in an old Arnott's biscuit tin buried about a third of a meter underground beneath the sturdy floor joists, was a moment of serendipity that called for a celebration with a fine bottle of red wine. The State of Victoria Bank appraised the charred section of my home at an impressive $2,000. At the same time, Abbots Builders charged $1,800 to rebuild that area meticulously and skilfully craft two additional 2.5-meter rooms, providing the much-needed extra living space. It felt only fitting to open a second bottle in honour of this unexpected windfall.

With this accomplishment under my belt, I seized the opportunity to utilise three weeks of my accumulated leave, stepping into the role of Breakfast Cook at the charming Palm Lake Hotel Motel on Queens Road in Melbourne. This experience was not without its highlights, including two exclusive one-night butler appointments—one at the elegant Japanese Consulate's private residence on the tree-lined Lansell Avenue in Toorak. There, I was gifted a bottle of Suntory whiskey, still mostly complete, with only two nips taken, to take home as a token of appreciation. This delightful ritual had become a cherished tradition over four years, whenever the consulate sought my assistance. 

As I reflected on these positive turns in my life, I realised just how much things had improved. The telegram I had received while aboard a ship had faded into the background of my memory, much like the imaginary crises that vanish when faced with the reality that the worst outcome isn’t death, but rather the distant horizon ahead—one that often promises smooth sailing through life’s ever-changing waters.

This mindset—finding solutions amidst domestic challenges—reflects the lessons ingrained in us as seamen. As a former ship's steward and cook, I have come to value the life skills that arise from such experiences, illuminating the power of resilience and adaptability. 

I must admit that I faced a moment of embarrassment when my silver service skills faltered, and I dropped a potato in the lap of one of Australia’s finest and most humorous comics, Graham Kennedy, during the opening night of the President Motel on Queens Road in 1967. A Swiss chef from Lucerne was flown in for the occasion, and there was hope that President Lyndon Johnson would attend, as he was expected to be in Australia around that time. However, that did not happen. 

Graham Kennedy embraced the moment with grace, turning my embarrassment into an unforgettable experience. His humour transformed a potential misstep into a highlight of the night. As an apology for the dropped potato, I balanced five Drambuie liquors on a silver tray, allowing each glass to pass in front of the guests. This gesture became a symbol of resilience and the beauty of embracing life’s unexpected moments.

⚓ The Waiter and Butler 

My training taught me to take note of those working alongside me. Those who thrived in their chosen profession and those who were there just to make money.  One of the most impressive feats I mastered was balancing four full cups of coffee in a single hand while deftly navigating the rolling waves of the sea. Additionally, I successfully orchestrated a business banquet, managing a tray that artistically displayed five different sherries. Through these experiences, I developed a keen understanding of the distinct types of sherries: Dry, Sweet, Cream, Medium, and Manzanilla, and I quickly learned which to serve based on the preferences of each guest. 

Ah, the old steward’s trick—classic ships' mischief wrapped in a veneer of hospitality. This humorous spin fits the rugged charm of a seagoing voyage. 
Now, every seasoned steward worth his salt has a few tricks up his sleeve, mainly when stationed in the saloon bar. 

So here’s the trick: when a new ship's passenger asks in a wide-eyed manner for a drink for him and his lady friend, the steward would greet him with all the pomp of a five-star maître d’. 

“Welcome, sir,” he’d say, gesturing grandly toward the table where he was to be seated, “Your drink awaits you. What would you like?”

This seemingly simple tool was instrumental in earning extra tips while simultaneously ensuring efficient service amidst the hustle and bustle of a busy dining room.

Establishing a robust rapport with the kitchen staff—especially with the head chef and, if fortunate, the head sous chef—is crucial in any hotel environment and, particularly on the decks of passenger ships. By nurturing these relationships, I gained early access to the daily specials and uncovered the unique ingredients that made each dish a delight. This insider knowledge not only enabled me to provide superior service but also proved beneficial for the chefs, especially the Chief Steward. Acting as the liaison between the kitchen and the dining room, the Chief Steward communicates daily with the hotel owner, wields significant influence over staff dynamics, and has the authority to promote or demote staff members based on performance and guest feedback.

When attending to a guest who is staying more than one night at the motel or hotel where I work, I take the liberty of suggesting a delectable dish for dinner the following night. For instance, I would notify the chef to prepare a sumptuous venison for two, accompanied by a rich, flavorful demi-glace. At the table, I would elegantly choose their liquor, creating a theatrical moment by flambéing it in front of the guests. This not only adds an interactive flair to the dining experience but also warms the wine, ensuring it enhances the venison dish rather than merely blending into the gravy. Presenting the heated sauce alongside the perfectly cooked meat ignites lively conversations among guests about what they might indulge in next, creating an engaging atmosphere. Many guests, often extending their stay for another night, prefer to dine in the hotel rather than venture elsewhere.

⚓ Octagon Motel and Robs Carousel Restaurant 

In the early 1970s, I had the honour of presenting a silver service demonstration at the Carousel, situated by the picturesque Albert Park Lake in Melbourne. This type of presentation was a rare spectacle in the bustling 200-seat restaurant, where diners typically rushed through their meals in under two hours. However, for a special gathering hosted by a Jewish consortium of hotel and motel owners in Victoria, Australia—known as ABC Real Estate—I found myself serving two flambéed crêpe suzettes at a table at Rob's Carousel. This was no ordinary dessert; it was a unique highlight, carefully crafted with flair for this momentous occasion. 

A few days later, Rob Griffies, son of the esteemed Hoyts theatre family, was approached by members of this consortium—Mr. Goodvach, Mr. Zarney, and Mr. Solomun—pleading for him to release me from my responsibilities as the manager of the restaurant so that I could oversee their motel in the exclusive suburb of South Yarra. They had leased the property shortly after its grand opening, but after eight tumultuous months, the family running it faced bankruptcy, and the receivers were ready to step in.

In their desperation for a turnaround, Rob agreed to let me go for twelve months, recognising it as a promising progression in my career while also enhancing the reputation of his three restaurants. The Octagon needed a touch of the extraordinary to revitalise its operations. In just ten months, I propelled occupancy from a disheartening 42% to an impressive 87%. Profits from the bar soared as I introduced interesting events, including fashion shows and indulgent Sunday brunches. I also brought in freshly delivered international newspapers from Hong Kong, New Zealand, and Asia—news that was just four days old, but a rarity in Melbourne. The sight of twenty-two New York police officers and their wives, staying for three nights, became a sensational highlight and the talk of Melbourne town.

As a small but telling aside, when the officers and their wives departed that second night, they settled their bar bill in full and left a generous $50 tip for the bartender — a significant gesture in the early 1990s. After they left, I conducted a stocktake of the cellar and was startled to find discrepancies. Three extra bottles of Johnnie Walker sat on the shelves, along with two or three additional bottles each of gin, rum, and brandy. Most surprising of all were four cases of Courage beer that had not been there before.

Reflecting on these officers, I remembered that two of them had either served in Vietnam or had close family who had. One evening, over drinks at the cocktail bar, the conversation shifted to the war. It felt like the right moment to share a story I had rarely spoken about — my experience joining the ship Hopepeak, unaware that it was bound for Albany, Western Australia, to load wheat destined for Communist China at the height of the Vietnam conflict. Only later did I realise how deeply entangled I had become in a geopolitical nightmare.

It is essential that I clarify this part of my life. The Chinese–North Vietnamese wheat deal has shaped my journey since I was twenty‑four. It is impossible to separate who I became from what I witnessed.

The memories that resurfaced during my twenty‑year marriage to Faye — a marriage that began in the hopeful spring of April 1969 and ended in the shadowed days of October 1989 — were concentrated into a few agonising months. During that period, I was numbed by prescribed medications that clouded my judgment and dulled my senses. Each day was a battle as I tried to run a telephone‑dependent business crippled by unreliable phone service. The frustration of being unable to communicate with clients and suppliers seeped into every corner of our relationship.

In that pressure‑cooker atmosphere, the flashbacks from China became impossible to suppress. They flooded my mind with vivid, painful images of a country in turmoil — a place stripped of colour, where hunger was everywhere, and desperation hung in the air. The struggles I witnessed etched themselves into my thoughts, each recollection more visceral than the last. Those memories tore open a wound I had buried for decades, exposing emotions I had never fully confronted.

My attempts to forget were futile. The complexity of those experiences — tangled with regret, fear, and a longing for understanding — demanded acknowledgement. The collision of past and present threatened to unravel everything I had built with Faye, leaving me to grapple with the consequences of memory and time.

Through all of this, I never saw my role in delivering wheat to starving Chinese civilians as morally wrong. It was an act of compassion. What haunted me was something far darker: my attempt to warn the Australian government — through two Commonwealth Police Officers (now the AFP) — in a letter dated 18 September 1967 to Malcolm Fraser, then Minister for the Army. In that letter, I reported that some of the wheat was being diverted to North Vietnam at a time…

The People’s Republic of China
The Letter, the Truth, and the Waiting

In August 1967, I found myself in a situation so precarious, so surreal, that it would etch itself into the marrow of my memory. I was aboard a cargo ship docked in China, surrounded by Red Guards stationed on board twenty‑four hours a day, spaced no more than thirty paces apart. After being coerced into writing a confession — declaring myself a U.S. aggressor and a supporter of Chiang Kai‑shek, the Nationalist leader in Taiwan — I was told by the second steward, who handled the ship’s correspondence, that I had about two days before a response to my letter might reach me. That response, whatever it might be, would be delivered by the head of the Red Guards himself.

It was the second steward who quietly suggested I write to my parents. I did. I poured myself into twenty‑two foolscap pages, writing with the urgency of a man who believed he might not live to see the end of the week. I told my church‑going parents that I was not the saintly eighteen‑year‑old they thought I was. I confessed that the woman they had so often thanked in their letters — believing her to be my landlady or carer — was in fact my lover. She was forty‑two. I was eighteen when we met. From 1963 to 1967, she had been my anchor, my warmth, my truth. I wrote about my life at sea, about the chaos and the camaraderie, about the loneliness and the longing. I wrote because I needed them to know who I really was, in case I was executed before I ever saw them again.

As the ship’s cook and duty mess‑room steward, I had a front‑row seat to the daily rhythms of life on board. I often watched the crew eat their meals on deck, plates balanced on the handrails that lined the ship. We were carrying grain to China on humanitarian grounds, and yet the irony was unbearable — food was being wasted while the people we were meant to help were starving. Sausages, half‑eaten steaks, baked potatoes — they’d slip from plates and tumble into the sea. But there were no seagulls to swoop down and claim them. They’d been eaten too. The food floated aimlessly, untouched even by fish, which had grown scarce in the harbour. Starvation wasn’t a concept. It was a presence. It was in the eyes of the Red Guards who watched us eat. It was in the silence that followed every wasted bite.

A Tray of Leftovers and a Silent Exchange

After my arrest, I was placed under house arrest aboard the ship. One day, I took a small metal tray from the galley and filled it — not with scraps, but with decent leftovers. Food that would have gone into the stockpot or been turned into dry hash cakes. I walked it out to the deck, placed it on one of the long benches, patted my stomach as if I’d eaten my fill, and walked away without a word.
Ten minutes later, I returned. The tray had been licked clean.

At the next meal, I did it again — this time with enough food for three or four Red Guards. I placed the tray on the bench and left. No words. No eye contact. Just food. I repeated this quiet ritual for two more days, all while waiting for the response to my letter. During that time, something shifted. The Red Guard, who had been waking me every hour to check if I was sleeping, stopped coming. The tension in the air thinned, just slightly. And I kept bringing food — whenever the crew was busy unloading wheat with grappling hooks wrapped in chicken wire, I’d slip out with another tray.

To this day, I don’t know what saved me. It was certainly not the letter declaring myself a U.S. aggressor and a supporter of Chiang Kai‑shek, the Nationalist leader in Taiwan. Maybe it was luck. Or perhaps it was that tray of food, offered without expectation, without speech, without condition. A silent gesture that said, “I see you. I know you’re hungry. I know you’re human.” And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

In essence, the bureaucrat who advised the Australian government on world decisions, as well as home affairs, did not fully take into account the lives of its soldiers engaged in the conflict in North Vietnam against the desperate need to provide sustenance for Communist China, an entire nation teetering on the brink of starvation. Did these Australian bureaucrats not understand that when I advised the Australian government on 18 September 1967, in writing, that some of this wheat — the wheat carried by the Hopepeak, which I was now refusing to man along with other seamen — was being sent back to China with another 13,600 tons of grain, which we had similarly unloaded a month before and which was by then feeding the North Vietnamese who were killing and maiming Australian troops and the troops of our allies?

The fact is that when we finally agreed to take the wheat cargo from Albany in July 1967 to China, the crew were told by the Australian Government that it was being sent on humanitarian grounds to a starving China. That is the only reason we manned the Hopepeak — to feed the dying, starving Chinese, not to feed the North Vietnamese with whom we were at war.

The Australian government bureaucrats had lied to us. This is what I told the New York Police at the dinner table at my Octagon Motel.

For the first and only time in my life, I made the unusual decision to entrust a group of twenty‑two New York Police Officers with the keys to my main cellar — a secure room beside my office where I kept my liquor collection. On their first night with us, the celebrations rolled on without a thought of sleep. By the second night, exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I knew I needed rest. As I handed over the keys, I wondered whether there was any group I could trust more than these officers.

As a small but telling aside, when the officers and their wives departed that second night, they settled their bar bill in full and left a generous $50 tip for the bartender — a significant gesture in the early 1990s. After they left, I conducted a stocktake of the cellar and was startled to find discrepancies. Three extra bottles of Johnnie Walker sat on the shelves, along with two or three additional bottles each of gin, rum, and brandy. Most surprising of all were four cases of Courage beer that had not been there before.

⚓ The cook is the morale booster 

For twenty-eight years, the sea was my kitchen. From the galley of merchant ships to the mess halls of oil rigs and mining camps, I cooked not just meals, but morale. The clatter of pans, the hiss of steam, the rhythm of knives against chopping boards—these were the sounds that accompanied my life, whether I was slicing onions in the middle of the Indian Ocean or preparing breakfast for a hundred men before dawn broke over the Pilbara.

I wasn’t just a cook. I was a lifeline. On ships, food was more than sustenance—it was sanity. A good meal could soften the sting of homesickness, calm tempers after a storm, or bring laughter to a crew that hadn’t seen land in weeks. I learned early that the galley was a sacred space. It didn’t matter if you were a deckhand or the captain—when you came through that door, you were hungry, human, and equal.

The conditions varied wildly. Some ships had galleys that rattled like tin cans in rough seas, where I’d brace myself against the stove to keep from falling while stirring a pot. Others were better equipped, but the challenge was always the same: make something nourishing out of whatever supplies we had, and do it quickly, precisely, and with heart.

Later, I traded the sea for the dust and diesel of mining camps and oil rigs. The isolation was different—less movement, more monotony—but the stakes were just as high. Men worked twelve-hour shifts in blistering heat or cold, and when they came in, they didn’t want gourmet—they wanted comfort. Roast beef with thick gravy. Bread still warm from the oven. A pudding that reminded them of home. I gave them that, day after day, because I understood what it meant to be far from everything familiar.

In the catering lodges, the scale grew. Hundreds of mouths to feed, multiple sittings, dietary needs, and logistics that would make a general sweat. But I thrived in that chaos. There was something deeply satisfying about orchestrating a meal that fed an entire operation—knowing that my work helped keep the wheels turning, the drills humming, the morale intact.

I’ve cooked through cyclones and breakdowns, through strikes and shutdowns. I’ve fed crews who spoke ten different languages, and I’ve watched hardened men cry over a slice of birthday cake. I’ve seen how food can bridge divides, soften grief, and restore dignity. And through it all, I never lost sight of the more profound truth: that behind every plate was a story, and behind every story was a man trying to make it through another day.

Changeable Weather 

For those reading this story, I ask you to consider the following.

It was 1968, and I had already been at sea for eight years. I thought I’d seen rough weather. I thought I understood what the ocean could do. But nothing prepared me for what happened aboard the Fritz Ingram in the Bass Strait.

We had travelled from the oil rigs to Barry’s Beach near Foster, South Gippsland, to load iron pipes—twenty of them, empty oil pipes bound for the Barracuda Rig. They were lashed to a barge we were towing, and once fully loaded, we began the slow haul back out into the Strait. Eleven nautical miles, fully laden, and it took us four hours just to gather speed. The sea was heavy, but manageable until it wasn’t.

Out of nowhere, a gale slammed into us—eighty miles of sheer wind, blowing hard inland from the south. We were caught in the middle of it, exposed and vulnerable. The tug groaned under the strain, the barge behind us bucking like a wild animal. For two days, we fought that storm. All we managed was four miles forward and six miles back. The sea was in charge now, and we were just passengers in its fury.

Even though that Bass Strait gale was one of the worst storms I ever faced, there were other tempests—tropical storms of a different nature. Some came with less fury but more unpredictability, creeping in with a deceptive calm before unleashing their wrath. Others were short-lived but violent, like a slap from the sea itself. Yet through it all, the roughness and the comradeship were like a drug. The danger bonded us. It sharpened our instincts, stripped away pretence, and left only the essentials: trust, grit, and the quiet understanding that your life might one day depend on the man beside you.

There’s something addictive about that kind of living. You don’t chase storms, but when they come, you meet them head-on. And when they pass, you’re left with a strange emptiness, a craving for the intensity, the clarity, the rawness of it all.

But not every night was violent. Some were so still they felt unreal. I remember nights in the South Pacific where the sea was so calm it looked like glass—no ripples, no wind, just silence. The ship would glide across the surface like it was skating on ice, and I’d stand at the rail, staring out at a horizon that didn’t seem to end. The stars above, the water below, and the hum of the engines behind me—it was like floating between worlds.

Those nights were sacred. They reminded me why I stayed at sea for so long. Not for the storms, not for the pay, but for moments like that—when the ocean held its breath and let you feel, just for a while, that you were part of something vast and eternal.

⚓The Iron Knight.

Many friendships blossomed after the China episode amidst the chaos of maritime life on the following three ships: Iron Knight, Nilpena, and Iranda. 

After the stormy chapter of China, life aboard the Iron Knight, Nilpena, and Iranda brought a different kind of richness—one built not on politics or peril, but on friendship. These ships became more than steel and rivets; they were floating communities where cooks, stewards, and seamen found rhythm in the chaos and comfort in each other’s company.

Many a good yarn was spun over mugs of tea and plates of stew. Tales of near misses, wild weather, and galley miracles—like baking bread in a rolling sea or salvaging a meal from half-frozen stores. We laughed about the time someone mistook curry powder for cinnamon, or when a rogue wave sent a tray of roast lamb flying across the galley, only to be caught mid-air by a steward with reflexes worthy of a cricket pitch.

But beneath the humour was something deeper: a shared understanding of what it meant to feed a crew, to keep morale alive, and to be the quiet anchor in a world that never stopped moving. These friendships weren’t forged in comfort—they were tempered in heat, pressure, and the unspoken code of those who live by the sea.

The Iron Knight was where many of those bonds first took root. From the galley to the mess deck, we shared more than meals—we shared stories, frustrations, and the kind of laughter that only comes from surviving the absurdities of maritime life. The Nilpena and Iranda followed, each with its own quirks and crew, but the thread of camaraderie remained unbroken.

Over the next thirty or forty years, the cooks who served aboard those ships remained good shipmates. We might have drifted to different ports, different vessels, even different countries—but whenever we crossed paths again, it was as if no time had passed. The yarns flowed freely, the memories grew taller, and the respect ran deep.

During my twenty-seven years as a ship’s cook in the Australian Merchant Navy, I somehow found myself moonlighting as the honorary Maritime Cooks Secretary. Yes, that’s right—I was the only cook who could whip up soufflés while juggling rosters and emergency callouts. After a gruelling twelve-hour shift on the Melbourne Tugs, I’d often pop into the Golden Gate Hotel in South Melbourne. What better way to unwind than by handling secretarial duties surrounded by the comforting aroma of beer and bar snacks?

Before I landed my twelve-year gig on the tugs, I had the good fortune—or madness—to be at the helm of the Marine Cooks and Bakers Association rooms when a “Mayday” call came in from Sydney. No one on the Melbourne roster was brave enough to take the assistant cook job aboard the Iron Knight, which was set to depart the next day at noon. If that job slipped away, it would fall to our Sydney rivals. And no cook worth his salt would let that happen on his watch.

So, in a moment of sheer brilliance—or perhaps desperation—I jumped into action. I picked up the phone and declared, “Yes, a cook has been found.” I punched the keypad faster than a chef seasoning a steak, making my name, Alan Smith, sound so appealing that they couldn’t resist. “He’ll be at the shipping office by 9 a.m.—you can bank on it!” I hung up before they could ask if I was trying to win a complimentary breakfast.

A few phone calls later, the association rooms were back in business. The formal secretary would return in three days, and I’d saved the day—with a side of chaos and a pint of beer.

What was I supposed to tell my wife, Faye? Over dinner, I broke the news: I’d be sailing on the Iron Knight, headed to Sydney and then Newcastle. The trip would last twelve working days, which meant a bonus equal to half that time—just enough to help us buy our first home. Fingers crossed.

After delivering the news, I met the other cook and drove to South Wharf to check out the ship. We were excited, ready to see this beauty. But when we got to the main gate, the Iron Knight was nowhere to be seen.

I turned to the gatekeeper. “Where’s the ship?”

He replied casually, “The Skipper and Chief Mate hopped into a taxi and headed to the Sir Charles Hotham pub.”

Brilliant. No one sails without a captain. Reassuring, yes—but something felt off. I’d already asked the dock workers. No tugs. No port pilot. No movement.
We drove back and finally stepped out of the car, which felt oddly monumental. As we strolled to the edge of the wharf and peered down, there she was—the Iron Knight, resting in low tide like she was taking a nap. Not exactly the grand introduction I’d imagined.

Faye was understandably anxious about my journey. Sydney was daunting enough, but the additional hundred nautical miles to Newcastle loomed even larger in her mind. I tried to sound courageous, reassuring her that facing difficulties was part of being a ship’s cook. It’s a life where you embrace the challenges as well as the rewards.

Looking back, I believed in my own words—perhaps more confidently than I should have. I even wondered if Sydney should’ve sent down a professional cook to take the ship back to New South Wales, sparing me the anxiety.

As we embarked, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. Each surge of the ship sent a shudder through its frame. The vessel rocked violently, struggling to break free from the turbulent waters. The ominous creaking of the hull reverberated through my chest, amplifying the tension that gripped my heart. But as we manoeuvred into a turn, charting a new course, the ship steadied itself with grace. Its bow sliced through the water without dipping. In that moment, clarity washed over me: we were embarking on another grand adventure, and there was nothing left to dread.

Yet even as the ship found its rhythm, I couldn’t help but reflect on the stark realities of life at sea. There are moments when you’re ensnared in the merciless grip of a violent storm, the wind howling like a banshee, waves crashing over the deck with terrifying force. It’s during these times—especially when the holds are loaded with shifting cargo—that danger truly escalates. The deck crew faces the daunting task of securing heavy loads, particularly when massive rolls of paper, each weighing as much as an anchor, tumble from side to side, threatening to upend everything.

Each crew member knows the stakes. The cargo hold becomes a brewing storm of its own. And in those moments, you remember the shipmates who’ve gone down with their vessels, swallowed by the unforgiving sea. The thought stirs grief, but it’s laced with respect—for the life we lead, and the risks we accept.
Despite the danger, despite the haunting memories, most of the seamen I’ve known wouldn’t trade their lives for anything. Whether an able seaman, steward, cook, or officer of the watch, each wave that crashes against the hull is a reminder of the wild spirit of adventure we cherish. It’s the camaraderie, the challenge, and the thrill of the open sea that binds us. And for those of us who’ve lived it, it’s a life that never truly leaves you.

⚓ Steak and Kidney Pudding — A Maritime Favourite

During my twenty-seven years as a ship’s cook in the Australian Merchant Navy, few dishes earned the reverence of Steak and Kidney Pudding. It wasn’t just a meal—it was a ritual. A staple of maritime cuisine, especially aboard the Iron Knight, where I prepared it countless times, this dish offered warmth, sustenance, and a sense of home to crews facing the vast and unpredictable ocean.

On ships with crews of up to seventy, cooking extra oxtail wasn’t just practical—it was essential. Wet dishes, rich in savoury gravies, were the backbone of shipboard comfort. Unlike single-serving options like Steak Diane or Chicken Parmigiana, wet dishes could be ladled generously, their flavours deepened by time and technique.

Among them, Steak and Kidney Pie stood out. Prepared in deep trays with a blended roux, it was a dish that demanded patience, precision, and respect for tradition.

•  Diced beef (chuck or blade): 10 kg

•  Ox kidney, trimmed and diced: 3 kg

•  Plain flour (for dredging): 1.5 kg

•  Beef dripping or vegetable oil: 1.5 litres

•  Onions, diced: 4 kg

•  Carrots, diced: 3 kg

•  Celery, diced: 2 kg

•  Garlic, crushed: 300 g

•  Tomato paste: 600 g

•  Worcestershire sauce: 500 ml

•  Beef stock: 12 litres

•  Bay leaves: 12

•  Fresh thyme: 6 bunches (or 6 tbsp dried)

•  Salt: as required

•  Black pepper: as required

•  Cornflour (for thickening): 500 g, mixed with cold water to slurry

 

•  Puff pastry sheets: 50–60 sheets (depending on tray size)

•  Egg wash (eggs + water): 30 eggs

1. Prepare the Meat

•  Trim beef and kidney of excess fat and sinew.

•  Toss in seasoned flour until lightly coated.

•  Heat oil or dripping in large pots.

•  Brown meat in batches to avoid steaming.

•  Remove and set aside.

 

•  In the same pot, add onions, carrots, celery, and garlic.

•  Cook until softened and lightly coloured.

•  Stir in tomato paste and cook for 2 minutes to remove rawness.

 

•  Return meat to the pot.

•  Add Worcestershire sauce and enough beef stock to cover.

•  Add bay leaves and thyme.

•  Bring to a gentle simmer.

•  Cook 2–2.5 hours, stirring occasionally, until beef is tender.

•  Remove bay leaves and thyme stalks.

•  Add cornflour slurry gradually, stirring until the mixture thickens to a rich, spoon‑coating consistency.

•  Adjust seasoning with salt and pepper.

•  Allow filling to cool slightly (important for pastry stability).

•  Spoon filling into deep trays or hotel pans.

•  Lay puff pastry sheets over the top, trimming edges.

•  Brush with egg wash.

•  Vent the pastry with a small cut in the centre.

•  Bake at 180°C for 35–45 minutes, or until pastry is golden and crisp.

•  Allow to rest 10 minutes before serving.

So, what is a roux? It’s the soul of the sauce—a thickening agent that adds body and richness. In a galley, as is in most industrial kitchens, a roux must be prepped in advance. Begin with a well-worn baking tray on the stove, filled a quarter of the way with water. Let it simmer and reduce by half, then top it up with hot water from the galley tap to maintain moisture.

A blended roux takes things further. Simmer oil or margarine with savoury agents—garlic, basil, paprika—then place the mixture in a bain-marie on the galley stove. Keep it low and slow. This melding of flavours adds depth to sauces like Bolognese and stretches the yield, allowing you to feed more mouths with just flour, oil, and margarine.

Start the cooking day with 2 kilograms of margarine in a sturdy stainless steel or aluminium pot. Add two cups of water and melt it gently. Once smooth, whisk in 2 kilograms of flour. The result is a velvety, golden roux—the backbone of your gravy. For even cooking, elevate the tray on four poached or fried egg rings. This clever setup allows heat to circulate, preventing scorching and encouraging caramelisation.

Before the roux, focus on the meat and vegetables. Dice 6 to 7 kilograms of braising steak into uniform cubes. Add 1.5 kilograms of finely chopped onions—or two swedes for an earthier twist. Blend in two teaspoons of nutmeg, but sparingly; it’s a potent spice that can easily overpower.

Sauté the mixture in a large pan with oil and a splash of water. Let the colours and aromas build. Then prepare the ox kidneys, cutting them to match the steak cubes. Submerge them in boiling water for five minutes—an essential step to neutralise odours and reduce health risks. Many butchers offer pre-diced steak and kidney, but few understand the importance of this boiling step. In the close quarters of a ship, sanitation isn’t optional—it’s survival.

Once drained, the kidneys should be cooked and set aside. Add them to the meat mixture two hours after the steak and onions, along with two teaspoons of salt and one teaspoon of pepper. Simmer for two hours until the meat is tender. Drain any excess liquid, then gradually incorporate the roux until the mixture reaches a thick, sauce-like consistency. Simmer gently to harmonise the flavours, and extend the cooking time by 30 minutes if needed.

If minced steak is available, it can be added—provided it’s properly thawed and cooked. This adds richness and extends the dish.

Ship’s cooks often prepare dishes like steak and kidney, curried beef, or Hungarian goulash a day in advance. Stored in airtight stainless steel trays, these meals mature beautifully. Avoid aluminium pots for storage—the metallic taste can seep in, especially with older cookware.

In summary, cooking and stewarding at sea are crafts built on experience, intuition, and hard-earned knowledge. It’s a world few on land truly understand—until they read stories like this.

⚓ The Nilpena 

Every Saturday night, if the weather didn’t throw a tantrum, the Nilpena would limp into the Port of Melbourne like an old lady arriving late to bingo. She was a cargo ship by trade, making bi-weekly jaunts across the Bass Strait, and I was her second cook—though some days it felt more like second-in-command of a floating circus.

The Chief Cook was George Irvine, a man of many talents and even more moods. George could only be trusted if he was sober, which was about as likely as finding a unicorn in the galley. On his “good days”—which were fewer than I’d like to admit—he was a culinary wizard. On his “other days,” he was more of a fire hazard with a ladle. Together, we formed a cooking duo that resembled a bad sitcom: one part chaos, two parts curry, and a dash of maritime madness.

No sane soul on the Melbourne cook seaman’s register wanted to man the Nilpena, which meant our jobs were safe—if you could call it that. The ship had a reputation: questionable safety record, unpredictable weather, and a skipper who treated the “Rip” at Port Phillip Bay like a personal challenge. Picture a nine-knot current pushing against a nine-knot ship. It was less “cutting through the waves” and more “politely asking the tide to move aside.”

We aimed for a twenty-four-hour journey to Tasmania, but the Nilpena operated on what we called “island time.” Meanwhile, the sleek passenger ferries zipped across in twelve hours, leaving us to ponder the mysteries of time, space, and how long it would take to defrost enough meat for the infamous “ship stew”—a dish mostly made from whatever hadn’t expired in the fridge.

The Nilpena herself was a character. With gale-force winds battering her hull, she could muster a breathtaking top speed of nine knots. Riding her was like being on a roller coaster designed by a committee of sleep-deprived engineers—slow-motion thrills with a side of existential dread. She’d shudder and groan against the tide, often caught in a standstill until one force gave way. Spoiler: it was usually us.

If George happened to be in a joyful mood during these aquatic stand-offs, we’d be found in the galley, performing culinary acrobatics. Hot curry is a beautiful thing—until it’s airborne. Serving it in rough seas required the reflexes of a ninja and the balance of a tightrope walker. I learned to move like a magician, dodging spills and swells with a ladle in one hand and a prayer in the other.

When not wrestling with pots or sobriety, George was a storyteller. He once regaled me with a tale from his Ballarat days in the late 1940s, when his wife ran a bustling hotel. Whenever they argued over who was the better cook, George would dramatically pack his knives and storm across the street to the rival hotel. At lunchtime, his wife would march out onto the pavement and declare, “Do you intend to come home, or is this going to be final? You have until tomorrow to decide, or I’ll hire another cook for both the kitchen and your sleeping quarters!”

When I asked if she ever followed through, George chuckled. “I wasn’t brave enough to find out.” He swore the other hotel was full of friendly faces and neighbourly rivalry. After meeting his wife—who was as strong as an ox and twice as determined—I believed every word.

Despite the chaos, laughter prevailed. The Nilpena may have been slow, stubborn, and slightly possessed, but she was ours. The crew knew each other’s quirks, the galley had its own rhythm, and even the storms felt like shared adventures. We cursed the sea, laughed at the absurdity, and somehow always managed to serve dinner—even if it was late, lumpy, or slightly airborne.

Eventually, I grew tired of the pub-hopping routine that followed each voyage. Waking up with no memory and someone else’s hat wasn’t my idea of a good time. I longed for something more grounded, more purposeful. That longing led me to the world of catering—first in busyhotels, then in the dust and diesel of Kalgoorlie’s mining camps.

But the Nilpena never left me. She was part of a chapter filled with laughter, danger, and the kind of friendships that only form when you’ve survived a storm with a curry pot in hand. And George? Well, he was the kind of cook who could burn toast and still make you laugh about it. That, in its own way, is a kind of genius.

I remember one particular trip aboard the Nilpena—one of many during the four months I served on her—when the Bass Strait decided to show us just how unforgiving it could be. The waves were monstrous, towering as high as a three-storey building, crashing down with a force that made the entire ship shudder like a frightened dog. The Bass Strait, wedged between Tasmania and mainland Australia, is notorious for its temper. I’ve sailed through many seas, but few match its fury when it’s in a mood.

Even the skipper, a man who’d seen his fair share of rough weather, wasn’t immune. I found him in his cabin, head buried in the latrine, vomiting like a landlubber on his first voyage. That was sometime after he’d called me up to the bridge. I thought I was in trouble—maybe the curry had gone rogue, or someone had slipped on a rogue potato peel. When I arrived, there was no reprimand. Just a black-labeled bottle sitting proudly on the chart table, the words Johnny Walker written across it like a beacon of celebration.

“Happy birthday, Cooky,” the skipper said, his voice hoarse but sincere.
And that was that.

There were many similar nights, each one beginning with a call to the bridge that made me wonder if I’d burned the curry or accidentally served the engineer’s dog food to the deckhands. But no—there it was again, that familiar black-labeled bottle sitting proudly on the chart table, like a maritime trophy. “Happy birthday, Cooky,” he’d say, with the kind of grin that made you forget the storm outside and the fact that the ship was groaning like an old piano in a hurricane.

We moved from the bridge to his cabin around 20:00 hours, and by the time I looked at the clock again, it was 02:00. The storm outside was still raging, but inside that cabin, the mood was warm, the whisky was flowing, and the laughter was genuine. I certainly couldn’t refuse the captain of the ship if he wanted a drinking partner—not on my birthday, and not in the middle of a storm that made the walls groan like they were ready to give up.

There’s something about those moments at sea—when the world outside is chaos, and inside, you find a pocket of calm, a shared drink, a story, a laugh. It’s not just about surviving the storm. It’s about the people who ride it with you. And on that night, with the Nilpena fighting the waves and the skipper fighting his stomach, I felt more at home than I ever did on land.

Those nights weren’t just about the drink. They were about the bond. The kind of friendship that forms when you’ve weathered storms together, when you’ve served stew in a cyclone and curry in a gale. The kind that lasts long after the ship has docked and the bottle’s run dry.

Though I spent less than six months aboard the Nilpena, it felt like a lifetime’s worth of birthdays. The skipper—equal parts rogue and gentleman—had a knack for remembering my birthday, or perhaps he just liked an excuse to crack open a bottle of Johnny Walker. Either way, I wasn’t about to argue.

 ⚓The Iranda. 

I couldn't quite wrap my head around why I decided to hop aboard the Iranda. I mean, I was happily married, had a stable job, and the biggest scandal I was involved in was an awkward office conversation about the best way to brew a cup of coffee. Yet here I was, signing on as a second cook! Of course, it was less "second cook" and more "spud barber," since my primary responsibilities seemed to involve peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables. Not exactly the glamorous life of a culinary wizard.

I had heard whispers that we were heading for a remote island south of Australia. With this in mind, I thought, "Well, at least it’s somewhere not too far from the family, and maybe I can earn a little extra to fill the piggy bank for my two children's school fees.” My lovely wife, Faye, had dropped the gentle nudge about our dwindling bank balance—it was going down faster than a lead balloon.

You see, after years of gallivanting around the globe, from lush tropical beaches to eerie, deserted islands, this little venture sounded like a bonus chapter for the someday-legendary book of my nautical misadventures. And then the news hit me like a pie in the face—the chief cook was none other than my lifelong buddy, John Fabics! I’d known John since 1968, which, if my trusty math holds up, meant we were approaching our five-decade friendship anniversary. So, there we were, two old mates slapping each other on the back, at the beginning of what promised to be an interesting culinary journey.

As we got underway, I casually asked John, “So, who’s the boss here?” He just chuckled. In our world, there was no such thing as a boss! We were a dynamic duo, trading off duties like we were handling a hot potato—literally. The only difference? John earned a mere $110 more a week than I did, which meant he got to treat us when we hit the local pubs. Talk about a deliciously unfair arrangement!

With our ship anchored at the Footscray wharf at the mouth of the Yarra River, I decided it was time to figure out what kind of tropical paradise awaited us. Logic dictated it should be a beach where half-clad, effortlessly tanned natives danced around fires, right? Wrong! Turns out we were bound for Kangaroo Island in South Australia. That's right—no exotic hula dancing here, folks! Instead, I'd be stepping onto the stomping grounds of the first settlers in Southern Australia. 

Who knew that Kangaroo Island boasted such a rich history? It was colonised by English sailors a good 15 to 20 years before the British made their mark on the Victorian coast in 1836. Sorry, Tasmania, but Kangaroo Island is claiming the title of "First Settlement in Australia." History buffs prepare to duel!

But I assure you, I was more than okay not being greeted by half-clad natives. My heart has always fluttered for actual history. And as it turned out, I was in for quite the educational experience—all while playing a pivotal role in the culinary smoothness of the trip, even if the title of chief cook was just out of my reach. So here I was—history-loving spud barber of Kangaroo Island, ready to whip up my best potato dish! Who knew chopping veggies could come with a side of adventure?

As we eased out of the Footscray Wharf, John and I decided to channel our inner Master Chefs instead of hitting the crew bar for a pre-dinner pint. We cooked like we were preparing for a gourmet apocalypse: curries, goulashes, minced beef casseroles, braised steak and onions—you name it, we made it. We packed everything into stainless steel pots for freezing or left a few dishes in the cool room fridge to ferment (like fine wine, but with fewer corks and more curry). A good curry or goulash tastes, oh, at least a hundred per cent better the day after cooking. Thanks to the magic of leftovers! 

Finally, when the Iranda reached Ballast Head at the rear of the Island to load gypsum, our cooking duties consisted of just daily roasts and a few sweets. The rest of our days and nights? Well, those were ours to enjoy, guilt-free, thanks to our hard work. Who knew life at sea could come with such perks?

One thing I learned while navigating the vast seas and later, while cooking in the mining camps, is that when you’re certain you’re heading in the right direction but it’s taking longer than you expected, it’s best not to stray from your chosen path. It’s far wiser to arrive an hour late than to get lost looking for a shortcut.

It was five o’clock in the evening in South Australia when I turned to John and said, “Let’s stroll over to the local pub; it’s only a half-hour walk.” Famous last words. The air was thick with humidity, the heat clinging to our skin as we trudged along a dusty, unpaved bush track, flanked by towering eucalyptus trees that offered shade but no relief. After an hour of this sweaty pilgrimage, John was wheezing like a steam engine, his brow slick with sweat. “Are you sure we’re not lost?” he asked, his voice somewhere between hopeful and accusatory.

“No!” I called back, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “It’s not far now!”

Just then, salvation arrived in the form of a honk. A utility vehicle burst through a gap in the fence like a scene from a bushland fairytale. The driver was a farmer’s wife, styled like an older princess—hair perfectly coiffed, smile radiant, and eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Are you boys lost?” she asked, her voice sweet and melodic.

“No,” I replied, regaining my composure. “We’re heading to the pub at Ballast Head for a few drinks.”

She chuckled. “I don’t think so. That’s where I’m headed, too. There’s a dinner dance tonight—schoolteachers from Adelaide, the whole town’s coming. And I assure you, shorts and sandals without socks won’t cut it.”

“Can you take us there?” I asked. “We’ll just have one drink in the bar.”

She agreed, and just like that, our dusty trek turned into a royal carriage ride. We sat in silence for ten minutes, though it felt like we’d skipped half an hour of suffering.
When we arrived, the hotel looked like a Christmas tree—lights flickering merrily as we tumbled out of the car, two scruffy, damp blokes in short-sleeved T-shirts and soggy sandals. Naturally, I was “the chosen one” sent to find the manageress.

Inside, I passed two women who looked like they’d stepped out of a fairy tale, arm-in-arm with tuxedo-clad escorts who resembled penguins on parade. The barman raised his hands dramatically. “That’s as far as you go!” he declared. The foyer fell silent. Two hundred eyes turned to me. I froze like a deer in headlights.

“I have an emergency!” I blurted. “Could someone please fetch the manager and escort me out of the hotel?”

Within a minute, the manageress appeared—summoned like a genie. Margaret, I was sure that was her name.

“Look,” I said, “I must apologise. My mate John and I walked here from Ballast Head. We thought we could grab a drink. A kind guest just explained the situation, and we realise we’re not exactly dressed for the occasion. We’d be happy to sit outside and call a taxi. If you could allow us just one beer in the back, we’d be extremely grateful. We must look like a sorry sight.”
Margaret paused. “We’re swamped,” she said. “This is a sit-down dinner party. There are no vacancies—even if you were dressed for it.”

I pressed on. “Please, ma’am, just one glass. We’ll sit by this concrete pillar. You won’t even know we’re here…”

She sighed. “Okay, one large pot, and that’s it.” I handed her a ten-dollar note—John earned more than I did, but I owed him this one.
Three minutes later, a young waitress in black and white appeared, carrying our two pots like she was delivering the Holy Grail. By eight o’clock, after five minutes of beer tasting and no spills, I snuck through the back door where staff were bustling about.

“To save you from refilling our glasses,” I said, “how about a jug? We’ll be out of your way in no time.”

Another ten-dollar note, a bit of sleight of hand, and I returned outside with the prized jug. John’s sour face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. We poured our own drinks, toasting the unexpected joys of bushland diplomacy.

The night was just beginning. Forty-five minutes later, still dry but cheerfully tipsy, I called out, “Give me ten dollars!” and moments later, another frosty jug appeared. By 10 PM, the room was pulsing with energy. I slipped on my now-dry shorts and sandals and wandered to the back of the function room, dancing alone like a man possessed.

Then, a couple of fellows with elegant companions joined me. Within five minutes, the whole room was dancing, laughter and music swirling in a symphony of celebration.
Margaret reappeared, surveying the scene. “I thought you’d gone back to the ship. What’s going on here?” she asked, half stern, half amused.

Before she could usher us out, voices rang out from every corner: “Let them stay! We’re having fun!” Margaret relented, and the party rolled on.

By 11:30 PM, the crowd had thinned. Half-filled jugs dotted the tables like forgotten treasure. John and I finally sank into our seats, the room quieting as the last guests tidied up. At midnight, the pub doors closed. Margaret joined us with a smooth glass of brandy. We toasted, savouring its warmth with a zesty bite of lemon after each sip.

Around 2:00 AM, Margaret offered us a ride back to the ship. As we drove through the quiet streets, she smiled and said, “I needed a night like that too.”
And I’ve never forgotten it. One of the best nights spent ashore—with a remarkable lady of character, a few jugs of beer, and the kind of joy that only comes when you least expect it.

⚓ Leaving Kangaroo Island is a notch in my memory.

The desire for deep-sea adventures to far-off places was quite a popular trend from the 1960s to the 1980s, even among some married men. Many of these men would set off on journeys lasting six months, leaving their young wives wondering if their marriages were just a dream. 

In the 1960s, people had a different perspective on life at sea, with varying rules governing the number of crew members required to operate a ship. To help keep expenses down, ship cooks played a vital role in managing both labour and food costs during these long voyages. This was also a time when many families were making the big move from Europe and the UK to exciting new lives in New Zealand and Australia.

Therefore, during the 1960s to 1980s, the management of a ship's galley varied significantly between Australian and British vessels, particularly when preparing for long voyages. On many Australian ships, chief cooks and senior second cooks often lacked the necessary training to provision for extended trips lasting three to four months adequately. This inexperience could lead to various issues right at the beginning of a voyage, primarily because the previous cook might not have had expertise in planning for such lengthy journeys. Australian coastal ships primarily operated on shorter routes, often travelling to Asian destinations such as China and Japan. These routes provided an opportunity to obtain food supplies that were not only more affordable but also easier to source compared to those available in Australia. This regional advantage made it less critical for ships to carry excessive provisions when heading to ports where food could be replenished at a lower cost.

In contrast, longer voyages—traditionally considered to be those under a year—demanded a higher standard of culinary preparation. It was imperative for ships undertaking these journeys to employ professional cooks who were well-versed in bulk cooking techniques. This knowledge became even more crucial when the cargo ship carried between 36 and 48 passengers, necessitating precise planning and execution of meal preparation. A ship's chief cook had the responsibility to ensure that the vessel was ready to sail with adequate provisions. However, it was also crucial for the planning to consider that the ship needed to be in a suitable port where it could replenish its supplies with fresh provisions within four weeks of departure. This logistical foresight was key to maintaining the health and morale of the crew and passengers throughout the voyage.

⚓ Bass Strait Ferries

I joined the Australian Trader in August 1969, stepping aboard a vessel that was beginning its life as a crucial link between Melbourne and Devonport. The ship made its maiden crossing on 24th June 1969, embarking on a journey that would soon weave me into its storied fabric. For two remarkable years, I served as the second cook under the guidance of Max Hill, the Chief Cook. Together, we navigated the galley, crafting meals for weary travellers crossing the expansive Bass Strait.

The Australian Trader was an engineering marvel, capable of carrying 190 passengers, 125 cars, and over 2,000 tonnes of cargo. Constructed at the Australian Newcastle State Dockyard, it held the distinction of being the most expensive vessel built there, at a staggering $8.7 million, equivalent to over $100 million today.

As a pioneer in the roll-on/roll-off ferry tradition of Australian Bass Strait transport, the Australian Trader joined its smaller sister ship, the Princess of Tasmania, which weighed 3600 tonnes, shortly after its handover to ANL on 17th June 1969. After a long and illustrious career, far from the fate of many vessels that succumbed to scrapping or sinking, the Australian Trader was fortunate to embark on a second, prestigious life as a naval ship.

The Empress of Australia’s transition to the Melbourne-Devonport route posed significant challenges for the Australian Trader. It became apparent that it was ill-suited for such demanding long-haul voyages. Consequently, in a bid to accommodate a larger crew, the passenger capacity was reduced from 190 to 172. While fortunate passengers delighted in spacious single or double-berth cabins, others were relegated to aircraft-style recliners for the lengthy, day-long trip across the strait.

Reflecting on my time aboard, I take pride in having served on all three ships between 1965 and 1972, punctuated by brief breaks to further refine my cooking skills in mining camps, hotels, and restaurants—experiences that have richly informed the narrative of my journey. The diversity of my cooking experiences enhanced my ability to provide exceptional service to my future employers. Ultimately, the vision of one day owning a successful restaurant fueled my ambitions, presenting a win-win situation that would leverage my ever-expanding culinary background.

These diverse experiences not only broadened my horizons but also helped provide my two children, Sharelle and Brenton, with a private school education. Any parent knows that this commitment involves a decade of sacrifices, especially when navigating the challenges of raising two children just two years apart, each needing guidance and support in their own right.

⚓ Shearing Sheds and Holiday Lodges.

While on leave from Princess of Tasmania, the Empress of Australia, and the Australian Trader, all ferries operating between Devonport, Burnie in Tasmania and Melbourne, Victoria I worked in several Shearing Sheds, 

I've had the pleasure—if you can call it that—of cooking in shearing sheds, where the only water around is usually a mirage in the desert dust. The kitchen facilities? Let’s just say they’re cosy enough to make a sardine can feel spacious. And the shearers? Oh boy, they’re grumpier than a bear with a toothache! These fellows can be pretty picky about their meals, transforming mealtimes into a culinary version of “Survivor.” 

Most shearers are dead set against drinking alcohol in the big sheds. They know that if they indulge too much the night before, they might end up shearing ten sheep before their shed mate has even managed to count his fingers. One minute you're having a drink, and the next, you're trying to keep up with a flock that seems to think it’s auditioning for a road race, which can end up that way if the shed gates are not manned as each twenty sheep is released. 

One time, a very prim city lady asked me, “What drug do they give the little dears to make them sit so quietly?” The only drug I could think of was the colourful language that flies around if they get too rambunctious! Naturally, I didn’t want to ruin her fantasy of those “little dears.” Once sheared, the sheep are funnelled down a chute like they’re in some sheep amusement park ride. The stubborn ones? They might need a gentle push—think of it as a sheep exit strategy. Once they land in their pen, the board boss will count them out every two hours, like he’s checking his bank account, tallying up the sheep each shearer has skilfully clipped. 

Let’s dive into the delightful madness of a shearing team! Picture this: at the top, we have the board boss, or expert—imagine him as the referee in a sheep rodeo that’s wilder than a toddler on a sugar high. He’s the one making sure that the shearers' combs and cutters are in tip-top shape, like a car mechanic prepping a race car for the big event. One of his most essential rituals? “Doing the grinding!” This is when the board boss transforms into a blacksmith, working his magic on the shearers' tools as if he were crafting Excalibur.

Now, sheep owners deliver their flocks to the shed like they’re bringing snacks to the world’s cutest party, and that’s when the absolute chaos kicks in under the contractor’s watchful gaze. In the larger sheds, you’ll spot a curious character known as the “penner-upper”—think of him as the sheep version of a bouncer, whose mission in life seems to be preventing these woolly renegades from making a break for it like contestants on a game show.

Most of these sheep take it all in stride, lying there like they’re at a luxury spa retreat. A few rebellious ones, however, insist on auditioning for a role in “Kicking and Screaming,” and those poor souls might end up with a few battle scars. But hey, at least they’re the life of the party, right? Meanwhile, the others act blissfully relaxed, probably thinking they’re just getting a fancy new haircut for the woolly social scene!

Last, but by no means least, is the cook, the unsung hero of the shearers' camp. This poor soul has to whip up a breakfast by 6:45 AM sharp—because heaven forbid anyone starts the day on an empty stomach. Then there’s “lunch,” which includes sandwiches, cakes, and enough caffeine to power a small city, by 9:30 AM. At noon, it’s time for a dinner that could feed a small army—three veggies and dessert, because who doesn’t like a post-shearing sugar rush? Then at 3 PM, another lunch rolls around, and by 6:30 PM, it's tea time with a spread so impressive, it would make a royal banquet look like a roadside picnic.

Now, this is the part where the team really digs in—after all, they're calorie-burning machines! I usually served up roasts so tender they could be cut with a butter knife, and pies that would make any diner swoon. On hot days, cold meats and salads are the way to go, but let’s not forget the soup. That steamy bowl of goodness is a must, even if it feels like you’re drinking lava on a blistering day. And for the sweet tooth? Scones, tarts, and anything else that could potentially stick to your hips for months to come!

You’d think being a cook sounds like a sweet gig, but the pay? Well, it’s about as stable as a three-legged chair. You earn a weekly wage that fluctuates like the stock market, depending heavily on whether the shearers are feeling generous or if they’ve just had their second helping of roast. If you find a local shed where the shearers sprint home on weekends, consider yourself lucky! Otherwise, you're in for a seven-day slog that starts at 5:30 AM and ends around 8:30 PM or 9 PM—because when do you need sleep, really?

And here’s the kicker: you wash every dish, chop every carrot, and prepare every meal solo! If you have around twenty men to feed, you MIGHT be able to hire a helper, but guess what? You have to pay them out of your meagre wages! Talk about a labour of love—or torture, depending on the day.

⚓ The Melbourne Tugs

The long shifts I endured on the oil rigs in the restless Bass Strait, and the leave I took from ships where I served, all shaped a life that was as demanding as it was rewarding. Twenty years of marriage carried me through, twelve of them bound to the Melbourne Tugs.

Tug Life on the Yarra, 1975–1987
My story with the Yarra River began earlier. I was aboard the Tasmanian ferry, Australian Trader, when tragedy struck nearby. At 11:50 AM on October 15, 1970, the West Gate Bridge collapsed into the river, killing 35 workers and injuring 18. Australia’s worst industrial accident exposed fatal flaws in design and construction and forced sweeping safety reforms.

Two years later, on 9 August 1972, the Nieuw Holland steamship collided with the tugboat Melbourne. Five crewmen were lost.

For tug crews, the river was more than a workplace. She was a companion — sometimes gentle, sometimes foul-tempered, but always alive.

Between 1975 and 1987, Melbourne’s tug fleet was a mix of old diesel brutes and newer, agile vessels. Built low and strong, with thick fenders and engines that rattled a man’s bones, their task was simple in theory: guide ships safely from the river mouth, up the Bay, and into the narrow, winding Point Londsale into the Bass Strait.

In practice, it was a dance — and the tugmen were the dancers. They worked in all weather: fog rolling in from the Heads, southerlies whipping the Bay into a grey fury, summer heat baking steel decks until an egg could fry on them. No matter. When a ship was due, the tugs went out.

A tugman’s life was a strange blend of waiting and sudden urgency. Hours drifted by in quiet — tea brewed strong enough to stand a spoon upright, yarns shared, eyes on the river traffic. Then the radio crackled, and everything changed.

Engines roared. Lines were cast off. The tug swung into the river, heading for its ship. The crew moved with the confidence of men who had done this a thousand times — throwing heaving lines, securing tow ropes, reading the pilot’s signals, watching the ship’s movement like a living thing.

Trust was everything. A wrong move could crush a man between tug and hull. But pride carried them. Tugmen were the quiet heroes of the port — unseen by most, essential to all.

Tankers, freighters, and container ships eased from their berths with two or three tugs guiding them. The river narrowed, the turns tightened. The tugs pushed, pulled, and coaxed the giants along, engines straining, decks awash with spray.

Past the swinging basin. Past the old wharf sheds. Past cranes standing like steel skeletons against the skyline.

Then out into the Bay, where the water widened, and the ship could breathe.
At Point Lonsdale, the pilot disembarked. The ship turned toward the open sea. The tugs had already peeled away just outside Williamstown, half a mile from the mouth of the Yarra River, heading back to Melbourne with salt fresh on their faces.

For the men aboard, it never grew old — watching a ship slip into the horizon, knowing they had played their part. Now, for the next ship, was it coming into Melbourne or going out? It mattered not that every job was important and dangerous work, even for the cook on board each vessel.

Keeping the crew happy with good food in their bellies in an eighteen-hour day was essential. 

For some men, the sea never leaves. Even ashore, even in new chapters, the water calls. The Yarra was like that. Not the open ocean, but carrying its spirit. She had moods, secrets, a history older than any man who worked her. From the city’s heart to the wide mouth at Lonsdale, she offered companionship only a seaman could understand.

Mornings when the river lay glassy, reflecting the sky like a mirror. Nights when Melbourne’s lights shimmered on the water as tugs moved beneath the West Gate Bridge. Days when the wind howled down the Bay, turning the river brown and angry, slapping the tug’s bow with nature’s reminder of final authority. Through it all, tugmen stayed loyal — to the river, to the ships, and to each other.

By the late 1980s, the port was changing. Automation, new lanes, and modern tug designs reshaped the work. Some old hands retired. Some moved on. Some stayed until the last of the old tugs was tied up for good.

But memories endured: diesel fumes, river fog, shouted orders, engines thundering against the tide.

For the seaman who loved the Yarra, the Bay, and the long run to Lonsdale, those years were more than a job. They were a chapter written in saltwater and steel, in mateship and quiet pride.

⚓ From Steel Buffers to School Camps

During those twelve years aboard the steel buffers of Melbourne’s tug fleet, my life was not confined to the river alone. On leave, I cooked at different venues, each stint adding to my knowledge of the food game. Times were changing — food was no longer just steak and eggs served by a ship’s cook. Tug crews, accustomed to dining out with their wives, wanted something more refined, more varied.

One three‑week period stands out. I cooked for free — or rather, on a reduced pay rate — for schoolchildren on their excursions and at bingo nights. That was what I truly wanted to do. I had always wanted to work with children, to pass on something of what I had learned over the years. Imagine it: a hardened seafarer, dreaming of teaching the next generation how to act, how to live.

It was then that I began to keep an eye out for a possible move — from the tugs to a life as a lifesaver teacher. Perhaps a school camp would be where I ended my days.

I even drew an old seafaring mate, Jack, into the idea. He was cooking aboard the Bass Strait cargo ship, running twice weekly to Tasmania, but I convinced him to try his hand at school camps and ski lodges. The truth was plain to me: the cooks’ days on the tugs were numbered. Automation was looming, perhaps seven years away, and the tradition of cooks aboard Melbourne’s tugs — a tradition dating back to the days when they waited hours at Point Lonsdale for ships bound for Melbourne — was fading fast.

So the idea of a shore job for retirement made sense. A school camp to purchase, a place to teach and to cook, seemed a good plan. The tugs were no longer permanent. But the chance to shape young lives, to give them lessons in resilience and friendship, was something lasting.

⚓ Shipmates for Life — Jack and Margaret

Some friendships begin with a simple handshake; ours started with the vastness of the sea. Between 1966 and 1972, I sailed on two ships with Jack—an unforgettable man whose presence felt as reassuring as the horizon and whose laughter could slice through the thickest fog. We were young, navigating not only the churning waters but also the uncharted territories of our early adult lives. There's something profoundly binding about sharing a ship; you come to know each other's rhythms, strengths, and silences intuitively.

Jack and I became more than shipmates; we became brothers in spirit, forged by the salty air and waves that echoed our laughter. But the sea was merely the beginning of our journey. In the thirty years that followed, Jack and I worked side by side in sprawling catering facilities, bustling coastal holiday resorts, and cosy ski lodges blanketed in deep, powdery snow. Our days were filled with long shifts that tested our patience and tempers that simmered under pressure. Yet amid the chaos, we cultivated a forever friendship that grew stronger with each challenge we faced. Jack was a steadfast individual who never let you down. He showed up, rolled up his sleeves, and turned the hardest days into bearable ones. We didn't just work; we built a life together—a rich tapestry woven from shared experiences. 

So, picture this hilarious escapade that Jack and I stumbled into—it's too ridiculous not to share! We decided to throw this epic fiftieth birthday bash for one of our crew (you know how it is, we’ll keep names out of it). Here’s the kicker: we all thought everyone had their secret stash of booze! But, on the night before the party, we did a complete inventory and—surprise, surprise—the liquor supply was bone dry. Seriously, we were out there in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, like a thousand miles from the nearest bar. What were we even going to do?

Now, my pumpkin wine was on a six-week brew schedule (ugh, what a buzzkill), and our kitchen supplies were all non-alcoholic. Time to channel our inner MacGyver! So, being the slightly skinnier one—okay, maybe not in the beer belly department—Jack decided to brave the cargo hold and hunt for some hidden treasures among the crates and boxes. We figured there had to be some beer stowed away there, especially since back in the day, they used to rope everything onto pallets instead of fancy containers.

We were on the Triaster, and there were these two ventilator funnels near the galley deck door. And guess what? The vent cage had been unscrewed for ages—probably since the last crew’s wild party or maybe just a total oversight. Jack got all crafty and fashioned a long wire prod from the baker's shop, lifting that cage like a real champ. With a notched rope, he swung down a whole twelve feet to the first cargo landing, pumped and ready to snag those frosties!

But then, two hours ticked by, and Jack was still MIA. Major panic set in. What if he fell flat or got lost among the cargo? Two brave souls from our crew ventured down after him, but, no shocker, they took their sweet time too! So, feeling all heroic (or maybe just a tad reckless), I decided to take matters into my own hands.

As I climbed down the iron ladder stuck to the ship's side, I started hearing giggles—like little kids having a blast. I followed the sounds and there was Jack, sprawled out with our two crewmates, completely plastered! This place felt hotter than a sauna, and all we had were two cans of warm beer. I could feel my head spinning just walking in! We couldn’t stop laughing like a bunch of goofballs! How long have we been lying on those pallets? Beats me!

Fast forward to 4 a.m., and three of us somehow managed to scramble back up the ladder like it was nothing—thankfully! But guess who was left with the thankless task of cleaning up and hiding those empty cans? That’d be me! You’d think I’d have a plan. Nope! My shoulders got wedged in the ventilator as I tried to shimmy back up. What a move! Jack had to bust out the deck hose to free me, making a total mess! And when I finally popped out, my knees were all scraped up!

In the end, I had to keep those banged-up knees wrapped for two weeks, and the skipper thought I had a run-in with the galley floor. So, I went right back to my hot stove duties, standing tall and trying to look like I had it all together. Lesson learned: hot beer? Never again! Who would've thought a simple birthday party could spiral into one of the most hilarious disasters of my life? Good times indeed!

⚓ Ashore on our road trips 

Our countless road trips in my trusty old Holden added another layer to our story, each journey an adventure filled with promise. We chased contracts and opportunities across the country, with Jack always eager to explore the next destination. He had a remarkable ability to weave tales that turned the mundane into the extraordinary. Whether we found ourselves stuck in arduous traffic or stranded in a swirling snowstorm, Jack would transform the atmosphere with a well-timed joke or a captivating story from his past.

In October 1989, Margaret—Jack's wife—entered the picture, adding yet another thread to our tapestry. She worked for me on and off for seven years, infusing every role with grace, grit, and a quiet strength that inspired those around her. Whether she was a hostess, a cook, or a camp worker, Margaret approached each task with true heart. She wasn't just Jack's partner; she became an integral part of my life story, sharing both the highs and lows we all encountered—never once did I wish for anything beyond her friendship.

Many people overlook this truth: you can share decades of camaraderie with a woman and never cross that line. Respect, after all, runs deeper than romance. Margaret possessed a rare gift for making people feel at home, even in the harshest conditions. I vividly remember one bitter winter at the ski lodge when the pipes froze, and tempers flared. It was a scene where frustrations ran high. In the midst of that turmoil, Margaret emerged as a calming force, serving piping hot meals alongside warm smiles that melted the icy tension in the air. Her presence was a balm for our frayed nerves, and her unwavering loyalty stood as a testament to her character.

Jack and Margaret were there on one of the most pivotal days of my life—my wedding on April 12, 1969. They didn't merely attend; they stood beside me, radiating warmth and unwavering support, as they always had. That day, like countless others, was undeniably enriched by their presence. They remained by my side during the darkest times—when contracts fell through, when illness descended like a storm, and when the weight of responsibility felt insurmountable. Jack would arrive with a six-pack and a listening ear, ready to share in the burdens, while Margaret brought a thoughtfully prepared casserole and quiet encouragement. They didn't just celebrate the joyous moments; they wrapped their arms around me and helped me shoulder the weight of despair.

When Jack passed away, it left a gaping hole that no passage of time could ever fill. Even ten years later, as I approach my 82nd birthday, I still feel the ache of his absence. It's not merely a feeling of grief; it's the profound loss of a voice, a laugh, and those shared glances that spoke volumes, saying, "We've weathered the storms together, mate." Jack wasn't just a friend; he was a constant, a reliable compass in the ever-changing seas of life, and losing him felt like losing a part of my very essence. 

Margaret, too, lingers in my memories—not only as Jack's beloved wife but as an embodiment of integrity and kindness who walked alongside us through the years. Together, they were an inseparable team, and together, they helped shape the person I became. This chapter isn't solely about Jack and Margaret; it's a celebration of the kind of friendship that endures storms, distances, and the relentless passage of time. It's a testament to loyalty, respect, and the quiet power of simply showing up for each other—time and again.

The Cape Bridgewater Saga 

Our family adventure began when my wife and I decided to invest in our first joint business, the Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp—a hidden gem located 20 kilometres west of Portland, Victoria, known for its vibrant fishing community and deep-sea port. I took the plunge and purchased the camp in late 1987; however, I soon discovered that the previous owners had neglected to mention persistent telephone issues that haunted the establishment. The phone system to which the camp was routed had been designed in the 1950s for low-call-rate regions and was certainly not suited for a commercial venture such as the holiday camp. Mobile phone coverage in rural locations in Victoria, Australia, like Cape Bridgewater, did not materialise until well into 2015.

Doing business over the internet or via email also did not come into play until at least ten years after we had purchased the holiday camp. Who would have thought that before purchasing such a gem as the holiday camp, we had to investigate the phone system, which in Melbourne and other Australian cities is often taken for granted?

By April 1988, my wife, Faye, and I had reached a point of deep concern regarding our telephone system. The rumours were spreading; people were beginning to question why we never answered our phone, and well-meaning friends suggested we invest in an answering machine for when we weren’t at the office. Even after we finally installed a new machine, the complaints persisted, now compounded by fresh grievances about the seemingly interminable intervals when we couldn’t take calls. We both knew that the phone often lay silent for days, and even when it did ring, it didn’t seem to be connected to any real demand; it felt like our business was slowly being suffocated. 

The continued complaints gnawed at us over the years, and our business began to falter. Much later, after I made my initial complaint to Telstra, I discovered that the previous owner had also experienced the same issues and had been desperately trying to get something done long before we took over. I unearthed evidence of this through documents I accessed under Australia’s Freedom of Information Act. It turned out that Telstra had been aware of these ongoing telephone faults in the early 1980s, before we purchased the Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp.

The reality of our phone problems truly dawned on us during the Christmas period of 1988 while hosting a dinner for the locals. I brought up the frustrating issues we were facing, and it was disheartening to hear our neighbours share similar tales. One neighbour, a former grocer, remarked, “What can you expect from Telstra when we’re out here in the bush?” His experiences mirrored our own, and he even provided a written statement describing his struggles.

As we stepped into 1989, the mounting frustrations began to unravel my sanity and our once-strong marriage. The failing phone system felt like the final blow; it propelled me into a constant state of anger and helplessness. I found myself running the business with a growing sense of bitterness, even blaming myself when things went wrong —like when we ran out of gas while serving dinner to guests, who were among the few who managed to call in.

After a heated discussion with Faye, our marriage ended in October 1989.

I sold my beloved holiday camp in December 2001.  I felt compelled to inform the new owners of these ongoing telecommunications problems. I sold the business for mere land value due to its diminishing goodwill. With a tarnished reputation rooted in the dangers of a holiday camp lacking reliable phone service, many schools, convalescent-type getaways, and families were understandably cautious about entrusting their holidays to an uncertain fate.

This part of my life's story, titled The Arbitrator, can be purchased from promoteyourstory.com.au 

 

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If you understand the profound significance of this research and the invaluable insights it brings to light, we encourage you to support  Transparency International! Your contributions will be instrumental in amplifying awareness of the injustices that jeopardise the very foundations of democracy across the globe. Together, we can shine a spotlight on corruption and advocate for transparency, accountability, and justice..

 

 

 

 

My 3 February 1994 letter to Michael Lee, Minister for Communications (see Hacking-Julian Assange File No/27-A) and a subsequent letter from Fay Holthuyzen, assistant to the minister (see Hacking-Julian Assange File No/27-B), to Telstra’s corporate secretary, show that I was concerned that my faxes were being illegally intercepted.

Leading up to the signing of the COT Cases arbitration, on 21 April 1994, AUSTEL wrote to Telstra on 10 February 1994 stating:

“Yesterday we were called upon by officers of the Australian Federal Police in relation to the taping of the telephone services of COT Cases.

“Given the investigation now being conducted by that agency and the responsibilities imposed on AUSTEL by section 47 of the Telecommunications Act 1991, the nine tapes previously supplied by Telecom to AUSTEL were made available for the attention of the Commissioner of Police.” (See Illegal Interception File No/3)

An internal government memo, dated 25 February 1994, confirms that the minister advised me that the Australian Federal Police (AFP) would investigate my allegations of illegal phone/fax interception. (See Hacking-Julian Assange File No/28)

This internal, dated 25 February 1994, is a Government Memo confirming that the then-Minister for Communications and the Arts had written to advise that the Australian Federal Police (AFP) would investigate my allegations of illegal phone/fax interception. (AFP Evidence File No 4)

The treachery deepened with unlawful surveillance. For over seven years, Alan’s private faxes and communications were intercepted, far beyond the arbitration’s scope. His allegations of eavesdropping were callously dismissed by the arbitrator, who ignored explicit warnings from technical consultants that the Cape Bridgewater case remained unresolved. In a grotesque act of negligence, judgment was rendered on speculation, not evidence.

It is evident from the Australian Federal Police transcripts that the 93 questions posed to me regarding my intercepted telephone conversations and faxes related to arbitration stem from clear evidence provided by John MacMahon, the General Manager of Consumer Affairs. He has already shown the AFP that my telephone service lines were unlawfully intercepted, affecting both my private and professional matters. This finding is documented in → Australian Federal Police Investigation File No/1).

 

 

The fax imprint at the top of this letter (Open Letter File No 55-A) matches the fax imprint described in the Scandrett & Associates report (see Open Letter File No/12 and File No/13), confirming that at least four of the COT faxes, arbitration-related faxes, were intercepted by a secondary fax screening machine connected at each of the COT Cases businesses during their (our) arbitrations.

It is this urgency — this relentless need for justice — that compels me to speak. My story is not just mine. It is a warning, a testament, a cry against the insidious treachery that still holds power to cover up its crimes, even when those crimes were committed decades ago.

What could force Dr Gordon Hughes to permit his wife’s name to be exploited by John Pinnock, Australia’s second Telecommunications Industry Ombudsman, who must have mislead other members of the public concerning the COT Cases arbitrations for over a decade? I refuse to believe I’m the only Australian citizen who has suffered from Pinnock's deceit. If I am indeed the sole individual caught in the crossfire of his lies regarding the wife of an Australian arbitrator, and if the government has chosen to remain silent for thirty years, it reveals a possible shocking cover-up of the truth. 

When I asked John Pinnock to forward all the arbitration information that was supposed to be returned to me after my arbitration, he responded with a letter dated 10 January 1996. In this letter, he stated, 

“I refer to your letter of 31 December 1996 in which you seek to access to various correspondence held by the TIO concerning the Fast Track Arbitration Procedure. …

“I do not propose to provide you with copies of any documents held by this office.” (See Open Letter File No 57-C)

My unwavering opposition to an Australian government that willingly sent wheat to China—knowing it would be rerouted to North Vietnam to nourish the very enemies threatening Australia, New Zealand, and the USA during the Vietnam War—underscores a level of treachery and corruption that cannot be ignored.

 

 

As you begin to scroll down this absentjusatice.com home page and click on the chilling twelve mini evidence files, ranging from "Telstra-Corruption-Freehill-Hollingdale & Page" to "The Promised Documents Never Arrived, a haunting truth unfolds. After just a glimpse into two of these files, the staggering burden of enduring constant attacks on your freedoms for over three decades becomes all too clear. 

The question the Telecommunication Industry Ombudsman (TIO) and the Federal Attorney-General have still not answered is:

• Was the letter mentioned above (Open Letter File No 55-A) actually faxed to my office by the TIO to assist me in any pending appeal process, but was it hijacked en route?
• If the letter was never intended to be faxed to me the day after the arbitrator concluded his findings? Why was such an important letter withheld from me during my designated appeal period? 

How could I have lost my arbitration appeal when the arbitrator's own wording in the document (Open Letter File No 55-A) states that the agreement he used on May 11, 1995, to deliberate his findings on my case was not a credible document? Despite this, Dr Gordon Hughes still chose to use it, fully aware that it would cause significant grief for me, my business, and my partner.

One of the two technical consultants attesting to the validity of this Scandrett & Associates report (see Open Letter File No/12 and File No/13) emailed me on 17 December 2014, fifteen years after he assisted in compiling this fax report, stating:

“I still stand by my statutory declaration that I was able to identify that the incoming faxes provided to me for review had at some stage been received by a secondary fax machine and then retransmitted, this was done by identifying the dual time stamps on the faxes provided.” (Front Page Part One File No/14)

The evidence within the above-named Scandrett & Associates report (Open Letter File No/12 and File No/13) also confirmed at Exhibit 1-c → File No/13) that one of my faxes sent to Federal Treasurer Peter Costello on 2 November 1998, was similarly intercepted 30 months after the conclusion of my arbitration on 11 May 1995, i.e.,

Exhibit 10-C → File No/13 in the Scandrett & Associates report Pty Ltd fax interception report (refer to (Open Letter File No/12 and  File No/13) confirms my letter of 2 November 1998 to the Hon Peter Costello Australia's then Federal Treasure was intercepted scanned before being redirected to his office. These intercepted documents to government officials were not isolated events, which, in my case, continued throughout my arbitration, which began on 21 April 1994 and concluded on 11 May 1995. Exhibit 10-C File No/13 shows this fax hacking continued until at least 2 November 1998, more than three years after the conclusion of my arbitration.

This evidence reveals that faxes were intercepted long after my arbitration had concluded. The Australian Federal Police (AFP) determined that I had been subjected to electronic surveillance for several years prior to the commencement of my arbitration. I raised these concerns directly with the AFP, and their interview transcripts substantiate my claims, underscoring the grave implications of unauthorised surveillance. 

Was this unauthorised surveillance a sinister reminder of my whistleblowing days in 1967? It exposed the treachery behind the shipment of wheat to Communist China under the guise of humanitarian aid. Supplying food to a nation that weaponised it for our enemies—those who were ruthlessly aiding in the destruction of Australia and its allies—was not just grotesque but a deliberate act of betrayal. Such unconscionable actions revealed a chilling ruthlessness, transforming humanitarian intentions into a macabre scheme that fueled a killing machine bent on our annihilation.

Put simply: Australia was complicit in aiding North Vietnam to kill and maim its own soldiers — and the soldiers of its allies.

At the age of 81, I stand defiant, yet crushed beneath the monstrous weight of treachery that has pursued me for decades. My life has devolved into a grotesque theatre of corruption, where the darkest chapters seep into the light like venomous ink. It is not just betrayal that sends me spiralling into despair, but the insidious machinery of a malevolent legal firm in Melbourne, entwined in a web of deceit, greed, and moral decay during my arbitration in 1994/95. The very fact that crucial arbitration-related documents, which were faxed to Dr Hughes' Melbourne office for assessment, were instead misdirected to his Sydney office—and never returned—screams of betrayal. He knew of this treachery and chose silence when the Australian Federal Police began probing the mystery of my lost faxes; his inaction is nothing less than criminal → Australian Federal Police Investigation File No/1.

 

 

I reiterate, Dr Hughes’s failure to disclose the faxing issues to the Australian Federal Police during my arbitration is deeply concerning. The AFP was investigating the interception of my faxes to the arbitrator's office. Yet, this crucial matter was a significant aspect of my claim that Dr Hughes chose not to address in his award or mention in any of his findings. The loss of essential arbitration documents throughout the COT Cases is a serious indictment of the process, as was Dr Hughes's conflict of interest during that process (see Chapter 3 - Conflict of Interest).

Haunted by this web of lies, traumatised by the profound damage inflicted upon my life, I reached out in desperation in June 2011 to The Most Hon. Dr Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, pleading for recognition of the horror I endured. I copied my entreaties to Robert McLelland, Federal Attorney General, and Robert Clark, Victorian Attorney General, clinging to the faint hope that truth might pierce the cold indifference that enveloped me. I sent my pleas to government officials, begging for validation against the chilling grip of Hughes, the malicious deceit of Pinnock, and the false witness statements manufactured by Telstra to defend their corruption in my 1994/95 arbitration.

I implore you to read my COT story. It is not merely a personal account — it is a revelation of systemic horror. It exposes corruption so insidious, treachery so malignant, that it leaves scars not only on my life but on the integrity of justice itself. The malicious lies of Hughes, Pinnock, and Rundell from 1995 and 1996 are not forgotten. They loom like a grotesque spectre, an elephant in the room that refuses to be ignored. Their deceit is a cancer that festers still, protected by silence and cover-up.

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