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MV Brisbane Star

MV Brisbane Star was a British refrigerated cargo liner. Cammell Laird and Co built her in 1936–37 as one of Blue Star Line's Imperial Star-class ships, designed to ship frozen meat from Australia and New Zealand to the United Kingdom. The ship served in the Second World War and is distinguished for her rôle in Operation Pedestal to relieve the siege of Malta in August 1942. A succession of Blue Star-controlled companies owned her until 1963 when she was sold to a Liberian-registered company that renamed her Enea. Later that same year, she was scrapped in Japan.

MV Brisbane Star - 20 April 1961 to 4 August 1961 (Steward's Boy) 

The British and Australian merchant navy in the days when a handshake was considered trust and honour 

By the time I reached 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, ever 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, wash his empty bottles before they are returned to the depot – it’s up to you. That’s if the hotel manager does not want to pursue this through the courts.

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 lively 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 vibrant landscapes of Caracas in 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, her legs became riddled with painful varicose veins from standing for hours on the unforgiving cold concrete. Despite their struggles, my parents persevered; through their combined tireless 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 fabricating excuses to avoid the temptation of leaping the fence at the local hotel off-license to 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. I shared a bedroom with my parents, where every footstep echoed through the walls, reminding me of the fragility of our privacy. The air was thick with whispers, and any noise made during my parents' intimate moments felt like a heavy weight pressing down on me, a rupture in the already tenuous fabric of our home life.

Ultimately, I resolved to break free from this cycle by joining the 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 eagerly 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, yet 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.

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 provided the route for my journey, I felt a heady mix of enthusiasm and apprehension about the path that lay ahead. This journey would take me from the familiar streets of North-West London to the bustling heart of London town, traversing the vibrant 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 enchanting countryside—a patchwork quilt of lush green fields, hedgerows, and charming cottages that danced by in a kaleidoscope of colors. When I arrived at the station, an instructor welcomed me with a warm smile and a firm 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 spirited chatter filled the air, creating an electric atmosphere; each step amplified our shared anticipation of the adventure unfolding before us.

The camp resembled a lively village, composed of sturdy Nissen huts, each capable of housing 30+ enthusiastic trainees, fostering a vibrant and bustling environment. Surrounding these huts were essential facilities: the quartermaster's store, administrative offices exuding a sense of purpose, a recreation hut buzzing with cheerful banter, a guardroom radiating vigilance, and classrooms humming with the energy of eager learners. Scattered among them were spaces dedicated to relaxation, a sick bay for recuperation, a games room alive with laughter and spirited competition, a quiet reading room for moments of solitude, and washrooms to scrub away the day's muck. A brightly painted bungalow stood proudly in the background, housing the Captain Superintendent and adding a splash of colour to the camp’s rustic 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 lively 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 being removed long ago, she exuded an undeniable majesty, her weathered hull whispering tales of adventures past. Transformed into a bustling training centre, her spacious holds evolved into a vibrant mess hall and an engaging 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 joyful chatter and eager 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 camaraderie. 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 vibrant 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. The generosity of my sister sometimes stirred envy in me, but I found joy in their company, fostering a sense of community in our shared hardships.

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 of scooping and collecting the rebellious peas for reuse, since leftover food was generously given to the lower deck crew—a gesture of camaraderie 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 precise corners tucked in expertly to create a neat and 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, scrutinizing us with keen eyes, evaluating our potential to serve passengers on those sprawling and 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 HM Prisons could Savor 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 skills in hospitality and service 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 embarking on the sea was a pathway 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 the values of courage and leadership in the midst of chaos.

The ship 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 bustling 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. 

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 precipice of my new life as an aspiring sailor. My battle blue trousers—baggy and practical, yet far from flattering—were accompanied by a fitted battle top that mirrored 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, providing me with a sense of preparation, if not quite style. The battle dresses I donned were designed strictly for function, lacking any flair or elegance. As I caught a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in a shop window, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself, realising I resembled less of a dashing sailor and more like an escapee from a less illustrious fate—after all, even prison garb seemed to have a certain formality that my outfit lacked.

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 seaman’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 a poignant 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—men 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 vibrant 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 the 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 bustling 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 considering potential delays from taxis or trains. Arriving ahead of my scheduled duty time was essential, ensuring that I was present and fully prepared to receive instructions. The act of reprimanding a latecomer would be serious, and 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 bustling 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 him upon his arrival.

My new quarters were cramped and disconcertingly close. I was bunked in 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 harbor. 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, while 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 seaman'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 take us through the intricate waterways of the Suez Canal. This journey was expected to span two weeks or more, making it significantly longer than the 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 chaotic 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 chaos and unpredictability inherent in the life of a sailor.

For those who may not be familiar with this enchanting 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 breathtaking landscape adorned with dramatic cliffs, picturesque fishing villages, and vibrant coastal flora.

The bay is characterised by a myriad of inlets and shallow areas, which—paired with its expansive waters—contribute to the notoriously turbulent seas that have forged its fearsome reputation. This region is infamous for its fierce winter storms, when dark, menacing clouds gather overhead, and chaotic 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 the fierce storms that arise, particularly before the advent of modern weather forecasting and navigation technology. The bay's mercurial nature serves as a constant reminder to sailors of the unpredictable power and stunning beauty it possesses, 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?

As the day drew to a close to midnight, the atmosphere grew charged with anticipation during dinner, which was shared with about twelve 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 vibrant flag, a symbol of our maritime identity, communicated clearly to those in the bustling port and to any onlookers with binoculars that we would be departing before midnight. A rush of excitement mingled with a hint of apprehension surged through me, as I hoped for a smooth journey and calm waters ahead.

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 chaotic 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 cozy 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 realized 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. 

Seeking refuge from my swirling emotions, I retreated below deck. The small, dimly lit space of my bunk provided a momentary escape from the reality that was quickly becoming overwhelming.

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, pleading 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 chaotic 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 chaos 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: if I couldn’t perform my duties as outlined on my work roster and was deemed too ill to handle food, 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 to prepare for the relentless lunchtime rush ahead.

I found myself facing the bustling lunchtime rush, an unavoidable scenario. 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. My journey of hardship began at just 15 years old at the Vindicatetriz training school, where I endured trials that would shape my future. However, one of the most harrowing episodes occurred during a period of close house arrest on the British ship, the Hopepeak, in August and September of 1967. During those tense days, I narrowly escaped a fate worse than detention, almost meeting my end as a suspected spy. I recount this chapter not to elicit sympathy but to demonstrate how profoundly trauma and hardship can influence one’s life trajectory.

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. To spare you the graphic details, I spent five continuous days battling the unyielding waves of the Bay of Biscay, my stomach in revolt against the constant motion of the ship. 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 passengers and I were escorted by the ship’s officer, missing the chance to set foot on land and capture the moment through photographs for posterity.

We eagerly returned to the ship, which, 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 bustling streets of London, 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, one that revolved around selling the evening news. 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, 24 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.

The preparations for deck work were extensive during our ten- to twelve-day voyage, but the scope of our tasks was often limited. Only minor painting jobs could be managed by the deck crew, and as I learned, once paint and sand dried into a hardened crust, the use of an angle grinder became necessary—a daunting task that turned what should have been a simple half-day project into a four-day ordeal of chipping and cleaning.

But that’s just the technical side of life at sea. 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 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 often begins their 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. However, that chapter of my life will be unravelled in my next book.

 

My four trips from the UK to Australia and New Zealand.

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 aimed at boosting 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 turbulent 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. 

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 carried me to the breathtaking landscapes of New Zealand. 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.

Arriving at Colon  

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.

During my nearly eleven years on a tugboat from 1977 to 1987, I witnessed how a hearty meal—paired with a warm atmosphere—could elevate the experience of working on deck. The camaraderie forged over shared meals created unity among the crew, transforming us into a tight-knit family. I extend my heartfelt salute to all Chief Cooks! Their exceptional culinary skills and passion create fertile ground for productivity, and without them, a ship can easily drift, lacking direction and warmth.

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 compared to the heartwarming effect of a steaming hot meal or a colourful array of choices.

Sometimes, offering the proper meal can unlock a crew’s full potential, inspiring us to tackle our tasks with renewed enthusiasm and dedication. In this way, good food becomes a powerful catalyst for teamwork, morale, and commitment—a vital lifeline that propels the ship and its crew forward together, united in purpose and spirit.

Yes, good meals were the key to any voyage with passengers or just the ‘Old Cargo ship’, but if it’s the first for those that travelled in the 1960s, it was an experience most never forgot during their lifetime.  

The journey from London to the awe-inspiring Panama Canal is a remarkable adventure that unfolds over 18 to 21 days, immersing travellers in the vast, ever-changing expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Each cresting wave and gust of wind creates a symphony of sensations, inviting you to embrace the unpredictable beauty of the open sea, where every horizon holds the promise of discovery.

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 accommodate four individuals comfortably, complete with scuppers directing 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 their inspections rigorously, 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' pristine 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, requesting 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.

Travelling through the Panama Canal

Travelling through the Panama Canal in the 1960s was an extraordinary and transformative adventure, each journey brimming with the promise of discovery as travellers set sail from the picturesque 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 vibrant glimpses of the jungle, the enchanting ones nestled between rugged landscapes, and the picturesque 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 bustling 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.

The journey was further enriched by the sight of the ancient pyramids rising majestically in the distance, casting their timeless shadows over the waters as the ship traversed the Canal. 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 that traversed sun-scorched patches of green jungle, giant leaves as big as ever imagined

Each stopover pulsed with vibrant 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 deeply 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 vibrant 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 breathtaking landscapes, significantly broadening the horizons of those who had previously existed in relative isolation. This transformative 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 the way travellers viewed the West Indies as they approached it, 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, breathtaking landscapes, 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.

On most cruise ships, passengers indulge in a delightful culinary experience, choosing from an enticing two-course or, in some instances, a lavish three-course menu for lunch and dinner. On cargo-passenger ships like the Brisbane Star, even the limited number of 12 to 22 passengers can savour a thoughtfully curated selection of dishes, featuring comforting and aromatic options such as rich, flavourful curry or hearty traditional Irish stew.

The crew also finds satisfaction in their meals, often presented with a regular option that can surprise them with a special dish, depending on the cook’s culinary expertise. While the crew’s meals usually mirror those of the passengers, the passengers' varieties, including an entree, shone with unique variations of canned fruit, showcasing the cook's creativity and passion.

Although the crew is aware of the similarities in the menus—savouring both the savoury steak and kidney pie alongside the fragrant madras Indian curry and fluffy rice—they appreciate the Chief Cook's dedication to adding a touch of variety. This fosters a deep sense of respect and camaraderie, highlighting how food can unite and elevate the experience for everyone on board.

In the 1960s, the culinary offerings for Merchant Navy seamen aboard ships were typically unremarkable—neither opulent nor particularly appetising. However, these meals were adequate to fulfil their basic nutritional requirements, allowing them to endure the rigours of life at sea. The overall quality and variety of food were inconsistent, often reliant on the ship and crew.

Basic Rations: Daily, seamen were served a hot meal, with meat appearing in their diet approximately four times a week, complemented by hearty bread and a gallon of beer. This basic fare aimed to provide the necessary sustenance for their demanding work.

Unappetizing Food: The meals often carried a reputation for being unappetizing; many dishes lacked flavour and freshness, with some resembling hardtack—an extremely dry and hard biscuit that was frequently deemed nearly inedible. 

Limited Freshness: Fresh fruits and vegetables were scarce and sometimes completely unavailable for months on end. This lack of freshness not only compromised the meals’ appetising quality but also posed a risk of nutritional deficiencies among the crew members.

Variability:  Food quality varied significantly by ship. Some vessels, particularly those crewed by Norwegians, were renowned for their exceptional dining experiences, often featuring a delightful array of seafood that provided a welcome change from the standard fare.

Food Poisoning:  Food safety was a significant concern, as incidents of food poisoning arose on certain ships. This highlighted the critical need for stringent hygiene and proper food storage practices to ensure the health and safety of the crew.

No Official Standards:  The absence of an official scale for provisions on merchant ships during the 1960s led to wide disparities in both the quality and quantity of food available, leaving seamen at the mercy of their ship’s provisioner.

In essence, while the food served was sufficient to keep the sailors alive and able to work, it was far from gourmet. Yet, a new generation of passionate young cooking enthusiasts emerged in the 1960s. These future chefs, brimming with artistic flair and ambition, aspired to elevate their culinary skills to a recognised trade. They yearned to be more than just cooks in local hotels that overlooked their potential for roles as bartenders or hotel cleaners. It was these determined young cooks who forged a new identity, proudly declaring, "I am a professional chef and waiter in the hospitality industry.” Their remarkable achievements would lead them to host television programs worldwide, captivating audiences and delighting guests not just on ships but in the elegant corridors of the finest establishments across the globe.

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 pristine 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 remarkable quality of the herring is key, with only the finest fish selected for these beloved kippers. The traditional Scottish smoking methods, often featuring oak or beech wood, enhance the flavour and appearance, creating kippers that are a true delight—golden-brown and profoundly smoky, inspiring those who savour them.

Many of us are aware that indulging in chocolate every day, despite its universal appeal and the cravings it often evokes, can lead to a loss of enjoyment. This phenomenon is especially noticeable when on a ship, where the daily availability of one’s favourite food can make it feel less special over time. Sundays always provided a delightful change in the culinary routine, whether it was for the evening feast or the morning breakfast. 

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, 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, including 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 crew members 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. As 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. By ordering the same number of boxes of kippers as was the usual task, we would have, maybe one or two extra boxes left over than usual, ready and waiting to delight us when we reached New Zealand.

In a moment of boldness, I found myself standing in the bustling galley, filled with the aromas 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?” 

With a sense of 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 rich 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 simply wasn’t a priority. Interestingly, rather than cooking items individually, which the duty messman and salon steward suggested, we adopted a more economical approach by using four trays at one time. This strategy ultimately translated into increased profits for the shipowner, with less waste, thanks to our unwavering diligence.

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' worth of my 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 Lake, where the Grand Prix is staged each year. The vibrant atmosphere in this bustling 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 the course of eighteen months at the Carousel, my staff turnover and profit margins significantly exceeded those of the other two restaurants combined, particularly in terms of waste percentages.

In 1987, after finally leaving the world of the Merchant Navy behind, I seized the opportunity to purchase the Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp. This charming camp, located just outside the quaint seaport of Portland in southwest Victoria, Australia, became my new venture. I ran this establishment until December 2001, applying the skills I had honed throughout my maritime career to effectively minimise waste while cooking for large groups of one hundred children and adults each week as well as social functions weddings and starting an Over Forties Single Club, which was as adventurous as any of my sea stories.    

As your ship elegantly approaches the Panama Canal—a breathtaking marvel of engineering and a vital artery of global trade—the transit usually lasts between 12 to 16 hours. This extraordinary passage offers serene moments for travellers to disembark, stretch their legs, and take in the lush, verdant landscapes that frame the canal, reminding you of nature's vibrant splendour, where dense greenery thrives in harmony with azure waters.

Once through the canal, your journey continues for another 16 days across the tranquil, glimmering waters of the Pacific Ocean, culminating in your arrival at the enchanting shores of New Zealand. This land is renowned for its breathtaking natural wonders—towering, jagged mountains that pierce the sky, lush forests alive with the songs of native birds, and pristine coastlines where golden sands meet crystal-clear waters—each element capturing the imagination and igniting the soul.

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.

After leaving Panama, we headed for Curacao in the Dutch West Indies, embarking on our journey toward the picturesque Dutch-owned island of Curacao, 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 brother, nicknamed by seamen as the ‘Happy Valley’.

If you're curious about Willemstad and its significance, you'll find it to be the vibrant capital of Curaçao, brimming with life. One of its most iconic landmarks is the Queen Emma Bridge, a beautifully designed floating bridge that elegantly 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.

What makes the Queen Emma Bridge special is its unique floating pontoon design, which allows it to pivot open whenever ships pass through, creating a captivating spectacle that enchants all who witness it. This remarkable bridge has become a beloved attraction, drawing locals and visitors to experience its dynamic movements. Supported by 16 rustic pontoon boats, the bridge swings open horizontally, offering a passageway for boats of all sizes, including grand cruise ships gliding through St. Anna Bay. While pedestrians must wait during these openings, a convenient free ferry service operates nearby, ready to carry you across the water. The surrounding area offers stunning views of Willemstad’s charming pastel-coloured buildings, providing a perfect backdrop for memorable photographs and delightful exploration.

No visit to Curaçao is complete without basking in the beauty of the Caribbean Sea. Among the island's many pristine 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. This idyllic spot, treasured by both tourists and locals, stands as one of the island’s most picturesque locations. Known for its exceptional water clarity, the beach beckons snorkelers to delve into its vibrant underwater world, where colourful coral reefs teem with exotic fish dancing amidst the marine life.

The view from the parking lot overlooking the beach provides an incredible photo opportunity, capturing the breathtaking scenery of unspoiled nature. Whether you choose to relax on the sandy shores, soak up the sun, or dive into the captivating waters, Kenepa Beach promises a rejuvenating escape into the heart of the Caribbean.

Just a brief 2-minute drive from the airport, the Hato Caves invite you to uncover an ancient world formed over 200,000 years ago. Thoughtfully renovated by the government to ensure accessibility, these impressive limestone caves have become one of the island's most renowned tourist attractions since opening to the public in 1991.

As you step inside, stunning rock formations unfold, revealing a tale of geological history. Once inhabited by indigenous peoples, the caves bear witness to prehistoric cave paintings dating back approximately 1,500 years. During the era of slavery, the Hato Caves served as a refuge for runaway slaves, offering a glimpse into a time of struggle and resilience. As you explore, look for long-nosed bats fluttering above, enhancing the enchanting atmosphere of this natural wonder.

Visitors join a guided tour to experience the caves in their entirety. Spanning approximately 45 minutes, the tour is led by knowledgeable guides who share fascinating tales about Curaçao's natural wonders and the rich history etched into the cave walls.

For a deeper appreciation of Curaçao's culture and history, the Kura Hulanda Museum is a must-visit destination on your journey. Opened in 1999, this extraordinary museum boasts the most extensive African collection in the Caribbean, serving as a vital testament to the island's past. It is also one of the world's foremost museums dedicated to the history of slavery, creating a poignant space for reflection and education.

Curaçao's history is deeply intertwined with the transatlantic slave trade, which spanned from the 17th to the 19th centuries. The museum displays a vast array of artefacts, historical documents, and a life-size replica of a slave ship's lower deck, offering powerful insights into the devastating experiences faced by enslaved individuals. Additionally, the museum showcases breathtaking African sculptures, artefacts, and artwork, creating an enriching and culturally immersive experience.

Take a moment to admire the impressive monument in the courtyard, which holds profound historical significance. Understanding a destination's history enriches your journey, so when you visit Curaçao, immerse yourself in its compelling past and let it inspire you.

The Happy Valley

In the vibrant 1920s, oil refineries emerged on the sun-kissed island, igniting a wave of opportunity and transformation. Women migrated, drawn by the promise of a better life, eager to meet the needs of oil workers and sailors arriving on massive tankers, unleashing their potential in this bustling environment. By the 1930s and 1940s, a courageous group of Venezuelan, Colombian, and Dominican prostitutes became integral to the town centre’s fabric. With the arrival of Dutch and American naval forces, tasked with protecting the island during World War II, the demand for their services surged, illustrating the intersection of strength and vulnerability in human experience. In the face of societal pressures, the government sought solutions, grappling with the complexities of their community's realities. A commission was formed, uniting police, public health representatives, and clergy, determined to address what they considered a challenge. Their vision led to the creation of Campo Alegre, a designated space allowing sex workers to thrive independently, symbolising a shift towards compassion and understanding. On May 30, 1949, Campo Alegre—also known as Le Mirage—opened its doors with the support of the Colonial Governor and the Queen of the Netherlands, marking a new chapter in the lives of those who worked there. With a three-month visa, women from Cuba and Venezuela embarked on their journeys, contributing to an ever-changing narrative. Between the late 1940s and the mid-1990s, the resilience of these women shone brightly, with half of them returning for further opportunities. It’s estimated that around 25,000 sex workers found their footing within the establishment, showcasing their determination and fortitude until the unfortunate closure in March 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

The brothel closed in 2020

As the company filed for bankruptcy in June 2020, the 150 sex workers and employees faced the world outside, their spirits undeniably tested. In a surprising turn, the property was acquired by the government of Curaçao in 2023, igniting hope and curiosity among the local population about its future. This moment reflects the continual evolution of society’s understanding of dignity, possibility, and redemption.

To describe the brothels in Curacao in more detail, another period in my life was when I was cooking in the gold fields of Western Australia, two months before Christmas in 1966, I eagerly disembarked from the illustrious ferry, the Princess of Tasmania, a vessel that made its graceful journeys to and from the picturesque shores of Tasmania three times a week. On June 20, 1963, I made a daring decision to jump ship in Melbourne from the British vessel known as the Port Lyttleton, a move fueled by a deep and captivating love for a remarkable woman who shared my last name, the captivating Dorthy Smith. She had two wonderful daughters: Carol, a spirited 16-year-old, and Julie, just 14, full of dreams and laughter. This heartfelt chapter of my life is vividly captured elsewhere in the book, paving the way for the unfolding tale. The adventure of my leap of faith will also be revisited later. At this juncture, it is essential to highlight the thriving presence of brothels in Kalgoorlie, Western Australia—establishments that catered to the rugged gold miners of the region, embodying the grit, passion, and relentless pursuit of fortune that defined their lives.

The Gold Fields of Kalgoorlie stand as a testament to ingenuity, where a street lined with brothels catered to gold miners. This unique arrangement fosters a sense of safety, empowering women in Boulder and Kalgoorlie to navigate their lives free from harassment—an inspiring reminder of the diverse ways communities address needs with resilience and creativity.

For those who have journeyed this far into my narrative and are curious about my visit to the Happy Valley, let me share a moment filled with joy and cherished memories. My shipmates, brimming with excitement, urged me into a taxi, welcoming me to join them on their bold adventure into a brothel—one of many, perhaps, in this rich tapestry of life. While they ventured away, I paused to reflect on their well-being, my heart heavy with concern as I awaited their return.

Driven by a sense of purpose, I set out on a quest, navigating the softly lit corridor lined with cubicles where women artfully displayed their wares behind delicate curtains. In front of a lively bar, with its rustic, swinging cowboy-style saloon doors, I discovered where my friends had chosen to gather. Undeterred, I continued my pursuit and encountered a captivating lady of Cuban descent, her lightly tanned skin radiant in the warm light. The rest is a beautiful blur of moments that will forever remain etched in my memory.

Eventually, I found my friends in the bar, their laughter echoing through the air as they animatedly recounted their stories, which felt like grand adventures despite only lasting a couple of minutes in reality.

In that quiet moment of reflection, I contemplated whether my mates truly grasped the depth of my commitment to their safety. As the night unfolded, we took a cab back to the Flying Angel Mission, where the warmth of friendship surrounded us, enriched by the promise of cheaper rum than that at the lively dockside bar.

On my next journey to Curacao in November 1961, I met a Dutch doctor, an alcoholic whose path was as turbulent as the ocean waves. He worked tirelessly with South American Indians through a mission, embodying resilience in every step. Though stripped of his medical license in Holland, the Dutch Methodist Mission recognised his knowledge as a sacred gift. As this story unfolds, readers will contemplate whether the wisdom he shared with me in 1961, if embraced, could have changed the course of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s.

The Island of Curacao continues, part 2

The island of Curaçao is strategically located in the southern Caribbean, approximately 35 miles off the northwestern coast of Venezuela. The island’s strategic location outside the hurricane belt, combined with its naturally sheltered, deep-water ports, modern facilities, wide array of shipping services, and telecommunications facilities, makes it an attractive call that is well-equipped to cater to every need of the modern shipping industry.

Sixty years ago, when I journeyed to Curacao, the Island was a world apart from the vibrant destination it is today. I find it challenging to convey just how it was back in 1961; please know that my intention is not to diminish its charm. Back then, it still exuded the enchanting essence of a tropical isle, steeped in the magic that defines the Caribbean Sea. For those who are familiar with the television series "Death in Paradise," you can grasp the spirit of Curacao during those days—an intricate tapestry of lush jungles woven with a hint of adventure.

In the 1960s, ships would gracefully navigate into the harbour of Willemstad, gliding through a narrow channel marked by a floating bridge that opened up like a flower to welcome incoming vessels. This bridge floated on buoys and gently yielded to allow ships to enter. Most vessels would secure themselves with bow and stern lines tied to the buoys, while a courteous motor launch would ferry crew members from ship to ship, making it rounds every hour until midnight. If you missed that final boat, you faced a long wait until morning to return to your vessel, which inevitably jeopardised your duty roster. In such cases, captains would not hesitate to deduct a full day’s pay from your earnings, a harsh reminder of the cost of misadventure.

 As I prepared for my first visit to the enchanting 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, suggesting that the bites of camels and hogs could annihilate the infected areas of the body.

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. It was crucial that the egg remained 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, but 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.

In 1961, embarking on a voyage with Blue Star Line from the bustling ports of London or Liverpool to the stunning shores of New Zealand was an adventure that lasted approximately 35 to 38 days. This journey involved traversing vast, often turbulent seas, where the ship battled the mighty waves in search of the vibrant cities of Auckland and Wellington. Upon reaching New Zealand, the ship would linger in its picturesque waters for around 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 their charming, 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 majestic 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 played the role of 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 to them.

A golden rule among the crew while in an overseas port is the importance of discretion: never offer alcohol to a woman within twenty years 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 delicious 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! Alan showed us this, and Alan showed us that." With a gleaming smile, he recounted how my son’s friends in the galley had warmly welcomed them, showcasing the ship in ways that left them utterly enchanted; it was clear they 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 extended an invitation for all eight members of the galley and pantry crew to join them 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, as his house wasn’t far away. 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 a slice of Christmas magic to them. It transformed into one of the best experiences any of us, the eight crew members, had ever had, so far from home. The neighbourhood buzzed with life—well, perhaps not the entire street, but it certainly was a night to remember! Each of us maintained a respectful understanding of our drinking limits, ensuring we left behind a lasting impression on Mick, his family, and their friends—one that would forever hold a cherished place in our hearts.

Ship's 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 bustling shearing shed in beautiful South West Victoria, near the serene 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 crew's spirits amid the sea's relentless challenges.

Imagine you are the ship's cook or pantryman on a lengthy voyage across the vast, unpredictable sea. The crew is composed of rookie sailors, each one grappling with the challenges that the ocean throws their way. The relentless motion of the ship 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.

The following Suez information is to be added later.

Two months after that terrible storm on board the Brisbane Star, where I had to choose between saving the day's lunch from ending up on the galley deck so the crew could continue the hazards they were being forced to endure, 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 when heading to New Zealand on board the MV Brisbane Star, with "MV" standing for Motor Vessel and "SS" standing for Steam Ship. 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 SS South Africa Star—a sturdy all-steel steamship affectionately nicknamed "the bucket"—I experienced a unique camaraderie. This vessel, once an aircraft repair ship from the tumultuous days of World War II, rang with the sounds of metal creaking and the sea roaring. 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 still six months away after my travels to New Zealand, where I soaked in the vibrant culture before making my way back to London, arriving on August 4, 1961.

Readers following this first chapter of my sea journey would soon realise that my initial trip on the Brisbane Star was a captivating four-month round trip stretching from London to the stunning landscapes of New Zealand. After departing from the Suez Canal, our journey unfolded across the vast, shimmering expanse of the Indian Ocean, its surface glistening like scattered diamonds under the sun. We navigated through the enchanting Red Sea, where the rich, vibrant blue of the water contrasted strikingly with the golden dunes of the surrounding deserts, creating a picturesque landscape that felt almost surreal. As we continued our voyage, anticipation bubbled within us at the thought of reaching New Zealand in a month, with the sun-drenched shores of Australia waiting along our path. Each day brought breathtaking views—gentle waves lapping at the sides of the ship, colourful sunsets painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and serene horizons stretching endlessly. I felt a true sense of exhilaration, having finally overcome my seasickness and fully immersed myself in the rhythm of life aboard the vessel; this was the thrilling adventure I had longed for, and I embraced this new world with open arms.

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 within them, 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 and chaotic 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 bustling, all-night trading bazaars became a vibrant 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.

As part of my responsibilities as a steward, I faced an unexpected grade increase that added an extra £4 to my monthly income. This small but surprising change marked the beginning of my deep dive into the vibrant and bustling world of being a ship's steward. I found myself surrounded by the rhythmic hum of daily operations, where tantalising aromas of mouthwatering dishes filled the air —a fragrant blend of spices and fresh ingredients that once seemed like a distant dream.

Sea travel has long captivated the imaginations of many, often featuring prominently in dreams and bucket lists, particularly through the enchanting allure of elegant and luxurious passenger ships. Among the most distinguished examples are the original Blue Star cargo ships, which stand as masterpieces of design, crafted during the tumultuous interwar years. This was a time when ocean voyages were seen as exclusive events, predominantly reserved for the affluent elite who embarked on their journeys with an air of sophistication and a deep-seated commitment to comfort that defined their experiences.

Fraser Darrah Collection 

I have used the following "Imperial Star" cargo passenger ship period between 11 May 1992 and 16 October 1962, on my third trip to New Zealand, attaching some photos from the Blue Star Line archives and the renowned Fraser Darrah Collection as an example of the type of accommodation that passengers had if they chose to travel in a quieter more relaxed and less energetic bussling type journey which the cruise liners were offering. 

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 a largely overlooked aspect of maritime travel. Typically limited to just 12 passengers, these vessels were subject to strict regulations that required the presence of a doctor on board when accommodating more travellers. This unique limitation not only allowed shipping companies to supplement their earnings but also fostered the opportunity 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 and inviting atmosphere that ensured their comfort while showcasing the delightful aesthetic of the era.

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 and superior service, relishing the opportunity to forge connections with fellow travellers in a cosy setting, fostering a sense of camaraderie that thrived 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.

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," where attentive and 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 vibrant, 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, dusting every surface until it sparkled, polishing brass fixtures until they gleamed with a radiant shine, and replenishing 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, allowing them to act swiftly in medical situations and ensure that passengers received immediate attention until specialised care could arrive.

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 provisions in the cargo hold for optimal weight distribution, and handled simple repairs with aplomb, such as sewing buttons on their crisp uniforms or mending clothing for themselves and passengers alike.

The **Imperial Star**

In summary, stewards were indispensable to the cruise experience, as their extensive skill set and attentive service significantly contributed to passenger satisfaction. They contributed significantly to a delightful voyage marked by unparalleled comfort, heartfelt care, and cherished memories that would resonate long after the journey had concluded.

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—from my cabin to the galley, the dining saloon, and finally to the inviting lounge, details of which I have attached overleaf. I endeavoured to reflect the love I felt for my surroundings, striving to excel as a steward within the burgeoning hospitality industry that awaited 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 was destined to 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.

Which trip was the best and why?

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 the Germany, Holland, France, and Belgium being put in jail in Antwerp for disrupting the piece was not an experience that is worthy of telling a two page essay on, but trying to convince the reader who has already partly read my story that I was entirely innocent of all charges is not going to sit to well with the reader.

But the story that had the Belgian police charge 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, 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 a 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, for the reasons I've previously shared. 

As for my journeys along the canals of Panama and Egypt, I conveyed in my letter to Alaa and Elemary, Attorney at Law, that I had a life-altering experience in 1962, where I was saved while also saving one of my rescuers. This profound moment resonated with me again in 2014, remaining a vital part of my life and inspiring me as I near the completion of my next book, which is three-quarters finished and preparing for editing.

On 14 July 2014, I wrote to Alaa Elemary, Attorney at Law, Independent Consultant. Egypt, Legal Services noting:

“I will not disclose, on any level, any findings or comments you might make in relation to my case, unless you advise me, in writing, that you would be happy for that information to be included in my forthcoming manuscript "Ring for Justice".

I then wrote:

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, of the SS South Africa Star, 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, however, a couple of Arab boys (as we called them then) saw my plight and one of them climbed down the rope to help me.  As I watched, too young to appreciate the heroic but foolish risk he was taking, he slipped from about half-way down and fell into the water beside me.  Whatever was he thinking I wonder because, spluttering half in Arabic and half in English, he managed to tell me that he couldn’t swim and so it became up to me to help this young Arab hero.  I had not then seen the movie “Laurence of Arabia” but later, when I did, I was reminded of my young hero by one of the two Arab boys that Laurence befriended.

With my heroic savour speaking in broken English/Arabic tongue, 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 smaller Arab boy, maybe twelve years old, had seen our plight and managed to commandeer a rowboat that had been tied to the gangway on the other side of the ship where it had been used to transfer the shore gangs that worked along the Suez Canal, from ship to shore.

Finally, rescued and on board 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.

And now, fifty-five years later, here you are Elaa, another Egyptian coming to my aid!  At least, this time, I know your name. 

I have now collated the information you thought was important and it will be sent shortly

I vividly recall my first journey on the *Princess of Tasmania*, which gracefully sailed between the bustling city of Melbourne and the picturesque Devonport in Tasmania. We set off at 19:00 hours, carving our path through the waves and arriving in Devonport just an hour 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 that passengers came to rely on. 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 vibrant fresh salads, each plate a labour of love crafted with care.

Though the pace in the kitchen was exhilarating, the stability and camaraderie within the crew fostered a deep sense of family. David Williams, the Chief Cook, was a larger-than-life character—a Welshman and former middleweight boxer. He not only led with exceptional culinary skill but also generously shared his wisdom, imparting butchering techniques and cooking secrets that opened new doors for me during my time off. 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 bustling town of Kalgoorlie for Broken Hill Proprietary (BHP). My responsibilities there extended beyond the galley; I operated a water truck and managed supplies, showcasing how diverse experiences can shape a fulfilling career. Although the camp maintained strict regulations against alcohol, the foreman fostered an open yet disciplined atmosphere that encouraged professionalism and respect.

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.

My three-month contract had expired. 

How am I going to get out of this Camp? The twenty-two men around me were a ragtag sort of comrades, forged together by the rugged life in this remote location. I had begun to get to know them, even on the very first day of my arrival at the Camp, nestled an hour's drive from Kalgoorlie in a harsh landscape known as Mount Munga. As I stepped off the vehicle, I was overwhelmed by an urgent need to find the toilet. I approached the foreman—a burly six-foot-two man, his build reminding me of an ape—who casually pointed to a makeshift latrine. All I saw was a simple plank thrown across two large, weathered stumps, each with a sizable hole at its end. The arrangement was approximately seven feet long, and when I inquired again, half-convinced he was pulling my leg, he confirmed, “There, where we drove in,” gesturing to the crude contraption perched above an abandoned gold mine shaft.

The Camp itself was situated in a nearly desolate stretch of land, with only a smattering of hardy shrubs struggling for survival in the arid soil. As we walked, the ground was hard, and we had to stomp heavily to announce our presence, keeping any lurking snakes at bay, especially for those men who had been kind enough to use the hose rather than misfire into one of the two dunny holes.

I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me as I sat there going about my business, while Black John introduced me to the group, pointing in my direction and declaring, “That’s the new cook from Victoria.” The sanitation facilities were rudimentary at best; there was no proper washbasin, but instead a half of an old forty-four-gallon oil drum crudely set upon stumps, with waste water trickling from a pipe affixed to the roof of the kitchen (galley) mess area. Despite making sure to wash my hands, most of the men seemed indifferent to hygiene.

My official meeting took place in the Camp's only tin building, which felt like a relic of a past era. It featured a concrete slab as a floor, and a sign on both the entry and back doors read, “SHUT THE DOOR.” This warning served as a vital reminder to keep the snakes at bay, as they often slithered into the mess room, particularly after dusk, seeking the cool concrete to rest.

Each of us had our battery setups, with underground wiring providing flickering lighting in our makeshift tents. A trench was dug around the tents, lined with old, heavy rope treated with paraffin oil and another substance every few days, providing a barrier against the relentless snakes.

We found ourselves in the unforgiving Kalgoorlie desert, under an unyielding sun that scorched the earth. It was not often that we experienced rain, but when it did come, it offered only a brief respite from the heat. The afternoons were blistering, particularly at 2 PM, as the day continued to heat up even as it drew to a close. BHp was steadfast in the search for nickel, diligently following a reef known for its above-normal nickel readings.

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.

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.

 

The scraping noise.

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. 

For context, it's fascinating to note that the BHP camp was situated in an area steeped in history, one that had seen a flurry of activity during the 1870s gold rush in Western Australia. Thousands of dreamers flocked to the region, lured by the prospect of striking it rich; while some indeed succeeded, the majority would leave empty-handed, their hopes dashed against the harsh reality of the land. However, they did leave a legacy of a golden type nugget, which many miners in and around Kalgoorlie openly boasted they had struck it rich —a deposit that often was lost in a single minute.

In the bustling town of Kalgoorlie, several brothels operated under a license that allowed them to extract money from anyone daring enough to visit. The BHP Land Rovers, emblazoned with bright signage, made it nearly impossible to slip unnoticed into these establishments. Townsfolk and fellow BHP employees would surely observe, whispering among themselves, as nothing was deemed sacred in this vibrant community. The ladies who offered their services were not just seen as outcasts; rather, they were individuals navigating life’s complexities, while others quietly indulged in the pleasures they provided, often hiding their visits in the shadows.

On warm evenings, the open-air movies would unfold under a blanket of stars, with deck chairs lined up under the soft glow of the screen. Here, the unwritten rule was clear: no clandestine encounters with the ladies from the brothels were permitted. Much to their credit, these women were treated with respect, seated in the front rows alongside other moviegoers. They were recognised as deserving of dignity, regardless of their chosen profession, fostering a sense of camaraderie among all present. 

Unfortunately, as the years passed, the landscape of respect and treatment for both the ladies of the night and everyday women—mothers, daughters, and sisters—shifted dramatically. The compassion and courtesy that once defined interactions have, in many ways, faded.

Amidst this changing tide, one profound lesson echoed among the crew members at sea: when sharing a date with someone of the opposite sex, whether casual or serious, it's vital to treat that person with the same care and respect you would want for a cherished family member. This understanding serves as a lasting reminder of our shared humanity.

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 fan belt from a truck, 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.   

I was not to leave the camp until a replacement was found.

After completing my month-long 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 on the horizon.

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 the head office of BHP in Perth, Western Australia, to formally submit my resignation. I informed them that I would complete my contract by the agreed-upon date and would be available for the new role after that.

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 Bob, my supervisor, but a week passed with no progress, and still, no replacement was 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 mentioned to my colleagues that 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 was left feeling 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 maneuver 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.

As I trudged along that dusty dirt road from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM, the blisters on my feet protested 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.

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 Oil Tanker, 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 remarkable stories from my journey unfolded, painting a vivid picture of my life as a seaman and a freelance industrial caterer—a true testament to resilience and the unrelenting pursuit of adventure.  

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 endeavors, particularly from 1972 to 1975, when I managed a bustling hotel-motel as a licensee, a vibrant 200-seat restaurant, a cozy 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 and unglamorous profession. I want to extend a heartfelt commendation to all the "jumped-up 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 vibrant hotels, bustling 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. 

Triaster 

This elegant passenger-cargo liner, completed on October 21, 1955, boasted the capacity to transport 48 passengers alongside 12,000 tonnes of phosphates to various 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 as well as 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 (2)'s 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 steering gear of the four-ram type, 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.

**Public Rooms**

The passenger accommodations were nothing short of luxurious, designed to offer a high standard of comfort and elegance akin to those found in larger passenger liners. The staterooms aptly housed 48 guests, featuring a variety of configurations ranging from two single berths to spacious cabins accommodating up to three berths. Each stateroom was an oasis of comfort, adorned with light oak paneling that exuded a warm and inviting atmosphere. Every room was an outside room, allowing guests to enjoy beautiful views, complete with a long dressing table and a mahogany set of drawers nestled between the beds. Thoughtfully designed, each stateroom featured a large side folding mirror above the dressing table, alongside two plush easy chairs and footstools, ensuring guests felt right at home.

The Lounge was splendidly situated forward on the Bridge Deck to port, offering panoramic views through its large windows, which wrapped around the curved fore end. Decorated with curtains featuring a delightful light green and yellow floral design set against a soft silver-grey background, this space became an embodiment of elegance. A charming alcove graced the starboard wall, flanked by curved recesses that cradled built-in writing desks. Glazed entrance doors beckoned guests into this inviting haven, which boasted a large, well-appointed glass-fronted bookcase against the aft bulkhead, filled with a variety of literary treasures.

The choice of materials added to the ambience; the walls featured exquisite, well-figured white sycamore panelling, creating a striking contrast with the rich Nigerian walnut skirtings. The furnishings throughout the Lounge were crafted from sycamore, while the coffee tables showcased sleek plastic veneers. The card tables, with their innovative reversible tops—one side covered in elegant plastic veneers, the other in green baize—invited leisurely games among guests. The card table chairs, along with those at the writing desks, were luxuriously upholstered in soft, tan-coloured leather. A variety of comfortable, easy chairs, matching settees, and an abundance of tub chairs were upholstered in a vibrant cotton tapestry that featured a woven stripe in shades of primrose and green, while heavy green and yellow linens adorned the loose covers. The flooring added yet another layer of warmth with its tile effect in muted beige, bordered in rich green and grey, and a beautifully patterned carpet set in the centre, uniting the entire space.

Adjoining the Lounge was the Dining Room, artfully designed to the starboard side, showcasing elegantly panelled walls made from figured Canadian maple. Its long, curved forward end and expansive starboard side were veiled in windows, draped with contemporary cotton prints that harmonised beautifully with the upholstery. The carefully selected furniture of red beech included a stately sideboard as well as comfortable carver dining armchairs. Upholstered in sophisticated smoke blue and lime green hide, the chairs complemented table tops adorned with sandy yellow Lionide material. Centrally positioned along the aft bulkhead, the sideboard proudly displayed a large mirror, enhancing the room's spaciousness. Flanking the entrance doors were glazed side panels, and the twin ‘in’ and ‘out’ service doors were elegantly faced in stylish plastic veneers. The Dining Room’s flooring mimicked that of the Lounge, with its rust-colored border adding a touch of warmth and continuity.

Linking the Dining Room and the Lounge was the Entrance Hall, a charming space panelled in figured aspen that invited guests into the heart of the vessel. A gracefully curved settee, draped in exquisite blue hide, occupied the starboard forward corner, creating a cosy nook for conversation. Behind the Lounge, the Chief Steward’s office was discreetly positioned, its entrance adorned with a decorative grille finished in satin chrome, adding an element of sophisticated design. The Entrance Hall featured refined walnut furniture, with easy chairs and armchairs upholstered in luxurious hides in shades of blue and ivory, creating an inviting atmosphere where guests could unwind. Every detail of the interior harmoniously blended modern elegance with comfort, crafting a unique and memorable experience aboard.

Sir Eric Piece Channel Nine 

Captain Kitchen, Lever & Kitchen 

Norm Shirly, ex-Palestine Police officers, Military Police and Chief Steward 

Bill Bowden, Ex Navt Cook 

Australian Merchant Navy 

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.

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 housed ordinary peeled potatoes that had undergone a thorough brushing to rid them of any dirt. This meticulous method ensured the vegetables remained crisp and fresh, ready for the culinary delights we served to our passengers.

On a typical night, the ship would carry around 300 eager 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 lively 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 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.

After dedicating twenty-eight unforgettable years to the Merchant Navy, I came to understand the incredible power of a well-run mess hall and galley. These spaces, when seamlessly operated and filled with delicious, high-quality meals, transformed into sanctuaries that uplifted our spirits. The Chief Cook, along with their devoted galley staff and pantry personnel, are the unsung heroes of the ship. Their culinary expertise and deep commitment to their craft ensure that every crew member feels energised and ready to excel.

On a lighter note: one of the hardest lessons most seamen who have spent more than two decades of their lives at sea is the feeling we have all felt as ex-seamen is the telling of a true yarn, one that unless you have been a seaman while telling it and looking up to those listening to the yarn you feel the uncomfortable feeling while flashing your attention around the are the yarn is being told only to experience that you are doubting what you are saying because what you are revealing does seem far fetched and right there at this point do not want to continue with this authentic and unbelievable story, but carry on you must because not to do so will make any person slight doubting what you are saying will doubt that your are saying if you do not finish the story on a more that sound feasible.  

As I pondered this conversation, I recognised that there was much this deregistered doctor had not disclosed. In the hazy early morning light, perhaps after we had both drunk ourselves sober, I realised that the term “spying” is often only applied in jest or to dramatic effect in James Bond films and sensational media narratives about Russian and American espionage. The British seaman, much like myself and many other mariners, had conversed with countless strangers in foreign lands, weaving tales into the fabric of our shared existence. We, too, had documented experiences that might warrant deeper exploration.

Spying for the good of a nation

At that point in my life, just a few months into my sixteenth year, I was navigating uncharted waters—learning the intricate code that so many seamen had grasped over the years. I felt like one of the explorers aboard Christopher Columbus' ships, witnessing the strange and captivating tapestry of life from every corner of the globe. Seamen from diverse nations had, for centuries, acted as informal spies, serving as the backbone of global conflicts by reporting on shipping movements across continents. This involved transferring cargo from port to port, cargo that often served as a means of leverage in international disputes.

My story regarding the deregistered doctor holds just as much weight as the account I provided to the Commonwealth Police (now known as the Australian Federal Police) on 18 September 1967, as well as in my letter to the Honorable Malcolm Fraser, who was then the Minister of the Army during the tumultuous Vietnam War. I found myself caught in a perilous situation, nearly shot as a spy in Communist China after the British ship Hopepeak—chartered by the Australian Government to deliver humanitarian aid in the form of wheat—exposed a shocking truth. My fellow crew members and I uncovered that a portion of the grain we had just delivered was being rerouted to North Vietnam, where Australian, New Zealand, and American troops were engaged in fierce combat. Our wheat, intended for those in need, might have ended up nourishing North Vietnamese soldiers as they prepared for battle in the dense, unforgiving jungles of Vietnam.

There is a striking and thought-provoking similarity between my narrative of the Chinese Cultural Revolution and the Canadian perspective on democracy, as well as the fundamental concepts of right and wrong that underpin them. This connection is compellingly illustrated in Tianxiao Zhu's meticulously crafted 2021 paper, developed as part of his Ph.D. requirements at the University of Minnesota. During my extensive research for my first manuscript, which ultimately inspired the launch of the website absentjustice.com, I fortuitously discovered Zhu's insightful work. His paper sheds light on a significant trade that took place during the chaotic and turbulent period I was examining.

FOOD AND TRADE IN LATE MAOIST CHINA, 1960-1978

https://conservancy.umn.edu › bitstream › handle

By T. Zhu · 2021 — touched the Chinese and Russian grain markets in the 1960s, earlier than ... Australia's grain was being sent straight to North Vietnam.

In January 2024, I found myself once again engrossed in the paper titled "Food and Trade in Late Maoist China, 1960-1978," skillfully prepared by Tianxiao Zhu. This marked the second or perhaps third time since 2021 that I revisited this compelling work. Nestled between Footnotes 82 and 85, Zhu not only mentions the Hopepeak ship, where I served from June 28 to September 18, 1967, but he recounts the events with remarkable authenticity that resonates with my own memories. His portrayal starkly contrasts with the narrative disseminated by the Australian government during that time, a narrative that continues to echo through history to the present day.

The paper reveals a poignant truth regarding my experience aboard the Hopepeak, as Zhu skillfully narrates the circumstances I lived firsthand, rather than the sanitised version that was presented to the Australian public. When discussing the British seafarers on the Hopepeak, the Australian Minister of Trade and Industry, Sir John McEwen, asserted that we were apprehensive about returning to China. However, this claim, which transpired only after we were airlifted from Sydney back to England, feels more like an afterthought rather than an accurate reflection of our sentiments. It is disheartening to realise that John McEwen was fully aware of our true feelings but chose to manipulate the narrative instead of providing an honest account.

Those British seamen had witnessed me on two occasions being frog marched off the Hopepeak under armed guard, never to be seen again. I was only seen again because my life was not worth 13,600 tons of wheat still in Australia, ready to be loaded onto the Hopepeak for her return voyage back to the People's Republic of China. The voyage these British seamen were afraid of (for good reason) if they returned with the Hopepeak. 

Interestingly, after the crew was flown back to England (I remained in Sydney), a new crew was flown out at the expense of the ship's owners. Had the ship's crew not demonstrated that they had good reason to be fearful of returning to Communist China, the ship owner would not have covered the cost of flying the two crews.  

If the skipper had not reported my experience and that of another crew member of the Hopepeak at the hands of the Chinese Red Guards, on the Hopepeak's return trip to Sydney, the Commonwealth Police (now called the Australian Federal Police) would not have been waiting on the dockside to interview me and this other crew member on 18 September 1967 when we arrived back. 

Both the police and media wanted to know why so many crew members feared returning to Red China. For a ship's crew to all refuse to take the ship to sea because it was to travel to a particular destination is unheard of. This refusal to sail was NO afterthought. I reiterate that if what happened was not true, why did the Commonwealth Police and media meet the ship? The captain and ship owner must have notified them that all was not well, even before the vessel had berthed.  

 

What is not mentioned in the footnotes by Tianxiao Zhu is that the Australian Trade Minister misled many people about the seriousness of what had taken place, allowing the Australian government to continue selling wheat to the People's Republic of China.   

BP Endeavour - Australian Oil Tanker 

So, let us return to the soon-to-be-manned BP Endeavour, my second oil tanker.

As much as I relish the idea of enjoying a drink with my old seafaring friends, losing control and waking up with no recollection of the previous night is far from my idea of a good time. Longing for more excitement beyond the routine of pub-hopping for days—or even weeks—on end, I shifted my focus to the lively world of catering. This move led to fascinating opportunities, such as my time at the bustling Kalgoorlie mining camp previously discussed. The experience there was rich and layered, offering a setting filled with the clatter of plates, the camaraderie of fellow workers, and the stories shared over hearty meals, which I have discussed in more detail elsewhere in this narrative.

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 a chaotic 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?

The long shifts I worked on the oil rigs in the turbulent Bass Strait and the varied leave I took from ships where I served all contributed to a life that was as challenging as it was rewarding. I spent twenty years married, twelve of which were dedicated to the Melbourne Tugs. During that time, I was home for most of the year, except for those precious month-long breaks when I temporarily swapped the sea for the snowy slopes, working at ski lodges and picturesque holiday resorts, such as the charming Mallacoota and the quaint Metung Hotels.

 

Bass Strait Ferries.

Princess of Tasmania, Australian Trader and the Empress of Australia 

 

I joined the Australian Trader in August 1969, stepping aboard a vessel that was just 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 bustling galley, crafting meals for weary travellers crossing the expansive Bass Strait.

In 1972, a significant shift occurred when the Empress of Australia was relocated from its struggling service between Sydney and Hobart to join us on the Melbourne-Devonport route. As a response, the Australian Trader was put to the test as a potential replacement on this challenging journey, one of the longest open-water trips worldwide for a ferry service. While the Princess of Tasmania and the Australian Trader primarily catered to passengers with convenient drive-on facilities for cars, it was the Bass Trader that marked a turning point in maritime design as the first roll-on/roll-off car ship. At that time, eleven of this innovative type were being built for the demanding North Atlantic trade.

The Australian Trader was an engineering marvel, boasting the capacity to carry 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 cost of $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 3,600 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 the fact that I served on all three ships between 1965 and 1972, punctuated by brief breaks to refine further my culinary 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 draw on my ever-expanding culinary background.

Testimonials

Between April 1990 and when I sold the holiday camp in December 2001,  I continued to sponsor underprivileged groups to stay there during the weeks, partly (that became years) when the phone problems continued to beset the holiday camp. At least some money was coming into the business. Those wanting a cheap holiday persisted by telephoning repeatedly, regardless of being told the camp was no longer connected to Telstra's network. These groups wanted a holiday, and if they had to drive for hours to make a booking as Loreto College did (see below), then a drive they did.  

The holiday Camp could sleep 90 to 100 people in fourteen cabins. When the charity group organised by Sister Maureen Burke IBVM, the Principal of Loreto College in Ballarat, finally arrived, the whole week became a great success for all concerned; all enjoyed the in-camp activities, canoeing, and horse riding on the beach. I am sure she would not be offended to know that I think of her as the ‘mother’ of the project.

Arrangements regarding food, transport, and any special needs the children might have had to be handled over the phone, and of course, Sister Burke had enormous problems making phone contact, Calls were either ringing out, or she was getting a deadline or a message that the number she was ringing was not connected to the Telstra network. Sister Burke knew otherwise. On two occasions in 1992, after trying in vain for an entire week, she drove the 3½ hours to finalise the arrangements for those camps.

Just as she arrived at the Camp, Karen took a phone call from a furious man who wanted information about a singles weekend we were trying to set up. This caller was quite abusive. He couldn't understand why we were advertising a business but never answered the phone. Karen burst into tears. She had reached the end of her tolerance, and nothing I could say was any help. When Sister Burke appeared in the office, I decided absence was the better part of valour and removed myself, leaving the two women together. Much later, Sister Burke came out and told me she thought it probably best for both of us if Karen were to leave Cape Bridgewater. I felt numb. It was all happening again.

But it wasn't the same as it had been with Faye. Karen and I sat and talked. True, we would separate, but I assured her that she would lose nothing because of her generosity and that I would do whatever was necessary to buy her out. We were both relieved at that. Karen rented a house in Portland, and we remained good friends. However, without her day-to-day assistance at the Camp, which had given me the space to travel, I had to drop my promotional tours.

Twelve months later, in March of 1993, Sister Karen Donnellon, also from Loreto College, tried to make contact via the Portland Ericsson telephone exchange to arrange an annual camp.   Sister Donnellon later wrote:

“During a one week period in March of this year I attempted to contact Mr Alan Smith at Bridgewater Camp.  In that time I tried many times to phone through.

Each time I dialled I was met with a line that was blank.  Even after several re-dials there was no response.  I then began to vary the times of calling but it made no difference.” File 231-B → AS-CAV Exhibit 181 to 233

Some years later, I sent Sister Burke an early draft of my manuscript, Absent Justice My Story, concerning my valiant attempt to run a telephone-dependent business without a dependent phone service. Sister Burke wrote back,

“Only I know from personal experience that your story is true, otherwise I would find it difficult to believe. I was amazed and impressed with the thorough, detailed work you have done in your efforts to find justice”  File 231-A → AS-CAV Exhibit 181 to 233

Of course, Sister Maureen Burke and Sister Karen Donnellon persisted with their continuing battle to find a way to get a proper telephone connection for the holiday camp, partly because it was a low-cost holiday for all concerned but also because these incredible women were well aware that my business was continuing to exist, albeit ‘by the skin of its teeth, even though Telstra’s automated voice messages kept on telling prospective customers that the business did not exist or the callers simply reached a dreaded silence that appeared to indicate that the number they had called was attached to a ‘dead’ line.  Either way, I lost the business that may have followed if only the callers could have successfully connected to my office via this dreaded Ericsson AXE telephone exchange.

A letter dated 6 April 1993, from Cathy Lindsey, Coordinator of the Haddon & District Community House Ballarat (Victoria) to the Editor of Melbourne’s Herald-Sun newspaper,  read:

“I am writing in reference to your article in last Friday’s Herald-Sun (2nd April 1993) about phone difficulties experienced by businesses.

I wish to confirm that I have had problems trying to contact Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp over the past 2 years.

I also experienced problems while trying to organise our family camp for September this year. On numerous occasions I have rung from both this business number 053 424 675 and also my home number and received no response – a dead line.

I rang around the end of February (1993) and twice was subjected to a piercing noise similar to a fax. I reported this incident to Telstra who got the same noise when testing.” Evidence File 10 B 

During the same period, 1992 and 1993, Cathy Lindsey, a professional associate of mine, signed a Statutory Declaration dated 20 May 1994, explaining several sinister incidents that occurred when she attempted to collect mail on my behalf from the Ballarat Courier Newspaper office (File 22, Exhibits 1 to 47).  This declaration leaves questions unanswered about who collected my mail and how they knew there was mail to be collected from the Ballarat Courier mail office.  On both occasions, when a third person collected this mail, I telephoned Cathy, informing her that the Ballarat Courier had notified me that mail was waiting to be picked up. 

“And that, I mean that relates directly to the monitoring of your service where, where it would indicate that monitoring was taking place without your consent?” File 23-A Exhibit 1 to 47

 

Children's lives could be at risk

Comments made from the Herald Sun newspaper dated 30 August 1993, confirm just how damaging some of these newspaper articles were to my already ailing business with statements like:

“The Royal Children’s Hospital has told a holiday camp operators in Portland that it cannot send chronically ill children there because of Telecom’s poor phone service. The hospital has banned trips after fears that the children’s lives could be at risk in a medical emergency if the telephone service to the Portland camp continued to malfunction”.

The centre’s stand follows letters from schools, community groups, companies and individuals who have complained about the phone service at Portland’s Cape Bridgewater Holiday camp.”

Youths from the Royal Children’s Centre for Adolescent Health, who were suffering from “chronic illnesses”, visited the camp earlier this year.   

Group leader Ms Louise Rolls said in a letter to the camp the faulty phones had endangered lives and the hospital would not return to the camp unless the phone service could be guaranteed” Arbitrator File No/90

After the Melbourne Children's Hospital recorded a near-death experience with me having to rush a sick child with cancer to the Portland Hospital 18 kilometres away from my holiday camp, Telstra finally decided to take my telephone faults seriously. None of the 35 children (all with cancer-related illnesses) had mobile phones, nor did the six or so nurses and carers. Mobile telephones could not operate successfully in Cape Bridgewater until 2004, eleven years after this event. My coin-operated gold phone was also plagued with phone problems, and it took several tries to ring out of the holiday camp. An ambulance arrived once we could contact the Hospital. 

After five years, it took this almost tragic event for Telstra to send someone with real technical experience to my business. Telstra's visit occurred on 3 June 1993, six weeks after the Children's Hospital had vowed never to revisit my camp until I could prove that my camp was telephone fault-free. No hospital that offers convalescent care has ever visited my business, even after I sold it in December 2001.