To add in the Nauru section:

I first met Hammer DeRoburt in 1968, the year Nauru stepped out from under the long shadow of colonial administration and declared itself an independent republic. I was young then, still forming my own understanding of the world, but even at that age I recognised a man who carried himself with quiet authority. He wasn’t loud, he wasn’t theatrical, and he didn’t need to be. There was a steadiness about him — a gentleman’s calm, the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you stand for.

Nauru was celebrating its independence when I first shook his hand. The island was small, the population smaller still, but the pride in the air was enormous. DeRoburt had been the driving force behind that moment. He had spent years pushing back against the Australian administration and the British Phosphate Commission, insisting that the Nauruan people deserved control over their own land, their own resources, and their own future. When he spoke, he did so with a clarity that made you listen. He didn’t waste words. He didn’t need to.

That first meeting stayed with me. I didn’t know then how deeply his leadership would shape the Pacific, or how fiercely he would fight for his people in the years ahead. But I knew I had met a man of substance.

From 1968 onward, DeRoburt carried the weight of a new nation on his shoulders. Independence was not a ceremonial ribbon‑cutting; it was a daily grind of building institutions from scratch. Nauru had no long‑established ministries, no deep bench of bureaucrats, no blueprint for governance. What it had was phosphate — and the scars of decades of exploitation. The interior of the island had been carved out and left barren, a reminder of how little the colonial powers had cared for the land or the people who lived on it.

DeRoburt understood that independence meant nothing without economic sovereignty. The phosphate belonged to Nauru, and he intended to reclaim it. Those early years were consumed by negotiations with the British Phosphate Commission, a battle of wills between a tiny island nation and three powerful governments. But DeRoburt was not intimidated. He had a way of speaking plainly, almost softly, but with a firmness that left no doubt about his resolve.

By the time I met him again in 1973, the transformation was already underway. He remembered me — or at least he made me feel as though he did — and he greeted me with the same gentle dignity I had seen years earlier. But there was something different in him too. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had won battles most people never even saw.

In the years between our meetings, Nauru had taken control of its phosphate industry. It was one of the most remarkable economic turnarounds in modern history. A nation that had been stripped of its wealth for decades suddenly found itself in command of its own resources. The revenue poured in, and for a brief moment Nauru became one of the richest countries per capita in the world.

But the victory was not just financial. It was moral. For generations, Nauruans had watched foreign powers profit from their land while leaving behind environmental devastation. DeRoburt’s achievement was a reclamation of dignity as much as it was a reclamation of wealth.

Yet even as the island prospered, the pressures on him grew. A younger generation of Nauruan leaders began to challenge his authority. They were educated abroad, ambitious, and impatient for change. They accused him of holding too much power, of centralising decision‑making, of failing to prepare the nation for a future beyond phosphate. Some of their criticisms were fair; others were born of political rivalry. But DeRoburt, who had spent his life fighting external forces, now found himself fighting internal ones.

By 1974 and 1975, the cracks in Nauru’s political landscape were widening. The economy was strong but vulnerable, tied almost entirely to a single resource. The environmental damage was irreversible. And the political unity that had carried the island through independence was beginning to fracture.

Through it all, DeRoburt remained the same man I had met twice — calm, dignified, and quietly determined. He was not a perfect leader, but he was the leader Nauru needed in those years. Without him, independence might have been delayed or diluted. Without him, the phosphate industry might never have been reclaimed. Without him, Nauru’s brief era of prosperity might never have existed at all.

When I look back on those years now, I see a man who carried an entire nation on his back. He was a negotiator, a statesman, a strategist, and above all, a gentleman. The world may remember him as the founding President of Nauru, but I remember him as the man who shook my hand twice — once at the dawn of independence, and again at the height of his power — and left me with the unmistakable impression of a leader who understood the weight of history and bore it with grace.

Those seven years, from 1968 to 1975, were the defining chapter of his life and of Nauru’s. And I count myself fortunate to have witnessed even a small part of it.

By the time I did my third long voyage to New Zealand and Australia, something had shifted inside me. I wasn’t just surviving the work anymore — I was settling into it, understanding it, even enjoying parts of it I hadn’t noticed before. The rhythm of the ship, the long days at sea, the quiet moments before dawn when the galley was mine alone — these things had become part of me. I didn’t say enough about that the first time around.

So I’m adding this now, not to repeat myself, but to fill in the gaps. To give the reader a clearer picture of what those voyages really were: not just hard work and long hours, but a kind of education the sea gives only to those who stay long enough to listen. These trips taught me patience, taught me resilience, taught me how to read a ship and a crew and myself. They were my favourite voyages for a reason, and I want the reader to understand why.

And with that in mind, I return to the moment when we were closing in on New Zealand…

My day always started before anyone else on the ship had even begun to stir. Long before the first boots hit the alleyway or the first curse drifted up from the engine room, I was already in the galley. Half past five. The sky outside still a dull smear of grey. The sea carrying that heavy, early‑morning weight I came to know so well.

I’d be tying down flour bags so they didn’t slide across the deck, bracing myself against the roll while mixing dough for forty hungry men. The ovens rattled when the ship pitched. The mixing bowls had to be wedged with damp cloths to stop them wandering. And I moved with the instinctive balance you only learn after years of working on a floor that never stays still.

There was a rhythm to it — the thump of dough on the bench, the hum of the engines, the hiss of the first kettle boiling. The smell of yeast drifted slowly through the ship, and even the blokes who pretended not to care would lift their heads in their bunks and breathe it in. Bread mattered out there. It could turn a bad day into a tolerable one, a long voyage into something bearable, and a miserable crew into something slightly less murderous. I knew that better than anyone.

I also knew the other economy that kept a ship running — the one no one wrote down. Slush, the rendered fat skimmed from roasting pans, was worth more than gold in certain corners. Engineers wanted it for machinery. I wanted favours: a light replaced, a fridge latch fixed, a bit of extra cold storage space. Quiet deals over the galley counter kept the whole ship moving. Diesel, sweat, and slush — that was the real fuel.

On long-haul trips between the UK, Australia, and the Americas, food became the emotional weather. A good meal lifted the whole ship. A bad one could sink morale faster than a storm. When the fresh meat ran out — and it often did when port delays dragged on — I had to face the crew with tins of bully beef and apologies. I still remember one voyage in the sixties when the Sunday roast was replaced with salted tinned meat. The crew refused to work until someone explained why their dinner tasted like it had been stored in a lifeboat for a decade. The bosun stormed into my galley, waving a fork. I pointed to the empty, cold room. The ship slowed to a crawl until the next port. Not a mutiny, not officially — but close enough that the logbook politely skipped the details.

In the tropics, the galley turned into a furnace. Heat pressed in from all sides, thick and relentless. My shirt would be soaked through before breakfast was even served. Fresh vegetables wilted within days. I relied on tins, salt, and whatever ingenuity I could muster. The “salads” were a joke — canned beetroot, tinned peas, onions drowned in vinegar — but the men ate them anyway, grateful for anything that wasn’t beige or boiled.

The second cook peeled potatoes until his hands cramped. The baker wiped flour from his eyebrows. The steward carried trays through a doorway that swung like a pendulum. The galley smelled of boiling cabbage, diesel fumes, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of tinned peas. It was unbearable at times, but it was also the heart of the ship. News travelled through my galley faster than through the radio room. Tempers flared there, but so did laughter.

The requests were endless and often ridiculous. The engineer who wanted porridge thick enough to stand a spoon in. The deckhand who said the tea was “too weak to drown a fly.” The West Indian AB who begged for Scotch bonnet peppers I had no hope of finding in the middle of the Indian Ocean. And yet, whenever we reached port, I’d head straight for the markets, hunting for spices, fresh herbs, anything to break the monotony. In Aden, I’d haggle for coriander. In Colombo, I’d buy turmeric by the handful. In Fremantle, I’d return with bags of onions and whatever else I could carry. These small victories mattered. A pinch of something new could lift the whole crew.

Shore leave never lasted long enough, but it gave me a chance to breathe air that didn’t smell of steam and diesel. I’d return to the ship with pockets full of spices and a grin that told the men they were in for something better than tinned peas. That night, they’d gather near the galley door, pretending they weren’t checking what was for dinner, sniffing the air like hopeful dogs.

Life aboard wasn’t romantic, no matter what the brochures claimed. It was hard, hot, relentless work. The steward was polishing cutlery at midnight. Me, the cook, who hadn’t had a day off in months. The second cook is learning to chop onions on a rolling deck without losing a fingertip. These were the truths that never made it into official histories. But they were the truths that mattered. The camaraderie in the mess room. The quiet pride in a well‑cooked meal. The unspoken rules that kept the ship running. These were the things that held a crew together.

And somewhere in the middle of all that heat and noise and barter and bread, I was living a story no one thought to write down — the story of men who kept ships moving across the world, one meal at a time.

New Zealand

 

 

By the time we were closing in on New Zealand, I could feel the change before I ever saw it. The men were restless in that way crews always get when land is close enough to smell but still too far to touch. The sea told me first. The long Pacific swell eased into a steadier rhythm, and the colour shifted from deep blue to a greener shade, as if the coastline was already bleeding into the water.

I noticed it while cracking eggs into a bowl. The light coming through the porthole had softened — not the harsh, white glare of the tropics, but something gentler. I stopped for a moment, wiped my hands on my apron, and leaned closer to the glass. There was nothing to see yet, just the faintest smudge on the horizon, but I felt it. Land always made itself known long before it appeared.

Word travelled fast. Someone on the bridge had spotted the first outline of the North Island, and within minutes the men were drifting toward the deck, pretending they had business topside. The steward, carrying a tray of mugs back to the galley, lingered by the open doorway, letting the cool air wash over him. After weeks of heat and tinned vegetables, the promise of fresh produce and a night ashore felt like a blessing.

I finished breakfast service quicker than usual, driven by the same anticipation that had hold of the rest of the crew. Once the last tray was stacked and the bench wiped down, I stepped outside for the first time that morning. The wind carried the scent of pine and damp earth — a smell I didn’t realise I’d missed until it hit me. The sea was home, but land had its own pull.

As we drew closer, the coastline sharpened into view: rolling green hills, white‑tipped waves breaking against dark rocks, and the faint outline of a harbour town tucked into the curve of the bay. Fishing boats dotted the water like scattered toys, and gulls circled overhead, their cries cutting through the engine noise. The men leaned on the rails, pointing out landmarks, arguing over which port we were entering, even though most of them had been there before. It didn’t matter. The excitement was always the same.

I headed back to the galley to prepare the arrival meal — something simple but hearty to keep the men going until they could get ashore. I fried onions in a pan, the smell drifting through the ship and mixing with the scent of land. The second cook peeled potatoes with a bit more enthusiasm than usual, humming to himself. Even the baker, who was normally grumpy after a long morning, seemed lighter on his feet.

When we finally eased into the harbour, the engines throttled back and the deck vibrated with that familiar shudder of docking. Lines were thrown, orders shouted, and the gangway clattered into place. The steward was one of the first ashore, carrying a list of supplies I’d scribbled in pencil: fresh vegetables, fruit, spices — anything green. I stayed aboard a little longer to oversee the unloading, but my eyes kept drifting toward the town.

New Zealand ports always had a charm of their own — rugged coastline mixed with small‑town warmth. Weatherboard houses with overflowing gardens, shops that smelled of fresh bread and damp wool, locals who greeted us with a mix of curiosity and familiarity. I made my way to the market with a canvas bag over my shoulder and began my ritual of choosing produce with the care of a jeweller examining gemstones. Carrots still dusted with soil. Cabbages crisp and cool. Apples that smelled like orchards, not storage rooms. I bought more than I needed, knowing the crew would devour anything fresh.

I lingered at a spice stall, running my fingers over jars filled with colours I hadn’t seen in months. The woman behind the counter — silver hair, sharp eyes — watched me with amusement. “Ship’s cook, are you?” she said. I nodded. She handed me a small packet wrapped in paper. “Try this. Good for stews.” I didn’t ask what it was. I trusted the look in her eyes. I slipped it into my pocket like a secret.

By late afternoon, the crew had scattered across the town — some to the pubs, others to the shops, a few just walking along the shoreline, breathing in the cool air. I found myself in a small café overlooking the harbour, sipping strong tea and watching the ship from a distance. From shore, she looked smaller, almost fragile — a reminder of how much the sea demanded from those of us who worked upon it.

As evening settled, the men returned in groups, laughing, carrying parcels, cheeks flushed from drink and fresh air. I went back to the galley and unpacked my treasures with the satisfaction of a man who knew he’d make the next week’s meals something worth remembering. I washed the vegetables, lined them up on the bench, and began planning dishes in my head. The galley felt different now — cooler, brighter, filled with the promise of flavours I hadn’t been able to offer in weeks.

We stayed in port overnight. The town lights reflected on the water like scattered stars. Some men slept aboard, others found rooms ashore, but I stayed in my cabin, listening to the quiet hum of the harbour. It was a different kind of silence than the open sea — softer, more forgiving.

At dawn, the engines rumbled back to life. The crew returned, some bleary‑eyed, others refreshed, all carrying the faint scent of land on their clothes. I served breakfast — eggs, fresh fruit, bread still warm from the oven — and the men ate with the enthusiasm of those who knew it would be a long time before they tasted such things again.

By mid‑morning, we slipped out of the harbour, the coastline shrinking behind us. I stood on deck for a moment, watching New Zealand fade into the mist. Ahead lay the long stretch toward the Dutch West Indies — weeks of open water, unpredictable weather, and the relentless routine of shipboard life. But the galley was stocked, the crew was fed, and I felt ready.

I went back inside, rolled up my sleeves, and started preparing the midday meal. The ship creaked and groaned as it settled back into its ocean rhythm, and the familiar sway returned beneath my feet. The sea had reclaimed us, and the journey carried on.

En route to the Dutch West Indies

Once we cleared the last of the New Zealand headlands and the coastline slipped behind us like a page turning, the ship settled into that long, steady rhythm only the Pacific can give. There’s a moment on every voyage when you feel the land fall away from you, not just physically but in your bones. The air changes first — it loses the smell of soil and trees and becomes clean in a way that’s almost sharp. Then the swell stretches out, long and lazy, as if the ocean is taking a deep breath before deciding what mood it will be in for the next few weeks.

I remember standing on deck that first morning, the sun just lifting itself over the horizon, the sea flat as hammered tin. I leaned on the rail with a mug of tea, still half asleep, and watched the wake stretch out behind us like a white scar. Ahead of us was nothing but blue. Behind us, New Zealand was already a memory. And somewhere far beyond the curve of the world lay Curaçao — a place I’d never seen, only heard about in stories from older hands who spoke of it with a mixture of heat, colour, and trouble.

The galley became my world again. Once we were clear of land, the routine tightened around me like a belt. Breakfast, clean‑up, prep, lunch, clean‑up, baking, dinner, clean‑up, collapse. The sea was kind at first, giving me a few days of calm to settle into the rhythm. I used the fresh vegetables I’d bought in New Zealand like a man guarding treasure. The crew devoured them, knowing full well it would be weeks before they saw anything green again.

By the fifth day, the weather began to shift. The swell grew steeper, the wind picked up, and the ship started that slow, rolling dance that makes pots slide and knives wander if you’re not careful. I tied down everything that could move and braced myself against the bench as I worked. There’s a strange comfort in cooking during a storm — the noise, the heat, the constant need to adjust your balance. It forces you into the moment. You can’t think about home or the next port or the endless stretch of sea ahead. You think only about the next pan, the next tray, the next wave.

One night the storm hit properly. The kind that makes the whole ship shudder like it’s alive and angry. I was in the middle of stirring a pot of stew when the ship lurched so violently I had to grab the rail with both hands. The ladle flew across the galley and clattered against the bulkhead. The pot slid an inch before the rope stopped it. I swore loud enough for the engineers to hear me two decks down. The second cook, who’d been chopping onions, ended up on the floor with the chopping board on his lap. We looked at each other and burst out laughing — the kind of laughter that comes from knowing you’re completely at the mercy of the sea and there’s nothing to do but ride it out.

The storm lasted two days. The crew staggered through the alleyways like drunkards, grabbing at handrails, cursing the weather, cursing the ship, cursing the owners. I kept the meals simple — stews, soups, anything that could be ladled into a bowl and eaten with one hand while the other held onto something solid. When the storm finally eased, the sea flattened out again as if nothing had happened. That’s the Pacific for you — unpredictable, unforgiving, and utterly indifferent.

A week later we hit the doldrums. The air turned thick and heavy, the sea smooth as glass. The ship crawled forward, engines labouring in the heat. The galley became a furnace. I’d stand over the stove with sweat running down my back, the air so still it felt like breathing through cloth. The crew moved slowly, their shirts sticking to their skin, their tempers short. Even the officers looked wilted.

Flying fish began landing on deck at night, their silver bodies scattered like coins tossed by a careless god. The deckhands collected them in buckets, and I fried them up for breakfast. They tasted of salt and sunlight, and the men ate them with the enthusiasm of people desperate for something different.

The nights were the worst. The heat didn’t lift, not even after sunset. I’d lie in my bunk with the porthole open, listening to the low thrum of the engines and the occasional slap of a wave against the hull. Sleep came in short bursts. Sometimes I’d get up and walk the deck, the sea glowing faintly under the moon, the air thick enough to chew. Those were the moments when the loneliness crept in — not sadness, just the awareness of how small we were out there, a single ship in an ocean big enough to swallow continents.

But there were good moments too. The camaraderie that only comes from shared discomfort. The jokes in the mess room. The way the crew would gather near the galley door when they smelled something promising. The satisfaction of pulling a tray of bread from the oven and hearing the men fall silent as they tasted it. Those small victories kept me going.

As we pushed further east, the weather shifted again. The heat remained, but the wind picked up, carrying with it the faintest hint of something different — a smell I couldn’t place at first. It wasn’t land, not yet, but it was a change, and after weeks of sameness, any change felt like a gift.

I remember the morning I realised we were getting close. I was standing at the galley porthole, peeling potatoes, when I caught a scent on the breeze — spices, maybe, or flowers, or just the warm breath of a different sea. I stopped peeling and leaned closer to the glass. The horizon looked the same, but something in the air had shifted. Curaçao was still days away, but the ocean was already whispering its approach.

I finished the potatoes, washed my hands, and stepped out onto the deck. The sun was rising, the sky streaked with orange and gold. The crew moved about their duties with a little more energy, as if they felt it too. The long haul was nearly over. Ahead lay the Dutch West Indies — heat, colour, noise, and whatever trouble we’d find waiting for us.

I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on my apron, and went back to the galley. Breakfast wasn’t going to cook itself.

Arriving at Curacoa 

I knew we were getting close to Curaçao long before anyone on the bridge said a word. There’s a particular feel to that part of the Caribbean, a thickness in the air that settles on your skin like warm oil. Even before the island shows itself, the sea changes colour — a deeper blue, almost too blue, as if someone had tipped dye into it. I’d been there twice before, and the memory of it came back to me in a rush: the heat, the noise, the smell of spices and diesel and fruit rotting sweetly in the sun. I stood at the galley porthole peeling potatoes when the first hint of it drifted in, and I stopped mid‑peel, knife in hand, just breathing it in. Curaçao. I could have picked it out blindfolded.

I wiped my hands on my apron and went out onto the deck. The sun was already high, the sky a hard, unforgiving blue. The crew were scattered along the rails, squinting at the horizon. Someone shouted that he could see land, and within seconds half the ship was leaning over the starboard side, pointing and arguing about who’d spotted it first. I didn’t bother joining the debate. I just stood there quietly, letting the sight of that familiar coastline rise out of the haze.

Willemstad always appeared like a painting — too bright, too colourful, too unreal to be a working port. The buildings along the waterfront were painted in colours you’d never see in England or New Zealand: pinks, yellows, blues, greens, all glowing in the sun like boiled sweets. Even from a distance you could see the red roofs and the white trim, the whole place looking like it had been scrubbed clean for our arrival. But I knew better. Behind those postcard colours was a city that pulsed with noise and heat and life, a place where the air smelled of frying fish, diesel fumes, and spices that clung to your clothes long after you’d left.

As we drew closer, the heat hit us like a wall. It wasn’t the gentle warmth of the Pacific or the crisp air of New Zealand — this was heavy, humid, the kind of heat that wrapped itself around you and refused to let go. Sweat started running down my back before we’d even reached the harbour mouth. The crew stripped off their shirts, laughing and swearing, already remembering what Curaçao did to a man’s body.

The harbour itself was chaos, as always. Tugs darted around like angry dogs, horns blaring, their crews shouting instructions in a mix of Dutch, Papiamentu, and English. Fishing boats weaved between them, their decks piled high with nets and crates of fish that stank even from where we stood. The water was a swirl of oil slicks, floating debris, and flashes of silver as small fish darted away from our bow. The smell was overwhelming — diesel, salt, rotting seaweed, and something sweet and spicy drifting from the market stalls along the quay.

I leaned on the rail, watching it all with a grin I couldn’t hide. I’d forgotten how alive Curaçao felt. Some ports were sleepy, some were grim, some were nothing more than a place to load cargo and leave. But Curaçao… Curaçao had a pulse. It throbbed with colour and sound. Even the air tasted different.

As we approached the wharf, the dockworkers gathered, waving their arms, shouting instructions, laughing among themselves. They moved with a kind of effortless rhythm, their bodies loose and confident in the heat. I recognised one of them — a tall man with a red bandana tied around his head. I’d met him on my last visit. He spotted me leaning over the rail and shouted something I couldn’t hear, but the grin on his face told me he remembered me too.

The captain barked orders from the bridge, the bosun yelled back, and the deckhands scrambled to get the lines ready. The ship shuddered as the tugs nudged us into position. The sun beat down on us, the metal deck hot enough to fry an egg. The smell of the island grew stronger — spices, sweat, frying plantains, the faint tang of rum drifting from the bars just beyond the docks.

When the gangway finally clattered into place, the dockworkers swarmed aboard, laughing, shouting, slapping backs. One of them grabbed my hand and shook it so hard I thought he’d pull my arm off. “You back again, Cookie!” he shouted. “We thought you forget us!” I laughed and told him I’d never forget Curaçao, not in a hundred years.

I made my way down the gangway, the heat hitting me full in the face. The ground felt solid and strange after weeks at sea. The market stalls were already open, the air thick with the smell of spices — cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves — mixed with the sweetness of ripe mangoes and the sharp tang of citrus. Women in bright dresses called out to us, waving bunches of herbs and baskets of fruit. Children darted between the stalls, laughing, chasing each other, their bare feet slapping against the dusty ground.

I headed straight for the spice stall I remembered from my last visit. The woman behind it recognised me instantly. “Ah! The ship’s cook!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You come back for more?” She handed me a small pouch before I even asked. “This one is special. You use it in stew. Make the men happy.” I thanked her and bought more than I needed, knowing the crew would appreciate every pinch of flavour I could bring back aboard.

The heat was relentless, but I didn’t mind. Curaçao had a way of getting under your skin — the colours, the smells, the noise, the people. It was a place that felt alive in a way few ports did. As I walked back toward the ship, bags of spices and fruit in my hands, I felt that familiar mix of excitement and exhaustion. I knew the next few days would be busy — loading cargo, stocking the galley, dealing with the chaos that always came with a Caribbean port — but I also knew I’d enjoy every minute of it.

When I reached the gangway, I paused for a moment and looked back at the waterfront. The buildings glowed in the afternoon sun, the water shimmered like glass, and the air buzzed with life. I’d been here before, and I knew I’d be here again. Curaçao had a way of calling you back.

And standing there, sweat running down my neck, the smell of spices in my hands, I felt it again — that strange, familiar pull of a place that wasn’t home but felt like it could be, if only the sea would let you stay long enough.

 

Leaving Curacoa 

The nights ashore in Curaçao were something else entirely. No matter how many times I’d been there, the place hit me the same way every visit — like stepping into a furnace full of music. The heat didn’t ease after sunset; if anything, it grew heavier, settling on your shoulders like a wet blanket. The air smelled of rum, frying fish, sweat, and spices that clung to your clothes long after you’d left the bars. The colours of the buildings didn’t fade with the daylight either; they glowed under the streetlamps, pinks and yellows and blues so bright they looked painted on the night itself.

I remember walking down the waterfront road with a few of the lads, the sound of drums and laughter drifting out of every doorway. Women in bright dresses leaned in the doorways calling out to us, their voices warm and teasing. The bars were packed, bodies moving shoulder to shoulder, the music so loud you could feel it in your ribs. Steel drums, guitars, voices rising in harmonies that made the whole street vibrate. I’d been in ports all over the world, but Curaçao had a rhythm that got into your bones.

We ended up in a bar I’d been to on my last visit — a place with a low ceiling, a long wooden counter, and a band squeezed into a corner playing like their lives depended on it. The bartender recognised me straight away. “Ah! English cook!” he shouted over the music, slapping a glass of rum on the counter before I’d even opened my mouth. “You come back for more trouble?” I laughed and told him trouble usually found me whether I wanted it or not.

The rum was strong enough to make your eyes water, but after weeks at sea it tasted like freedom. The lads scattered — some dancing, some drinking, some trying their luck with the local girls. I stayed at the bar for a while, watching the room. The heat was unbelievable. Sweat ran down my back, my shirt sticking to me, but I didn’t care. The music, the laughter, the smell of spices and rum — it was all part of the place.

At one point a man sat beside me, tall, dark-skinned, with a smile that could light up the whole island. He introduced himself as Manuel and told me he worked on the tugs. He’d seen our ship come in earlier and recognised me from a previous voyage. “You always look like you belong here,” he said, and I told him I felt that way sometimes. We talked for an hour about ships, storms, food, and women — the usual topics that keep sailors alive. He slapped my shoulder when he left and told me not to get into too much trouble. I told him I’d try, but I wasn’t making any promises.

Later in the night, the trouble arrived anyway. It always did. One of our lads — a young AB with more rum than sense in him — started arguing with a local over a girl. Voices rose, chairs scraped, and before I knew it the two of them were squaring up. I stepped between them, hands out, telling them both to calm down. The local man looked at me, then at the AB, then burst out laughing. “Your friend cannot even stand straight,” he said, pointing at the lad swaying behind me. He was right. The tension broke, the two men shook hands, and the girl rolled her eyes and walked away. Crisis averted.

We stumbled back to the ship in the early hours, the sky just beginning to lighten. The heat hadn’t eased at all. My shirt was soaked, my head buzzing, my pockets full of spices and fruit I’d bought from a woman outside the bar. I climbed the gangway with the kind of tiredness that feels good — the kind that comes from living, not just working.

The next morning the harbour was already alive with noise. Dockworkers shouting, cranes clanking, tugs blasting their horns. The sun was brutal, the air thick with the smell of diesel and frying plantains. I worked in the galley with the doors open, letting the sounds of the island drift in. The crew were slow to rise, most of them nursing hangovers, but they perked up quickly when they smelled breakfast. Fresh fruit, strong coffee, and a few local spices thrown into the eggs — a small reminder of the night before.

We stayed in Curaçao long enough to load the last of the cargo and restock the galley. Then, as always, the time came to leave. The tugs pulled us away from the wharf, the dockworkers waved, and the colours of Willemstad slowly faded behind us. I stood on deck watching the island shrink, feeling that familiar tug in my chest. Curaçao had a way of getting under your skin. I knew I’d miss it the moment it disappeared from view.

The next leg was long — across the Atlantic toward France. The weather was kinder than the Pacific had been. Long swells, steady winds, days that blurred into each other. I fell back into the routine of the galley, cooking for men who were already dreaming of European ports and cold beer. The butter cargo from New Zealand sat deep in the hold, frozen solid, waiting for its turn to be unloaded.

France appeared out of a grey morning, the coastline rising slowly through the mist. The air smelled different — cooler, sharper, with a hint of something metallic. We docked in a port that felt worlds away from Curaçao. The buildings were pale, the people brisk, the language flowing around us like water. We unloaded part of the butter cargo there, the cranes lifting the frozen blocks as if they weighed nothing. I went ashore long enough to buy bread and cheese, the kind you can’t get anywhere else. The crew devoured it that night, grateful for a taste of Europe.

From France, we headed north to Liverpool. The weather turned colder, the sea rougher, the sky a constant grey. Liverpool was familiar — noisy, busy, full of life. We unloaded more of the butter there, the docks echoing with the shouts of stevedores and the clatter of machinery. I went ashore for a pint in a pub that smelled of smoke and old wood, the kind of place where sailors have been drinking for centuries. It felt like stepping into a memory.

The final leg took us down to London, the Thames winding its way through the city like a living thing. The London docks were a world of their own — cranes, warehouses, barges, men shouting in every accent imaginable. We unloaded the last of the New Zealand lamb there, the cold air biting at our faces as the cargo left the hold. I watched it go with a strange sense of satisfaction. The journey that had begun in the cool air of New Zealand had finally come full circle.

When the last crate was gone and the hatches closed, I stood on deck looking out over the river, the city lights reflecting on the water. I felt tired, proud, and ready for whatever came next. That’s the thing about life at sea — there’s always another voyage waiting, another port, another story.

And I knew, even then, that Curaçao would call me back again someday.

 

The Big Girls 

You arrive on the rig long before you ever touch it. The chopper announces it for you — the thump‑thump‑thump of the rotors beating the Indian Ocean air into submission, the vibration running up through your boots, the smell of aviation fuel mixing with salt. Below you, the gas platform rises out of the sea like a steel city on stilts, a place that looks too fragile to trust and too permanent to ever leave. Thirty days. That’s your sentence and your pay packet.

The landing is always rougher than you expect. The deck crew crouches low, helmets on, hands signalling you forward. The wind tries to shove you sideways as you duck under the blades and hurry toward the safety door. Inside, the noise drops but the feeling doesn’t. You’re offshore now. The mainland is a rumour.

As the cook, you don’t get time to settle. Your twelve‑hour shift starts the moment your boots hit the galley floor. The kitchen is bigger than a tug’s, but not by much, and everything is stainless steel — benches, sinks, ovens, trays — all bolted down, all humming with the vibration of machinery running day and night. The rig never sleeps, so neither do you, not properly. You work in cycles: breakfast for the night crew coming off shift, breakfast for the day crew going on, then straight into prep for lunch, then dinner, then cleaning, then tomorrow’s prep. The clock means nothing. The bellies of a hundred men mean everything.

The noise is constant. Generators. Compressors. The low, endless drone of the platform breathing. Even in the galley you feel the rig shudder when a crane swings a load or when the swell hits the legs just right. The men come in hungry, tired, sunburnt, wind‑blasted. They don’t want fancy food. They want fuel — roasts, curries, fried fish, mountains of potatoes, trays of eggs, bread by the loaf. You learn their faces, their moods, their silences.

Nights offshore are another world. The platform glows like a floating refinery, lights reflecting off black water. You step outside for a breather and the ocean stretches forever, no land, no escape, just the wind and the hum of the rig. You feel small, but you feel part of something too — a machine that needs you as much as it needs gas, steel, and fire.

And when the chopper finally comes to take you home, you leave smelling of oil, sweat, and stainless steel, knowing you’ve earned every cent of your thirty‑day swing.