Читать книгу The Captain's Log - Hans Psy.D. Mateboer - Страница 3

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, cruising was in its infancy, and only a small, select group of visionaries grasped the opportunity and fashioned a whole new industry. Most people in those years agreed that this was more a last flickering of desperate hope, during the twilight years of once proud transatlantic liner companies on which the sun was setting fast.

A fledgling group of them was hanging on and desperately tried to make ends meet. Their hanging on, in most cases, was more for the sake of not being able to sell off their old ships, rather than the keen business sense of perceiving the better times to come. They used their old ships, dinosaurs and hardly suitable for cruising, that somehow had managed to escape the torches of the scrap yards where so many of their mates had met their fate.

The general public was not yet aware that one of the greatest vacations could be found on the high seas, and the cruise companies had no defined strategy of how to tell them. Not only were the potential passengers ignorant of this, but so were we, the seafarers. All we knew was that the days of the great Atlantic liners were over and done with, thanks to companies like Boeing and Douglas.

Our knowledge of the cruise lines was limited to the fact that they were steadily losing money. A sort of animosity even existed against the few officers who had remained faithful and were sailing these big white ships. They sure had to be sissies and must hate an honest day of work. They were considered outcasts from the society of mariners, daring to live a life of luxury, which had nothing to do with real ships.

Sometimes during my days on cargo ships we met them at sea. During the day, their high, spotlessly painted white hulls, visible from many miles distance, or at night, lit up like Christmas trees. Standing on the bridge of my rusty old workhorse, I kept looking at them through my binoculars with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. I would try to spot girls in bikinis, sipping their drinks at the pool bar—girls we sorely missed, and who were so often the subject of our discussions during our off duty hours, especially after we had met one of those ships. I kept watching, straining my eyes, till only a smoke plume could be seen over the horizon. I would never work on these ships. Can you imagine having to dress up all the time, hosting complete strangers at the dinner table, dancing till late at night? No, Sir, not me; I was a seaman.

Unlike most other children, already at a young age, I knew what I wanted to be, captain and nothing else. This certain knowledge, strangely enough gave me an edge over the other kids, as there never was any doubt in my mind. In my little town, I was given credit for being an authority on the subject of the seas, based on my insatiable appetite for books about ships and mariners. Nobody, and certainly not me, realized that books about the voyages of James Cook and the adventures of Caribbean pirates hardly add to the creation of an authority on modern day shipping and most definitely do not prepare one adequately for a life at sea.

It must have been galling to my mother that this little whim of mine would not go away with the years.

“What do you want to be, son?”

“Captain on a ship, Sir.”

Invariably a smile would appear. After all, what kid does not want to be a sea captain at one stage or another in his life? My mother always smiled proudly and agreed. Would not any parent but go along with a five-year-old son’s dreams? Over the years her benevolent smile slowly turned into one of slight alarm when my answers did not change, but after so many years of agreeing, she could not easily back out anymore. A few times she actually made some halfhearted attempts to change my interest into different fields.

Once after I had shown some interest in chemical engineering, she bought me a big box filled with small bottles and glass tubes. A Chemical Kit for Children Ages 12 to 14 it said on the cover. Mother would later come to deeply regret her present. Not only her tactic not work, but it also cost her a new table cloth and a carpet, as my concoctions were not as harmless as the cover of the box promised they would be. A few years later she was not above scheming with a few prospective girlfriends who clearly preferred a plumber or a carpenter to warm them during cold nights, to a captain away from them for months at a time. Nothing worked, and I went to nautical college to prepare for a career at sea.

I went to sea when I was nineteen years old—an apprentice filled with school knowledge that had been all important when preparing for my exams. All too soon I made the painful discovery that much of it was rather useless in real life. In fact, I barely knew port from starboard, and in general, was very ill-prepared for the life that awaited me on that rusty old freighter I boarded in the port of Rotterdam. Mother brought me to the ship, the trunk of her Ford filled with suitcases she had supervised packing, the contents of which I was not at all sure. Her eyes showed more and more alarm as we drove through the harbor area trying to find the ship, while at the same time avoiding forklifts and trucks. Traffic rules so carefully adhered to in normal life did not seem to exist behind the gates we had just passed.

My first trip would take me to West Africa, to places with exotic names like Sierra Leone and Ivory Coast. Little did I realize that the days of the great steamship lines were almost over, and that the ship I was boarding, was a relic from the past that had outlived itself and its profitability already by a good many years. To me the Freetown, although rather rusty, was the start of a new life, a life I had been looking forward to ever since I could remember.

Climbing the long wobbly gangway with only a few ropes as a handrail was a dangerous undertaking, certainly when carrying two suitcases, filled with everything my mother could think of. While packing them, it had taken me a good deal of talking to convince her that the selection of small mirrors and colored beads she insisted I should bring, would not save me from a tribal cooking pot as they had done with various missionaries in times long gone.

“You idiot, are you trying to kill yourself!”

I stopped in my tracks and balancing precariously somewhere halfway up I looked behind me, trying to figure out who the idiot could be that the uniformed man at the top of the gangway was yelling at. There was nobody behind me. To my consternation, he started running down the plank, causing it to sway dangerously. Did he want to pass me on that narrow thing? That was impossible. Before my thoughts could progress any further, the man reached me and grabbed me by my collar with his left hand, while with the other, not too kindly, he took one suitcase from me. A few minutes later we reached the deck of the ship where I received a dressing down, I will not lightly forget. The bearded man appeared to be the Chief Officer of the Freetown, who I later learned possessed a kind and caring heart, but whose verbal expressions and opinions about mankind in general would indicate the total opposite.

The man I met that first minute on board was the prototype of the seamen I would get to know so well during all these years at sea— introverted, rough with words, often very explicit in their choice of them to voice disgust, but so generous with help and always ready to assist the very creatures they so vocally professed to dislike. I soon learned that the lowest form of life was that of those living ashore with a 9:00 to 5:00 job. Particular disgust often was voiced about those anonymous souls who worked at the head office. According to what I heard, these people were never there when needed. According to the speakers, that was just as well, as during the rare occasions when they were available and tried to help, it usually went wrong anyway.

The seamen I sailed with over the years on cargo ships, were often a rough lot, not afraid of anything it seemed, especially not when one listening to them during after-work hours, sitting at the ship’s bar behind an ever increasing number of empty beer glasses.

During those first weeks on the old Freetown I listened to them, red-eared, taking it all in and marveling about this strange world I had entered—a world of fantasies about women and strange adventures in exotic ports, about hurricanes, shifting cargos and North Atlantic gales.

After more than twenty-five years at sea, now I know that most of the stories I was told and believed at that time must have been a compilation of many happenings—adventures that had reached the teller, not through his own experience, but via a neighbor at a bar somewhere in the world, who in turn, most likely also had heard it from somebody else.

I was unpacking my suitcase in a tiny cabin with a desk, a bed, a porthole and just enough space to turn around, provided the chair was under the desk, when suddenly bells started ringing and the ship’s whistles started to blow. Having successfully passed the exams at the nautical college I was sure there had to be some meaning to all this noise, but I simply could not guess what it was. Making a fool of myself had already happened once that day, and doing so twice was clearly not advisable. After all, the gentleman at the gangway had told me that he never wanted to see me again if I kept doing such stupid things. He had used terms that were unfamiliar to me, and it would be many months before I even vaguely would begin to understand them. It was clear, however, that they referred to my whole family, the quality of modern day education, and my appearance in general.

Hurriedly, I pulled out my brand new uniform and put it on, fumbling with the tie. A few days before, I had pictures taken in it out in the yard. My mother very proud, and had wanted to show of to the neighbors and friends. A few kids playing nearby had been very impressed when I appeared in the garden followed by my mother clicking away on her old Kodak. Now, wearing it again, I felt less sure of myself. Gone were the admiring glances of the neighborhood kids, and gone was the respect of the junior students at the academy for their seniors ready to leave for sea.

Finding the navigation bridge only took me about thirty minutes and when entering I found myself in surroundings that looked totally unfamiliar. Without doubt, however, I had arrived at the right place. I saw charts, clocks, brass lamps, an enormous wooden steering wheel exactly as I had expected to see, and an array of mysterious instruments. A small group of men, obviously the officers, going by in their uniforms, were standing in front of a window, staring outside with their backs to me. One of them with four gold stripes on his shoulder boards, was the captain.

At the academy, the teachers had told us about the officers we would meet and how we were expected to behave. Whenever they talked about the captain, they always lowered their voices and told us students that this was an almost godlike figure with dictatorial powers—a man to be friends with and certainly not one to cross.

I had forgotten when entering, that the door to the navigation bridge had needed considerable force to open, and apparently a formidable door closer had been installed.

WHAM!

A gun fired next to me could not have made more noise than the door slamming shut. I almost died right there, and so did the four men with their backs to me. The captain spilled most of his coffee over his starched white uniform. The chief officer recognized me and started another of his colorful descriptions, again including my family, but this time commenting on their actions going back as far as three generations. The captain, mopping his uniform with a napkin, apparently was used to tirades like this and waited patiently for the chief to finish, meanwhile looking at me like a farmer appraising his cattle.

“Who is that?”

“Our new apprentice, Sir.”

“Looks even worse than the one we lost two months ago.”

“I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s your name?”

“Hans Mateboer, Sir.”

“His name is Hans Mateboer.”

“Has he been at sea before?”

“Have you been at sea before?”

“No, Sir. It will be my first trip.”

“It’s his first trip.”

My mouth slowly had dropped open during this one sided conversation. I felt like a cow being sold at a market, and at any moment I expected the captain to open my mouth to have a look at my teeth and check my health. Without saying another word or further acknowledging my existence, he turned around and resumed his conversation with another officer, who, I later learned, was the chief engineer.

A few hours later, a man with only one stripe on his shoulder and therefore much more human in my eyes, came to my cabin. He told me I was expected on the bridge, as we would depart in half an hour. Excitement rushed through my whole body; now it would happen, we would be leaving. My first voyage was about to begin. It was already dark when I arrived on the bridge, making the place look rather eerie with the dimmed lights of the instruments, and the radar sweep casting shadows against the ceiling and against the faces of the men standing behind it. Looking out of the windows, I saw sailors casting off lines upon orders given through a radio by a man who I took to be the pilot, as I had not yet seen him before. He was talking to our captain about river currents and tugboats.

Looking closer, I saw two of them, pulling the Freetown slowly off the pier and into the river, where they cast off their lines. We were on our own and underway to West Africa. I looked around at the lights of the refineries and the city and the factories along the banks, the lights of the incoming and outgoing ships, and listened to the constant chatter on the radio.

I can still relive those hours as if they happened yesterday, and I believe that they were not much different than what any man new to the sea would experience today. I can’t remember how long I stood there, mesmerized by the scenery and the atmosphere, taking it all in, feeling like being in heaven, when suddenly I was roughly disturbed by the chief officer. I started to dislike the man.

“You there, go on deck and help prepare the pilot ladder, he will be leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“The pilot ladder—where do I go?”

He vaguely waved with his hand, indicating a general position somewhere in front of us.

Looking into the darkness on the deck below, I could distinguish a wide variety of equipment, most likely all part of the cargo. Tractors, trucks, crates, and drums, and somewhere in that confusing array must be the pilot ladder.

Finding my way to the deck below proved to be surprisingly easy, and I collected my thoughts, feeling a little more sure of myself. At school we had learned how to prepare this ladder and hang it overboard, so the pilot could climb down into a small boat to leave the ship. At school, however, we always had done this during daytime, with a lot of other students to assist, and at a leisurely pace. Never on a dark deck, clogged with every imaginable piece of equipment the western world had to offer to the lesser developed countries. Never with the help of only one sailor, who at first, in the dark, I could hardly see.

His name was Moses, and while we struggled to get the ladder in place, he told me he was from Sierra Leone in West Africa. Moses was a good man, and talking to him, I received some badly needed nice words—the first ones during that day. Slowly we lowered the ladder over the side, me holding it, while Moses watched how much further it had to go before it was in position.

“Five more feet.”

I had to shift my grip on the rope to another part, and in the dark, blindly grabbed around me to find it. There it was.

“Hey, what are you doing, hold it!”

To my horror, I heard a rumbling sound, then a splash and saw Moses leaning far overboard, both his hands in the air, watching something disappear in the wake of the ship.

“Man, look what you did, you lost the ladder.”

Perplexed, I looked at the rope I was still holding in my hand. It wasn’t part of the pilot ladder after all; it was one of the safety lines instead. Slowly, as if frozen, I dropped it. In the dark, with my inexperienced eyes, every rope looked the same, and I had thought…. Horror stricken, my thoughts focused on the immediate future of having to face the chief officer. There was only one consolation. Without a ladder, he could hardly send me home. Moses stared at me, his eyes wide with amazement.

“It’s the first time we ever lost a pilot ladder, and we only have one. Man, oh man, you better go up and tell them.”

“You did what!”

Four pairs of eyes looked at me: the captain, the pilot, the chief officer, and the third officer. The latter barely able to conceal his delight, as finally somebody had arrived on board who, instead of him, clearly would catch most of the abuse in the future.

I can’t remember how it all ended. I was not fired on the spot or even keelhauled. The incident, however, followed me for years to come, as I was the one who had lost a pilot ladder—a thing that had never happened before in the hundred year history of the company.

What I do remember is that upon going to bed that evening my confidence about a career at sea had disappeared completely. I seriously doubted the fact that I ever would be a true seaman.