MV Ability

The Ability was a small parcel tanker that spent most of its life running up and down the East Coast of Britain from Lerwick in the Shetland Isles to Great Yarmouth and Ipswich. After my two trips on the Stability it was mind-numbingly boring. I hated these little tankers, they were always a let-down after a decent trip on one of the other ships. The same old gloomy places: Ming-Ming, Grangemouth and Peterhead, fitted the gloomy British winter weather to perfection. It was like being on one of the old sailing clippers stuck in the doldrums. The only decent place the ship visited was Leith, and that was only the once! I’d met up with Jock, with whom I’d sailed on the Stability and we had a big night on the heavy around Leith. I joined at Great Yarmouth on the 27^th of October 1982 under the command of a New Zealand skipper, and although I didn’t get to know him that well he seemed like a reasonable bloke. Unfortunately he wasn’t there for too long before paying off. The new skipper was coming and word went round that it was the infamous “Pack Yer Bags” Donnelly: an Irish skipper whose nickname arose from his habit of using that particular phrase when getting rid of those that displeased him. The mate, who had sailed with him on previous occasions, warned us that Donnelly always found a whipping boy and that last time it was him. This time it was to be me!

I’ve no idea why this bastard took a dislike to me, but it certainly didn’t make things pleasant and it was also counterproductive. This is because I was the kind of person that would always go the extra mile if given a pat on the back, but who would dig his heels in and be as stubborn and difficult as possible if crossed. There was no way that the bastard could physically or verbally intimidate me; instead, like all true bullies and cowards he hid behind his uniform and rank. Here’s an example of his mean-minded pettiness: we were tied up alongside at the Grangemouth refinery, it was New Year’s Eve and we were up on the bridge having drinks. Midnight arrived and it was custom that each member of the ship’s crew had a blast on the ship’s horn. As I stepped up for my turn Donnelly turned to me and shouted harshly “What the fuck do you think you’re doing mister?—leave that alone!”

It was one of the pettiest things I have ever encountered. So much for letting old acquaintance be forgot on New Year’s Eve! Without saying a word I turned and left. Inside I was burning with hatred for the man and began to plot my revenge—I was mulling over in my mind how I could physically assault the bastard and get away with. I returned to my cabin and a few minutes later the Chief knocked at the door.

“That was out of order”, he said. “I think he’s realised it and says you can come back up”.

“Oh, he says I can come back up does he?” I replied. “That’s mighty good of him—well tell him to go fuck himself!”

The Chief understood, nodded and left.

Most of the time seemed to be spent at the Grangemouth refinery. We were berthed just across the Forth from Longannet power station and every time we arrived back at Grangemouth the coal heap had increased in size.

“Look” said the Chief engineer—a Yorkshireman—thoughtfully “they’re building up the coal reserves…she’s (Thatcher) getting ready for a fight with the miners.”

He was, of course, later proven to be absolutely right.

I have to say that I didn’t really like Grangemouth, and Falkirk—the closest big town—was not much better. Oil Can Harrys was the place to go in Falkirk apparently, but I found it dull and unexciting on the two or three occasions I went there. I certainly wasn’t interested in the bloody Bon Accord either! There are some good spots in Scotland, but these two places weren’t among them. So I made up some weights and used the time to get myself really fit. I focused my energy when working out by imagining myself punching the crap out of Donnelly’s stupid fat head and by the time I paid off I was a lean and muscular fourteen stone with big biceps and rippling stomach muscles.

One night while I was on watch, the ship was about to enter the harbour at Grangemouth when it had a complete loss of electrical power and blacked out just as it was manoeuvring. The sea-water cooling pump for the generator heat exchangers had lost suction and tripped the diesels on over-temperature. Keeping a cool head, quickly I primed the standby pump and got the generators started again. Power was restored in less than one minute and I had saved the ship from a nasty collision with the dock. No thanks from Donnelly though—not a word! In hindsight I should have taken my time and let the ship hit the wharf, the ungrateful bastard! It turned out to be a blocked strainer on the generator seawater pump. I took it apart; it was amazing what turned up in these things. This time it turned out to be three—yes three—little fishes: ‘Thames Mullet’ (used condoms) to be precise.

At Grangemouth the ship would load predominantly diesel, but also aviation spirit and petrol which it would then take to Aberdeen, Peterhead, Dundee, Inverness and Lerwick. These were the major ports that serviced the North Sea oil platforms and none particularly exciting for a young merchant seaman. Dundee wasn’t too bad because we sailed right up the Firth of Tay almost as far as the Tay Bridge, which meant that we were pretty close to town. And I have to say that I did have a few good nights there, but nothing that really sticks in my memory. Inverness I didn’t really care too much for either. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad town, but it’s way too touristy. Now there’s nothing wrong with tourist towns if you are a young man, but they need to be frequented by a certain type of tourist: basically young girls out for fun. And the type of tourist that visited Inverness was of the more mature, cultural type. The whole town was way too full of tartan and stuff like that for my liking—like a giant tin of shortbread biscuits. I’d probably appreciate Inverness far more now than I did then.

The other route was from the Lindsey refinery at Ming-Ming to Ipswich and Great Yarmouth It too was dull. Ipswich wasn’t too bad because even in winter there was a reasonable nightlife. Again though, nothing really exciting happened there and I didn’t meet any decent girls—or indecent ones for that matter. Yarmouth, although a resort town, looked decidedly bleak in winter: everything was closed down and the clubs and bars virtually empty. I fact I think, from memory, my time on the Ability was served in the absence of any female company at all—which made the time drag even more slowly. I had to content myself with the odd spicy phone call to my girlfriend. To top it all off, because the ship was home trade, we also had no access to duty-free cigarettes and alcohol. Instead we were forced to use the spare cabin to brew our own.

In short, I’ve nothing good to say about my time on the Ability and several weeks later, when we were in Inverness, it was the 14^th of January and I was due to pay off. I couldn’t leave soon enough, but I forced myself to stay just a little longer because Donnelly wanted to go to his favourite pub with the Chief and have a few beers before sailing.

“I’ll sign you off”, said Donnelly, “and then when your replacement arrives you can go”.

I knew where he wanted to go, so took immense pleasure in reminding him that officially he was unable to sign me off until my replacement had arrived, as per company rules, and that he alone had to sign me off. So he had to wait. I, meanwhile, prayed that my replacement would take his time coming. I was not disappointed and Donnelly was furious. It was a small but significant victory.