MV Ligar Bay II

8^th July 1983 and my leave was up. I was told to head back to Peterhead and the Ligar Bay for a second trip. I caught the train to Gatwick Airport, then a plane to Edinburgh and another to Peterhead. Finally I got a taxi to the berth just as the ship was about to leave. Bloody Peterhead, I spent more time than I care to remember there. I always found it to be a dull, dour, Scottish town. Worse if you were moored on the south side of Peterhead Bay, as we were on the Ligar Bay, you had a long walk around the bay, past Invernettie Prison, into town. Anyway, from Peterhead the ship then made its way back to Swanscombe and so a couple of days later I was back at home to pick up my motorbike and begin where I’d left off on the previous trip. The chief on this trip was one of the good ones: a giant Scotsman with fiery red hair and a beard to match. He was one of those people that commanded respect without being an asshole—firm, but fair. It made a pleasant change from some of the second-rate buffoons that I had to put up with.

The summer of ‘83 was a hot one, with temperatures climbing into the mid-nineties Fahrenheit. I vividly remember one day working in the cargo space sweating profusely. The airborne dust settled in my hair, and being quick-setting oil-well cement, promptly set. So just for a laugh I kept it and after work showered and set off to the pub in Great Yarmouth sporting a concrete hairdo. Great Yarmouth in summer was a completely different place to Great Yarmouth in winter: it was alive and buzzing. Along with some of the crew, I went to a nightclub—this time minus the concrete hairdo. As soon as we entered we were approached by some girls who were being hassled by some asshole blokes. One of them asked me if I would pretend to be their boyfriend so that these blokes would leave them alone. So I went along with it, even though it almost led to a fight. My reward was some fairly urgent sex in an alley that ran along the length of the hotel—yet another classy experience!

Early August and good news: “Pack Yer Bags” Donnelly was dead. A massive heart attack apparently. I was elated: at last some justice in the universe! I don’t usually like to speak ill of the dead, but I couldn’t stand the man and I raised more than one glass to his demise. I’d met a lot of fairly obnoxious people in my time, but none were as deliberately and spitefully vindictive as that bastard. He stands alone in that respect. The news cheered me up for days! My only regret was that I wouldn’t be able to get even with him personally and much as I’d liked to have pissed on his grave, I really couldn’t be bothered to travel to Ireland to do so even if I had found out where it was. Shortly after I was told that I would be joining the Singularity and so on arrival at Swanscombe I had to take my bike back to Brighton. I stayed on the ship until the 15^th of August when it arrived at Yarmouth and I left for London, bound for Sharpness on the Bristol Channel. I travelled down with the chief, who was going to visit his lady in London.