MV Northridge

For my last trip with Everard I flew out to Antwerp on the 7^th of November 1983 to join the MV Northridge as Third Engineer. Captained by the infamous ‘Jungle Jim’, the ship was engaged on a regular liner service between Europe and West Africa. In a way I was already a little nostalgic at the thought of leaving Fred’s until I realised I was to be sailing with the same asshole of a chief that had me kicked off the Jack Wharton. Only this time, because I was leaving, I was even less inclined to take any of his crap so I made up my mind to wear a stupid smirk on my face whenever I saw him just to piss him off. I hadn’t told him that this was my last trip…I thought I’d keep that one up my sleeve for a while and make it a nice surprise for him. I was just waiting for the first opportunity to tell him just exactly what I thought of him. I’d already got off to a good start with him by forgetting to pack my work-gear which meant that no sooner had I arrived then I had to take a half day off and shoot into town to buy some boots and boilersuits. The ship was berthed at the end of the Kattendijkdok close to the city centre—a short walk along the Londenbrug and the Rijnkaal—which meant that I was able to call into a couple of bars on the way back, including the one where we’d had such fun on the Somersetbrook some three years earlier. The bar in question was more sedate during the day, but nevertheless it was a pleasant trip down memory lane. At that time it was the usual practice for ship’s engineer officers to wear white boilersuits, but unfortunately the only colour I could get was dayglo orange. That meant I stuck out like dog’s balls, which pissed the chief off even more.

            The first night onboard it was my turn to keep generator watch so I stayed while most of the others went ashore. Consequently I was about the only one that wasn’t hung-over the next day. The engineer cadet, on the other hand, was. He’d had a big night on the Stella Artois and looked positively ill as he made his way down to the engine room.

“What’s up mate…have a big night?” I asked sarcastically.

He nodded queasily, whereupon I suggested that what he needed was to go back up to the saloon and have a big fried breakfast. I don’t know whether it was my suggestion, or just nature taking its course, but he promptly turned white and projectile-vomited across the hot exhaust of a running generator. The spew was everywhere and it bubbled and hissed as it cooked on the hot manifold. This, coupled with the rancid stench, kept him vomiting and nearly had me going too. I laughed like a drain. The following morning, however, it was my turn. Having been ashore and drunk far more Stella than I should have, I delivered an action replay of the previous morning. Quite why Stella causes a person to projectile-vomit so violently I don’t know, perhaps it’s not designed to be drunk in the quantity that the average British merchant seaman consumes it. But I’d never vomited with quite such vigour before, and haven’t since.

            From Antwerp, the ship called briefly at Zeebrugge, then Ostend and Dunkirk before heading west along the English Channel, then south. The Bay of Biscay showed itself in its true colours after the calm of the previous four crossings in the Singularity and was back to its usual choppy self. After three or four days however the weather had gradually gotten warmer and by the time we tied up at Las Palmas in the Canary Isles it was fine and warm. I would like to have gone ashore in Las Palmas, but because the ship was carrying dynamite it had to berth right out of town and had to be ready for sea at all times, which meant no going ashore. Instead I had to watch the city come alive at night and everyone enjoying themselves from a distance. The next morning the ship set off for Kamsar and Conakry in Guinea.       

There were continuing problems with the eight cylinder Deutz main engine being starved of fuel on the way to Africa. The fuel oil purifier seemed to be doing its job well enough, and the fuel itself was diesel fuel, not heavy marine fuel oil, and it looked OK. There were also two large in-line filters on the engine itself which looked clean when we pulled them out. We cleaned them in clean diesel oil anyway, just to make sure. But after some initial improvement, the engine revs soon dropped back to barely above idle. The Chief hadn’t a clue as to what the problem might be and was taking his frustrations out on the rest of us—me in particular. I let him carry on for a while but when the time was right I struck.

The Chief was his usual miserable self that particular day. I’ve often wondered how people can be so unhappy all the time—their lives must be terribly sad. Anyway, after some more whinging on his part, I basically told him to shut up. At that point he exploded and immediately threatened to have me paid off. But the Chief was mistaking age and rank for respect and authority. I had no time or respect for people like him or Donnelly. Making sure that there were no witnesses I got right into his face, eyeballed him, and whispered:

“You can fucking pay me off in Africa if you want…you cunt! But I’ll tell you this, this is my last fucking trip and I’ll use your fucking head as a football before I go”.

The colour drained from his face and he swallowed dryly. I was young and fit and he knew from the tone of my voice that I meant business. Sad isn’t it, that physical intimidation is the only way that you can deal with some people? If the man’s people skills were that poor he should never have been in the position that he was in. He was inept as an engineer and took it out on those around him. It turned out that the fuel oil was contaminated after all, and that was the cause of the problem. He stayed out of my way for the rest of the trip.

I remember little of Kamsar as I didn’t go ashore there. And aside from seeing some huge black vultures perched on a warehouse roof, I remember little about Conakry because I didn’t go ashore there either. What I do remember is how brazen the theft of cargo by the dockworkers was. One fellow grabbed something—I don’t know what it was—and took off up the wharf like Ben Johnson to the cheers of all his mates. Some of the other pilfering exercises, however, ended less well for the perpetrator. Stashed away amongst the cargo were several large carbuoys of concentrated sulphuric acid, and just as I’d come off watch and gone out to get some fresh air, one of the men unloading the ship decided to find out exactly what it was by siphoning some out. Putting a length of hose into a carbuoy of concentrated acid and sucking it out however does not do the average human body a lot of good, and within seconds the guy’s mouth and throat was a smoking, bubbling mess. A short scream was followed by the guy thrashing around on the deck and by the time a water hose had been run out and turned on, he was dead. The dockworkers, meanwhile, continued unloading the ship as if nothing had happened. Life is cheap in Africa!

We’d set sail for Monrovia in Liberia, it was just on four in the morning and I was making my way up from the engine room having just come off watch. I passed the cook’s cabin and the door was open.

“Come in” said the cook, who like quite a few merchant navy cooks was an outrageous homosexual. “Have a beer”.

I sat down on his day bed, opened a bottle and began to drink. It was the first time we’d really talked…if you could call it talking. No sooner had I made myself comfortable then he made me an offer that I could refuse.

“OK let’s cut the small talk” he said, “do you want to fuck me?”

“Er—no!” I replied.

“Why not?” he retorted, “I’m clean”.

I said nothing but showed him my new wedding ring.

“Well take it off” he said, “what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her”.

But he was missing the point: I’d showed him my wedding ring to signify not that I was married, but that I was heterosexual.

“Look”, he said, “from the moment I saw you with your shirt off I knew I had to have you...I’ve only ever seen stomach muscles like that in magazines”.

He was referring to the time back in Antwerp when the ship’s crew had to have an arm full of injections in preparation for the trip down to West Africa. Because by then I’d been working-out for a while I was a lean and muscular fifteen stone and couldn’t roll the sleeve of my sweatshirt up over my biceps, so I had to take the shirt off.

“It’s been driving me crazy ever since—your body is all I’ve been thinking about day and night”.

 “I bet you say that to all the boys” I teased.

At that point the head of the second engineer peered around the cabin door.

“Oh yeah…what have you two girls been up to” he said with a sarcastic sneer.

“Nothing, unfortunately” replied the cook.

“Yeah, a fucking likely story” said the second.

There was a brief silence.

“So, you old queen”, he continued, “who have you fucked this trip?”

“Er…no-one” came the somewhat unconvincing reply.

Realising that he had got his toe in door, the second seized his chance and pressed remorselessly until the confession was forthcoming.

“…But he’s married!” exclaimed the second, “the dirty bastard!—what was he like? Come on, let’s hear it!”

“Well, he wasn’t bad” came the reply, “but he went all guilty afterwards”.

“Yeah—I’ll bet!”

At that point I got up and left to go and get some sleep, leaving them to discuss the sordid details.

A few days later the bastards somehow found out that it was my twenty-fourth birthday. I was filled with a sense of foreboding and dread—shipboard birthday celebrations were dark, sinister affairs that tended to get out of control. My mind was cast back to a previous birthday on the Ability where, under the encouragement of the ship’s crew, I had consumed an entire bottle of vodka and a bottle of Malibu.

“Come on” said the second ominously, “get yer arse down to the bar, we’ve got a big night lined up for ya”.

When I arrived at the bar I found the entire ship’s crew there with the exception of the captain and chief who were on watch. A pornographic movie was playing and the drinks lined up. I wanted to stick with beer, but I knew that it was a forlorn hope. Instead I was plied with spirits for most of the night. Well I got more and more intoxicated as the night went on, and by the early hours things were beginning to get out of hand. The next thing I remember is myself and the whole crew up on deck in the hot African night where the bastards proceeded to hold me down and strip me naked. I was a fit and strong young man, but I was hopelessly drunk and there were just too many to fight off. Then one of them, big lad from Yorkshire whose name I’ve forgotten, turned around to the others and asked where the cook was.

“Cookeee!” someone shouted.

The cook appeared.

“Hmmm…family size” he said, raising an eyebrow as he gazed at my exposed genitals.

“Fuckin’ let me go you cunts!” I yelled.

“And a Chinese dragon tattoo on his arse cheek as well…yum, yum!”

“I’ve got the pox” I said in desperation, “and the clap too!”

My pleas fell on deaf ears, but drunk as I was at the back of my mind I knew they were only messing about. I just wondered how long my ordeal would last before the joke ran its course.

“Get the grease” ordered a voice.

A can of engine-room grease magically appeared and was liberally applied to my entire body.

“That’s it, grease him up nice and ready” said another voice, as my struggles intensified. Then just as the cook leant over me and motioned for his zipper the joke was over.

“Alright lads, let him go—he’s gone all shy.”

Covered in engine-room grease, I made my way back to my cabin where I was forced to shower several times with industrial hand-cleaner to get the stuff off. I collapsed naked on my bunk and immediately fell into a black, drunken sleep. The next day the cook was all smiles.

“Remember what happened last night?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah, most of it” I whispered hoarsely through a vicious hangover, made worse by the steamy African heat.

“Well I enjoyed the bits you don’t remember” he said with a grin.

I knew he was messing about but I reminded him of my intention to stay faithful to my new wife. It was a vow that, along with my credibility, was soon to lay in ruins.

To say that I made a complete pig of myself in Africa would be an understatement to say the least: I fornicated myself to a complete standstill. The cook was amazed.

“It’s always the quiet ones” he said. “My opinion of you has changed completely” he added. “You, young man, are a complete slut. I’ve never seen one man do so many women in so little time. And you’re supposed to be married!”

“Black girls” I answered. “I just can’t help myself…it’s like a drug!”

“Are you sure you couldn’t try to be gay?” he asked.

“Nah” I replied, “besides I’d only cheat on you anyway”.

            It started in Buchanan, Liberia. I’d gone down to Africa as a newly married man, and it was my genuine intention not to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh. To that end I’d avoided going ashore, but on the second night in Buchanan I decided to go and have a few beers—just to relieve the boredom. Having strolled alone a while along a hot, steamy, West African road, and after getting caught in the nightly five o’clock downpour, I arrived at the nearest bar. I hadn’t taken any condoms with me because I honestly didn’t intend to have sex, but as I sat alone drinking beer I felt an elegant black hand with long painted red nails rest on top of my own. It belonged to a very attractive black girl.

“Looks good doesn’t it, black skin on white skin?” she whispered in her African lilt.

I had to agree. A short time later I was being led by the hand to her small flat where we spent the rest of the night together. Having unprotected sex in Africa was always a bit of a gamble, even before the AIDS epidemic, but she was so attractive that quite frankly I just didn’t care. She also didn’t ask for any money, which rather surprised me, so I asked her why I was there. She simply declared that she had a thing for white guys, and (rather flatteringly) that I was a particularly good-looking and fit young white guy that she was “going to eat alive”. Well that was the turning point. It’s like caving in on a diet: you go so well for so long…and then crash—you eat like a pig until you can’t take any more. From that point on, paid for or not, I took as much as I could get. It only stopped when we left Freetown in Sierra Leone to head back to Europe.

The journey back was fairly uneventful. First a cold and misty Hamburg, then Bremerhaven, before crossing the North Sea to an equally cold and misty Felixstowe where, on the 22^nd of December 1983, I paid off of an Everard ship for the last time. Typical Everard…it was December and the bloody hot water system wasn’t working. Hung-over from too much schnapps, I had to take a freezing cold shower! I was then ready to leave, but wanted to call in and give the chief my best regards. He’d slunk off somewhere though, so I let it go.

And so ended a journey that had begun five and a half years earlier at the Comben Longstaff office in Shoreham. I left with mixed feelings: Everard was never a company that I wanted to work for, but in retrospect my time with them gave me some of the best years of my life. It was, nevertheless, time to move on to what I thought were better things. But, as they say, the grass is always greener…