Tristan Jones

by Ice! [V2. 0]

  Kiwi, standing at my shoulder, whispered, "Jesus H. Christ!" The little old ladies were sitting entranced, listening to the music of their youth, when they had been beautiful in a different way, listening to the music they had danced to with their sailor lovers just back from the sea. The dreams in their faces were tangible. Even a rough bastard like me didn't have the heart to stop, so I pedaled away while the paper-music slowly rolled itself out and the clock ticked away inexorably over the potted plants, towards pub-closing time. When the tune finally came to a grinding, wheezy halt, the clock stood at five minutes before pub-closing.

  I jumped up and shut the lid. The ladies clapped and sighed. Kiwi edged for the door. "Thank you so much, Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Steele, grasping my hand. "You have made such a welcome change to our evening. We are so grateful indeed to you. Now may we offer you some tea and cake before you go to bed?"

  "Highly honored, ma'am," I replied, "but we have to make a very urgent telephone call to London."

  "Oh, really? It must be naval business, I'm sure."

  "Yes, ma'am, an extremely urgent intelligence call."

  "Something to do with those dreadful Russians, I shouldn't wonder," said Mrs. Steele, addressing the company in general. All the ladies put on suitable expressions of alarm.

  "No, ma'am, not this time." I leaned closer to her ear and whispered, "Albanians."

  "Oh, dear, how very exciting. Well, off you go and do your duly, dear Mr. Jones, and don't forget, I want a word with you tomorrow."

  "Thank you, ma'am, and good night, ladies."

  "Good night, God bless you," they all echoed, as the aspidistra plants in the hall quivered at our hasty passing.

  As I followed Kiwi through the cut-glass-windowed door, I distinctly heard Mrs. Steele say to the others, "Our dear, brave navy—they never sleep, you know!"

  Outside, haring round the corner to the pub with just two minutes to go to closing time, Kiwi turned to me and murmured "Bloody Bohemian Girl, fucking Albanians—where in Christ's name do you get it from, Tris?"

  "From the circumstances, Kiwi—two pints, best bitter, please!"

  "Sorry, sir," said the blowsy barmaid, "we've just rung Time Gentlemen Please."

  "Holy Shit!" whispered Kiwi.

  "We'll, Kiwi, you got the women and song, what more do you want?"

  "Ahh, let's turn in," he said. "We've to be at the Seaman's Pool tomorrow, early!"

  Sadly we turned our steps towards the door of the old ladies' home.

  Oh, the sun is on the harbor wall, We must away to sea; It's not the leavin' of Liverpool

  that grieves me, But me darlin' when I think of thee. So fare thee well, my own true love, When I return united we shall be, It's not the leavin' of Liverpool

  that grieves me, But me darlin' when I think of thee.

  Old capstan shanty, eighteenth century, early nineteenth—it also survives, changed somewhat, as an American folk song.

  4

  Faith, Hope, and—Luck!

  The scene in the Merchant Marine recruiting office next day was something like a proletarian United Nations meeting. There were about five hundred men all jammed into the assembly room, with its green paint peeling up to shoulder level, as if it had been blistered by the colorful appearance of all the men who had passed through in the last fifty years. There were Lascars from the West Coast of India who walked as if they were climbing a ship's ladder, small, black men, with violinists' faces and long (for those years) hair. There were blue black, lithe, and handsome Somalis from the desert coast of Northeast Africa, standing like painted ibis birds on the fringes of the floor. Arabs from the Yemen, good seamen, nothing like the people I had encountered in their poor, dry land. Laughing Chinese from Hong Kong and Macao, cooks and stewards to a man, who could make a living out of what even a Liverpool stoker would throw away. There were big, hefty, black tribesmen from the Gold Coast and Nigeria, their tribal scars cut on their cheeks in neat, curious patterns; small, fat, worried-looking Maltese, talking their strange mixture of Italian, Arab, and English; hungry-eyed Cypriots; big, jolly mulattoes from the West Indies; and seamen from the underdeveloped countries of the West—Irish, Scots, Welsh, and Norwegians, and a combination of all of these, the "Scousers," as the Liverpool sailors are called around the sea world. They all accepted the presence of the others with mutual respect and good humor. No prison-yard or dole-office scowls here. These were seamen. They had only one enemy—the sea.

  As we went into the assembly room, we were handed cards with numbers and had to wait until our number was called before going into the signing-on office and passing the medical examination for tuberculosis and VD, plus sundry other ailments to which merchant seamen are prone, not the least being, in the case of non-Moslems, drunkenness.

  After about an hour's wait Kiwi went in. Moments later he was back out again. "O.K., Tris, I'm in," he said. The signing-on official sat at a desk, a burly, jovial man in the blue uniform of the Harbor Authority. "Name?" he asked. I told him.

  "Discharge papers?" I handed them over. He looked through them, scanning each line, grunting with approval. Coming to the third page, he looked up and said, "Mmm, looks alright. Can you be onboard tomorrow afternoon?"

  "Sure, tomorrow morning if you like."

  "Right." He turned the last page, then sighed and looked up at me again.

  "Sorry about this, chum. We can't take you on. You've a medical discharge from the navy. Look, it says 'Discharged Physically Unfit for Sea-Duties.'"

  "But I'm almost recovered now. I've even started running in the mornings."

  "Sorry, my friend, it's impossible."

  "Look, I'll even sign on as galley hand or steward."

  "I know it's hard on you, old son, but we can't take the risk. The insurers wouldn't wear it, and we can't have uninsured crew onboard—it's against Seamen's Union regulations. Sorry, mate, there just isn't a damned thing I can do about it. During the war it was different—then we'd take anyone we could get—but now—"

  "O.K., well, thanks anyway. Don't worry, I expect I can find a berth ashore somewhere." I tried to grin.

  "I hope you do," he said, standing up. "And jolly good luck."

  "Thanks." I left his office feeling as if the world had caved in. As I walked out Kiwi offered me a cigarette. "How'd it go, mate?"

  "I've had it, Kiwi; they won't take naval DW's [Discharged Woundeds]."

  "Oh, f'chrissake."

  "Never you mind, mate, you carry on. I'll find something, don't fear. Anyway, I've still more of a hankering for small craft than those bloody lumbering tin factories."

  "Let's go and get a pint." He looked at his watch. "Ten minutes to opening time."

  And so we went and sank another five gallons of Tetley's finest ale in the pub and another on the ferryboat back across the Mersey. I found myself wondering if this was to be my last sea trip, but as I looked out of the ferry windows on the fifth trip across and saw beyond the river mouth the Irish Sea stretching away into the distance, I knew it wasn't going to be, not by a long chalk.

  When we finally arrived back in the Old Ladies' Rest Home, we both had quite a load on, but nevertheless managed to sink a good meal and give the ladies a rendering of selections from The Pirates of Penzance.

  After the performance, Mrs. Steele came over to me.

  "Well done, Mr. Jones, but you have been naughty because I did ask you to come and see me today for a chat. But never mind, talk with me tomorrow. My son is coming over from Holland to visit me, and you must join us for tea. Your friend will be gone to his ship by then, and I don't want you sitting here alone amongst all the ladies."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Steele. I'll be delighted to."

  Off we went, first round to the pub for a last pair of pints, then up to bed.

  In the morning we slept late, then, after lunch, Kiwi took off to buy some seagoing gear over in Scotland Road, near the docks, and I bought him a last pint around the corner before he left.

  "Cheers, Tris. I kn
ow you'll make out. You always did. But if you find it hard going, hang on here and I'll fix you up when I get back."

  "Oh, sod off, Kiwi—I'd rather dig bloody graves."

  "Right, old son, well, so long, see you again!" (And I did see him again, seventeen years later. It was in Bermuda; he was chief bosun's mate, still with the White Star Line, and I was the skipper of Barbara, bound on a forty-thousand-mile voyage.)

  But this was all in the future, and at the time he left me in New Brighton, I thought I'd still be there when his ship returned.

  At teatime, spruced up in a new shirt and navy tie, I joined Mrs. Steele and her son in the dining room for tea.

  "Mr. Jones, may I present my son, Duncan? Duncan, Mr. Tristan Jones."

  It was to be the first of many, many fateful meetings with people, in all kinds of circumstances all over the face of the world. Meetings which at first did not seem to signify anything, but which, in retrospect, the presence of some guiding hand, call it God or what you will, was startlingly clear.

  "Pleased to meet you, Duncan. Work round here?"

  "No, actually." His tone was educated, clipped and precise, just like his mother's. "Actually, I work in Holland. I'm over there on an exchange of information on the steel building of small craft. You see I work for Cammel Lairds, the shipbuilders over here in Birkenhead. The Jerries pinched all the Dutch timber, and you know they've lost, or are rapidly losing, the Dutch East Indies—"

  "Yes, new country. What do they call it... Indonesia?"

  "That's right. Well, the Dutch have taken to building small craft—work boats, harbor ferries in steel; even yachts."

  "Yachts?" I was all ears.

  "Yes, and they're getting quite good at it, too. Once you get down below on most of them, you'd never dream they were built of steel, all paneled out with Nigerian mahogany. Their galleys are a wonder, too."

  "Where do they sell them, in Holland?"

  "A lot, yes, but many go abroad, to the West Indies and the States and quite a fewto South America." He puffed at his pipe.

  I was getting more and more curious. Small craft! "And how do they get them out to South America?"

  "Some are shipped out, but others are sailed out. You see the Rio businessman looks upon it as a great status symbol if he has a yacht which has crossed the Atlantic."

  "How big are these yachts?"

  "Oh, anything up to eighty feet long."

  "Sail or power?"

  "Both, but of course the ones which cross over under their own steam, so to speak, those are all sail."

  "Really—and who takes them over?"

  "Delivery crews. They join the yacht in Holland, sail her over, then either fly back or bring back another yacht, say from the States or the West Indies. The only snag is finding crews. The big cargo ships pay much better, and of course the usual sailing yachtsman simply hasn't the time to go off on a trip that long."

  "Mr. Steele, if I come over to Holland, will you help me get in touch with these yacht builders?"

  "Why, d'you want to buy one?" he smiled.

  "No, I want to sail one, or two, or three."

  I then went on to tell him my story about how I had studied navigation in the navy on my off-watch periods, and seamanship; about how I had been involved in Medfoba, which was the original name given to what is now the Outward Bound organization, formed to get young, big ship seamen interested in sailing small craft just for the fun of it; and about how I was hoping to buy my own craft one day and make my own voyages. Both he and Mrs. Steele listened intently. When I finished, Mrs. Steele spoke up.

  "Now, Duncan, you must help this man. You know your father went to sea in sailing ships from 1875 on, until those dreadful Germans started their silly war. Before he died he told me, dear old thing, that the Age of Sail is not dead. And we need this man, and others like him, others who may follow him, to bring back sail and sailors to Liverpool and all those other ports that your dear father took me to so long ago."

  "Yes, I will, by Jove, of course I will. When you come over, look me up in Leiden and I will make sure my Dutch friends fix you up. Here's my address; I'll be there in two weeks' time. Do you need anything for fares? You can pay me back when you're working."

  "No, thank you very much, I can manage fine. Yes, by gum, I'll see you as soon as I get over there, which will be right after you are!"

  "Now, my dear Mr. Jones, look, your tea is cold. Let me pour you some more, then perhaps you'd like to play Duncan and me a little tune on the pianola?" Mrs. Steele gently touched my arm.

  "Certainly, ma'am." A little tune? I'd have played them the bloody Hallelujah Chorus and the 1812 Overture together, the way I was feeling!

  And that is how I made my first real contact with the yachting world, with the builders and the sailors. That is how I was able to learn a mine of knowledge about sailing craft and the way to run them, during eight transatlantic voyages, a complete circumnavigation of South America and a circumnavigation of the world.

  By 1958 I had saved enough money, together with my still untouched naval discharge money and pension over the five years, to look for a vessel suitable for carrying out a voyage I had long had in mind. To take a sailing-boat nearer to the North Pole than anyone else had ever done! Even to try to cross right over the Arctic Ocean!

  Now I had sufficient money to find and fit out a hull, plus the experience to do the fitting out properly, and the determination to tackle the voyage. And this I would have to do completely alone.

  Mrs. Steele died while I was at sea, in October 1954.

  To the memory of her and of her husband, and to her son, this book is dedicated, for it shows how I managed to live long enough to see their dream start to come true.

  Now you take the paint brush And I'll take the paint pot; And we'll paint the Ship's Side together; Mien Jimmy comes along, we will sing

  our little song; hank Christ we didn't join forever!

  Royal Navy traditional song, "Jimmy" is slang for a first lieutenant.

  5

  Master and Mate: 1958

  In August 1958, I left the yacht Slot van Kappel in Lisbon, after a hard and fast passage of almost two years around the world. The two co-owners were set on a leisurely cruise up along the Spanish and French coasts before returning to England and selling the boat. I had no time to waste, because on passing Antigua I had had an extrasensory message, as well as a dream, that my old skipper, Tansy Lee, was fast sinking. It was not surprising, as he had been born in 1860. He had been steadily at sea since 1872, under sail the whole time, except for a spell during World War II when he'd gone to sea in an armed trawler at the age of eighty, as he said, "to 'ave anovver go at them bloody 'Uns."

  I had joined him in 1938, at the age of fourteen, in his old boomie sailing ketch Second Apprentice, knocking around the North Sea and the English Channel in coastal and Continental trade—coal to Cherbourg, fodder to Ramsgate, scrap iron to Germany, ballast to Hull. Rates were low, pay was a pittance, hours were long and arduous, but the food and the ways of sail were abundant, tasty, and well digested. Tansy was the skipper; I was his crew.

  Tansy himself had gone to sea first at the age of twelve, with his father in "the Trade," as cross-channel smuggling was then known. But when he reached the ripe age of fifteen, his family "caught religion," and so Tansy was put into the Royal Navy. That would have been around 1875. His first ship was a revenue cutter patrolling the rough Channel, flushing out Tansy's recent colleagues in all weathers. His tales were fascinating. They had worn tarred straw hats and cutlasses; once a week the crew had assembled to witness floggings. Indeed, some of the men that Tansy sailed with in the Revenue Service had themselves served their apprenticeships with men who had fought with Admiral Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Tansy had gone on to sail with the navy all over the world: in the Ashanti Wars, in the antislave service on the east coast of Africa, and in the Boer War. During World War I, he was recalled into the Royal Navy for service on Q-boats, old sailing v
essels fitted with six-inch guns hidden in the hold. After surfacing, a German sub would order the Q-boat crew to abandon ship. The crew would fake a panic over the side, then, when the gunner had the U-boat's range weighed off, down would fall the bulwarks, bang would go the guns, and glug-glug would go Jerry.

  After his discharge from the navy, Tansy took over the family boat, an eighty-five-foot boomie ketch. When his brothers passed away, he continued to ply cargo while sail faded away and died in ignominy the world over. By 1938 there were only a dozen sailing vessels at work around the British Isles. The art was kept alive by a few elderly hardnuts like Tansy Lee and Bob Roberts, who persisted in the Trade until the late 1960s.

  I had always been conscious that I was a direct link between the past centuries of sail-in-trade and the future, when sail will come into its own again. I can't wait for the oil wells to run dry, for the last gob of black, sticky muck to come oozing out of some remote well. Then the glory of sail will return. It may be unrecognizable, compared to the clouds of canvas which used to scud the seas, but sail it will be, computerized or not. Again we will use the winds of God and bend them to man's will. Again the needs of sail will dictate a grace and beauty to the hulls which has not been seen in ship design for almost a century, and we shall look back on the ugly slabs of hacked power which now so arrogantly force the seas and thank the Lord himself that the last one is headed for the breaker's yard. Merchant seamen will eye their vessels with love and pride, as they once did, instead of thinking of them as mobile factories. I hope I live long enough to see that day.

  But on the train down from London to Sandwich, back in 1958, I had little inkling of all this. All I knew was that I must make my voyage. Sail it would be because it never occurred to me to do it any other way. The Arctic it would be because most of my heroes had left their marks there: Davis, Hudson, Cook, Bering, Shannon, Amundsen, Norden, Peary, Nansen... Nansen! Nansen and the Fram! I would try to do as well as the Fram. I would never be able to do as well as Nansen, because with my education I would never be able to write about it, or to get the flavor of adventure, pure and simple, through anyone else's skull, through their bloodstream and bones, into the fibers of their being, as Nansen had done. I would never be able to learn, as he had done, that true humanity, true charity, can only come to a man through real effort and endeavor against the impossible.