Preview: Cold Water Candles

Read the first three chapters of Cold Water Candles below or buy the physical book here...

Chapter 1. Mr Burrage’s Kibbutz

 

My last year at Alleyne’s Grammar School in Stevenage didn’t turn out well.

I returned for the autumn term of 1971 expecting to continue my chosen subjects in the sixth form. My headmaster, Mr Burrage had other ideas. It would appear that I had become a part of what he considered ‘the wrong crowd’. Along with half a dozen of my friends, I was accused of engaging in disruptive tactics and as a result ‘needed to be made an example of’.

My father was summoned to Mr Burrage’s study one evening where a discussion took place in my absence. Later that same evening when my dad returned home, I could tell he was not happy. In no uncertain terms he told me that I was not returning to school anymore.

I was ecstatic! However, the feeling didn’t last long - I had been expelled.

Expelled! Me! Not possible! There may have been some weak grounds for such a draconian decision, but expulsion was, in my mind, an over-reaction.

Mr Burrage had sold to my father the idea that I should spend the next year on a kibbutz. 

What on earth was a kibbutz? Apparently, at this time, young people from all over the world could apply to live in an enclosed community, work together in harmony and become totally self-sufficient. In Israel. It was trendy. Young people would learn to become responsible adults.

Fine. I was happy with the idea of foreign travel and meeting like-minded young people. Some of my school friends had already begun jobs which paid a decent wage. They had become independent and I had become rather envious. 

My dad was happy with the idea of me being away for a year - or two. 

So how much money could I expect to earn on such an enterprise in a year - or two?

Nothing. These trendy communities worked on the principle that being self-sufficient by producing their own food and living accommodation rendered money unnecessary.

Trendy it may have been, but I wanted to be paid for being trendy.

So began my desperate search for an alternative that would get me away from home and earning money at the same time. In this case, communism would be defeated by capitalism.

That very weekend, I was scanning the ‘situations vacant’ section of a Sunday broadsheet newspaper when my gaze was drawn to an advertisement placed by the British Shipping Federation. There was an illustration of a ship’s officer walking up the gangway of a huge vessel.

I don’t quite remember the caption but it impressed me. It got me thinking. A career at sea? 

My home was in Knebworth, about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in the U.K.

I didn’t know anyone who had been in The Merchant Navy. I didn’t know anything about ships, although I did have a poster on my bedroom wall illustrating different types.

In an effort to divert my dad’s ongoing plans for my imminent departure to Israel, I discussed the advertisement I had seen with him. His enthusiasm was obvious. So much so, that he began to regale me with stories about his grandad who had spent his lifetime at sea. A fact I never knew.

A coupon that accompanied the advertisement was duly completed and posted.

Amazingly, I received a reply within a few days. I was now invited to The British Shipping Federation offices in London for interview. My dad was really pleased and even offered to come with me. Maybe he just wanted to make sure I arrived for the interview. In any case, the small matter of my expulsion from school was not mentioned again.

On the appointed day, I arrived in Prescot Street in plenty of time. I would be there for eight hours.

I never expected exams! First maths and then English. I had ‘O levels’ in both but the selection board had set standards of their own. These tests took up the morning. My answer sheets were whisked away for scrutiny before a break for lunch. 

During the lunch break I had the opportunity to talk to other aspiring seafarers who had answered the call. Almost all had family backgrounds steeped in maritime history. What was I doing here?

That afternoon, I was subjected to a series of interviews. The last of these was conducted by a man sporting a full set of facial hair to match his rugged features. The thought went through my mind that he could have made a second living advertising fish fingers. Following a lengthy dialogue, he finished by asking:

“If successful, what sort of shipping company would you be looking to sail with, young man?” 

I had no idea - but I had recently read Alistair Maclean’s novel ‘The Golden Rendezvous’ in which a merchant ship named ‘Campari’ was the central focus. ‘Campari’ was a passenger-cargo ship.

“My first choice would be passenger-cargo ships.” I unhesitatingly replied.

“I see. And in what capacity - deck, engineer, radio or catering?”

I had no idea - but the hero of the novel was a chief officer.

“I would eventually like to make chief officer” I said with great enthusiasm.

“Well, why not captain, you certainly seem to have strong ambitions?”.

My interviewer didn’t wait for an answer but instead told me that he would be recommending me for further interview with Port Line. He was at pains to point out that in his opinion, Port Line was the finest passenger-cargo shipping company in the British Merchant Navy and furthermore, its officers were the very best.

Blimey! What had I started? An exciting, but extremely uncertain future by the look of it.

If I was making a mistake, I could always blame Alistair Maclean.

2. Captain Paton’s interview

 

My rail journey to London on the 13th of December 1971 was clouded by apprehension. I had been invited for interview at the hallowed halls of the Port Line Shipping Company following referral by The British Shipping Federation.

I still knew almost nothing about ships or the role of a deck officer in the merchant navy. My search in the local library had drawn a blank, and all I had for reference was the wall chart in my bedroom and a dusty old book relating to the days of sail. However, I now knew that my great-grandad had been the first mate on a famous sailing ship. I completely read the only book I had.

The Herzogin Cecilie was a windjammer sailing ship of the early twentieth century. She was renowned for her speed and made her name during the races to transport grain cargoes from Australia to the U.K. I had been told, during an uncharacteristic conversation with my dad, that his own grandad had been the chief officer of that very ship, and furthermore, had lost a hand in a rigging accident. He was also aboard when she came to grief during heavy fog off the south Devon coast. The whole incident was well documented at the time and the crew were revered by seafarers worldwide. They were the rock-stars of their generation. Enthralling stuff, I thought.

The man who greeted me rather cooly in the interview room introduced himself as Captain Paton. He had the appearance of a character who may have spent many of his years exposing his face to wind, sun and rain. He was an impressive figure and I began to feel nervous.p

Captain Paton sat back in the chair he was occupying behind a vast wooden desk, and indicated that I could sit on the chair in front of him. He took a pipe from the desk top and spent an exaggerated amount of time cleaning, filling and then lighting it. Most of this time was spent looking directly at me which I found rather uncomfortable. He then spent more time scrutinising a piece of paper that he picked up, all the while puffing away heavily on the pipe.

The conversation that followed began fairly predictably, being questions that focused on my education and interests. These were easily answered but I still felt under interrogation. Then I was asked if I was from a sea-faring family. The short answer would have been negative but at least I was able to mention my great-grandad. On hearing the name Herzogin Cecilie, Captain Paton’s eyes lit up and he even removed the pipe from his mouth.

“Herzogin Cecilie you say?”  He went on, “The Herzogin Cecilie?”

I related at length what I had been told about this famous ship and my great-grandad’s equally famous contribution to maritime history.

After listening to what I had to say, the captain confided in me that he had a special interest in the sailing ships of that era and knew well the story of great-grandad’s ship.

The interview was then concluded quite abruptly. No more questions. I wondered what was coming next as the interrogation hadn’t even touched on details of the job I had applied for.

“Well, said Captain Paton. You seem to be the sort of young chap we’re looking for. I’m going to recommend you for a cadetship with us, starting right away. We will get a letter of confirmation in this afternoon’s post. I’m sure your great-grandad would be proud of your serving with Port Line.”

We shook hands and that was it. The secretary outside Captain Paton’s office offered her congratulations while handing me a booklet entitled ‘So you’re going to sea’.

I studied the cover of the booklet and felt pleased with myself. “Looks like it now” I thought.

The train journey home was accompanied by a strong feeling of relief and excitement. My future started to look bright. The little book was inspiring but only answered a few basic questions. I wondered, what would life really be like on ships? Would I be seasick? Would I be up to the job?

I still have that little booklet.

When I arrived home, my dad was already waiting to hear a full account on the day’s events. He was genuinely pleased that I had passed the interview and been offered a cadetship. I told him that I believed the success of the day had been in no small part due to great-grandad’s adventures aboard the Herzogin Cecilie that he had recounted.

My dad looked thoughtful and then quietly muttered: “Did I say the Herzogin Cecilie? Of course it may well have been some other ship - but he went to sea - I am sure of that!”

Postscript: No evidence has yet surfaced that my great-grandad, Christopher Eliason, ever set foot aboard such a ship. On the day the Herzogin Cecilie went aground, the 25th of April 1936, she was commanded by a Sven Erikson and the first mate was Elis Karlsson.

I conclude that my sea-faring career was founded on misinformation. 

3. Warsash

 

Situated on the lower east bank of the River Hamble in Hampshire, just outside the village of Warsash, was the grandly titled : University Of Southampton School Of Navigation.

Port Line had enrolled me here for a start date of 6th of January 1972.

I arrived along with nineteen potential navigators from other, mainly British, shipping companies.

From the guard room adjacent to the main gate, we were shown to an accommodation block at the far end of the building complex. It was a relief to discover our lodgings were of newer build than the string of buildings around the guard house. The site had been part of HMS Tormentor, a Royal Marines training base until 1946, when it became the Southampton School of Navigation, a satellite of Southampton University.

The accommodation block consisted of four floors, the first three being sub-divided into houses named after famous explorers: Hudson, Shackleton and Wilson. The top floor was intended for recreation. On this floor, at each end, was an open balcony that overlooked Southampton Water.

The rooms we were allocated were referred to as ‘cabins’. Each cabin featured six bunk beds, a large table and a personal locker. There was a window at each end of the room and a corridor leading to washing facilities. On our first day, we were allowed to settle in and get acquainted with our room-mates. We were all curious to discover what lay in store over the next three months.

We soon found out. Our first full day comprised yet another series of examinations. Maths, English and General Science were on the menu. Perhaps the school wanted to filter any imposters from the course at an early stage. Anyway, once the answer papers had been checked, I was offered an O.N.C. course in Nautical Science. This would be in addition to training for the Second Mate’s Certificate of Competency. It was naturally expected that I would remain studying for both qualifications for the four year duration. Besides, my dad was willing to sign an agreement to that effect and rendered himself as surety.

Now that expectation put me on the spot. The whole ‘going to sea’ enterprise was, in my mind, simply a means to escape exile to an Israeli kibbutz. I reckoned that a year travelling the world on ships would be far preferable to a year spent picking oranges. I would get paid too!

On our second day we had a full tour of the campus. Most of the buildings were purpose-built during the 1960’s, so appeared very modern compared to the remaining Royal Navy edifices.

In addition to a teaching block, there was a large library, offices, refectory with bar area, and down on the foreshore, past a parade ground with sundry huts, was a large boathouse with a pier that extended out into the River Hamble.

By day three, a ‘uniform’ was ready for issue. This comprised a thick blue cotton shirt, blue woollen pullover with embroidered name badge, dark grey trousers and a Royal Navy issue money belt. Black shoes to be supplied by ourselves. Instruction on the daily itinerary followed.

A bugle call would sound at six a.m. each weekday and everyone was to parade outside the block at six-fifteen for a morning run. This was followed by an hour to wash and prepare our cabins for inspection. This period was referred to as ‘clean ship’. All very nautical. Only after passing an inspection, could the cabin crew head to the canteen for breakfast.

Class room lectures began at nine a.m. sharp, again preceded by a bugle call. Depending on the set timetable, there would be ‘boatwork’ down on the foreshore or even time set aside for messing about on the river in one of the school’s fleet of small craft. To assist in the practicals, we had to obtain a sheath knife with marlin spike.

‘Shore leave’ (meaning an opportunity to leave the campus) was only permitted at weekends and one evening per week - provided the individual was not rostered for ‘guard duty’. This ‘duty’ seemed unnecessary to anyone rostered. We were not a military establishment but the college principle, Captain Llewellyn, was a Royal Navy reservist and firmly believed in incorporating military discipline into our training. 

The duty involved an entire evening or weekend day, spent in the guard room with three other cadets, monitoring the movements of any visitors and keeping records in a log book. At any one time, one of the ‘guards’ was required to be on the balcony or ‘bridge’ of the accommodation block and keep a similar log of all the vessels navigating Southampton Water. Binoculars were provided. These stints on the bridge only lasted fifteen minutes before a change of guard, but felt interminable, especially as an icy winter wind was invariably present.

During the initial week, I was measured up for my full blue uniform by a company of merchant navy tailors who attended the school. The list of clothing items that I had been given to obtain was vast. Everything had to be paid for out of our own pockets and I had to arrange a bank loan to cover the cost. My initial salary was nearly forty pounds a month but my uniform and kit cost three times my monthly income.

If shore leave was granted at a weekend, the cadets taking advantage would parade in full blue uniform before making for the bus taking them into Southampton. Saturday evening would usually be spent in Southampton’s Beer Keller before heading to a night club called ‘The Bird’s Nest’.

Interestingly, wearing full blues had some advantages at that club and frequently the last returning bus to Warsash was missed due to local distractions.

One Sunday morning, following a ‘Southampton session’ the day before, I was woken by an Iranian cadet who occupied the bunk immediately below my neighbour.

“Nick, look!” he said, pointing to a pile of vomit that had emerged from said neighbour during the night, travelled down the facing wall and across the blanket of the unfortunate as he had turned in his sleep.

The early morning run was a shock to the system and was hated by the cadets. On one run, I was following a cadet through the morning darkness. We were wearing oilskins because of heavy rain when I heard a scream. The cadet in front of me had tripped on a ring bolt by the boat house and I recall seeing the soles of his ‘Dunlop Magisters’ as he ploughed headlong into the boat pond.

In an attempt to avoid the morning run, I volunteered, with one other cadet to become a bugler.

The bugler escaped due to being on parade in time to rouse everyone else. After making a noise that passed for ‘reveille’, I got to return to the block in time to wash and get sorted before the runners returned. For several evenings a week, a Royal Marine bugler taught us how to bugle.

My initial training at Warsash lasted three months. In that time, I learned the rudiments of navigation, seamanship, ship construction, meteorology, half-a-dozen associated subjects and, how to make a noise with a bugle.

The next step would involve putting all this valuable knowledge into practice.

I was going to sea...

 

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