A Caribbean Tragedy.
A MEMOIR
By
Roger Stutter.
Copyright © 2012 Roger Stutter
Smashwords Edition
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Table of Contents
I was one of the unfortunate unheard people of the early 80’s who suffered because of the BBC’s play ‘The Death of a Princess,’ an Arabian love story chronicling the tragic consequences of falling in love in such an Empire.
While working as a Senior Computer Operator in Newcastle, in the North East of England. A yearning for hotter climes had prompted me to apply for a position in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. When, with the final touches of my contract in progress the BBC broadcast their fateful play. This in turn prompted most businesses in Saudi to cancel their allegiance with Britain, and I received a diplomatically phrased letter explaining how they were now employing Korean staff. Of course, I didn’t believe a bit of it. However, after the initial disappointment, and a few choice words about the BBC and even stronger ones aimed at the world the Saudi Arabs had created. I became even more determined to work abroad. So it was with some surprise, when the very next day I came across an advert in the ‘Observer.’ Which simply stated ‘Sail the Caribbean’ while giving a P.O. Box number in London.
I was spell bound. I guess I was ripe for it, mentally. The words, ‘Oh yes, oh yesss!’ ran through my head and a broad smile that stayed with me for some time spread wide across my face. But could I do it? I had put to sea at the age of sixteen when I had first left school. Though, that was only for a year and many years ago at that. But somehow I felt it didn’t matter. This was for me I just knew it, so sent off a short resume of my careers to date and began to dream of sun-kissed beaches.
At seventeen, I had already done a year deep-sea as a deck-boy in the Merchant Navy. Had sailed around the World almost twice in that time and visited many countries before giving it all up to join the R.A.F. It was during this deep-sea trip, while visiting the Black Sea port of Novorossiysk in Russia, where my system tasted alcohol for the first time. The crew took me out and I got sozzled on local-made vodka and champagne. Boy was I ill. The following morning I woke in my bunk, not knowing how I got there and still wearing my suit now covered in the contents of my stomach. It was the beginning of a relationship, a self-inflicted relationship, which was to hound me for years.
Joining the RAF, I entered a totally different lifestyle. A life and style I knew extremely well, since I was a Forces child. Where, for Queen and Country I worked in various telecommunications set-ups around the world, spending three glorious years at RAF Changi in Singapore.
After many happy and occasional drunken years I returned to civilian life and became many things before settling in Newcastle. I was a tramp for a time before working in a ‘Wonderloaf’ bakery on their ovens then I made cardboard boxes for an industrial chimney firm. I worked for a year as a humper in an abattoir, because I fell in love with the title and where I had a thing about kissing pigs bottoms, before working in a lace factory on a stentor machine. I made doors for a local door factory, worked on the lump building houses and even built a cheese factory on Dartmoor (not on my own, you understand.) Most of these jobs were in North Devon where I eventually escaped to work on oilrigs on the Cromarty Firth in the North of Scotland. To date I’d had thirteen different jobs spread over seventeen working years and now my feet were itchy to be on the move.
Four weeks later, a telegram plus a call to Trinidad from a street corner phone box (reversing the charges, of course) and the job was mine. Initially, the job was for a year. ‘Though I could stay longer if I wished’ said a scintillating female voice, across the airwaves. I was so excited, I didn’t even ask what the job was or what kind of yacht they had. I was joining them. I was going and that was all that mattered to me. It did have its drawbacks though. It wasn’t all ice cream and candy floss. The wage was only £2000 a year and I had to pay £725 for a ticket to get there ‘to be reimbursed later’ echoed that same voice all the way from Port-of-Spain. They had been stung before by paying for flights where employees had returned home after just a short stay. They were just covering themselves and it made sense too.
Back in the comparative safety of the computer room my work mates thought I was quite mad giving up a good career for only £2000 a year. “No one would do such a thing,” they said. “It’s madness!” But I was already there in my head. The thought of sailing the Caribbean outweighing any problems they could possibly think of. I was a six-foot, slim, blue-eyed blonde with no responsibilities so why not was my argument. Anyway, I was going and that was that. Nothing they came up with could possibly change my mind. Friends often said I was one of those people always searching for something but who would never find it. Although, really, all I ever wanted to do was enjoy my life and have some fun. What I did and for how much I did it for was always a last consideration with me.
So it was a day in August, when I waved goodbye to family and friends and flew out of England to a new life in the sun. Where the only point of interest in an almost dull journey was seeing Concorde parked next to us at Heathrow: Such a dream machine, so small and chic like a dart. The only other thing of note was, having to pay £2 for headphones to plug into my chair so I could listen to the radio. As you can guess, I wasn’t travelling First Class. Though for £725 I certainly didn’t expect to pay extra to borrow a plastic tube. How mean of British Airways, I thought.
I arrived in Trinidad and Tobago on the Friday evening, after a short stopover in Antigua. And oh boy, that heat! I embraced it. Years had passed since I’d experienced such warmth, and to me it was like coming home. Unfortunately, what happened next put all thoughts of heat out of my mind and was typical of me. I forgot the name of the yacht/boat thing I was joining. In all the excitement, it must have slipped my mind. Though to be honest, I couldn’t recall it ever being mentioned when I spoke to them. It was just one of those things. Though Immigration didn’t see it like that and refused to let me pass into their country. I was instructed to go and sit in the corner like a naughty schoolboy, while they dealt with the other passengers.
‘It’s going to be one of those jobs’ I thought as I sat slightly embarrassed under the quizzical gaze of the other passengers. I could almost hear their brains ticking over wondering if I was an international drugs dealer, terrorist or the like. I must admit there had been times in my life and quite frequently too, when things just didn’t go to plan. It would have not been out of character for me to have dropped myself right in it here. Maybe I should have told them it was all a mistake and taken the next flight home. There were going to be many times in the future when I wished I had done just that. Though in my ignorance I didn’t and just sat there smiling.
I never asked but naturally assumed someone would be at the airport to meet me, and I was right. Only he was late (a common theme in Trinidad, apparently.) It seemed like an age but before long a shipping agent arrived to collect and inform me that the boat I was joining was called ‘Fireguard’ and I was allowed to pass into the country. When he informed the authorities I would be signing on at the Port-of-Spain Immigration Office that night, as a member of her crew. Boy was I glad. However, the next problem was getting my suitcase. A Herculean task when you consider the whole arrivals area was strewn with all types of luggage and everyone from a dozen flights were climbing over boxes and cases in an effort to find their own. No fancy conveyor belts here.
Out at last. Or should I say ‘IN.’ I had the distinct feeling someone important had arrived because the airport was crawling with people. So much so, we had to walk some distance to reach the agent’s car. On the way he informed me the airport was always in chaos. A fact, I was soon to learn wasn’t just a problem at the airport, but for the whole island.
We drove out of the airport and along a duel carriageway before entering Port-of-Spain, in his lovely air-conditioned car. We were heading straight for the Immigration Office down by the quayside, where I was signed on ‘Fireguard’ as her ‘First Officer.’ The ships Mate. There was a pause in my brain, which allowed what was happening to me to sink in. My heart began to race. My mouth turned dry and I felt quite numb. But did I hear them right? Surely they had made a mistake. I stood there smiling, rather sickly I thought, and said nothing while passport and papers were scrutinized. ‘Second in Command’ my brain said. ‘I can’t do that!’ I know nothing of such things. This can’t be happening. This can’t be true. But it was. I signed all the relevant documents and even had my passport stamped, to prove it. Even today, I still wonder at what connection my new employer saw between a Senior Computer Operator and the First Officer on a ship? Still, if that’s what I was. I shrugged my shoulders in surrender. That’s what I was.
As you can imagine, I was a bit on edge when we drove out of the city then along the coast to an area on the outskirts of Port of Spain called Bayshore. Where, captain and ship owner Alex MacAlister waited my arrival. And I spent that journey sitting quietly in the back of the agent’s car trying to recall seamanship terms learnt decades ago. Port, starboard, galley and words like engine room spun around my head until we’d arrived at our destination.
Alex came out to greet us at the gates of his short driveway as the agent introduced us before quickly departing. Then Alex took me into his spacious home, to meet his wife Billie. A white Trinidadian of Scottish extraction. Alex, himself from Scotland was as tall as I though thick set. Had thick dark wavy hair, wasn’t bad looking and had only half his right ear. I was soon to learn that he had a certain charm, a charisma that made people want to do things for him. And I say it unashamedly. That even at that early stage, I fell like everyone else, under his spell.
Introductions were over, and with assurances that I drank rum I was welcomed into the MacAlister household and introduced to Fernandes Vat19 that Golden Elixir of Life. Not to be drank with coke like a tourist, but neat with a chaser of iced water. Although I must admit I had to mix mine.
Moments later, I was sitting in their spacious living room with beautiful blue ceiling, drink in hand. Fan slowly turning overhead, crickets chirping outside in the dark, while we chatted into the early hours of the morning.
Alex and Billie had lived in Trinidad, on and off, for about twenty years and had two grown up daughters, Trish and Miranda. Alex had been a local harbour pilot and had at one time even played rugby for the Islands. Had scars on his legs to prove it, he told me with pride, which is almost a trademark for any rugby player. He had been the owner of three ships in the past. But due to the odd catastrophe which he would not go into, he only had Fireguard left.
It was a good job I didn’t have a tan at that time. Because if I had. They would have seen me turn pale as silently the words, ‘Oh my God, it’s a ship. A bloody ship!’ ran through my head. The nightmare continued and still I said nothing.
Fireguard was a 1500tonne cargo ship. Was painted blue and white. Had good accommodation and with her lovely shape, went through the water like a dream. Or, so Alex told me that night. He had bought her in Sweden five years previously, where he had also acquired an almost amazing engineer.
Alex had been using Fireguard on a salt run, between Bonaire in the Dutch Antilles in the Southern Caribbean and Trinidad; a two-day journey either way. Although at the present time he was looking for a more lucrative contract elsewhere, so Fireguard was sitting at anchor out in the harbour off Port-of-Spain.
After quite a few drinks and in all fairness I had to tell Alex that I was a bit apprehensive about being Fireguard’s ‘First Officer.’ Apprehensive! I was shitting myself. Secretly, I had imagined I was joining a yacht. After all, the Observer did say ‘Sail the Caribbean.’ First Officer on a proper ship was something entirely different. You need training and have to possess official papers. You have to know about navigation, weather patterns and radar. I had and knew nothing of such things. Hell, I had only been a deck-boy on my last excursion to sea, all those many years ago. What a mess I felt I had got myself into. In this dark, exotic and beautifully hot place.
Alex was all smiles when I told him of my fears and using his charm, assured me everything would be all right since he did most things himself. He just needed someone he could trust who would not fall asleep at the wheel. He told me he even had to break the autopilot, because if the crew knew it worked they would never stay awake. Often he’d woken, for he had to sleep sometime during their two days to Bonaire, to see Fireguard ploughing through the sea in erratic fashion. With the crew fast asleep on the bridge. I was brought in to halt all that, he assured me again. Then said he was happy with my position, so I should be too.
“Oh, I can do that,” I answered, feeling slightly better about things. I smiled back at him and began to relax into his confidence of me.
As we sat sipping rum in the comfort of his home Alex informed me that the crew were mostly young lads from the islands, plus a young Indian chap from Guyana. Like myself, none of them were real seamen or engineers. In fact, the only one who knew anything about seamanship, apart from Alex. Was Danny the cook, who was a long standing friend of Alex’s and an older man. I was still one ahead of the crew though because I did have my Merchant Navy training under my belt, and a year at sea if I could remember any of it after all this time. The only other advice I got that night, was to treat the crew like children and everything would be fine. This didn’t make me feel better at all. In fact, I felt rather insulted on their behalf. All the same, I had only been in Trinidad a few hours and it was late. So taking my leave, I retired to the comfort and delight of an air-conditioned bedroom.
The following day was my first real view of Trinidad and it was fabulous. Their home stood on the corner of two roads on an exclusive estate, along the coast from Port of Spain and was surrounded by a profusion of flowers and birds. Humming birds so small, I thought they were insects buzzing from flower head to flower head.
I’d risen early and walked out onto the main veranda to look up at jungle-laden hills in the distance. Where everything shone green and lush. By my side, palm trees spaced themselves along the veranda in large pots. While in the garden, across a short lawn. Stood eight-foot high poinsettias, delightful giant crotons and mango trees with orchids hanging from their boughs. A Trinidad cherry tree with two stones instead of one, tall coconut palms laden with fruit and lime trees too, were also there for my delight as a light green lizard darted across the lawn searching for shade. There was also a small but empty pool cut into the lawn, too. All of it surrounded by a thick eight-foot high red flowering hibiscus bush which seemed constantly in flower and which the humming birds loved so much. All of this in their own garden, plus the bright crisp heat of a tropical morning. It was an Eden, and I fell in love with it all.
I returned to the house and made my way into the kitchen to make myself a drink. Where I met Alex in what turned out to be his favourite place, wearing only a short towel around his waist and with drink in hand propping up the kitchen furniture. This was the first of many meetings between Alex and myself and it took me a long time for me to get acclimatised to that kitchen, with no aircon’ or fan, since he would be found nowhere else while at home. However, whenever I found myself melting with the heat. I would depart to the lounge, to stand under their only ceiling fan which I shared more often than not with their large and hairy dog Trampus.
It was Saturday morning. And after breakfast, a family friend called to take us all into Port-of-Spain so I could have my first real view of Fireguard. Then, once in the city we cruised to the waterfront by an old wooden quayside and stared across a flat calm sea, out to a ship sitting motionless, about half a mile off from the shore. Alex wanted to dump me onboard, there and then, without even my suitcase, which I found rather odd. However, Billie persuaded him to let me stay with them until the Monday. So all I saw of my future home was a fleeting glimpse of her at anchor out in the harbour. And although beautiful: She was certainly no yacht.
Seeing Fireguard sitting out there along with other, similar ships brought home to me the potential seriousness of my situation. It was one thing saying to Alex “Yeah, I can do that” but an entirely different thing to actually do it. Nonetheless, I immediately banned such thoughts from my head. Realising if I was going to survive this strange situation, and ride it out. I had to take every event as it arrived and live for the moment alone. Otherwise, I fear I might go mad.
Alex and Billie’s friend George had to arrange a party at his home that evening so as we were in his car we were whisked away from the seafront to help him. The party was for a local pilot who had just been released from prison, by the Prime Minister as part of their Independence Day celebrations. Unfortunately, no one was informed of this. So everyone, including the press, thought he had escaped. The fact, that he had been in prison for shooting someone adding to the drama of the evening.
Alex, Billie and myself walked down the road from their home as night closed in, (which came the same time every evening) to where George lived. Where I was the centre of attention for a while having just come out from England. The pilot, with the help of George, cooked a kind of traditional meal to celebrate his release, though I couldn’t begin to tell you what was in it since there were fruits and vegetables I had never even heard of before, never mind seen or eaten. George’s home was amazing; hollow and cathedral-like in the centre, with no front of rear. It was like a church that you could walk right through and ideal for a party.
Because I’m slightly accident prone, rarely a day went by without me damaging myself in some way and my first day in paradise was no exception. On my way home and in the early hours of the morning, I slipped on Alex’s wet driveway and chipped my new designer specs. Then to round the evening off, I stubbed my toe and cut my foot open. Having had the foresight to bring two pairs of specs out with me, I wasn’t too concerned and I was used to damaging my feet. So on balance, things were not all that bad.
Sunday saw Alex still propping up the kitchen furniture when a good-looking local guy called Eric turned up and dragged me away for a day down at the Islands. Apparently, it was a weekend ritual here. Whereby, everyone who has one, climbs into their speedboats or yachts and heads out for a breath of fresh air. Down by a small group of islands to the north of the mainland, called Chaguaramas. One island was a leper colony while another was a prison. The rest were inhabited by the wealthy of Trinidad and it was to there we headed.
This being my first time out in the sun, I had to be careful of my skin. No way was I going to be a typical Englishman and get sunburned so I spent most of the trip in the shade. But besides that, I had a good time with Eric and some of his other friends in his large flash speedboat. He took us to an island piled high with jungle and newly built houses to show off the house he had just purchased. It was amazing, hanging off a cliff over the sea and beautiful too. In fact, everywhere you looked around here there was beauty. They had even imported a beach for everyone to use, which we did with pleasure.
In the afternoon, Eric and I returned to Bayshore. To find Billie and Alex sitting on their veranda with a guest, who was introduced to us as Billie’s current boyfriend. A German called Harvey, out here on a Government contract building roads. Local contractors had made such a mess of the island by not laying the roads properly. Not laying down any hardcore underneath the tarmac because no one could see it, hence creating potholes everywhere. They had been forced to import foreign professionals to fix things for them.
Poor Eric departed, embarrassed by the situation Billie and Alex had created, while I joined the three of them on the veranda to idle away the afternoon. I must say that sitting between Billie, her boyfriend and husband did make me feel a bit uncomfortable. Mainly, because I didn’t know what was going on between the three of them. Though, I soon adjusted. After all, it was none of my affair. However, I felt for Alex in this ‘ménage a trois’ and could see in his face that he was uncomfortable about the situation. So was glad when he dragged me off to the local village, to experience the joys of a ‘Rum Shop.’ He was embarrassed for me to see his home life as it was displayed so drowned himself in rum that afternoon. And I too, went down that road in support of him. We never mentioned the situation again for Billie was no ordinary woman, as I was to find out much later on.
Rum Shops are strange places and what their name suggests is exactly what they are. Not a bar or a pub. Not even a shop, really. They are generally dirty, bare inhospitable gray concrete places where the rum is the only important thing. You first go to a till to order your poison, pay and usually receive a receipt for your trouble which you take to the other end of the bar to swap for your drink. This usually transpires behind a large grill or iron bars because the rum turns you mad and shop owners need to be safe to continue their trade. That day we just got drunk.
The weekend over, Alex drove me into town early on the Monday morning and I was dropped on a rough-and-ready wooden quayside by a wooden jetty, to join Fireguard. It was a hot, clean, clear, crisp kind of day. The kind where you can almost taste the heat in your mouth it is so hot. The sea was flat calm too, like a huge mirror and there wasn’t a sound to be heard anywhere. There were many ships lazily riding out the morning at anchor out in the bay, on this flat calm sea and there wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere on sea or land.
I picked up my suitcase and together we walked to the water’s edge. Where, Alex cupped his hands to his mouth, before calling out loud and sharp to his ship. “Fireguaaard,” he called. Nothing happened. He called again. “Fireguaaaard!” The sound, invisibly sailing across the water, stirred someone onboard. And a little figure climbed over the side into a small yellow dinghy and began to row shorewards. As he got closer, I could see the occupant was a big handsome shiny black man. I was to learn later that it was Cilbert, the bo’sun. Who said little as he maneuvered the dingy alongside while I introduced myself, before handing him my suitcase. Alex never said a word to either of us as I climbed in beside Cilbert then turned to help him on board the dinghy. Only, to my utter surprise he turned his back on us both. Got back into his car and drove away. He had given me no instructions, and I never asked for any. Because I had assumed he would be coming with us. I didn’t even know when I would be seeing him again. But, hey-ho! I made myself comfortable on the aft end of the dinghy, shrugged my shoulders at Cilbert who flashed his beautiful white teeth back at me. Then relaxed as he turned us seaward, and began to row across the harbour.
As we slowly moved across the calm waters of the bay, the smell of the sea mixed with a thin coating of engine oil floating on the surface took me back sixteen years and opened up a stream of reminiscences of seamanship that were to prove of little use to me in the Caribbean. But which took me on that short journey to my new home. I hate to say it too, since he’d gone off without a word. But Alex was right. Fireguard really was a beautiful ship, even to my untrained eye. And the closer I got to her. The more I liked the look of her and knew I would be ok.
Cilbert and I came alongside my new home and I climbed the short pilot ladder up onto Fireguard’s deck, where the crew surrounded me before showing me to my cabin, beneath the bridge and next to the captains. It had obviously been some time since anyone had lived there because it was filthy. So while I unpacked and began to scrub the place down, from deck to deck-head (two more words I remembered,) the lads came by, one by one, and shyly introduced themselves.
The whole crew consisted of four, plus Danny the cook. Cilbert was the bo’sun: Twenty-one years old, strong and extremely black with short hair and a handsome happy face. Then came James, the only seaman and the youngest on board: Lithe, enthusiastic and fun as only the young can be. Chris was the engineer: A rather strange young man with a chip on his shoulder. Then there was Len his assistant: Short and slim with long wavy hair, who was an Indian from Guyana. On his own and standing apart from the rest was Danny the cook; an older man and a long standing friend of Alex’s.
They were a funny bunch of characters and were at first apprehensive of me being amongst them. Alex lived ashore, and a white man permanently in their midst wasn’t what they wanted at all. Yet, we soon learned to live with each other.
It was late afternoon when I was all done and dusted. So I took the bit between my teeth. Went down onto the deck and asked the crew to show me around, while Danny went off to prepare the main meal of the day which was eaten around five every evening. He was a stickler for position and place and for what he saw as right. And being the ship’s mate, I wasn’t allowed to mix in with the crew at all; certainly not at meal times. So when 5 o’clock came around. I was segregated from them all.
Sitting in the officer’s Mess Room that evening, eating and dining alone, while listening to the crew in their own Mess Room laughing and chatting away brought home to me for the first time my position on board. All my life I had been one of the gang. I always mucked in. It was my nature. I wanted to eat with the crew and laugh and joke with them, too. Hell, I wanted to get to know them. But, unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed. I was an officer. So without realising it, I had become a completely different person. At least, in the eyes of the crew I was different. Although, they were soon to learn how wrong they were.
At six o’clock that evening after showers were taken and clothes changed. I sat with the crew on the aft deck, mug of tea in hand, while they dried their hair in the warm evening breeze. Calm reflections of a liquid golden sky upon a calm flat sea, surrounded us all as together we watched the sun go down. Its majesty was breathtaking, and it was beautiful too. It was also a daily ritual here on Fireguard that I was soon to learn to love. The sky was just too beautiful for discord and seemed the only time that the world I had entered was at peace. Of course, I wasn’t aware of that at that time. To me, it was just one hell of a beautiful sunset. Then as the sun disappeared below the horizon it seemed to be a silent sign to move as, one at a time, the crew went below. Some rowing ashore for a night on the town, while I spent the evening in Danny’s company talking about Alex and Fireguard before finally turning in.
No way, was I just going to just sit on my arse out there in the harbour and do nothing. So after breakfast the following day I got down to working with the crew. They were painting, chipping and greasing the rigging. I had never heard of doing such a thing as ‘greasing the rigging’ before. It sounded wrong to me. But they promised it was what the captain wanted. So I joined them, to their surprise, and enjoyed myself getting all messed up and sweaty.
Around lunchtime and calling from the shore like the day before. Alex’s voice sailed across the harbour, alerting us to his presence. I nodded to James and he jumped into the dinghy. Only to return with the captain carrying an absolutely huge bottle of rum plus, a tall and very thin stranger. I was soon to learn, was called Charlie. Chris and Len weren’t real engineers. They were just young lads Alex had hired in Port-of-Spain and given the title to. However, this guy was the real thing. He was the man Alex had picked up in Sweden five years previously. Who, although working ashore. Had come out at Alex’s request to fix the motors that worked the fridge and flushed the toilet, since neither of them were working.
Once on board and introductions were over, the three of us decamped to Alex’s cabin to start on the rum. An hour later, Alex left us to be taken ashore by James. Though not before he informed me that what the crew were doing ‘greasing the rigging’ was wrong. I knew it. I just knew it. Nonetheless, I was to let them continue because it would give them something to do. He also left the rest of the rum so Charlie would stay on board and do some work. I guess he knew his man.
Fireguard had a companionway that extended all the way around the Accommodation, Mess Rooms and Galley which extended in front of the Bridge, overlooking the main deck. Once, Alex had departed. Charlie and I sat there sunning ourselves in the late afternoon drinking the rum while we got to know a little about each other. The sun was shining it was deliciously hot and I was in an exotic place, what could possibly go wrong? At least, that afternoon went well.
Danny was the only other member of the crew who drank and he and Charlie knew each other quite well. So after dinner. (Yippee! I had company.) And after the sun had gone down, witnessed again from the aft deck. The three of us sat in the Alex’s cabin and continued to demolish most of the rum. It was a very large bottle.
In the words of any Trinidadian, Charlie was ‘Something else, man!’ He turned out to be one of those guys who could do anything with a machine be it mechanical or electronic, but to look after himself he was absolutely hopeless. He just didn’t care about personal hygiene at all. His only clothes were what he was wearing. A filthy, I suppose you could call it white shirt, black trousers shiny with use and age-old sandals. He never washed or cleaned his teeth, which were yellow and black and grotesque and to me absolutely horrible to look at. He had been married four times, and was always pickled in rum. I don’t think I ever saw him in any other state. He was tall, skinny, filthy and drunk. Though an absolute ace with machines. He was certainly a rebel without a cause here in Trinidad and just loved it when things went wrong. Working on Fireguard was like being on holiday for him, he told me. I know I should have run at that remark but I let it pass, since I had never experienced anything like him and I had been around myself quite a bit. He had a permanent cold from his drinking, his nose was always running and his shaking in the mornings; his whole body in spasms from the alcohol was something that had to be seen to be believed. To top it all, he had a great sick sense of humour. Though after four wives, I guess. Who wouldn’t? We were to have some great times together Charlie and I even though he used to lose me when talking about mechanical things, for he had a great love of machinery. On his arrival in Trinidad, after sailing Fireguard over from Sweden with Alex, he’d married a local Indian girl so he could stay in the country, then dumped her. Trinidad was his idyll and he worked as an engineer in‘Calypso Chicken’ a type of McDonald’s fast food outlet on Independence Square. He wasn’t working for Alex or was he a member of our crew. He was just another under his spell who helped out whenever he could, or whenever Alex demanded it.
It seemed silly to me, sitting in Alex’s cabin that evening when it was so warm outside, so the three of us went out onto the companionway. And leaning over the bulwark, drinks in hand, heat deliciously warm around us. We looked out across the dark black sea to the romantic and exciting night-lights of Port-of-Spain, and to the mountains silhouetted in the background behind them. That evening we slowly got drunk. ‘Boy was that becoming a habit.’
For me, the next day was the beginning of Charlie and Danny’s eternal arguing over breakfast. Calling poor Danny ‘Cookie Monster’ after an American cartoon character that Danny never understood, Charlie would swear Danny was trying to poison him with his terrible cooking. And screaming and shouting, Danny would threaten Charlie with all manner of kitchen utensils. At one time, he even took a cutthroat razor to Charlie’s throat and seriously threatened his life. Though, that event wasn’t until much later on when events put us all on edge.
This battle between the two of them took place every morning Charlie was with us. And to a degree I can quite understand it, when all we got for breakfast was a tin of sardines each, unopened at that. Though to be fair that wasn’t Danny’s fault. Mind you. I’m no cook myself. But on reflection, neither was Danny. We nearly always had a stew of some kind be it fish or chicken, and once a week he added dumplings. At least, that’s what Danny called them. Whatever they were, in my experience they were certainly not dumplings. If you put your fork into one, it always got stuck, then when you tried to extricate the fork with your knife that got stuck too. They did make a deep thudding sound when you dropped them over the side though. I was soon to learn to eat some strange dishes from dear old ‘Cookie Monster.’
After only one day on Fireguard, the first of many escapades began for me when I got my first taste of what Alex MacAlister was really like. On that morning and while Charlie was still with us, the harbour authorities came alongside in a powerful launch, and asked us to move because they needed to dredge the area for the new Tobago Ferry due to arrive in a couple of weeks. A fair enough request, I thought. Obviously, I couldn’t do it. So I shouted down my predicament to them while promising to speak to the captain when he came on board. Politely, we were given until the following morning to shift before their powerful launch turned and headed shorewards. When, Alex did join us that afternoon to pick Charlie up and to see if he had done any work. He refused point blank to do anything, no matter what I said to persuade him. Telling me, he wanted three days’ notice in writing before he’d even consider moving. He took Charlie and went ashore, without any consideration for the dilemma he had placed me in.
I just couldn’t believe it, or understand his attitude and for a brief moment thought of moving Fireguard myself, somehow: Although, down that road lay madness. This put me in a terrible position too, since I had promised the harbour authorities we would move. However, I was yet to learn how Alex MacAlister operated.
That evening, after a shower and the daily sunset experience I rowed ashore with the crew, all six of us squashed together in that tiny dinghy. To let them show me around the town. Though once we landed they wanted to be off on their own. So Danny and I went along to the ‘Flying Angel’ seaman’s club. Where, I exchanged some money so we could both have a drink.
When the authorities turned up the following morning and called up to me from their launch. I felt awful, stupid. Still. I shouted down Alex’s demands knowing how ridiculous they sounded, and left it at that. Of course, they were not amused as I knew they wouldn’t be. And amid a barrage of colourful language that only a Caribbean can use or understand, they tied a rope to our aft end and dragged us, still at anchor, far out of their way. I was frantic. Not at what they were doing. I would do the same myself, in their shoes. But it can be dangerous dragging an anchor, even I knew that. However, no one had bothered to tell me that it was a sandy bottom and we would be ok. And, of course, the crew all thought the whole thing was hilarious.
The next day, Alex had a hell of a job shouting from the shoreline to come and pick him up, because they had dragged us so far out we couldn’t hear him. I thought it hilarious, as did the crew because he had to hitch a ride off a passing launch to get to us. However, he climbed on board in a foul temper. Perhaps he thought I had started the engines and moved Fireguard. After all, I’d had that same thought myself. But I soon put him straight on that score.
“No one is going to move my baby without permission,” he shouted, indignantly. And no matter what I said to try and calm him or make him see sense. He shouted for Chris and Len to start the main engine. Then moved us back in to where we were, before the dredger had a chance to do any work. He then stormed off home, leaving me to face the music.
Ructions the following day and God only knows what the crew thought of their new mate, as the authorities dragged us even further out. It was a damn nuisance too, since it took us ages to row ashore in the evenings, then ages to row back out to Fireguard again. Over which time, of course, there was no sign of Alex. Happily that problem was only to last for a week. Until one evening, during a rather bad storm that blew out of nowhere we dragged anchor, colliding with a few safely tethered ships and found ourselves much closer in again, almost to our original position. That was a wild night I can tell you. Pushing away the bows of other ships, as best we could that loomed at us out of the dark while being tossed in every direction. The wind howling, the rain pelting down, while the sea whose mercy we were in seemed to have a life of its own. Hell, we could have ended up smashed against the shore or we could have even sunk, which would not have been that unusual considering my history. Then it was over as fast as it had begun, and I couldn’t wait to see the faces of the port authorities the following day. Only they must have given up on us because they left us alone after that.
After idle days of chipping and painting in the hot sun, I spent my evenings in Danny’s company finding out about the town. Drinking and dancing in all the bars, nightclubs and rum shops I tasted Port-of-Spain. It sure was a shambles of a place compared to what I was used to back home. Nevertheless, I loved it all. The atmosphere around the town was electric and the rapport between the man in the street quite bawdy, though refreshing. But where were those sun-kissed beaches, the ones I yearned for so much? Certainly, not here for there were no beaches in Port-of-Spain at all.
I even went to the pictures one night with Cilbert and James. I think they wanted to show me off to their friends. Unfortunately, I had my watch cut off my wrist, by a passing Rastafarian in Independence Square before I even realised it had gone. Cilbert was buying some Ganja at the time and he and James were furious that such a thing happened while I was in their company. They caused such a commotion in the Rasta camp in the centre of the square, that I had it handed back. After that little escapade I preferred to stay in Danny’s company. At least, until I had a decent tan and didn’t look too much like a tourist. Looking back, I think Cilbert possibly had the watch earmarked for himself since it did eventually disappear, along with most of my other things.
Work continued on Fireguard chipping and painting in the hot sun and opening the hatches we cleaned salt from out of the hold, in readiness for her new cargo. We never closed the hatches afterwards, either. Leaving them open to the elements.
I’m a natural with children, so got on very well with the crew. It was easy to make them laugh, although I never quite made it with Chris. He had a great mistrust of strangers and I think there was something mentally wrong with him, too. However, I did finally achieve a working relationship with them all. We even had to take one of the derricks off during this time because it was bent due to some past misdeed by a crewmember, though we still kept it lashed to the deck.
Alex came on board and decided he wanted to see me every day. And since he had no intentions of coming out to us himself, I had to meet him every afternoon in his favourite haunt ‘The Standup Bar.’ It was situated down an alleyway in an odd courtyard affair, opposite a barbershop and a dentist and was run by Baby, her girls and young Smithy. All of the ship’s captains and their agents drank here because the beer was the coldest in town. Baby was also known for her hot pepper sauce. ‘Wow!’ Hot like hell. Something my English palate took a long time to get used to, since I wasn’t accustomed to eating fire. Actually, it didn’t get used to it. Alex had a huge jar of the stuff in his cabin and as far as I was concerned that was where it was going to stay.
For the next three weeks I was invariably drunk in the afternoons, for Alex was a hard taskmaster when it came to drinking. But I couldn’t keep up with him, although I often tried.
Because of past experiences ‘Ship’s Chandler’ was a bad word in Alex’s company. So every few days I had to do the shopping for the ship’s stores, at the local ‘Hi Lo’ supermarket. Usually the one on Independence Square and quite often after drinking all afternoon in ‘The Standup’ bar. By then, it was I who was seen in the hot afternoon sun shouting across the harbour to get Fireguard’s attention. As things turned out, I was surprised it was only the once I fell out of the dinghy and into the sea while handing the stores up to the crew. With my record it should have been more. Why Alex wouldn’t buy six months supplies at a time, like other ship owners was beyond me and I could never get a straight answer from him. Though I suspect, he was concerned Danny would sell it or use it all in one week.
A weekly chore at this time was rowing ashore to the ice factory since Chris hadn’t fixed the freezer motor. Ice was an important commodity to us. So it was the only time everyone worked together without a moan or a complaint and was a big event when it finally arrived. One massive lump the size of a medieval building block covered in rags for protection from the sun. The whole crew became as excited as children similar to when an ice cream van arrives in the street back in England. Giggling and jabbering to themselves, they would drag it across the deck, split it with an ice pick while taking small shards to suck. They would even bring over a lump for me like it was some kind of precious gift, before Danny got his hands on it and stored it away in the galley. The only problem then was squeezing the money out of Alex to pay for it. He was a stereotypical Scotsman when it came to money. The crew were owed a few months wages and I was constantly on his back for them. Sadly, as far as Alex was concerned if it didn’t involve alcohol, you were out of luck. Over the next few weeks, things got so bad on board that I turned some of my own money (I had £100 in my suitcase) into Trinidad dollars and told the crew it was a sub from their captain. I hated seeing them going ashore every night with nothing especially when they were owed it. Plus, their moaning complaining and especially their sulking, was driving me mad.