The first time
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: In the days when no-one had a camera.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: In the days when no-one had a camera.
New year's eve 1969, the first time I went to sea. Bound for New Zealand to bring back lamb, I was looking forward to travelling the world as a cabin boy on the Shaw-Savill Line.
My old man gave up his darts night to fund my taxi fare from Glasgow Central Station to the docks, wishing me 'Bon Voyage' with a firm handshake, closely followed by, 'Don't forget to write to your mum'.
I was seventeen and a late recruit to the merchant navy as it turned out, although I had been gone from the nest for almost two years beforehand; spending much of that time as a commis waiter in a large Edinburgh hotel which, to my mind at least, made me something of a man of the world.
My bunkie was a mate from training school so there was an instant familiarity as we slipped down the Clyde in search of the open seas, and the work was easy enough. I had been drinking in pubs ever since fetching up in Edinburgh but, being underage according to the shipping line, had to sit and watch seasoned sailors get wasted as the new year came in and I was not a happy bunny.
Worse was to come as we approached the 'crossing the line' ceremony, in fact crossing the Equator, an event aimed at humiliating first timers in a God-awful initiation involving waste food, tar, red lead and fire hoses.
The fruity second steward tried to shove old roast potatoes up my arse and, naked as I was I had little in the way of defence other than a heartfelt verbal warning for him to get the fuck away from me. When he and the bosun followed my bunkie and me into the toilets when we escaped to clean up, offering advice and assistance on getting rid of the tar from our skin, they didn't come near myself at least for the remainder of the trip.
Not so the cook and second cook, persistent Aberdonians the pair of them, both boldly claiming they wanted to 'nail' me and would do so before the trip was over. They were to be disappointed.
I quickly learned due to the nature of their work and close proximity to the chief steward that they had access to a slab of beer per day, and that eight or nine cans each would render them incapable of much other than slurred speech. I also had access to the fridge they kept the beer in as part of my work requirements and knew fine they wouldn't miss the three or four cans I helped myself to on a regular basis.
Lisbon was our first port of call, to take on essential stores and have an engine fault repaired. I went ashore with a couple of the stewards and the first bar we entered had a Scotsman in charge. He had come to Lisbon in '67 to see the famous Glasgow Celtic win the European Cup, found himself a local girl and settled down to a life in the sun. His second child was due anytime soon so he was committed to staying. He claimed to know of a few others who'd had the exact same idea.
I went to my cabin one day to stash a couple of cool cans and my bunkie was changing his bed linen. A paring knife fell from under his pillow, he was on the bottom bunk, and he explained its being there. Of course he had the exact same problem as myself and the knife was his insurance. Two days later I had my own paring knife, which felt just as comfortable to my hand as the double ended can opener I kept under my own pillow.
A couple of guys had guitars so we'd gather in one cabin or another and rattle out the pop songs of the day, along with old sea shanties, at the same time getting to know who was who. Often the cry was, 'sing, sing, or show your ring', and luckily, I could carry a tune in those days.
New Zealand was warm and friendly. I had personal knowledge of three British cities but Auckland blew me away at first sight. We, my bunkie and myself, had been advised to steer clear of The Snake Pit, a notorious drinking den with an 'anything goes' policy but, hey, I had lived in Edinburgh, had passed through several noted pubs in both Glasgow and London without coming to any harm and reckoned myself to be a man of the world, a sensation reinforced by my recent almost six weeks as a sailor. However, The Snake Pit was a real eye opener and easily different to any other bar I had ever been in.
I wasn't even in the pub, rather sitting at a long table out-back and chatting to a rather attractive young Maori lady; we were getting on famously although she was yet to put her hand in her pocket, being most willing to run to the bar with my money for refreshments. On one such occasion, another, older Maori lady took up the seat recently vacated by the object of my affections and offered her hand. Being a polite Scot and having been brought up proper, I accepted the handshake.
“I got smoke,” she said, showing me a mouthful of tombstone teeth and squeezing hard on my hand, “you wanna buy some smoke?”
“Put 'im down, Marce,” advised Aroha on return from her toilette, “ I seen 'im first, girl.”
“You want some smoke, girl? Good shit, fresh off the boat.”
I went to the bar and on my return Marce was putting the finishing touches to a huge joint, peeling a layer from a beer mat to furnish a roach. In the past the smoking of illegal substances had been a very private thing in that it wasn't considered right to let the general public observe. In The Snake Pit, however, no one took a blind bit of notice until the pungent aromas wafted inside on the breeze.
Marce passed the joint to me and conducted half a dozen or so transactions, scooping a handful of the grass from her brown carrier bag and accepting folding money in return. The money disappeared down her cleavage, there was plenty of room for it, and soon she was tipping what was left in the bag onto our table; there wasn't much.
“You kids have fun,” she ordered, throwing Ahora a wink and giving me a playful slap on the back that almost winded me, “have a smoke on me.”
The barman came out to collect glasses despite the fact that I'd been clearing the table on each run to either the bar or the toilet.
“You don't mind, mate?” he said, not waiting for an answer and helping himself to my tobacco tin. Quick as you like there was another joint on the go and he had four or five good hits from it before getting back to work.
Marce was right, it was good shit. I thought maybe the beer was clouding me but when I got to my feet I knew it was the grass.
Half an hour later Marce returned with yet another bag of the stuff and I, or rather Ahora, made sure I was at the front of the queue for a double handful.
Ahora came home with me, back to the ship. I remember walking through The Snake Pit bar to the taxi and it was like floating through fog what with everyone getting stoned.
We had a serious case of the munchies, Ahora and I. My bunkie had been left in charge of the galley and I made it there and back to the cabin with two large plates brimming with cold cuts and chips, and half a loaf of buttered bread. Later, I nicked three cans of beer from the cook's stash then Ahora and I wrestled throughout the night.
We set sail at noon the next day, me having been rudely awakened to serve the breakfast and Ahora discreetly making her way ashore after I sneaked a couple of boiled eggs to her; some other crew members had girls so no one seemed to take any notice. I was actually helping myself to cup after cup from the milk churn at the bottom of the gangplank as some of them left and I recognised a few faces from The Snake Pit
Four days later I was off the booze for health reasons. Having visited a doctor in Napier, I was to abstain for ten days to let the tablets do their thing and it was impressed upon me to finish the course. Luckily, I had a fair stash of weed to go at and I have to say I developed a life-long affection for the stuff from that particular time. I'm sure that's why I've never minded getting stoned on my own when in general it's a communal experience.
We were homeward bound, almost home in fact, and I was celebrating my eighteenth birthday. I'd reminded the chief steward of that fact but he insisted that since I was a 'boy rating', it was company policy not to let me have alcohol. No matter, I helped myself to six cans that evening and made my way to the poop deck for a private party. I counted stars, smoked my last two joints and glugged down the beer. I also considered my options; I had options. I could sign up for another trip or I could make my way to the Broomielaw after my shore leave and sign up to something else.
In the end I signed up for another trip. I knew what this ship was all about and besides, I thought I should have a quiet word with Ahora about the discomfort she had caused me, and maybe see Marce about scoring some more grass.
My old man gave up his darts night to fund my taxi fare from Glasgow Central Station to the docks, wishing me 'Bon Voyage' with a firm handshake, closely followed by, 'Don't forget to write to your mum'.
I was seventeen and a late recruit to the merchant navy as it turned out, although I had been gone from the nest for almost two years beforehand; spending much of that time as a commis waiter in a large Edinburgh hotel which, to my mind at least, made me something of a man of the world.
My bunkie was a mate from training school so there was an instant familiarity as we slipped down the Clyde in search of the open seas, and the work was easy enough. I had been drinking in pubs ever since fetching up in Edinburgh but, being underage according to the shipping line, had to sit and watch seasoned sailors get wasted as the new year came in and I was not a happy bunny.
Worse was to come as we approached the 'crossing the line' ceremony, in fact crossing the Equator, an event aimed at humiliating first timers in a God-awful initiation involving waste food, tar, red lead and fire hoses.
The fruity second steward tried to shove old roast potatoes up my arse and, naked as I was I had little in the way of defence other than a heartfelt verbal warning for him to get the fuck away from me. When he and the bosun followed my bunkie and me into the toilets when we escaped to clean up, offering advice and assistance on getting rid of the tar from our skin, they didn't come near myself at least for the remainder of the trip.
Not so the cook and second cook, persistent Aberdonians the pair of them, both boldly claiming they wanted to 'nail' me and would do so before the trip was over. They were to be disappointed.
I quickly learned due to the nature of their work and close proximity to the chief steward that they had access to a slab of beer per day, and that eight or nine cans each would render them incapable of much other than slurred speech. I also had access to the fridge they kept the beer in as part of my work requirements and knew fine they wouldn't miss the three or four cans I helped myself to on a regular basis.
Lisbon was our first port of call, to take on essential stores and have an engine fault repaired. I went ashore with a couple of the stewards and the first bar we entered had a Scotsman in charge. He had come to Lisbon in '67 to see the famous Glasgow Celtic win the European Cup, found himself a local girl and settled down to a life in the sun. His second child was due anytime soon so he was committed to staying. He claimed to know of a few others who'd had the exact same idea.
I went to my cabin one day to stash a couple of cool cans and my bunkie was changing his bed linen. A paring knife fell from under his pillow, he was on the bottom bunk, and he explained its being there. Of course he had the exact same problem as myself and the knife was his insurance. Two days later I had my own paring knife, which felt just as comfortable to my hand as the double ended can opener I kept under my own pillow.
A couple of guys had guitars so we'd gather in one cabin or another and rattle out the pop songs of the day, along with old sea shanties, at the same time getting to know who was who. Often the cry was, 'sing, sing, or show your ring', and luckily, I could carry a tune in those days.
New Zealand was warm and friendly. I had personal knowledge of three British cities but Auckland blew me away at first sight. We, my bunkie and myself, had been advised to steer clear of The Snake Pit, a notorious drinking den with an 'anything goes' policy but, hey, I had lived in Edinburgh, had passed through several noted pubs in both Glasgow and London without coming to any harm and reckoned myself to be a man of the world, a sensation reinforced by my recent almost six weeks as a sailor. However, The Snake Pit was a real eye opener and easily different to any other bar I had ever been in.
I wasn't even in the pub, rather sitting at a long table out-back and chatting to a rather attractive young Maori lady; we were getting on famously although she was yet to put her hand in her pocket, being most willing to run to the bar with my money for refreshments. On one such occasion, another, older Maori lady took up the seat recently vacated by the object of my affections and offered her hand. Being a polite Scot and having been brought up proper, I accepted the handshake.
“I got smoke,” she said, showing me a mouthful of tombstone teeth and squeezing hard on my hand, “you wanna buy some smoke?”
“Put 'im down, Marce,” advised Aroha on return from her toilette, “ I seen 'im first, girl.”
“You want some smoke, girl? Good shit, fresh off the boat.”
I went to the bar and on my return Marce was putting the finishing touches to a huge joint, peeling a layer from a beer mat to furnish a roach. In the past the smoking of illegal substances had been a very private thing in that it wasn't considered right to let the general public observe. In The Snake Pit, however, no one took a blind bit of notice until the pungent aromas wafted inside on the breeze.
Marce passed the joint to me and conducted half a dozen or so transactions, scooping a handful of the grass from her brown carrier bag and accepting folding money in return. The money disappeared down her cleavage, there was plenty of room for it, and soon she was tipping what was left in the bag onto our table; there wasn't much.
“You kids have fun,” she ordered, throwing Ahora a wink and giving me a playful slap on the back that almost winded me, “have a smoke on me.”
The barman came out to collect glasses despite the fact that I'd been clearing the table on each run to either the bar or the toilet.
“You don't mind, mate?” he said, not waiting for an answer and helping himself to my tobacco tin. Quick as you like there was another joint on the go and he had four or five good hits from it before getting back to work.
Marce was right, it was good shit. I thought maybe the beer was clouding me but when I got to my feet I knew it was the grass.
Half an hour later Marce returned with yet another bag of the stuff and I, or rather Ahora, made sure I was at the front of the queue for a double handful.
Ahora came home with me, back to the ship. I remember walking through The Snake Pit bar to the taxi and it was like floating through fog what with everyone getting stoned.
We had a serious case of the munchies, Ahora and I. My bunkie had been left in charge of the galley and I made it there and back to the cabin with two large plates brimming with cold cuts and chips, and half a loaf of buttered bread. Later, I nicked three cans of beer from the cook's stash then Ahora and I wrestled throughout the night.
We set sail at noon the next day, me having been rudely awakened to serve the breakfast and Ahora discreetly making her way ashore after I sneaked a couple of boiled eggs to her; some other crew members had girls so no one seemed to take any notice. I was actually helping myself to cup after cup from the milk churn at the bottom of the gangplank as some of them left and I recognised a few faces from The Snake Pit
Four days later I was off the booze for health reasons. Having visited a doctor in Napier, I was to abstain for ten days to let the tablets do their thing and it was impressed upon me to finish the course. Luckily, I had a fair stash of weed to go at and I have to say I developed a life-long affection for the stuff from that particular time. I'm sure that's why I've never minded getting stoned on my own when in general it's a communal experience.
We were homeward bound, almost home in fact, and I was celebrating my eighteenth birthday. I'd reminded the chief steward of that fact but he insisted that since I was a 'boy rating', it was company policy not to let me have alcohol. No matter, I helped myself to six cans that evening and made my way to the poop deck for a private party. I counted stars, smoked my last two joints and glugged down the beer. I also considered my options; I had options. I could sign up for another trip or I could make my way to the Broomielaw after my shore leave and sign up to something else.
In the end I signed up for another trip. I knew what this ship was all about and besides, I thought I should have a quiet word with Ahora about the discomfort she had caused me, and maybe see Marce about scoring some more grass.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and eight collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and eight collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.