An adventure

The crew on the ‘Afon Las’ were ‘auld hands’ who were never sent anywhere outside of the harbour as Management believed they would mostr certainly get into trouble and embarrass the outfit. Their exploits were legion – which was not bad for a bunch of near geriatric hell raisers! However, as they were part of the ship’s fittings, they went where she went. As I have said before, us ‘deep sea’ men were sometimes allocated to the smaller tugs when work was slack on the bigger ones. That was how I found myself aboard her bound for Rotterdam to pick up a tow for Dublin.Before we left we were given a pep talk by the Marine Manager who threatened – in no uncertain terms – what would happen if we ‘disgraced’ ourselves in that most hallowed of hallowed places for tug men – the home port of the world’s leading Dutch towage and salvage company. As the outfit were courting the Dutch anyway, the fact that they had no option but to use the ‘Afon Las’ must had given the Managers many a sleepless night.

Once the pep  talk had been done and the lines cast off, his warning was  immediately ignored as the crew adopted an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ atitude!This was not a couple of hours work around the harbour – this was a seafaring expedition to Rotterdam! City of free love ( that would have been Amsterdam but their geography wasn’t as good as it used to be…apparently) and an opportunity for the old hands to dust off their well out of practice skills in international diplomacy and (where possible)  forging of new relations with the inhabitants! I’d say literal but that wouldn’t be fair….

As was usual with the ‘Afon Las’, as soon as she ventured anywhere over twenty miles from the port, nature took a hand and threw a wobbly. It had a thing for the old tug: No sooner had she rounded Lands End than she was butting head seas through the Channel until she reached Holland. After that it was a nice slow trip up the wide waterways with most of the crew – apart from the watchkeepers – idling, leaning on rails with mugs of tea in their hands, fags in mouths, waving at anyone and everyone they saw whilst making plans for the inevitable run ashore.

Arriving in Rotterdam we were met by the agent who announced that senior people from the Dutch Head Office would visit the next morning and that the tug should be ‘made ready’. As soon as he was gone, there was a queue for the one shower and the whole ship literally stunk of Brut and Lynx aftershave – the more serious business of enjoyment now being the top priority.

We went ashore. Rotterdam is a lovely city but back then I was content to absorb local cultures by sampling their national drink. In Holland this is Gin. Believed to have been invented by a Dutch chemist and alchemist named Sylvius de Bouve, it comes in two varieties: Oude Jenever and Jonge Jenever. The difference is in the strength of taste but trust me – a few hours in and I you’re not unduly concerned about the history of it! It was a loud and raucous night out because these were old hands – they’d done their youth deep-sea and since then had been tied to the harbour for a good few years with a steady income, a mortgage and a wife. Suddenly, this collection of grandfathers were living it up like they were 21 again. The drink flowed like water, no woman was safe from their (admittedly rheumy) roving eyes and they also indulged in that time-honoured pastime so beloved of old Welshmen whenever they leave the homeland – trying to sing ridiculous National songs in competition with a juke box. I wonder what the Dutch made of ‘Sospan Bach’?

I don’t recall being carried back aboard later that night after much mixing Gin and lager – a lethal combination – but when I woke the next morning it was to the sound of someone shouting ‘Hello?’ in a very pronounced Dutch accent from the main deck. As she was ‘dead ship’, I would have expected everyone to hear it – but no. All I could hear was snoring. I went up from below to be greeted by some sombre looking men who were looking at me as if I had landed directly from Mars – tee-shirt, jeans, no shoes, wild hair (I had some then). It was what I had worn ashore the night before and looked like I’d slept in it – which I had. They asked if they could see the Captain. I said I’d go fetch him trying to appear befuddled by sleep and not by the sour remains of the night before and a head that felt like someone had taken a mallet to it.

As I made my way down the ladder that led to the sleeping space, I knew with a sick feeling in my stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with the last night’s excesses, that these were The Main Men. As they were standing just one deck above there was no doubt in my mind they must have heard the loud, slurred voice that replied to my ‘Tom? There are people here from to see you….’ because the response was bellowed in a full force 10 snarl along the lines of ‘Tell the cloggies to F*** O** and come back later….‘

Worse was to come! They understood very well what he’d said and with lots of tutting, and mutterings in Dutch, left the ship – only to be greeted by the spectacle of Brian the AB wheeling the Chief Engineer back on a trolley, both paralytic drunk. Brian was a chatty, amiable sort of bloke  even without drink. With it, his friendliness increased ten fold, although  his ability to make himself understood coherently didn’t. The same with the Chief.

As they passed the crowd of important folk, they both smiled and waved happily, “ Whose dead, mate? “ was slurred out by Brian as he cork screwed the trolley along the quay, followed by the Chief’s “ ‘s a funeral….’s a fuggin’ funeral….am I dead, Bri? Is it me?” The Dutchmen – viewed from my vantage point on the main deck, just got into their small fleet of Mercedes cars and drove slowly away.

I had visions of our jobs going but it turned out thata ‘phone call to our outfit by one of The Important Folk apparently apologised for having arrived too early and not having given us a chance to ‘repair’ after such a rough passage. They knew what was going on – they had been tug men themselves, and they understood that after such a rough passage, we needed to ‘unwind’.  The next morning they arrived back again – this time in hard hats, boiler suits,  questions and an interest in the tug.

Unlike her Dutch counterparts, we towed with a heavy natural fibre tow rope and not with a winch and a wire. All the heaving in of the tow was done by hand and she towed on a single hook.It was a method that meant serious hard work in terms of lifting and man handling stuff around – but was also an exercise in practical seamanship as I quickly learned the use of rope and chain stoppers (temporary weight bearing lashings) aboard her as well as the more practical aspects of towing with limited equipment. She was almost a museum piece in that respect. She had originally been built to work on the River Thames – she was never designed for working at sea but the outfit never let something like that get in the way of a profit margin.

Her fit out was basic – four seamen shared a cabin, the engineers and deck officers also shared one each but were two up in bunk beds – the most basic of accomodation given that she had been built as a ‘day tug’ ie: no overnight stays aboard. Since the outfit had got her, they had crammed 8 bunks into a space not wide enough to swing even a very small cat! I nce spent two months aboard her – but that’s another story.

She had one shower between us all  that was pumped up from a boiler in the engine room providing you had asked the engineer to switch the pump on, that is. If you didn’t, you’d get a huge dollop of icy cold water arriving in a gush before the pump settled down to pulsing the spray out. The messroom was just another huge space with a single fixed table and a plastic couch half- way round. That space also included a working clothing locker for oilskins and wellie boots that had no heater in it – so you can imagine how getting into them felt if you needed to use them.

The galley – aka The Cookhouse –  was an after thought and boasted a baby Belling type cooker, a tap, a boiler for hot water and a small fridge. Cooking was done by the deck hands – so if you can imagine someone in an old boiler suit that doesn’t even bear the word ‘hygenic’ attached to it hustling a fry up in a big pan, you have a fair idea of standards!If I said pie – Shepard’s pie, Cottage pie, Fish pie, meat pie etc – was a favourite, you can then judge the culinary standards for yourself!

I am glad to say that as The Important Folk toured the tug and asked questions in a genuinely interested manner, the whole crew were an example to their employers. Some had even shaved! The Dutch laid on a dinner for us at a lovely restaurant that evening – but the beverages were limited so everyone realised that it was probably in their best interests to stay sober. Well, we did but once they’d gone an excuse was found to celebrate our narrow escape!

When we arrived home to Holyhead after having towed the barge to Dublin, we were met by the Marine General Manager who was standing on the quayside to nab us all before we shut her down and went home. He stated that we had ‘most certainly made an impression’ and that whilst he did not want to know all the details, was grudgingly happy we’d at least been noticed.It didn’t do us any harm. We got a lot of work from the Dutch for a year or so afterwards so, as the Marine General Manager had stated, we must have done good.

For all the rough and tumble of those years, they were the best of days – almost lawless, always close to the edge – but with the finest of colourful characters all of whom, bar one, are now dead. That one – the Chief – married his daughter off to my cousin and we still get together for a yarn now and again. I love going back over the old days with him because those incidents colour a past that is still vibrant and is guaranteed to make me feel human again. I had a life then.

It is my anchor in these colourless by comparison days away from the sea.