Merchant Navy Memories - Deckie Learner
by Published on 24th May 2021 10:02 AM
I joined the Merchant Navy in August 1959 as a cabin boy having failed on account of my defective colour vision to get into the Royal Navy and onto the deck department of the Merchant Navy. That was until Captain T R Rowe of Runciman’s offered to sign me on as a cadet. I explained my colour vision problem and obviously could not accept his offer, but I told him, I would love to be a deckhand. Tommy Rowe was sympathetic and agreed to sign me on a deck boy (Peggie). That was the best time I spent at sea, I just loved being on deck.
12 months later I attended the Shipping Federation Mann Island Liverpool to sign on another ship as an Ordinary Seaman. I remember vividly the day the Federation doctor looking at my Seaman’s Discharge Book and saying, “You haven’t got the B.O.T colour vision stamp in your book.” He tested my colour perception and I failed it once again. He said, “Sorry son, you cannot go back in the deck department.” I had no other choice, either to be a steward, a cook or training for the engine room or leave the sea.
Feeling bitterly disappointed I went home to contemplate my future at sea. That same evening, I went to the pictures at the Burnley Odeon. The ‘B’ supporting film was a drama-documentary about two trawlers out of Hull. The skipper on one boat was the father of the skipper on the other boat. They were fishing in friendly rivalry. The film was in Technicolour, the sea and sky were blue and life on the trawlers seemed pretty good to me. I thought at the time, “I bet trawlermen don’t have to pass a colour vision test.”
The very next day I set off early for Fleetwood. I called at every office on Dock Street looking for a job on the fishing boats; Boston Deep Sea Fisheries, John Marrs, Hewitt, Iago Steam Trawlers, Wyre Trawlers, etc. Knocking on the door saying, “I’m a deckhand from the Merchant Navy, I have an oilskin, Sou’wester and wellies.” They looked at me, 9 stone wet through, smiled and said, “No, sorry, sonny, there are no jobs for you.”
Disappointed once again, I called in at the Fleetwood Arms for a pint before travelling home. At the bar, I met a local guy. He asked me where was I from and what was I doing in Fleetwood? I told him about what the trawler companies had said.
He said, “I’ll get you a job on the trawlers. I know the Ship’s Husband for John Marrs. He comes in here every lunchtime at 12. He knows me and he’ll sign you on.”
I was sceptical but I bought the man a pint for good measure. He said to me, “You know, you are buying me a pint, but a couple of years back I was a millionaire. I won the pools, £75,000 and I spent the lot. I’d buy everyone in the pub a drink, I had 200 followers and I’d put a £200 bet on a horse.”
Of course, back in 1962, £75,000 was equivalent to a million quid today and £200 was like, more than two months wages for the average working man.
He said, “Within a few months I’d spent the lot and I’m now broke.”
I wasn’t too sure if he was BSing me, but I found out later he had won £75,000 on Littlewoods Pools and had spent the lot!
True to his words at 12 noon on the dot, through the door came two men. One was Charlie (Chuck) Wilson and another man. The ex-millionaire introduced me to Chuck, he was the Ship’s Husband for John Marrs. Chuck looked me over and asked, “Can you sail tomorrow?”
I said yes, I could.
He said, “My son (also called Charlie) is going to sea tomorrow for the first time, you’ll be good company for him. Sign on the MT Armana tomorrow morning as a Deckie Learner.”
And that was that, I signed on a brand-new trawler, the skipper was Victor Buschini and at 25 years of age, he was the youngest skipper in Fleetwood.
Within 36 hours I was back at sea heading for Iceland and the Arctic.
Talk about a culture shock, without any training and proper weatherproof clothing, I was a sea-sick brassie heading for the most treacherous seas on the planet. I could not believe how hard life on a trawler was. How rough the seas were. As you seafarers will know, deep sea fishing is not only the most dangerous job in Britain, it’s the most dangerous job on earth. (A couple of years later, as a radio operator, I found out how dangerous life on the trawlers could be, but that’s another story). You are 17 times more likely to be killed on a fishing boat than the jobs ashore. In 1962 profit was more important than safety at sea. Should a trawler sink, there was very little compensation for the wives and families of the lost fishermen. The owners called it, ‘An Act of God’.
24-hour long watches (and longer), no watch below, falling asleep stood on your feet, freezing icy seas. Tons of water crashing onto the deck. On the sidewinders, the fish were dropped and gutted on the open deck. It was dangerous work, very dangerous.
The skipper, mate, bosun and the sparehands were the roughest, toughest men I have ever known. Fishing in force 9 – 10 gales, while the big ‘snappers’ from Hull, Grimsby, Aberdeen and Peterhead were ‘laid and dodging’ in the Lee of the land. The Fleetwood men on their little side-winding trawlers never stopped fishing come hell, ice or high waves.
The wives of fishermen are tough women too, being both mother and father to their kids while their husbands are away at sea for 21 days a time with only 3 days at home before heading back to sea again, never knowing if their men would come home. Superstitious, the wives never waved their men off to sea, in case they waved them away for good, nor would they wash their men’s clothing on sailing day.
‘Never wash on sailing day or you will wash your man away.’ My mother learned this from one of my Fleetwood girlfriends, so my mum never washed my clothes on sailing day, neither did my wife later on.
I was not cut out to be a trawlerman. I could hardly lift the cod, juggling with the slippery fish as it slipped and slithered on my oilskin, trying to gut it. Not strong enough to throw the heavy fish into the bath, using two hands instead of one hand to throw it up on the bath. After spending 4 minutes trying to gut a haddock the skipper called down from the wheelhouse, “Well, did you find out what it died of?!”
From the trawlers, I attended the radio college in Manchester PMG 2nd class, any gross tonnage. After qualifying, my girlfriend persuaded me to return to the trawlers instead of going deep sea so I would be home every 3 weeks. I agreed and sailed on several trawlers as a radio operator.
What happened to the girl who asked me to go back fishing and then three trips later insisted that I get a job ashore. I told her to FO. Well, that’s for another day. 'Till then, happy sailing.
PC R710198
