I had you down as being the first to answer the question i asked. What was the abbreviation {LEFO} Anyone Regards lads Terry.:thumb_ship:
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I had you down as being the first to answer the question i asked. What was the abbreviation {LEFO} Anyone Regards lads Terry.:thumb_ship:
One night my cabin mate and drinking partner woke up and started screaming and shouting and foaming at the mouth.
I ran to the bridge and the old man came down.
He asked my mate if he was seeing little green men, giant spiders,snakes crawling up the bulkhead or devils in the cabin.
My mate answered no and that's when I knew he was seriously ill as the cabin was full of them !
LANDS END FOR ORDERS Terry;-Especially on tankers when eventual discharge port was not yet finalised-usually made everyone happy(- as in going home !)Quote:
Originally Posted by red lead ted
Gulliver
When loaded in the Gulf the destination was always Lefo, The cargo of oil was then on the oil market in New York and it was bought and sold on the way around the Cape, Sometimes you got many destinations.
It depended on the price of oil, Someone would buy the 3,000,000 barrels at $12 dollars the price would go up to $13 he would sell it, make a $3,000,000 profit and someone else would buy it and so on. until the destination was finally solved. Sometimes we would stop the ship and sail down the Aghulas current for several days and round the Cape stop again and drift north on the Benguela current until we got a firm order and destination. So that is Lefo, it had a ships radio station at Lands End, Cornwall, that sent out the orders.
Cheers
Briian
As a supplement to Brian’s post above.
I can recall loading in the Gulf in December 1973. There was some negotiations underway with OPEC, the names of Sheik Yamani etc, come to mind over raising production levels. However, we loaded the usual cargo of inxs of 316,000 Tonnes for Europe on a Gulf re-let (Whiddy Island in Bantry Bay must have been well stocked!!!!)
At the time the rate was USD6.00/Bbls (6 US dollars per Barrel). The loading and trip west was uneventful. Things changed on rounding the Cape when we received orders to proceed to the USEC (US East Coast). When mid Atlantic we were ordered to stop and await orders. We were subsequently obliged to steam every several days to make water. It was not long before I was advised by the Ch.Mate (day work) that the trusted china graph pencil had reveal no less than a dozen vessels all stopped within a 24 mile range. The deck watch keeping officers , like the mate were Filipino and lost no time in establishing who was who amongst this amada (handy to know who was Filipino on the bridges of other ships). It was established that vessels on the extreme range also had vessels on the maximum range. Not wanting to labour this point too much it is clear see by simple extrapolation that there were dozens of ship within a hundred miles.
We spent weeks in late January and early February drifting along with god know how many other ships literally forcing the prices up from USD 6.00/BBls in 12/73 to inxs of USD 18.00/BBls in March 74. You will all recall mayhem and violence at the petrol pumps in some US States at the queuing for gas.
Question: Who were the real rogues in this event. I think our Arab friends were in the clear on this one.
Brgds
Bill
Hi Jacyn and Shipmates,
Back in the mists of time, the summer of '59 to be more exact, as a young E.D.H. I joined G.S.N.C's ' 'Alouette' a small but neat little ship engaged on the run from London - Cologne, up through Holland via the River Maas then into the Rhine. On our way up to Dusseldorf and Cologne we would stop every night at various riverside ports, large and small, to enable the crew to go ashore and get on the p-ss. That's not strictly true, actually we stopped because we were not allowed to navigate during the hours of darkness. A round trip would last about 12 - 14 days. I don't know why I tell you all that, but it does rather set the scene for what normally would be an ideal break from the conventional sea-going life.
When I signed on, I did so in company with a replacement cook, a rather large Scotsman about 50 years old, who shall remain nameless. From that very first encounter his presence was betrayed by the strong smell of scotch whiskey. He clearly had an abiding affection for the stuff and although he was not always staggering about I don't think I ever saw him really sober during that whole trip. Initially, it didn't seem to matter, his cooking was acceptable and the food plentiful, even if his scruffy, unkempt appearance was a bit off-putting.
I was on the aft-deck one morning when I saw him come out of the galley and walk over to the ship's side, where, with an almost practiced flair, he raised the fingers of his right hand up against his right nostril and with a noisy blowing sound proceeded to discharge the contents of his left nostril into the fast-flowing Rhine. With admirable aplomb he then repeated the procedure with his left hand causing further discharge into the water probably rendering that part of the Rhine a danger to shipping. Running his hands down his blue and white checked trousers he turned away from me, oblivious to my presence, and stepped back into the galley. I followed him into the accomodation and glancing into the galley was amazed and sickened to see that without washing his hands he had immediately returned to his labours, busily kneading the pastry for a pie that I would never taste.
For the rest of that trip, apart from a few meals I had ashore, I survived on bread ( which, thankfully, was always obtained from ashore) and cheese. I informed my four mess-mates of what I'd witnessed, but they either doubted me or were not particularly worried. Later in the trip when his ongoing drunkeness meant the meals were becoming even less palatable for their cast iron stomachs, they decided to join me on the bread and cheese diet. Not funny. To this day I don't know if Captain Baker, the Mate and the two engineers knew what was going on.
Matters came to a head when, late in the afternoon, we arrived back in London and tied-up at a small wharf almost opposite the entrance to Surrey Docks. The rumour was that the cook would be leaving but nobody was really sure. That evening as designated nightwatchman I had to remain aboard whilst the rest of the lads went up the pub. My prime duty was to keep a watchful eye on the ropes for and aft and the springs and make any adjustments necessary due to the rise and fall of the tide. I was aware that I was the only man aboard apart from the cook, who having gone through the motions of cooking tea, had presumably retired to his cabin to do some serious drinking.
I was sitting on the hatch smoking and quietly watching the dying sun slip down behind the outline of the city over to the west. My reverie was shattered by the sound of someone coming up behind me. I turned and watched as the cook walked towards me on unsteady legs. He stopped two or three feet away and stood their swaying and glaring at me. In a loud voice he started to scream and shout at me in a language I barely recognised, his normally strong accent made even less intelligible by his intoxication . Eventually I realised he wanted to know what was wrong with his cooking. By now he was starting to annoy me and rather foolishly I told him that it wasn't so much his cooking as his total lack of hygiene and further more I told him of what I'd seen him do during the last trip. After one or two grunts and some mumbling under his breath he staggered back into the accommodation. I finished my cigarette andwent inside to the little mess-room to make a cup of coffee. The mess-room consisted of a single table with a small leather-topped bench either side sufficient to seat three persons on each. Bulkheads provided back-support for those sitting on the benches. There was also a small cabinet on to which stood an electric urn. There was only one entrance to the mess. I had made a cup of coffee and was sitting reading a book, when I heard a noise in the galley. Shortly after that, Jock appeared in the open doorway of the mess growling and screaming, his eyes wide- open staring intently at me and his lips drawn-back, saliva bubbling at his mouth. At that moment it seemed as if the Hound of the Baskervilles had returned. The most frightening thing of all was the meat-cleaver in his right hand, the side of which he started to beat against the door-jamb and the edge of the table, barely three feet away from me. In the state he was in I realised he was capable of doing something we would both regret, especially me. Thinking I could be about to meet my maker, self-preservation kicked in and less than bravely I clambered up and along the bench as far as I could go which wasn't very far. As I cringed in the corner of the room, Sitting Bull was really getting wound up. It was no good me shouting for the cavalry, they were all up the pub. In desperation I tried to reason with him and even suggested that I had made a mistake and if so then obviously I was very sorry about that, wasn't I ?. I had come to the conclusion that you can't reason with someone whose out of their mind and waving a cleaver around like a whirling Dervish. He shouted something else which I couldn't understand and then, as if the rage had instantly left him, I saw the hand holding the cleaver drop down to his side, before he lurched away down the short alleyway. To any invisible observer, my sense of relief would have seemed palpable. Since that night, whenever I've seen that oft repeated film-clip of Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining' I'm always reminded of that very real terror I felt, even though it was only for such a short time. That I was able to exercise control of both my bladder and bowels remains a medical miracle to this very day.
It took me several minutes to pluck up the courage to venture out onto the deck, but when I did finally go out there it was to see Jock stumbling down the gangway before heading off into the gathering twilight for destinations unknown. Oh! Joy of joys!!! We never saw him again, at least I didn't. When we sailed we had ourselves a new Cook and I didn't eat bread and cheese for a long time. In case any member reading this has the impression that I was the cause of Jock's undoing, I can only assure you that other than my initial warning to my four mess-mates I made no other complaint to either the Mate or Master. I reasoned that they would find out for themselves and I think that is what happened in the end.
As a footnote to this,........It was late one morning about two years later. I'd just come out of the Pool in Prescott St and was walking past the Princess of Prussia when I looked up and there right before me stood Jamie Oliver's great- grandfather, yes! it was Jock the Cook in the flesh. When he saw me, he came towards me smiling all over his face and greeted me like a long- lost brother. "Hello, mate, how ye been. Dinna suppose yer could loan me a few bob eh!?". I noticed he didn't have a meat-cleaver in his hand and so bravely explained that I was after a 'sub' for myself, before beating a hasty retreat round the corner into Leman St. For all that, I still felt a strange sympathy for the man, but not enough to give him money.
Was mental illness prevalent amongst Merchant Seaman? well Jacyn, probably so, but I incline towards the view that much of the strange behaviour one could and did witness at sea, was exacerbated by the excessive consumption of alcohol, drug use or both.
......regards, Roger
That reminded me of a Cook on an Esso Tanker in 1975. The Galley was alongside the ships bar and Scotty the Cook was always putting his hand around the corner to the nearest optic of Whisky, He was in a permenent state of Intoxication. The big problem was Scotty had Bleeding Piles and always had a big brown stain on the back of his galley checks. He was always scratching his bum in the brown stain then say "Do you want a sausage or bacon" then pick it up with his scratching hand, those same fingers having penetrated his rectum every few minutes. He always used his fingers. I stopped eating on day two. I actually lived on Corn Flakes, for every meal of the day. The only saving feature was, the corn flakes contained so many weevles that I was never short of fresh meat and protean.
During the five month voyage I actually lost four stones in weight.
I flew home from Australia and knocked on my door and my ten year old son opened the door and looked at me as a stranger would. I asked if his mother was in, he shouted for his mum. There is a man at the door.
I had to say to him "I AM YOUR DAD" then he recognised me. I was as thin as a rake.
Scotty is now long dead. Hope his piles have got better where ever he is now.
On a new ship, I would always introduce myself to the chief cook or chief steward,as the new baker,while faking a bum scratch,
Used to enjoy seeing their expression.
Little things please little minds I guess.
Den.
Roger, what a delightful story! I say 'delightful' because of the way you depicted it. I could picture the whole scene. Thank you for sharing this. I'm so glad I asked this question and now am getting a much better understanding of what life at sea is/was like. It's clear that seafaring is a calling, no matter what one's mental capacities are I suppose.
With every new tale I read, I am ever more enlightened. Thanks all for your posts. Again, much appreciated.
Cheers!
So Roger, biased against us Scots , shame on you !.