seafaring stories

[Roger Dyer]

Hi Brian (Capt.Kong) and Duke,
Your interest in my little tale is flattering. Now, you have me worried that the conclusion of my story will not satisfy your eager salivation. Due to a stuff-up of my own doing, Brian (Administrator) has has had to tag Part II onto the bottom of Part I (in post #152). I apologise for any inconvenience or confusion this may have caused............cheers, Roger.

[Neil Morton]

Between you and Capt. Kong there's no need to waste petrol going to the library

[Ivan Cloherty]

Hi Brian (Capt.Kong) and Duke,
Your interest in my little tale is flattering. Now, you have me worried that the conclusion of my story will not satisfy your eager salivation. Due to a stuff-up of my own doing, Brian (Administrator) has has had to tag Part II onto the bottom of Part I (in post #152). I apologise for any inconvenience or confusion this may have caused............cheers, Roger.

Come on Roger get a bl--dy move on, I've had to cancell two holidays already

Ivan

[Duke Drennan]

Relax Ivan, I can tell you what happened. With 85 mins played and the score at 0-0, Irina comes on as a sub, heads in a beautiful goal from a Russian corner, and immediately takes off her strip as she runs around the pitch, waving it in the air. This caused Roger and his mates to immediately maul her in congratulatory hugs. The game was over by the time Irina emerged from the pile of randy seaman. Rumour has it that she got engaged to one of them during the goal scoring celebrations. Of course, Roger has no recollection of this, maintaining all the while that he was picking the ball out of the net while this was going on.

[Ivan Cloherty]

Thanks Duke

Guess Roger will have to rewrite it now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Duke Drennan]

Sorry Roger, I couldn't resist injecting a bit of humour into the thread, continue with your story. I'm anxious to hear the rest of it. My apologies.

[Roger Dyer]

Summertime in Leningrad (St.Petersburg). Daylight that lasts for 19 hours, followed by a twilight that seems to blend into the following dawn. No sooner, it seems, has the sun disappeared in the west then, as if by magic, it is rising in the east. The days can often be quite warm with temperatures sometimes climbing to 30C and even beyond, although days like that are usually reserved for July. In early June a temperature of 22 - 23C is considered hot. It was on such a day as this, a beautiful sunny day, that we were to play our football match against the Russian dockworkers.

Shortly before 2pm we gathered near the top of the gangway waiting for the bus, most of us having had the good sense to eat lightly at lunchtime. At about 2pm., as arranged, our transport arrived. It was a rather old-fashioned looking affair reminiscent of 1930's , painted the usual drab olive colour so beloved by the Soviets in those days. We tumbled down the gangway, presenting our temporary Russian I.D. cards to the guard at the bottom, before heading over to the bus.

On board there was just the driver and one passenger, the enigmatic Irina. Sitting in a seat designed for two, she sat in a way that suggested it was only made for one and so discouraged anyone who had ideas of sitting next to her, me for instance. For once, she had abandoned the regulatory two-piece suits she seemed so fond of. She was wearing a pale yellow summery dress the front neckline though not overly low did at least show enough cleavage to confirm an ample, well formed bust. A white cardigan was draped casually round her shoulders. This was complimented by a pair of white sandals with heels. Her golden hair she wore up in a loosely arranged chignon at the back of her head, almost regal like. In a word she looked stunning, but not that I'd really noticed. With another lad, I plonked down in the seat behind her. She rested her arm along the back of her seat shuffling round slightly to look at me over her shoulder. " "Rowja, it's a lovely day, I think, you will all enjoy" she said smiling, as always. I caught the faint smell of her perfume, but it was nothing I recognised. Probably something called Svetlana No.5 or 'Intrigue' if it's KGB issue, I thought, unkindly. As we drove through the city she pointed out places and things she thought may have been of interest to us. I studied the faces of the people as we passed by and sensed an air of depression and lost hope. For their sake, I hoped that one day they would be freed from the shackles of communism. Eventually, tired of looking at the cheerless people of Leningrad, I spent the rest of the journey watching as the sun's rays caressed Irina's chignon and those delicious wispy little curls on the nape of her neck. Displaying impressive willpower, I resisted the temptation to reach out and touch.

After about thirty minutes we arrived at the 'stadium'. There was only the one stand. Although purpose-built it resembled a blockhouse left over from the Siege of Leningrad 20 years earlier. There was a small group of people gathered there who Irina explained were mostly people from the Dockworker's Organisation. She led us underneath the stand, along a dim corridor, her heels click-clacking on the stone floor, the sound echoing off the walls. At the end she turned into a room without a door. It resembled a large cell and there was a wooden bench running the length of the wall. At intervals along the bench there were small piles of folded clothing, consisting of a shirt, shorts and socks and a goalkeeper's jumper for Des. " There are your uniforms, and you'll find boots in there" Irina said, pointing to a box in the corner. She then left us to change our clothing. We discovered that the musty smelling 'uniforms' were in the colours of faded puce and another colour similar to that of baby's doo-doo. How fetching, I thought. It didn't appear as if the clothing had been worn for a very long time. It all seemed a case of one size-fits all, which was alright if you happened to be from the Land of the Giants. The goalkeeper's jumper Des was compelled to wear hung from his arms a foot below his finger-tips. 'Needs must", said Des rolling up the sleeves 5 or 6 times. The 'piece de resistence' were the boots. They had never seen dubbin and if one was fortunate to get a pair to fit, it was like walking in clogs with a few studs on the bottom of the soles. Our captain, the slim but handsome 2nd Steward, conscious of his skinny legs said, " Bu--er this for a lark, I'm not wearing these". We all burst out laughing, he did indeed look ridiculous, his shorts not unlike those Stan Matthews used to wear, but four sizes bigger. Instead he opted to play in his 'Lee Riders'.

We emerged out from the gloom into the bright light of day. There appeared to be a television camera standing on a tripod close to the touch-line, but I thought little more of it. To a smattering of applause, we trotted out onto a pitch, totally devoid of grass and covered in a layer of dust. Any movement was difficult and uncomfortable in our bl--dy 'clogs', added to that we were also conscious of our comical appearance. We tried to look eager and started to kick our old ball around, waiting for our opponents to join us. We didn't have long to wait. Loud clapping from the party faithful heralded their arrival. Resplendent in red and white, they were indeed from the Land of the Giants. As a group, they ran over to us like a Mongolian war-party and began crushing hands. Their captain presented the 2nd Steward with a nice little banner. We, of course, had nothing to give them in return and felt rather embarrassed, but, to their credit, it didn't seem to matter. Niceties over, the referee blew his whistle and the game began. Although not without skill, their main asset seemed to be their size and undoubted fitness. Within 15 minutes it was Soviet Union 2, Baltic Merchant O. The game see-sawed a bit until eventually the 'ref' awarded us a free-kick on their side of the halfway line that nobody could see anyway because of the dust covering the ground. Mr Forsythe, with wonderful Scottish subtlety belted the ball up to Spartak's penalty area where our gifted captain, looking rather dashing in his Lee Riders, was able to gather the ball, swerve away from a defender and then sweep it past the Russian goalkeeper into the net. 2-1 and we were still in the game. A few minutes before half-time I had my finest moment when having wrested the ball from a huge Russian, I quickly made a bee-line for their goal, keeping close control of the ball at my feet, before threading a neat, long pass to our old faithful, the 2nd Steward. Spinning, in a manner worthy of Margot Fonteyn, he took the ball round the full-back and slid it neatly past the keeper. 2-2 at half-time and we trooped off, grateful for the chance to get out of the sun. We weren't doing too bad, but our general lack of fitness showed and forming blisters were a problem.

All to soon, the ref's whistle went again, signalling the need for our presence back on the dust. 'Once more into the breach dear friends'......, we emerged into the sunlight and soon the game re-started. Their intent became obvious. They came at us like a Russian Armoured division. For a 'friendly', the game had become decidedly war-like and any hope of the referee applying the rules of Association Football in an unbiased fashion, rapidly dissipated. Very soon, the score was 3-2 in their favour. It was about mid-point during the second half when going for a fifty-fifty ball that, for all intents and purposes, my participation in the match ended. I was clobbered by an unseen opponent and for the first and, hopefully, the last time in my life I experienced being run over by a T-34. At that moment I briefly felt some sympathy for German infantry at the 'Battle of Kursk'. I limped through the rest of the match little more than a spectator, and the game wasn't pretty to watch. The warmth of the afternoon only added to our misery. They scored again, and then again, but no blame for this could be attached to Des our gallant little keeper. He threw himself all over the place trying to protect his goal. He reminded me of a human powder puff, and my abiding memory of this game will always be the rising clouds of dust every time he threw himself to the ground to prevent the Russian Artillery from scoring a direct hit. We had come to play football, they, unfortunately, preferred unarmed combat as did the referee. Mercifully, he finally called a halt to the fiasco. The match ended in a 5-2 victory for the Dockworker's. I felt unbounded joy - the war was over.
The way we limped from the pitch in a ragged line, dispirited and battered, reminded me of a painting I once saw of Napoleons Grand Armee retreating from Moscow. As we neared the touchline I could see Irina smiling happily with the others, and why not, on this day the might of Russia had prevailed. She saw me and at least had the good grace to stop smiling for a minute. " Are you all right, Rowja ?', she said, her face doing a wonderful imitation of someone who really cared. I thought to myself, Irina you're good, you really do it well. " Yep, I'll be fine, Irina, thank you", I replied. Robert Mitchum would have been proud of me.

I followed the others into our cell-room/dressing room and slumped down on the bench with the rest of them.
"Well that was a wonderful experience" said one wag, whilst another said, "Does anybody know the name of the game we've just played ?, because I don't think it was football". One of my fellow A.B's with whom I shared a passion for beer declared with great solemnity "Tonight I'm going to get pi--ed". It was an idea that appealed to most of us. We got changed into our clothes without even looking to see if there were shower facilities, all eager to get back to the ship. We hurried out into the sunshine again, keen to get back on the bus. Irina, who had been waiting, called us over, she wanted to introduce us to the coach of the other team before we left. It did not surprise me to learn that it was Genghis Khan. We all shook hands with him and smiled and with Irina leading us like a mother duck we climbed back aboard the bus. That was a mistake I thought, but no matter it's all behind us now, isn't it?............


...................................TO BE CONCLUDED

p.s. With apologies to members, I should explain that I'm writing this on the hoof as it were and not deliberately trying to be a pain in the a--e by dragging it out. Will try and finish it tomorrow...........Roger

[Roger Dyer]

Duke, old buddy, I thought you were down in Panama working I've only just read your very funny post, loved it. I have no objection whatever to you or anyone else injecting a bit of humour, so please feel free. As for my story dragging on so, I've tried to explain in my last post that I'm writing it on the run. Next time I shall do the sensible thing and complete it instead of submitting it bit by bit. Again, my apologies to all.........cheers, Roger.

[Duke Drennan]

Yes Roger, unfortunately I'm in Panama sweltering in a steamy 94deg and about to have a company lunch to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, whatever that is but I'll have the free lunch anyway.
I'm off now to read your continuing saga of the "Leningrad Affair". Keep it coming.

[Tony Dwyer]

There is a guy on this site who is winding me up on behalf of his mentor in Perth who is an internet stalker. This man has severe mental problems, he actually talks to Spacemen. He lies on the ground in the Darling Hills and is visited by 7 feet tall beautiful men with blue eys and long blonde hair.This spaceman lives in a paralel world. This certain member believes him. Unbelievable.
I was trying to write a story of the ships I have sailed on and some of the things we did in those days. By the time I became Master the game was boring. those days were the most interesting days of seafaring.
When I was Master I hardly ever went ashore, I didnt drink, I didnt have any women dragging me into the bunk, I didnt have any adventures, I only went as far as the Agents Office, not to the nearest ale house. So it is difficult to write an interesting story of being a Master, one of the most boring jobs there is.
Now this character wants me to write about it. It will come at the end, I just wanted to get the good stories down first. Then this guy comes along whinging.
He did it 15 months ago. Now he is at it again. He needs to get a life instead of listening to Loonies.[/QUOTE]

I assume Brian is referring to me seeing as he has told me I’m a stalker because I have tried to get him get him to tell the truth instead of presenting his fiction as the truth; he is a great story teller, his yarns are entertaining but that is all they are, just yarns.
Enough said, Brian could get by if he presented his stories for what they are, he is a fine storyteller and he was a good shipmate.

I have a Blog in which I write about all things extraterrestrial, I also write sci-fi stories but I certainly don’t claim to have seen or met any extraterrestrial beings.
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