by Gordon Gray
“Your first time here?” “Are you here on business, too?” I learnt that she worked in PR for a major electronic timing company. “What lovely weather!” You know the really heavy seductive talk. James Bond could have learnt a few things that day.
At Douglas airport when we arrived, we even shared a baggage trolley. Here we go, I thought as I helped her through the exit door and we headed for the taxis. We had gone no more than four paces when three big bruisers in black leathers and white T-shirts appeared in front of me and grabbed the trolley. “Hi Sheila! How are you?” They warmly greeted her with hugs and familiar, friendly banter. Then, the penny dropped. It was Isle of Man Motorbike TT the following week and she was there on a company business and was to be looked after by her leather-clad gentlemen biker friends.
“Goodbye Gordon, have a nice stay,” she called sweetly as I grabbed my case off the trolley and the three heavies carried her off to their van like a TT Trophy.
James Bond? Not a hope in hell, Gray.
Boat Shows
Decca always exhibited on a large stand at the annual London Boat Show, which then was held at Earl’s Court, just after Christmas. For anyone with a sales position, this was a “three-line whip” occasion as the company needed everyone they could get to man the stand. Two things I remember about my time at the Boat Show. One was sore feet, the other was some of the amusing characters that we met. The old hands were able to spot various sailing and yachty types at 20 paces. You knew when one of the more unusual visitors was about when all your senior colleagues suddenly vanished from the stand.
As a new boy, I was left to hold the fort. Huh, I thought, I can do this! What is there to it? Then, I saw this person approaching. His eyes were fixed on me as he shambled towards me with a slight stoop. He was wearing a grubby-looking raincoat, had a brown beret perched on top of his head and had a dark green canvas rucksack across his shoulder. He wandered slowly up without taking his eyes off me. He was of medium height and he spoke softly, but seriously.
“What are these?” he asked, looking at our range of small radar scanners for boats and yachts mounted along the stand top. He peered intently into my face eager to hear my answer.
“Radar scanners,” I replied.
“Hmmm,” he said in a very unimpressed way. Then, he said, “I built a radar, you know, in my garage.”
Had I heard him correctly? My senses were now working overtime. What on earth was he talking about?
“Did you?” I asked. “What sort of range did you get on it?
“Oh, about 5 miles,” he replied, seriously.
I looked round for some support but only caught sight of two of my older colleagues peering round the edge of the stand giggling like schoolboys.
“Very good,” said I. “Did you sell many?
“No, but it’s still there though.” He looked at the scanners on the stand again. “Rubbish,” he said. “Just modern rubbish.”
Then, without another word, he just wandered off, disappearing into the crowd.
Luckily, the vast majority of visitors were genuinely nice people, interested and eager to learn or to seek advice about radars and what sort of equipment was best for their particular boat. Most were genuinely struggling to balance the demands for safety with the different navigation systems available and the horrors of the price of modern electronics to do the job. There was, however, one small group we found tiresome. They tended to be males in their fifties or sixties, pompous and often on the portly side with ruddy cheeks. They would invariably be wearing a blazer or other obviously yachting type clothes and always wore deck shoes – the flat blue ones with leather laces and white soles. All that was missing was the glass of gin and tonic and binoculars round their necks. Why they dressed this way when they were in central London on a cold January day with snow and slush outside was a mystery we never resolved.
They would walk up to you and command your attention, often interrupting conversations. They would say loudly and proudly: “I have a Burgerflip 32 (or some such type of boat), which of your radars do I need for it? Quite a big one, I imagine.” The tone and look made it clear that they saw us as no different from boatyard cleaners.
Now, most of us working at the show spent the rest of the year selling big ship radars to the fleet owners and often sold radars in fleet size quantities. These radars cost anything from ten or twenty times the price of a small yacht radar, and merchant ships normally had two radars; so one small yacht radar was not really that important in our normal daily life. But, if the owner of a “Burgerflip 32” thought it was, then we had better give him our undivided attention.
“Firstly, sir (they loved the sir and it softened them up), how many masts has your yacht?”
“It’s a Burgerflip 32, I told you.”
“Yes, I know, but I am sorry, you must forgive me, I am not familiar with that particular yacht myself.”
“Oh goodness,” he would sigh. “Well, it has one mast.”
“Ah, I see, just a single mast then. Is it a Bermudan rig or gaff rig?”
“Bermudan, of course, with a self furling jib,” he said proudly.
“Oh dear, what a shame. Had it been gaff rigged, then there is often enough clear room on the mast above the foresails, but a Bermudan rig, oh dear, no, that is difficult. You see sir, it is always very difficult to fit any radar to a single mast Bermudan sloop as the foresails prevent any clear mast space for the radar to be fitted and then if you did, there is a real danger of the jib or genoa taking the radar with it when you tack.”
“Why can’t you fit it on the cabin top?” he barks.
“Well, that is a possibility, but we then run into radiation issues as well as boom movements or a loose spinnaker boom could knock it flying, and of course there may be halyard or sheet runs across the top of the cabin.”
As he drew breath to interrupt, we would continue, “I imagine though that you stow your dingy on the cabin roof don’t you? Crucially though, the radar must obviously be fitted high enough above the water to get a sufficient radar range to be of any real use and we find that the cabin top is just too low, only about 4 or 5 feet above the water. Of course, had it been a larger yacht, such as a ketch or even a yawl, then we could certainly have offered you a radar that could have been easily installed on forward side of the mizzen mast.”
By now, the poor guy would be fuming. He would grunt something unintelligible and sulk off towards the Guinness stand.
“When you buy a proper ship, do call back,” we would mutter pleasantly as he left. However, as I say, the vast majority were good, decent folk who we thoroughly enjoyed chatting to and helping out if we could, but as in all walks of life there were always those who asked for it.
The Boat Show was a great time for catching up with other guys and listening to stories. The North West area manager was an old and bold merchant master mariner called Gordon Roberts. He was a big, bluff man who took no nonsense and he told us a couple of amusing stories.
At his interview for his master’s exam, the examiner asked, “At what speed should a ship go in thick fog?”
Gordon, a young and eager officer said, correctly, “A reasonable speed for the conditions and visibility.”
“And what do you consider to be a reasonable speed, Mr Roberts?”
“Oh, about 8 knots,” replied Gordon.
“8 Knots!” screeched the examiner.
“We were in a ship in fog doing just 4 knots and we had a collision!”
Gordon was unphased by this and replied, “Well, if you had been doing 8 knots, you would not have been there, would you!”
Later on in life, he took a job as a harbour pilot in Freetown in West Africa. The new French liner ‘France’ had berthed there and the next day Gordon was sent out to bring in a small merchant ship that was a regular visitor to Freetown. Gordon and the captain of this ship, who was a pompous fellow, did not get on and had had a few ‘words’ in the past.
As they rounded the last bend before t
he harbour, the captain said, “What ship is that, pilot?”
“It’s the ‘France’, captain.”
“Well,” said the Captain, “I bet they had the best senior pilot out to bring her in?”
“Oh, they did, sir. Me. But actually, captain, I could have done with you here yesterday.”
The captain puffed up his chest expecting a compliment on his skill and knowledge, “Oh really, pilot, and why is that?”
“We could have used you as a bloody tug.” Gordon had to write several letters of apology for that one!
Cross Channel
Having spent a couple of years with Ernie, I was offered my first chance of a proper overseas role. It was to run a series of presentations and demonstrations of a new radar system that incorporated a computer to track other ships. It was called an Automatic Radar Plotting Aid (or ARPA for short). In time, this type of equipment would become a compulsory fit on all large merchant ships under International Maritime law. The new computer-based radar automatically tracked the radar echoes of ships, and gave the operator key information on their courses and speeds to assist collision avoidance as well as providing useful navigation information.
A few of us were sent on a two-week technical course on the new radar so we could understand how it worked and then move on to be able to present it in a way that demonstrated its main features and benefits. The course was well designed and given by Tony Brookes and enabled non technical salesmen to understand the technical benefits of the radar. Initially, the demonstrations were to be done on a cross-channel ferry before we could start demonstrating the system worldwide. We had to demonstrate and sell it to the UK and European markets first. We installed the radar on the bridge of the Horsa, a Sealink ferry that ran from Folkestone to Boulogne. My role was to base myself in Folkestone. I stayed in the Burlington Hotel. It was a pleasant, relaxed and comfortable hotel with a good restaurant and a cosy downstairs cocktail bar with easy chairs, and which always had a blazing fire burning during the cold, damp winter months. They also had a friendly Danish barmaid called Anna, whose pleasant smile made it even nicer. Many of the visiting customers used to spend the night there, either before or after the crossing. I would meet customers coming down from London by train or drive them down myself, then take them onto the ferry for the return crossing to Boulogne. After an introductory talk to explain the system, we would move onto the bridge and demonstrate the functions and features of the radar as we sailed across the channel. Then, after the trip, they would either stay in Folkestone or I would take them to the station for a train to London. Customers were invited from all the London shipping companies as well as from all over Europe and Scandinavia, so we had a busy time of it and the trips went on during summer and winter.
This was my first exposure to giving structured presentations and demonstrations to customers. I discovered very early on that while it all seems very straightforward running through the slides sitting in the office, onboard the ship in front of the customers it was very different. I should know what the next slide was going to show and which words I would utter to enhance the slide. In the real world, however, my memory would go blank, the correct technical word would vanish from my head and those I found would not form properly. I found myself stopping and pausing while I tried to work out what to say next. Even on a ferry with people I knew, stage fright could strike. I learnt quickly that it was imperative to carefully write the script and have an intimate knowledge of both the script and the slides I was about to present – to the point that I knew what the next three or four slides were going to show and which words I would use to describe them. I also tried to ensure that I knew the answers to the next two technical levels of questions that were likely to be asked. Then, with repeated rehearsals for timing and content at home and in the office, I slowly gained the confidence to be able to give, what I hope were, passable presentations and demos. This experience was to prove invaluable throughout my career and I never forgot the horrors of forgetting my lines and the cold sweat that accompanied it during some of those early attempts.
The trip across to Boulogne took about an hour and a half. On the way over, I would present and demonstrate the radar system to them on the bridge, then answer their questions and let them use the radar themselves. Hopefully, all the while trying not to distract or get in the way of the ship’s officers as they sailed the ship across one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. The Straits of Dover provided plenty of ships to track and test the system, so it was an ideal situation. When we were not onboard, the ship’s officers used the radar, so we got vital firsthand feedback from them when we next went onboard. By the time we reached Boulogne, most customers had seen all that they needed to and so we would go down for a leisurely lunch in the ship’s restaurant during the turnaround when it was empty and quiet. Then they were able enjoy a stroll on deck or to carry on with any questions and discussions on the return leg to Folkestone.
One day, I had driven down to Folkestone with the senior technical superintendent of a large London-based shipping company. I shall call him Bob. I knew Bob well and we got on fine together. He was a pleasant north country fellow who had spent many years at sea before getting a senior management position ashore some years before. We often met in London and we were starting to achieve some sales successes with his company – so I felt that this should be a relatively easy day, but still knew it was an important one.
We arrived in Folkestone on a sunny summer’s morning but there was a stiff southwesterly breeze blowing and a few white horses out in the Channel. By the time we got down to the ferry berth, the wind was rising and I could see more white horses foaming out at sea. Bob saw them too and said, “It’s not going to be rough, is it, Gordon?”
“Oh, I’m sure it will be fine, Bob, just a summer squall blowing through.”
We went onboard and I took him up to the bridge and introduced him to the captain. Then, we set sail. I could see that the waves were beginning to sweep round the end of the breakwater as we let go the ropes. We had not gone more than 50 yards when there was a crash and a bang from forward as the ship met the first of the rollers from this summer gale. As we headed out into the Channel, we turned south to clear the Varne sandbanks. In doing so, we turned more into the wind and sea. The seas were picking up and the ship pitched and heaved as she fought her way across, and waves crashed against the bow.
We struggled through the presentation, but I could see that Bob had lost all interest in the radar and me and was intently watching for the next wave and crash of spray across the bridge windows. I was not sure what to do. Did I carry on and pretend that I thought he was fine; even though it was clear he was not? Or did I call off the demo and take him for a coffee indicating that it was obvious to me that he was seasick? I suggested the coffee but he said, “No, I would rather stay up here. Can we go out on deck for a minute?” We went out onto the bridge wing and while, to his credit, he was not actually seasick, he was decidedly queasy and a little green about the gills. However, the fresh air helped him and he had perked up by the time we were approaching the Boulogne breakwater.
As we moved onto our berth in Boulogne harbour, I thought that he was getting back to normal. However, he surprised me as he had made a decision.
“Gordon, I cannot go back today on this ship. I must get off. I will spend the night here and sail back tomorrow when it is fine. Why don’t you come too, as I do not know Boulogne? I shall buy you dinner. There must be a good hotel here?”
“Bob, I really would love to do that but I honestly can’t. I have to go back on this sailing as I have to meet some Swedish customers off the train at Folkestone later on tonight. They are staying in the Burlington Hotel and we are coming across tomorrow morning. But don’t worry, Bob, you will be fine; come and have some lunch and the gale will have blown through by the time we sail.”
“No, there is no way I am going back. I appreciate that you can’t stay here tonight, but never mind, I will find a hotel and be fine
.”
By this time, we had moved back inside and I followed him down to the car deck where he said a brisk “Thank you”. And with that and without any chance to talk him round, he walked briskly – if unsteadily – along the car deck and out into the sunshine through the big bow doors. I have had customers fall asleep on me; I have had customers walk out of my presentations; but I had never had one jump ship.
When I went back up to the bridge, the captain said, “Where’s Bob gone?”
“Ashore, sir,” I said. “He does not like too much sea time in one day so he is saving some for tomorrow!”
By the time we sailed, the gale had blown through and we had a beautiful, sunny, calm afternoon’s return sail.
Having now cut my sales teeth on UK activities, I was still itching to spread my wings a bit. The ARPA radar sales were now going well and the product manager, Louis, decided it was time to take it overseas. Louis was one of life’s gentlemen. He was smart, efficient and always calm. I never saw him lose his temper. He had served in the Royal Navy during the Korean War and worked as a product manager on marine radars since the late 1950s. What he did not know about radar was not worth worrying about. He offered me a job doing all the overseas presentations and demonstrations with the radar. It would mean another two-week course on the new radar and how it all worked, as well as learning how to give good presentations and demonstrations. Then I would be off and travelling non-stop with the radar. I jumped at it. Over the coming years, I was to learn that international selling is not as easy as leaping on a plane and coming home with the order and a suntan.