by Jack Lynch
On our first evening ashore I was with a couple of the lads and we went into a Japanese bar. There appeared to be quite a bit of activity, as there is in most ports around the world. We opted for a separate room and as we entered we were requested to take our shoes off and leave them outside the fragile door. Two of the three of us had holes in our socks and felt mortified. I was never again caught with holes in my socks, at least in Japan anyway. When we entered this small room, the partitions appeared to be made of very light, semi-transparent material. The top of the table was very close to the floor. We had to sit cross-legged around this whilst a Geisha girl waited behind each of us. The young girl who attended me was named Yoka. As usual, I wanted a Coca-cola, and she would scuttle off to get me another bottle when I needed it. She was a pretty, petite little girl, about five feet tall, and beautifully made up and robed. She could not speak English so I could not chat to her, but one of the girls did have a little English and I learned a few phrases of Japanese.
While we were in this room I wanted to go to the loo, so I asked where it was. The English speaking girl said something to Yoka who got up, stood back, and beckoned me to follow. She led me to a small toilet, where there were no sit down facilities but did have the usual gent’s wall to go against. I went in and Yoko went elsewhere. I did my business and was closing my fly when I turned around there was Yoka right behind me, holding a basin of water and a towel. I thought, ‘What is she going to do now. Is it the custom here that she should wash me after I use the toilet?’ Anyway, she pushed the bowl towards me and I got the message that it was for me to wash my hands in, and for no more exotic purposes than that. I couldn’t make out if I was relieved or disappointed at this realisation.
We went back to the room and rejoined the lads. Things appeared to be livening up, and the two Geishas were smiling and enjoying themselves. Yoka never left my side. She would smile every time I looked her way - which was quite often - and I felt that the white makeup would crack on her face when she smiled. Once, when she brought me a Coke, I kissed her cheek and she blushed, and then smiled. After that I could not move without her following me everywhere. One evening I was returning to the ship on the main street and noticed Yoka was right behind me. I did not expect her to follow me back and was shocked when some of the layabouts on the street started to yell at her and scorn her. I felt embarrassed for her and asked her to go back. She did not understand and followed me to the ship, and only after I had boarded did she return back to the eating-house.
Three of us went into every bar in the town; these could be easily identified because bunting hung halfway down to a half door. The door had to be pushed open, and as we walked through the bunting - presto - we were in the bar. Some of the crew were getting up all kinds of capers in these bars, so we did not hang around them too long. However, one evening we were walking along the main drag, and I spotted a Geisha girl going through one of these doors where we had not been. I ran across the road with the lads in tow, and straight through the door and bunting. I only just stopped in time, as my foot was only about three feet from the edge of a bath, full of nude Japanese women. We had accidentally stumbled into a public bathing area for women. The women were everywhere. Some were in the pool washing themselves, more were outside the pool drying themselves, whilst more were undressing or dressing. As we came to an embarrassing stop, all the women turned to face us and bowed, and then carried on what they were doing. It did not seem to create any problem for them. It did for us! Whilst we looked, and tried to gather our wits, I noticed that there was a wooden partition between this room and the next one, which was the men’s bathing pool. This partition had a gap of about one foot above water level, so that it was possible for the men and women to see each other. We got the hell out of there after what felt like an hour, but in fact were probably only minutes. It was some experience. Still, just one of many unusual ones I had in Japan.
After a number of days we finished loading our cargo of coal and headed back across the Pacific. Our next sequence was to the West Coast of the States, where we berthed first in Seattle, Washington and then in Portland, Oregon. I remember trying to fish for salmon in both these ports. I used a rod and line with a spoon but to no avail. Other fishermen were catching lots with drift nets, which I was told were illegal.
I spent a fair bit of time looking around both these cities and was mainly on my own as I had the time off. On the coastline there was snow on the hills and this made it very similar to the Norwegian coast. The whole scene was beautiful and everything moved at a gentle pace. Having discharged our cargo we loaded grain and carried on to Vancouver, Canada, which was right across from Seattle, where we loaded more grain.
I was enjoying seeing so many new places. In Vancouver I went ashore as much as I could but due to the speed of loading the grain we were ready to pick up our Pilot and put to sea after a short stay. I was a bit lonesome leaving and despite the short stay felt that I could have happily lived here. The people were nice and I saw Mounties (Mounted Police) for the first time. It was very similar to the cities in the States but yet there was something different….
From Vancouver we headed still further north to Prince Rupert Island. When I heard the name ‘Rupert’ my memory immediately jumped back to my childhood, when my mother used to read ‘Rupert the Bear’ stories to me and my sister, which we loved. Prince Rupert Island is a small island located 74.54.09N 130.20W between Queen Charlotte Islands and the West Coast of mainland, Canada. As we threaded our way through narrow inlets it was awe inspiring to see the snow-capped mountains on the starboard side, close by, and more snow on the port side. It was beautiful, clean, cold and very fresh.
Prince Rupert was a busy little place and was patrolled by the Mounted police. On my first day, as I leisurely walked along the street, I started to cross the road without thinking, or looking right and left.
“Hey, you come here,” shouted a voice, which belonged to a pimply-faced Mountie.
I turned, and he asked me who I was and what the hell I thought I was doing crossing against the traffic lights. I looked around but did not see any lights and told him so.
“Do you ever look above you?” he asked.
There strung across the road, high above my head, were the lights. I had never seen this type of light set up before. I apologised and he told me to watch it in future, so I took his advice in Prince Rupert.
Later on, I strolled across a square off the main street and heard female voices calling. I looked up and saw a number of women shouting and making rude suggestions with their hands, as they peered through barred windows. Later, I learned that this was a holding prison for females. They sure had great fun when men passed by. We completed loading the rest of the grain in a day or two and headed south.
Again another bit of bad luck for this ship, and it was not to be the last. As we travelled down the West Coast of Canada the weather began to deteriorate and we had to batten down hatches and secure all loose fittings, as the forecast was not good. We hit the storm head on and battered away against it. Everything looked OK as the weather improved. Then the Bosun noticed that there was something wrong in the after hold. Water had got into the hold. The wheat stored there had begun to swell and combustion was a distinct possibility. The hold was opened to reveal that this indeed was the case. There was an enormous swelling taking place in the hold, and heat was being generated so there was a distinct possibility that either it would explode, or damage the sides of the ship if the problem was not solved. There was only one thing to do, and that was to start discharging the wheat and throwing it overboard. All hands were called to deck, and the slow process of removing the grain began. We seemed to be making little progress, and I was asked by the Captain to send messages to our shipping agents in Oakland, San Francisco for permission to enter port and discharge the cargo. We got the affirmative, and when we got tied up all the usual Customs, Doctor, and Immigration, as well as Fire Appliances, were all waiting. When the shore firemen checked the
situation we were ordered to immediately leave port for their safety’s sake, as they confirmed that there was great danger of an explosion on board and the Americans were not taking any chances.
The Captain had no alternative but to put to sea again and hope for the best. We were all sweating about our predicament, and we were doing our best to heave the offending cargo overboard. As we sailed south we had refusals from San Diego and San Pedro, California to let us enter their ports, so we had to continue south for a few days until we got to Mexico. Here we got permission to enter Guaymas, Mexico in the Gulf of California, and they discharged our cargo. We all breathed great sighs of relief because we never knew who amongst us could have been killed or maimed had the combustion and explosion taken place. I never got a chance to go ashore in Guaymas and spent the short while in port fishing. When we left we went to Mazatlan further south in Mexico, where I did some great fishing from the side of the ship. It reminded me of fishing for mackerel in Cobh because the fish gave themselves up easily. The only problem was that amongst the lovely snappers, there were eels which curled and twisted, making one hell of a mess of the line. There were also fish that were known locally as ‘Pigfish’. These were a kind of brown fish, with yellow stripes, and they looked like pigs. They were round, and could blow themselves up to twice their size and then fire water out at you. They were horrible, and I used to cut the line rather than try and unhook them.
We left Mazatlan and Mexico and sailed to Lima, Peru where we were to fill one hold with cargo of ore. Here, I was offered a job by a fellow Irishman, to act as supervisor in a mine. The pay he assured me would be very good and he would organise my clearance to jump ship. I turned it down for obvious reasons. I also met Irish priests who were in the town, which was nice. The people appeared happy but poor. They were dressed in multi-coloured clothes; this was the land of the Incas.
This time we had to go through the Panama Canal from Balboa on the Pacific to the Atlantic. We left Colon and we arrived in the Atlantic side of the world. We headed north to New York. The weather was fine as we passed through the Gulf of Mexico and up past Miami, Florida. When we hit Cape Hatteras we again encountered heavy weather. We had this bad weather for a few days and eventually came to the Ambrose Channel in New York, and the pilot guided us to our berth in the centre of New York. It was March 1953.
The entry into New York was terrific. The whole outline of Manhattan Island and the Statue of Liberty were sights that remain with me to this day, and I thought of the poor Irish Immigrants who came here in Tall ships, and landed in Ellis Island. A lot of them would have come via my own hometown of Cobh. I was very disappointed that we were leaving on the 13th March, and so would miss the St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York. The ship’s cargo had been quickly discharged but I had time to browse around as we went to dry-dock for minor repairs. The shops amazed me and I ended up buying some clothes and shoes. I wondered what they’d think at home when I wore the midnight blue suit with the Orange and yellow tie! My feelings were that Molly would be horrified and I dared not mention it in my letter which I was about to post.
I would have liked more time here but I need not have worried about that. I know the 13th is supposed to be unlucky for some, but on that date it was very lucky for me, though unlucky for the ship’s owners. On Friday the 13th March 1953 we left the wharf under the guidance of the pilot. I was in bed when we cast off. It was early in the morning and I was uneasy because I could hear ship’s horn being sounded. I got up about six-thirty a.m. I looked out the portside porthole and saw thick pea soup fog and nothing else beyond the side of the ship. We did not have radar, and I wondered why the pilot had our ship under steam. I got dressed quickly, feeling very uneasy, and went into the radio room. The radio room was on the port side of the bridge, just behind the wing of the bridge. I switched on the radio, tested the equipment, and tried to relax, but the constant sounds of ship’s whistles and hooters so frequently unnerved me. Some sounded very close and the ships could not be seen in this fog.
I looked out the porthole of the radio room and saw the outline of the ‘American Farmer’- a large ship- pass within twenty feet of our ship. The ship’s radar was in operation. There was constant hooting from us and other ships in the Channel as we headed towards the Statue of Liberty, all trying to notify each other of our presence to avoid collision. Then, all of a sudden, there were a series of sharp loud blasts from directly in front of us, and I heard the pilot shout “hard to starboard” at the same time blasting our horn in a series of quick blasts. My head was half-way out the port hole when I saw this huge towering bow of the Cunard liner ‘Parthia’ slide past us, metal to metal, at the same time as its anchor was ripping the port wing of the bridge away, which came towards my head as it began to collapse. The anchor then caught the lifeboats on the port side. It was around 7.30 am. There were sparks flying along the entire length of our ship. There was no room to put a playing a card between the sides of the two ships. The Parthia was huge compared to our little ship. It was a miracle that nobody was hurt, or that it was not a head on collision because surely we would have been holed. There was great credit due to the seaman on the wheel for keeping the ship steady when he saw the oncoming bow emerge from the fog, towering over our ship.
We immediately stopped engines and dropped anchor, whilst the liner kept going at a fair old speed, never slowing down. I started my transmitter and tuned my receiver; waiting for what I knew was going to be a message to the agents advising them of our accident. It was not long coming, and soon we had a tug alongside to tow us back to where we had just left, into Bethlehem Steel Dockyard in Brooklyn, New York.
That evening, whilst we were awaiting the ship’s surveyor to come, I was standing on deck just looking around the place, when I saw this Merchant Navy Captain with his sidekick approaching our ship. They were the typical type of British officers that you would see in films - arrogant and full of their own importance.
They came up the gangway, making sure their uniforms were not soiled by touching the rails, and stepped on deck. I was speechless, and so were our Captain and Chief Mate, when the boarding Captain introduced himself as the Captain of the Parthia and his companion, the Chief Officer. It was his next words that threw us all.
“You must be the Captain of this heap of rust,” he said addressing our Captain.
I thought our Captain would have a fit, or that the Chief Mate would clobber him. They all retired to the Captain’s quarters for a ‘meeting’ and I daren’t imagine what was said there!
We were soon into dock and repairs commenced after surveyors checked and assessed the damage to our ship. I had ample time to get really excited and prepare to walk up to see the Parade. It turned out we were to spend many weeks in New York. I went ashore for periods during the days as I eagerly waited for March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day. This, I expected to be a momentous day in my life. How many at home would ever get the chance to be physically present in New York on this holiday? On the big day I got up early, shaved and decided I’d have something to eat on the way to 5th Avenue. Whilst I was ashore I had mentally mapped my route and was very excited to see green streets and green flags. On this morning, as I strolled towards 5th Avenue, I called into a smallish restaurant that was decked out in green. I sat down and a waitress came up to me and handed me a menu. She too, was dressed in green. I had never seen anything like this, and wondered what it would be like to be a ringside viewer of the actual parade. I ordered rashers, eggs, hash browns, potatoes and a cup of coffee. The waitress looked at me in a strange way.
“Sorry but I won‘t serve you that meal,” she said with a smile.
I was flabbergasted. As she continued to look at me I started to get annoyed. Was she going to spoil my day I wondered?
She said “Try again.”
I said, “It says on the menu that you serve the meal I ordered, so why can’t I have it?”
She gave a sigh, looked me straight in the eye, and asked;
“A
re you or are you not an Irishman?”
To which I replied, “Yes, and a genuine one at that, so can I have a breakfast please?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you,” she said, “seeing as it’s St. Patrick’s Day, I’ll bring you a true Irish breakfast and dinner, which we call Brunch.”
She took off laughing. I had no idea that brunch was a combination of breakfast and lunch that Americans had invented. Sometime later she arrived back to my table, and I was gob smacked when she put a huge plate full of corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes in front of me.
“That’s what all good Irishmen will be eating this day and it’s on the house for you.”
I could not get over the hospitality of this girl, and the way she enjoyed having me on. Neither can I forget a brunch such as this. It tasted lovely, and I certainly did not need to eat for the rest of the day. When I thanked her, she wished me well and told me to enjoy the day, and to call if I was ever in the vicinity. I never saw her again.