Seagulls In My Soup
Further Adventures of a Wayward Sailor
Tristan Jones
To Nat and Katie Page
who helped me make ‘fact’ out of ‘fiction’.
Contents
Foreword
1. A Long Time Ago
2. A Grave Matter
3. Mochyn Dhu
4. High Barbaree!
5. Strayed Revellers
6. Hanging Johnny
7. The Ship that Almost Died of Shame
8. Little Black Sheep
9. On the Highway
10. The Thousandth Man
11. The Sailor-Fireman
12. The Sailor’s Way
13. What Shall We Do?
14. Cradle Song
15. Love’s Secret
16. The Bending Sickle’s Compass
17. Ten Thousand Miles Away
Epilogue
Foreword
So many people—most of them women—have told me how much they enjoyed Saga of a Wayward Sailor, that I have written of this microcosm of cruising life in the late sixties for their further enjoyment.
The “yachtie’s” life was simpler then—and much harder and riskier. There were no electronic aids to navigation; it was all by dead-reckoning, sextant, tables, guess and God. Neither did miracle materials exist that now make boats so much more easily maintainable and a sailor’s life so comparatively lazy. But what then did still exist among sailors was an “esprit de corps,” camaraderie, great good humor, and a largess of respect, all for each other and for our kinship with the sea.
If Saga of a Wayward Sailor was my song of love for the women of the sea, this is my paean to the misfits who found refuge among us and perhaps some comfort in our company. The shore rejected them; we observed them (what sailor would not), accepted them, and in the end loved them. Whatever their faults—and there were many—they were free of that worst and most common fault of landsmen: dullness.
This book, originally written in 1979, is in the recently “discovered” and much acclaimed literary mode of fictionalized fact. But all human memory is that. Embroidering memories is what makes us human. God forbid the day when none of us can do that! Over the past twenty years, unrecognized by most shore-bound critics, I have done much to pioneer this mode of storytelling. Be assured: all the main facts of these tales are true, but the tales (as all life is a dream) are “fiction.”
TRISTAN JONES
Anchor House, Rawai, Thailand 1991
I’ll sing ye a song of the Blackball Line,
Chorus: To me way, hay, ho, hi ho!
That’s the line where ye can shine.
Chorus: Oh a long time ago!
In the Blackball Line I served me time,
That’s the Line where I wasted me prime.
It’s when a Blackballer hauls out of the dock,
To see them poor ‘Westers,’ how on deck they do flock.
There’s tinkers an’ tailors, an’ fakirs an’ all,
They’ve all shipped as A.B.s aboard the Blackball.
It’s ’fore-tops’l halyards’ the Mate he will roar,
It’s ’lay along Paddy, ye son-o-a-whore!
“A Long Time Ago” was a halyard chantey, popular on British and American ships in the 1880s and ’90s. The Blackball Line plied between New York and Liverpool. The captains and mates of its ships were notorious for their hard-driving and brutality.
1. A Long Time Ago
“Ai say . . . Tristan dahling! Yoo-hoo!” I stirred under my blanket and listened for a moment to the patter of rain on Cresswell’s deck overhead. Autumn nights and early mornings in the western Mediterranean can be quite chilly to ordinary mortals, but Cecilia (Sissie) Saint John, the Bishop of Southchester’s sister, was always awake and astir at the crack of dawn, no matter what the weather.
Again she screeched, “Skippah . . . Yoo-hoo, dahling!”
I stretched one trousered and seabooted leg out of my berth. Nelson bumped his tail on the cabin sole, stared up at Sissie with his one eye, and glowered. I, too, glared up at her. She was leaning her oilskin-bedecked upper torso down through the companionway hatch. Under her yellow sou’wester hat, her hair, as usual in damp weather, was the color of a dead aspidistra leaf. Her Saxon-blue eyes gleamed with that peculiar kind of benevolent madness only seen among the English.
“Wazzup now?” I growled. I glared at the ship’s clock. Sissie had polished its brass casing the previous night, before retiring to her ritual of Bible and Booth’s London Dry Gin in the tiny, low, kennel-like forepeak which she called home. “Six-thirty. God.”
I didn’t at all like to be disturbed, while the boat was in harbor, much before eight o’clock, especially when it was raining and few chores could be done, and while the ones that could be done, Sissie did.
Sissie spread her rosy apple cheeks all over her chubby face in a wide grin. “Theah’s a boat coming alongside, dahling!” she announced. “It’s a, er . . . catamaran.” She raised herself up above the cover of the companionway hatch and stared ahead, the rainwater streaming down her face into the soggy towel she had wrapped around her neck. Her eyes slitted almost closed against the drizzle. Then again she grinned. “Ai say,” she howled, to no one in particular. “What a marvelous name . . . Bellerophon of Bosham . . . how simply spiffing.” Nelson growled softly. “And dahling . . . Tristan dahling . . . she’s English!”
“With a name like that she could hardly be bloody French,” I observed petulantly. “At this time in the morning I don’t give a fish’s tit if she’s Chinese.”
Sissie looked down at me. Her face fell into apologetic sympathy. “Oh . . . you poor dahling,” she murmured. “Half a mo’, I’ll make the tea . . . No, Ai’d bettah help this jolly old boat moor stern-to-the-jetty first.” Turning, she scrambled over Cresswell’s whalebacked poop, showing a dimpled thigh under her yellow oilskin jacket and above her British Army socks and Irish ditchdigger’s brogue boots. Agilely, she leaped over the five-foot gap between the rudder and the jetty wall. Nelson again bumped his tail, pounding it softly against the cabin table leg, pleased that his main competitor for my affection had once more gone ashore and left his master entirely for himself to watch and guard with his limitless canine loyalty.
I turned over again, wrapped the blanket around me, and settled to doze away another precious hour or so. I was still thawing out and catching up on sleep lost during the Arctic voyage five years ago.
There were the usual shouts and hollers as the arriving boat’s crew heaved mooring lines at Sissie out in the now-pouring rain. Sissie’s voice pierced through the drumming downpour on deck. “Ai say . . . welcome to Ibiza!”
A masculine English voice, almost as awf’ly English as Sissie’s, but not quite (there were undertones of Surbiton) called back, “Nice boat you have there! Wonderful weather for ducks, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Cresswell’s mate, with a girlish giggle.
It’s a wonder how sound carries over water and through the sides of a wooden boat. As I reflected on this, and listened to the alternating roar and purr of the catamaran’s outboard motor, Cresswell gently jiggled, jingled, and pulsated with the myriad sounds of a sailboat’s waking day. ”Oh, Christ,” I said to myself, and, heaving myself up against the cabin table, staggered over to the galley, filled the kettle up from the freshwater hand pump, lit the gently oscillating kerosene stove, slammed the kettle down on the flame, and sat down again to rustle Nelson’s head and murmur to him—a diurnal liturgy in Cresswell.
There was another sudden commotion outside. First the
splash of a rope falling into the harbor water—filthy with black, slimy oil, dead fish, plastic bags and other impedimenta deleterious to cleanliness and pilotage—then the sound of a man’s voice, again from the arriving vessel, called in fruity tones, “Oh, dash . . . what rotten luck!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” I heard Sissie reply. “But hang on a jolly tick—Ai’ll get a boathook.”
Then there were the sounds of Sissie hefting her 170 pounds back over the gap ’twixt rudder and wall, and scrabbling for the boathook tied to the handrail below Cresswell’s mizzenmast. All the while the boat pitched slightly up and down as it was first burdened with, then relieved of Sissie’s dumpling thighs, Michelin waist, boxer’s arms, heavy oilskin jacket, and ditchdigger’s boots.
I quickly donned my Shetland jersey and slid my black oilskin around my shoulders. I clambered up the companionway ladder. I stared around through the misty rain to see one of the ugliest sailing vessels I ever clapped eyes on. She was a catamaran, but obviously home-made. She had slab sides to the hulls, far too high, and the cabin stuck up above the two hulls, box-like and shoddy, with great windows all around it. The whole boat was painted black, and the top paint had worn away in places, exposing the previous white paint in obscene-looking patches. The total effect was that of a greatly enlarged praying mantis with a skin complaint.
She was about thirty-two feet long and at least eighteen feet wide. Two figures, squat and heavy in their yellow oilskins and yellow seaboots, with the flaps of their jackets buttoned up around their chins, stood in the pouring rain on the catamaran’s afterdeck, looking nonplused and rather forlorn as their vessel was slowly pulled away from the jetty again by the weight of their anchor line, which was streamed out forward. The rain drizzled down implacably on this cheerful scene.
I turned around to peer through the rain toward the jetty. There was Sissie, stretched out fully on her belly on the muddy, fish-scales-littered pavement of the town quay, leaning right out over the filthy harbor water, reaching with our boathook toward the fallen mooring line, now floating in the midst of a particularly noisome pool of slime and garbage. She was grasping the boathook by its blunt very-end, attempting to hook the line and failing to do it by a mere three inches or so.
I turned again to the catamaran. One of the figures stared at me for a moment in seeming puzzlement and confusion, then hailed me. “Morning, old chap,” it called in a gruff, manly voice. “Nice weather, what?” It wore a rope belt, from which dangled a seaman’s knife.
“Why don’t you throw me a line?” I replied. “I’m much closer to you than is the jetty.”
“Damned good idea,” called the other figure, in far less gruff tones. He sounded like a choirboy whose voice was just about to break. He wore spectacles, and I imagined him regretting that, with this downpour, they were not fitted with windshield wipers. Even as he addressed me the spectacles were pointed some five yards away to my left.
By now the Knife had run over to the catamaran’s guardrails and was grinning at me. “Pleased to meet you. Billy Rankin’s the name, and this is my brother Tony.”
Spectacles now spoke to a point three yards to my right. “What ho?”
“Throw me a line,” I shouted. “Your boat is sliding away over your anchor rode, and if you don’t get a line to me soon you’ll have to restart your motor and do the whole exercise again . . . And anyway, your anchor is probably fouled up with mine in the middle of the harbor.”
Tony the Specs turned and desperately peered through the pouring rain while Billy the Knife calmly and methodically bent down, grabbed a line, held the coil in his left hand, and heaved the fag-end with his right. The knot in the end hit me in the eye with a wallop so bitter I could taste it, just as a loud splash came from the direction of the jetty. Cursing as I recovered the rope’s end from Cresswell’s deck, my eye smarting with pain, I turned to see poor Sissie’s yellow oilskin jacket just below the oily, slimy surface, rising to float, flailing, in the muck-bestrewn, turdflotilla’d, dog-corpse-littered waters of Ibiza harbor. Then her head appeared, her whisky-colored hair now black and shiny with petroleum by-products and her face and body besmeared with flecks of effluent from a thousand fishermen, ten thousand black-clad, bereted peasants, four thousand well-fed tourists, and five or six impecunious yachties—two of whom were now haring along the town quay to Sissie’s rescue, despite the early hour and the effects of the previous night’s festivities.
Soon the yachties, one a Frenchman, as gallant as ever; the other a Finn, as hung-over as ever, had Sissie’s arms in their calloused hands and were slowly dragging her, dripping like a dipped sheep, out of the murky basin, she still gripping faithfully onto our one-and-only boathook, spluttering all the while.
As soon as I saw that Sissie’s rescue was assured and imminent, I turned again to securing the wayward vessel alongside Cresswell. The rising wind was yawing and veering both my boat and the catamaran alarmingly, and they were in danger of colliding with each other.
Billy the Knife still held onto the bitter end of the rope he had thrown me. I needed plenty of slack, so that I could take the line onto the jetty and secure the stern-end of the catamaran away from Cresswell, to windward.
“Give me slack!” I hollered. Quick as a knife, Billy eased off the line. I scrambled aft as fast as I could, holding onto the mooring line for dear life. I threw myself over the gap onto the jetty, over the heaving backs of the Frenchman and the Finn, ran along to windward, and secured the mooring line. Then Billy the Knife, with Tony the Specs still peering helplessly around him in the rain, steadily and sturdily heaved the stern of the catamaran away from Cresswell, and soon the vessel was hauled up tight against the wind.
I turned to clamber back aboard Cresswell. As I passed Sissie, who by now was again stretched out on the pavement of the jetty, face down, streaming water and oil and all kinds of unmentionable solids and liquids, she raised her head. Tears were dolloping from her screwed-up eyes, but she was still trying to grin. “Awf’ly sorry, Skippah,” she spluttered.
“That’s all right, mate.” I tried not to patronize her, at least not in front of the two foreigners. “You’d better go onboard and get cleaned up. I’ve got the kettle on, and the bucket’s empty . . .”
“Mais . . .” The Frenchman started. “But she can come onboard my boat.” He was the skipper of some rich nob’s gin-palace down the line. “I ’ave ze bath . . .”
“That’s a good idea,” I said to the Frenchman.
Sissie looked even more distressed. “Oh, Ai don’t think Ai could really.” She leaned over to me. “He’s not merried, you know,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She started toward Cresswell’s stern just as Billy the Knife clambered onto the jetty.
“Rotten luck, ma’am,” said Billy, respectfully. “Look, why don’t you come onboard Bellerophon? We’ve got lots of water and you can take a shower.” Billy’s voice was like a fog horn as he hitched up his knife lanyard like a cowboy hoisting a gunbelt.
Sissie turned momentarily. “Thank you very much indeed,” she said, “but deah, dahling Tristan . . .” she puckered her lips and pointed a begrimed chin at me . . .” has simply everything in hend . . .”
Billy turned to me, hitched up his knife lanyard again, and said, “Well, look old chap, I’m sure you’ll agree we at least owe you lunch, what?”
I looked at Billy, thinking ‘a meal’s a meal for all that an’ all that,’ and said, “Lunch? Why yes, of course . . . what time?”
“One o’clock, old bean. My brother and I always work until then, and take two hours off for lunch, you see.”
“Right, you’re on,” said I to Billy. Then I turned to the Frenchman and the Finn, thanked them, and made my way to the little dark bodega Antonio at the end of the quay, there to while away the time over a tiny cup of thick, treacly, black coffee, until the Dragon of Devon, the English games-mistress, had completed her ablutions.
&nbs
p; As I traipsed away, breakfastless, through the persistent rain along the town quay, I heard the soft, gentle patter of Nelson’s three-paw steps astern of me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was he, nor did I need to look at his eye or the droop of his old head to know that his senses of virtue and modesty, instilled in him by his old master, my first sailing skipper, Tansy Lee (1866–1958), had been deeply offended by Sissie’s divesting herself of her oil-filthy vestments before he’d had a chance to reach the companionway ladder. Nothing if not Victorian, was Nelson.
An hour later the rain had stopped. Through the low front door of the dim bodega I gazed over the still half-full tiny cup of coffee, over the berets of the usual assembly of a dozen or so sad-eyed fishermen, too old now to do anything much more than dream of past catches and criticize the tight pants of their offspring, and dote over the tiny offspring of the loins displayed by the very tight pants they criticized. Over their heads, which were silhouetted against the bright shafts of sunlight shining through the miasma of early-morning harbor mist, I saw Sissie’s form marching along the jetty. She strode into the bodega like a Grenadier guardsman. She had, I observed, changed her British Army socks and brogue boots for a pair of calf-length black seaboots, while her torso was again resplendent in her dark blue English games-mistress gym slip, the skirts of which reached almost halfway down her dimpled thighs, which quivered as she weaved her way, smiling benignly, through the assembly of septua-, octo-, and nonagenarians—all of whom, without exception, glanced at her haunches lasciviously and held their breath until she had squeezed her way past their crowded tables.
Sissie’s lips pursed until they looked like bicycle pedals. Her blue eyes gleamed with the fondness of freshly burnished bayonets. She plonked herself down opposite me. For a moment there was silence as the Ibizan fishermen recovered their collective breath.
“Coffee?” I asked her.
“Oh, dahling Tristan,” she gushed, laying one calloused hand on my sunburned arm, “oh, golly, that would be supah . . . but you’ve not had your brekky.”
Seagulls in My Soup Page 1