Chapter Eight

Just before X-mass orders came that we were to be moved to a port called Safi about 200 miles ‘down’ the coast together with another Norwegian ship, the M/S Tana, named after a river in northernmost Norway. The ships were bunkered for a 2-3 day trip. With some French Navy Officers on each ship we made the trip to Safi, a small phosphate shipping port. A smaller Danish ship and a modern, 3000 ton, Polish motor ship were already tied, sternwise, to the breakwater, some two hundred yards long, with their anchors out into the harbor. The Ringulv and the Tana were tied up in like manner. It was a manmade harbor right on the rocky coast with a difficult approach even in good weather. It was to be our new ‘home’; we didn’t know for how long. But Casablanca was a metropolis compared to this place built around a phosphate shipping facility, pier place for three ships.

This was a confinement compared to Casablanca. My habit of roaming was severely curtailed. The diversion to our confinement now was changed to more confinement, less diversion. We would spend more time with the crews on the other ships, the Tana and the Elise, with the Polish crew only as far as one could go, language-wise. The harbor was confined by a sort of promontory rising about 150 feet up from the shore to the port side, as one sailed in towards an about 200 yards beach followed by the docking facilities, as one swung to starboard sailing in behind breakwater which made the harbor possible. During the invasion by the American/British forces of North Africa, in 1942, reportedly the Americans suffered heavy casualties trying to land at this area, having to scale and climb the headland, and cliffs.

Friendships soon developed with some of the younger sailors on both the Tana and the Danish ships. The Tana sailors were fond of making fun of old Ringulv with her two rakishly slanted masts and rigging. She had been dubbed the old pirate ship while we were at anchor at Casablanca; now as much for the renown of part of her crew’s drinking habits. I might make mention of the fact that the engine crew were generally younger than some of the deck crew, but they matched their drinking...

Bottle Incident:

It was not hard to excuse this action by some of the crew, this drinking. They were Seamen after all, not accustomed to the availability of ‘shore leave’ every day, week after week, month after month, when they normally would be out at sea. It would be hard to say, at their chosen profession; some likely could not be occupied elsewhere...

Empty bottles, necessary to purchase cheap wine, became scarce; a war casualty?. No problem. Some of the crew just brought a pail ashore to be filled with wine after pooling their money. The group then would sit on the poop deck dipping their cups into the wine till the pail was empty, or till they just passed out. The wine was the cheapest, and which they would get the most of for their money. one of the crew had a little dog also provided with his own little tin cup with wine and would lap happily till it, too, fell asleep.

This wine drinking became so bad that the Captain had 6 men from the deck and engine crew sent ashore to a fort on top of the harbor surroundings to dry out, the Police ashore agreeing that they were a nuisance. After a week’s confinement the group came back onboard, drunk. I threatened to leave them ashore unless they agreed to come into the little pram just two at the time. They knew I meant business and agreed to behave, they were hungry and wished to get back on board. Even so, two of them fell overboard and were ever so thankful because I got them all onboard safely. The Captain watching the show from the bridge shaking his head in dismay, or disbelief.

In February the Atlantic came on in full force again. Because the ocean was just on the other side of the breakwater and the harbor much smaller than at Casablanca the storm caused more swells inside the harbor than anticipated. Ringulv’s moorings broke likely because of uneven tension on each side of the stern; one of the two anchor chains strung out into the harbor also broke as she was turned around crossing the chains. The only tugboat was being refitted with a higher bow but had to come out to attempt to assist the ship turning on the swells almost striking a ship already moored at the pier area across from the breakwater. It was a time, again, when the old deep-water sailors’ experience was needed and their boozing forgotten. We were moored to the pier, temporarily. Several days later one of the other ship’s anchors were to bring up our anchor as her anchors were being winched in to be relocated as we were returned to our anchorage tied to the breakwater, two anchors out in the harbor.

Chain locker incident:

It had crossed my mind that I was supposed to be back in Norway going to school at this time. But I was occupied, even if I didn’t know the expression, with ‘on the job training’... The jobs on deck entailed a lot of work for which a certain amount of training was necessary. To advance from deckboy to full A.B. involved so many months at sea in each category, i.e. deck boy, ordinary Seaman, to full A.B. One experience during my ‘apprenticeship’, or just training, educated me to the fact that it was not all fun. This was my ‘chain locker’ incident. At 21 agility likely is taken for granted. It had been Odd’s and Hans’ jobs at Casablanca, considered routine. The duty had been explained to me in detail; one needed a pair of strong arms and pay attention to what could happen. I learned about ‘Murphy’s Law’, much later, -if something can go wrong, it likely will. This was on-the-job training, part of an ordinary Seaman’s duty...

The anchor chain links were about two and a quarter inches in diameter, probably about 15 inches long, and about 9 inches wide. With about 10 locks of chain out, 15 fathoms per lock, there was a lot of chain to be stored as the anchor was winched in, the chain going into the chain locker, link by link. The locker reaches all the way down into the bottom of the bow of the ship. I had asked if the chain was fastened down there; the answer was that one hoped so.

On Ringulv someone was needed down at the main deck level, just below the forecastle deck, to prevent the chain from building up in a pile before all the chain would slide into the locker. And, naturally, the job now fell to me as the youngest on deck. It involved using a 3-4ft long, heavy, wire hook with a handle enabling one to hook one of the links of the chain and guide it downward into the locker so it could not bulk up on the first deck; I wondered, briefly, why the opening in this deck had not been made larger so no one needed be there but my duty was the job at hand, not to ask questions. A main part of this job was to be quick disengaging the hook so it would not follow the chain down....

The winch was slowly hauling the chain in just one link at a time. The deck where I was stationed was about 5 by 7 ft to the curving bulkhead, mainly taken up by the opening downward into the locker. Gus had cautioned me to be on guard if the winch should slip, possibly causing the chain to fly out again. The winch had one capstan on each side especially grooved to accommodate the chain links. It was not education but a job I was expected to be able to handle, even as it appeared as education to me, briefly. After a brief announced halt the operator’s hand apparently accidentally slipped on the winch control with the result that the chain started racing out of the chain locker, momentarily pulled by the weight of the anchor. The unexpected motion caused the hook to fly out of my hand and up through the opening, I’d been cautioned not to hold it too tightly.

I instinctively dove face down to the farthest corner, which also was the only corner, as the chain came rushing up and out swinging violently through the room, bulkhead to bulkhead. As soon as the operator managed to stop the winch, Gus’ head appeared in the ladder opening: "Jon?", quietly at first then louder: "Answer, Jon!". I almost laughed, my propensity for finding the situation humorous likely dampened by the violently swinging chain just before. Gus told me to come on up even as I assured him I was fine; "just let’s get the rest of the chain in, we have another anchor to get in, right?". Gus was all business now, it would be Odd’s turn: "And don’t be so smart, boy!"; it was his responsibility after all and he thought I was being a little too jovial. But we did have a good laughter about it over a beer that evening....

Work on the ships was more than routine under the existing condition because everyone except the night watchman would turn to in the morning; it became like a ‘9 to 5’ job ashore. Chipping rust is always a usual and perennial chore on a ship. The plates just above the water line under the stern became Lars’ and my job. Now, some fancy rigging had to be accomplished to get the scaffolding down and under the stern. But it was taken care of and Lars and I were taken there in the pram.

I had thought it imprudent to place Lars in that job, our feet almost in the water, but Gus intimated I was sort of to be the safety factor. The old sailors didn’t mind being teamed with me even as I could be a pain, asking about everything under the sun. In this case Lars had taken care of that.

We could not be seen from the deck and at times the Chief Mate would call down on one of his rounds if he didn’t think the chipping hammers were busy enough. Lars devised a method of fooling the Chief. He had brought lengths of smaller size rope in order to teach me about knot tying, which every good Seaman ought to know. I would sit with a chipping hammer in each hand, chipping busily away while Lars went through the intricacies of old-fashioned knot tying. The Chief Mate likely knew what was going on but as long as he heard two hammers going, even in a staccato fashion, it apparently sounded satisfactory. The Chief Mate also would come around in the pram with the bosun, a sort of cursory inspection. But time was on our side; no one was going anywhere, anytime soon...

It was decided that the rigging on the fore deck was to be given a grease job; (I was ignorant about grease jobs on cars that time)... The job fell to the youngest on deck, me. As an aside, on American ships only an able-bodied Seaman, (A.B.), may work more than 6ft above the deck proper. On Scandinavian and likely all European ships, these jobs fell to the youngest on deck. This job entailed being lowered in a bosun’s chair tied to a steel turn buckle around the fore stay cable applying grease to the cable with a rag, a pail of grease hanging from the bosun’s chair.

In order to grease the forestay, from the top of the mast to the bow bulwark, I had to climb up to the top of the mast, from the crows nest, to cut in a new line through an empty, single, steel tackle block. (For you landlubbers, tyro salt Jon might add, the crows nest here was an about 8ft cross beam, 70-75 feet above the deck. The look-out enclosure, crow’s nest, is situated there, on the foremast, and cables to raise and lower the derricks are fastened on this beam structure). The crew were watching on deck as I took hold of and started climbing up the stay, going from the railing, starboard side, to the top of the mast, the bosun feeding out the line I had tied to my belt behind me. No one knew when anyone last had been climbing this rigging. The bosun had assured himself that I had no qualms about the job. The Captain was watching from outside his cabin. I inspected the old little steel block, ran the line through and came sliding down the mast to the crow’s nest cross beam to the grinning bosun-"I knew you could do it," he said, relief in his voice.

I was being teamed with Oscar for this job, he was to be in charge of lowering the bosun’s chair fastened to a steel buckle around the forestay. In addition to being trusted by the bosun, he had just come off a binge and this would keep him outside and occupied and not be docked. I felt relatively safe. Should any trouble arise I felt I could always grab hold of the cable and lower myself down the forestay, in hand over hand, (or under hand), fashion. But everything went according to schedule.

It was enjoyable work, with Oscar slowly getting over his hangover without being docked; -view of the town included. Job-wise, even if it was a grease- job, I felt I was being useful which was important to me. About a third of the way down, instead of waving my hand to be lowered, I jokingly called: -"let go", and Oscar in the same vein did just that, a couple of feet. The sudden shift in weight caused some stay up and down movement; I wasn’t smart after that...

There were only about three or four bars and restaurants in this town in addition to two or three bordellos. One of the restaurants had a regular billiard table, the first I had ever seen, except for in the movies. I would spend many hours watching the skillful Chief Engineer and Chief Mate of the Polish ship playing, or working, this billiard table.

Saturday nights would be special events night at one of the bars were belly dancers were featured. Some of the customers would come up to the stage and put frank notes into the top of the lower costume, quite below the navel it seemed, of their favorite dancer. One ardent admirer of one of the girls was a waiter from one of the other restaurants, an ardent frank note stuffer too. He would stay till the show was over and squire her out. Word was that he was married with a family in town. It was not quite a blaze shrug of the shoulder time. Some sophistication was in order, -let it just pass; this education one could do without.

Once the warmer spring days arrived most of "us younger" AP sailors took full advantage the beautiful beach. We would spend endless hours on days off diving through the 6-8 ft high breakers rolling through the narrow entrance between the breakwater and the rocks on the right side and onto the beach. It was as if we were grooming ourselves for some up-coming sports event, ‘honing both our young bodies and our minds.

But the third mate on the Polish ship went too far, even as he was the most skillful. He misjudged the depth, or width, of an oncoming breaker diving right through it landing head first in the shallow water just beyond, causing his neck to break resulting in his death.

One morning, after finishing a night watch stint, I came to the beach alone to relax and sleep a little. As I ran down the beach for some exercise before a quick dip a young French woman hastily arose and started running up the beach, covering her bare bosom with her arm. I was just as embarrassed, beating a hasty retreat the other way. But it was a beautiful sight, I thought; perhaps no one would believe.

I regretted having disturbed her... And it was more her beach, where I was just a sojourner, even unaware of both the expression and the condition.

People in a few of the towns on South Eastern coast of Norway were known to be more on the religious side, perhaps not quite as a Bible Belt. One young boy of the engine crew, about 17, came from that area and typified a youngster brought up strictly but changing substantially when no longer under that influence. In company of older engine personnel he took to tasting easily available beer and wine and was conned into getting a woman at one of the bordellos with rather tragic results, discovered by others almost accidentally.

Saturday afternoons several of us younger guys would be diving off the ship and having a whale of a time, the engine crew youngster among us. Even the Captain was outside his quarters watching the noisy youngsters. It seemed he was sort of enjoying that not all of his crew were boozers.

Some days after one of the diving exhibitions one of the older Firemen, not generally a boozer, noticed that the youngster, who also did mess work, had trouble walking. When asked about it he answered that his swimming trunks had been chafing. But when it continued the older Firemen took a look-see by removing the young lads trousers. Finding no chafing areas they quickly came to the conclusion that a doctor visit was in order. And not too soon.

The youngster’s problem was that he had contracted what was commonly known as a "full house" of venereal diseases. He was quarantined in the sense that he was not to handle food and remanded to sick bay, as it were. This was before the -wonder drug penicillin so his cure was heavy dosages of sulfa drugs which within a short time gave his skin a yellowish hue, almost Chinese, one could say. The older Firemen were berated for conning the youngster into ‘the tawdrier life’ without telling him about protection. Some of them likely had gone through the same and just shrugged it off; - life is tough?.

But experiences came on the lighter side as well. A fellow decker, Ola, came from a farming area not far from my home. We palled around a lot even though Ola had a propensity for wanting to wrestle me, a town lad, when he was a little into wine, though not a boozer. We were about the same height, he a little heavier, but he never could wrestle me down so apparently it was a continuing challenge. Working together on the foredeck one day I thought showing off might make Ola stop his wrestling desire. I hopped up and took hold of the stay wire going to the top of the mast from the starboard bulwark. Going in hand over hand fashion up to the crow’s nest beam about 60 feet up, crossing over to the other side, and came down one of the staywires on port side in the same manner dropping to the deck, all without stretching my arms.

But I had no sooner hit the deck than a booming voice from the bridge :"Deckboy", an instant demotion, "up here right away!". The Captain had been watching part of it from the bridge and proceeded to dress me down. Climbing the rigging was stupid, I could have fallen down into the winch area and killed myself. Asking permission to explain I just wanted to show Ola my strength because of his propensity for wrestling. The Captain could only smile a little, even saying it was after all a feat, also restoring my rank, such as it were.

Appointment was arranged through the Ship-Chandlers at Casablanca for needed dental work. one dentist was Danish, the other Norwegian. I had problems with a couple of molars. The bus trip was an experience in itself. There was no gasoline for ordinary transportation and the bus was powered by a gas developed by a tank on the rear of the bus, from burning charcoal. The bus would stop every so often as the driver went back to stoke the fire. It was slow going taking most of the day. The passengers were local Arabs with all their sundry luggage, some sitting on the top of the bus with chickens apparently for the market. Most of the women were veiled. During the frequent stops it did not seem to bother them at all to relieve themselves just 15-20 ft from the bus. One tried to act nonchalantly.

After three days I came away with two gold crowns. The Danish dentist tried to tell me he thought the new German order was ‘here to stay, over my strenuous objections. I wondered about their distance from Scandinavia...

(Three years later, in London, one of those molars had to be removed due to an abscess. It was another Danish dentist, a young woman, who had fled from Denmark when the Germans arrived. She had tried to save the tooth by drilling through it in order to tap the abscess. I thought it was a terrible ordeal, even with Novocain, but always related that I did not really feel that much pain, being cradled’ close to her bosom. And she did accept a dinner invitation)...

But back to Casablanca where I visited some of the places and restaurants Odd and I had frequented. Welcomed by the waiters who were eager to hear what had become of us. The waiters were without exception, French. Most of them spoke English and were all quite friendly. They recalled, by name, all of my friends among the crew and the many pleasant Saturday and Sunday afternoon we had spent there, in the side-walk restaurants sight-seeing.

One of the waiters recalled the time he had accompanied Odd and I on an excursion outside the city proper to "take in" the country side, and the trouble we had run into. We had taken a horse-drawn taxi The trip took us past the large swimming pool, Odd could not remember having been there, and out along the shore to the west of the city, about a half hour’s drive. We apparently annoyed the driver by remarking that the horse did not seem to bend the front legs. The drive-owner explained that the front legs were stiff from age and Odd indicated he had noticed that most of the horses had similar problems.

The driver waited near the restaurant as part of the fare; he and all the other horse carriage drivers were Arabs. The waiter had a little too much wine during the meal. on the way back to the city he made a slightly degrading remark about the Arabs. It was overheard by the driver who immediately stopped the carriage and demanded an apology. Both Odd and I did our best to calm things down by offering extra tips and our apologies. Other Arabs had gathered around. We wished to get out of there and away from a possible altercation in a mostly Arab section of the city.

It seemed that the Arab wished to show it was his country, after all. He noted that he knew Odd and I were visiting Seamen and that he had been acquainted many with other Norwegian Seamen before. It was the first of many similar incidents we were to meet with much later as we experienced and learned of an undercurrent of ill feelings towards the French.

Back to the dentist visit: I was able to pay a visit to one of the remaining Norwegian ships, Nyhorn. During discussions the fact was noted that there were more Germans in evidence than before and that more of them were visible in the finer restaurants apparently flaunting their presence. We were just guessing as to the meaning, almost an omen of sorts. I was ever so glad to be heading back to Safi "on my bus", not minding the company at all; it was like being on the way back home.

A, personal, signal event occurred as I came off night watch one morning. I had just showered, or rather -washed down with a pail of hot water, and was sitting on the aft hatch waiting for the crew to come for breakfast. Oscar was first and exclaimed: "What in the world happened to your hair?".

Hands to my head I hustled in to find a mirror, then one more. It was just like a harrow had gone through thinning my hair out. "Why, I’m not even quite 22", I thought to myself, my ‘beautiful’, wavy, blondish hair! The other deck crews alternately consoled and had fun with me; Oscar volunteered I looked more mature. I would wonder: -"to whom?".

I had been bothered with dandruff as far back as I could remember.. Oscar reminded me he had cautioned us youngsters to use hats during the warm, sunny, days we were unaccustomed to quoting a saying from, or about, India: "Only mad dogs and Englishmen walk around in the noon-day sun!". Naturally I would endeavor, and how!, to obtain any hair restoring remedies known to man. Realizing, too, I better get used to the different look in the mirror from now on...

In my quiet moments I thought I was maturing, (being objective about oneself?)... Looking back I was becoming accepted as an ordinary Seaman, mostly under Oscar’s tutelage and guidance. My English was also improving because I would spend a lot of time with a French-Canadian Fireman, Michael Ahearn, who was glad to have someone as inquisitive to talk to. His contact with the other engine personnel was somewhat limited because of limited use of English. I wonder why he was not sailing on Canadian ships but it seemed I was getting into ‘forbidden territory’; better pay sufficed as an answer.

My French was also improving to a degree because I was ashore often during my night watch free time, always exploring. one of the young coal passers had a camera which I often borrowed on my ‘roamings’. The town was built around an old Arab fort. The structure now occupied mostly by prostitutes, most of them apparently Arabic. I was trying to get pictures of some of these "ladies"; lacking a flash attachment this was not very successful. The girls could not understand this young guy who only wanted to take pictures. The experience of the young lad in the engine crew likely tempered any sexual prowess. I did get two older Arab women to pose outside even if they spoke no French; one of them motioned to my blondish hair talking to the other, as if a culture exchange...

I would spend a lot of my free time in Oscar’s company. In my inexperience I attempted to counsel Oscar about his drinking habit. I was less concerned with the other deep-water sailors, considering them lost causes. Oscar would take offense but apparently would write this off, in a sense, because our friendship continued although I had told Oscar part of his health problems likely were due to his drinking.

I would recall these conversations with sorrow when Oscar passed away, death due to pneumonia after a drinking bout. He was buried somewhere in Algiers, the Norwegian Seaman’s minister from the city of Algiers eulogizing. But that is later chapter...

I wondered out aloud to the Chief Mate why we were sprucing up the ship when it seemed only a matter of time before the French likely would take her over for their own use. But the Chief Mate would answer: -"we’re still under Norwegiaflag and the old girl will carry her colors proudly!". The Chief could just as easily have answered that we had to be occupied with something, we were still being paid our wages! It was, after all, a nine to five job mostly. It was apparent, too, we had been spoiled by the stay at Casablanca with the big city atmosphere.

The crew of the Tana were generally much younger on the average than the crew on Ringulv. I would spend quite a lot of time in their company, often visiting onboard. The boatswain’s mate, ordinarily just bosun, was about ten years my senior. He and some of the crew had been with the Tana several years. The ability to be in their company was like a lesson about usual life onboard Norwegian cargo ship in its meandering around the world, customary for the Norwegian Merchant Marine. Ringulv’s crew’s ways more the unusual.

If the words, flotsam and jetsam, could be used in connection with a crew, Ringulv’s crew was that. There were among the engine crew an Estonian Fireman, Rudy, two Colombians, a Fireman and a coal passer, the French Canadian Fireman, the Hungarian donkey-man, and a Philippine Fireman. (The Romanian donkey-man, Popovici, and I, formed almost a special relationship in a later camp condition; I became his French translator of letters to and from his girlfriend at Casablanca).

Foreign incident?

(Xenophobia definitely unknown, as a word).

One Saturday, after drinking, some of the younger of the engine crew decided there were too many "foreigners" onboard and had tried to chase them out of the quarters. All except Rudy the Estonian Fireman. He was not quite foreign enough and also because he likely could handle all of them alone, not being a drinker as such; he was also in great physical shape, somewhat of an athlete. The problem dissolved, as it were, as they sobered up. Their action did not find acceptance among the other crew. They were reminded, too, they were selective leaving the Estonian alone because they were afraid of his prowess. They possibly had gotten their cues from the old grumpy Second Engineer in his general grumblings of dissatisfaction, sometimes due to his own problems on an old tramp steamer. The two, he and the steamer, likely would not be sailing except for this war time, with the extra pay bonuses and charters.

One of the Colombians, the coal passer, exhibited some rather odd cleanliness habits and dress mode which, with a swarthy facial expression, irked some of the other engine crew. The Colombian Fireman, on the other hand, was both well spoken and well dressed. He and I often talked on various aspects of the war and conditions, generally; Columbia was a different world to me and he was obliging with information. I was interested in his country. There was a mutual respect. He had a quick smile and dancing, dark brown, eyes... It was as if he appreciated I was on a learning curve, more than just being inquisitive. As noted earlier he was also a "fond" of Oscar’s girlfriend at the Casba at Casablanca.

The Philippine coal passer had some trouble with the English. He could not pronounce the letter "f", for example pronouncing ‘copee’ for coffee. Pronouncing several other words with "f" could be amusing. He would tell me he was from the island of Mindanao and it pleased him I would take the time to find it in an atlas, information is educational, after all. Because he was accustomed to a very different type food, apparently, his eating habits were somewhat of a study. Our Sunday main meal usually was boiled beef with gravy, potatoes and stewed peas as a vegetable; (-and stewed dried green peas was known to me from my home). The dessert a mixed fruit melange with milk. There would also be soup. The Philippine would take a deep soup plate, peel the potatoes with his nails, and generally mixed most of the other entrees, including gravy in this soup plate, indicating it would be mixed in the stomach anyway. These, and other foreign habits, apparently would not sit well with some of the crew and surface during their boozing sprees.

During his long sober periods Oscar was as fine a company as could be desired. He was like a treasure-trove of information because of his varied experience both at sea and on land. There was nothing about the operation of a ship he did not have some knowledge of. He had numerous stories about times he spent as mate on the sailing yachts of millionaires in the twenties, before the crash. The yachts were sailed from the New York area to Florida in the fall for the winter season, then back up the coast, through the inland waterway in the spring.

One of millionaires he worked for had his sailing yacht freighted to Europe to take part in regattas on the Swedish and Norwegian coasts. This particular owner was of Norwegian background, hence his interest in competing on those shores. When I ventured this was a show of power, that the yacht was freighted to and fro, Oscar felt the man was so entitled because he was down to earth without misusing his acquired wealth..

This information would come forth often during long walks on Sunday mornings just to get away from the ship for a while. He liked to be talking English and would explain idioms. I felt like going to school which he got a kick from, even as the word itself, idiom, became a part of my English at a much later date, years later.

I heard the expression, but a little, for the first time from Oscar; I can still remember the occasion and the place on the deck. I was ‘attending’ while he was splicing a thimble into the end of a rope for the companion ladder. When I asked if the rope would give, (stretch), he answered, ‘but a little’ and smiled as I lifted my eyebrows and he explained. It remains a cherished memory.

I was unable to elicit much about Oscar’s background in Norway, his reticence discouraged any discussion. But I would wonder before going to sleep, after a session so to speak, about his back ground. "Wonder if I remind him of a younger brother", would cross my mind.... Perhaps he saw in me something he remembered about himself, perhaps wished was different. Hence, it would trouble me the more whenever Oscar went on one of his binges. The bosun, who took care of Oscar as he was sobering up, was aware of this seeming special relationship between the two of us and would advise me on his progress. I had tried to pump the bosun about Oscar but he was not about to reveal anything even as he realized I was being more solicitous than just nosy. He and Oscar had been sailing together for some time out of New York as expatriates, real deep-water sailors. Perhaps even Gus had little knowledge of Oscar’s background...

One of the Firemen had a small brown female dog. I had borrowed the dog during walks ashore at Casablanca after obtaining a leash; the Second Engineer approved, even. The dog had puppies at Safi and Oscar got one of them. He took care of the little critter almost as if it were human; would talk about all the funny happenings, like helping it over the about 1 foot high threshold entry to our quarters.

He carried it ashore on several visits and would be full of information about happenings on their ‘excursion’ coming back onboard. It seemed he was imbibing less during this period. One of their trips ended in a tragedy showing another view of Oscar. He had let the little pup walk along the break-water coming back onboard. The pup ran to the edge, as if to look at the sea washing among the rocks, Oscar recounted, and fell over the side down among the huge rocks and boulders on the outside of the breakwater. He spent considerable time looking for his little dog. Coming back onboard distraught, Odd and I went back ashore with him trying to find the puppy, being more able to climb down among the rocks, but to no avail.

Gus took extra pain in the days following making sure he engaged Oscar on the job, as well as with cribbage sessions after hours. "I don’t want him to go ashore", he stated, mentioning it likely would send him on another binge.

As noted before, a ships usually never got the ‘work-over’ and general repair work being undertaken at this time unless she was laid up in a dock for repairs and rework. Life in this small harbor town revolved around the phosphate shipping, The merchants enjoyed a boom delivering food and sundry

supplies, on a scale likely not seen before; there were now four ships in the harbor needing constant attention, so to speak. And of course, the restaurants, bars, etc.(!) were also busy attending to a number of Seamen whose habits and behavior they were likely not accustomed to, to put it mildly.

Digression:

An underlying reason for my affinity with the deep-water sailors, expatriates really, may be traced to our family history; as if I was trying to comprehend. My mother had spoken about an older brother, Ludvig, who had "disappeared", somewhere in America. I guess I was about 10 then. My mother passed away in 1960 two years before her brother, now Louie, surfaced" in San Francisco.

He had written a letter to his former area minister in Norway, in English, (Norwegian forgotten), from the Seamen’s’ hospital in San Francisco. Letters then followed from relatives in Norway to another brother, Kris, who had settled in the New York area where I also was living at that time. Kris contacted Charles, a son of my cousin, Lilly in Norway. Charles lived in Cupertino, California. He visited Ludvig, now Louie, at the hospital. Louie could only be released from the hospital if he had a home to go to. Charles was a project engineer with Ford Philco, building radar tracking systems being installed internationally. Louie was then allowed to leave the hospital and move in with Charles and his family. Louie visited his brother Kris in New York in -62. (Uncle)Kris had been like a grandfather to our children, daughters Nora, Linda, and Randi. Kris brought Louie ‘upstate’ to Kingston, New York, where Jo and I lived with our family.

I was able to spend time with my mother’s older brother when Jo and I lived in San Jose, California, 1975-77, where I was working as a safety engineer with IBM. Louie was reticent to talk about why he had been out of contact with his relatives all those years. He did mention that he had visited a brother of his father who had established large apple orchard operation in Oregon. One reason for not returning, he said, was the rather meager conditions in his father’s farmer/fisherman’s home, 12 children on a small farm; "And I had to stand in order to eat!". The farmhouse on Drage, Stadlandet, western coast of Norway, only had three rooms, with a three-stall cow barn under the living room. I could understand his complaint because I had visited the place, when I was seven, when my grandparents were alive.

I had heard talk about Louie that he was somewhat a loner; a sister, aunt Jenny, I remember was also mentioned as liking to be more of a loner, though married. Louie told me he had been married to a woman of Polish descent. The marriage broke up, he stated, when he went back to sea during World War II. I knew that Uncle Kris in New York had tried to locate his brother around 1928, and later when their father, my maternal grandfather passed away in Norway. Louie had become a U.S. citizen and had been sailing on American ships, mentioning the Madsen Line, on the West Coast. He had been living in China for a while where he and another sailor had been able to open a small American bar and restaurant in Shanghai. Their venture ended when his partner talked him into opening a second bar. The Chinese then, for unexplained reasons, disallowed both bars.

The second year Jo and I lived in San Jose Louie suffered a fatal heart attack. According to instructions in his will he was cremated and buried at sea outside San Francisco Bay, by the B-buoy. The state of California required notification of the location. Charles did the honors from the 20ft cabin cruiser, "Laksen", (the salmon), which he and his neighbor, a former U.S. Navy commander, built in his garage.

I accompanied Charles and his neighbor on many salmon fishing trips outside San Francisco, about one hour outside the Golden Gate bridge. The first time I went salmon fishing with Charles was in 1973, when I was on an 4 day inspection tour at the San Jose IBM plant, as a safety manager at IBM Raleigh, N.C. Charles then only had a ten foot ‘Zodiac’ inflatable rubber boat with a 10 HP outboard motor. We set out from Stinson beach, Marin county, north of the Golden Gate bridge, after inflating the boat- with a foot operated pump. I was a little apprehensive, to Charles’ delight, as the bow would give a little meeting the 3-4 ft breakers.

The fog was thick. Charles was steering by compass and listening for the buoys, the compass resting on a wet rag on a board, loosely fastened to the rubber boat sides. Charles had worked on fishing boats in Norway but I still wondered a little, not doubting him, realizing we were 10-15 miles out in this rubber boat in the fog. Regular motor boats and cabin cruisers were just as surprised to see us. They would ask if things were OK. Charles, seemingly annoyed, just waved them away without more.

We caught a couple of ‘ling’ cods, but no sign of the salmon. At about the time Charles was ready to give up he ‘tied’ into a fish of considerable size judging by the bend of his rod. "Take the net", he ordered, "but don’t do anything ‘till I tell you, understand!". I quickly answered in the affirmative. Pretty soon Charles brought up a three foot salmon. "Holy mackerel!", I exclaimed; I could not remember ever having been near a live salmon that size, and which I now was responsible to net. I could also see that the hook was barely into the salmon’s lip and quickly showed the net under the fish. "What are you doing!", Charles hollered as the hook flew out. Charles now saw that I did what I had to do but indicated that if the fish had been lost, I likely would have gone overboard too. I didn’t doubt him, then... Charles was afraid to use his knife to kill the salmon, for obvious reasons. So we just stuffed the fish into a three foot fish box, which I sat on ‘till the fish was quiet.

But, back to Safi...

I had worked night shifts at the factory in my home town so this, in itself, was not new. But it is hard to be occupied for eight long hours at night on a ship tied up like we were. Consequently, like sailors before me, I’d be looking for a place to snooze off. The ship, after all, was anchored and tied up away from the breakwater by about 60 feet.

I would lie down in the galley, on the cooks bench, with a rag under my feet. The range was coal fired and the cook had a 3ft steel poker for stoking his fire. Holding the poker in my hand, poker end resting on the floor, per suggestion. If I fell soundly asleep the poker would fall out of my hand clanging on the ceramic tile floor waking me up. The tricks of the trade, one might say. Feeling guilty about using the cook’s workbench as a cot, I figured he would clean it off should he be kneading his dough if he was making bread...

Go to: Chapter Nine - SAFI to BERGUENT