Page 145 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

Leaving Central America behind, we made our way with all due speed to
Kingston, Jamaica. Coming from London, where the transport system was
almost entirely staffed by Jamaicans, I felt fairly comfortable with the Jamaican
sensibility, but after a day watching the gangways (here, there was a security
problem, for there were many in that impoverished island who desperately
wanted to get to the fabled English cities and what was thought to be economic
security) I realised that Kingston was not a happy city, and that the visible ‘wealth’
of the nation existed along the north coast, where the hotels resembled forts into
which relatively wealthy tourists were herded en masse. Nevertheless, the country
itself was well-off relative to the other Caribbean nations (except for Trinidad and
Tobago, where oil was king). I saw a little of the city first-hand, for that evening a
very pleasant couple invited me ashore as company for their young daughter, the
purpose being for them to experience genuine calypso at first hand in a nearby
night club. It was a very pleasant evening, the family being very good company,
the ridiculous drinks with palm trees and straw umbrellas notwithstanding. On
the way there and back, however, I noted that the taxi driver securely locked
our doors and carefully avoided, whenever possible, stopping at red lights. This
looked like a violent city, and everything that I knew of it disinclined me to step
ashore on my own.

Two days of comparative rest ensued, during which time I dallied somewhat
with Sally and wrote to Paula to determine if she was a good future candidate for
my personal ministrations (geographically I thought that she would be, because
every time a ship were on the US West coast, it would inevitably bunker in Los
Angeles; other than the Persian Gulf and its surroundings, nowhere else was in
the fuel-price competition). I had also become more aware of the 2nd mates’
exam that was looming in a few months, and this obviously required a good deal
of studying. The visit to Bermuda, pleasurable to contemplate, was a damp squib;
an anchorage at an island of transparent perfection, and home to many of the rich
and famous, there was no opportunity for crew to go ashore. It looked perfect; I
never saw it again.

Though notorious in its own wild way, a crossing of the North Atlantic could
be relatively calm; even if windy, it was usually a westerly wind, which meant that
the smoke from the funnel would have a tendency to go straight up, discharging
its soot straight down onto the pristine decks. The decks were, of course, cleaned
every morning, and in my new enthusiasm for learning, I made the acquaintance
of the ship’s sail maker, for as cadets we had to learn flag etiquette, storage and
manufacture. I had never heard of a ship’s Sail maker before (indeed, I knew of no
others, he being an old salt of some hundred years’ experience) but I understood
him to have been with Orient Line since joining as a teenager, and from then on
basically lived on its ships. There were obviously no sails to make, but there was a
call for canvas repairs (lifeboat coverings and the like). Few calls for flags though,
especially for India or Ceylon!

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