Page 29 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

Consequently, I found a likely-looking coffee bar in a nearby piazza and
ordered a brew. I was surprised when along came a minute cup, not much larger
than a thimble and with it, a glass of water. Not really knowing how to handle this
(I had never even heard of such a drink in my favourite coffee bar in Tunbridge
Wells), I sipped the thick brown liquid. This, one is apparently not supposed to
do, but how could I know? I spent twenty minutes on this (expensive) experience,
found out why I needed the glass of water, and, as elegantly as I could, left the
scene knowing that I had a few culinary things to learn.

The departure from Genoa was accompanied by a marked change in the
weather. My imagination had long accepted the Mediterranean as a calm and
languid sea, but other than a few hours of fog, the weather had done its best to
make me wish to return home; now it had another go. Even though we were close
to the Italian coast, the wind was strong and the sea enough to renew mal de
mer. But interest lay elsewhere. On the 19th, we passed Stromboli, fortunately at
night, for one could see the flames coming from the volcano. It rather resembled
a fiery Hades, although the pilot book told me that about 1,800 people lived on
the island; it did not look like the safest of places. And then, as we were entering
the Strait of Messina, we hit a water-spout. I was on the bridge with the 4th
mate, who himself had never experienced one of these phenomena, a savage
demonstration of the power of nature; we literally slammed into a wall of solid
water that obscured everything for some minutes, and then we were through.
It occurred to me that in the days of the Phoenicians and Ulysses many a vessel
would have quickly succumbed; it was something that I was never again to
witness … perhaps fortunately.

The following days were, I am glad to say, much more calm, though the
temperature was more like Newcastle’s than North African. However, there
occurred one of those unfortunate incidents that, trivial though they seem in
retrospect, I have not forgotten.

On one of those rare occasions when all three of us were unencumbered by
watches, I was sitting in the cabin reading when Plumridge entered. The cabin
contained three chairs, all of jumble-sale quality. I was sitting in that with a steel
frame and plastic webbing, but when he saw me, he said, “I’m senior cadet, and I
get the best chair!” We had never discussed such an idea, and although we were
but two meters apart, he moved towards me in a vaguely threatening manner.

I had attended boarding school since being nine years old. Rather than put
me in extra-curricular piano classes, Father decided that, not wanting to put us
through his experiences of much-disliked piano practice, David and I would be

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