Page 65 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

amounts of champagne. But on this occasion … well, it was no occasion at all! We
continued with the cleaning which, suffice it to say, was an unsophisticated job
while at sea; we simply pumped water into tanks (judiciously, of course; filling up
the wrong tanks and leaving others empty might put substantial strain upon the
hull) and pumped until the water flowing upwards from the tank, out through the
ullage vents and over the side, ran clear and uncontaminated – which states were
not necessarily coincident.

This passage being short, we cadets were kept on the bridge, in part to steer.
This need arose because, firstly, the usual helmsman was ‘George’, who was always
the automatic ‘helm’ and, secondly, because the new helmsmen were completely
unfamiliar both with the ship and with the officers’ language. This was fine during
the day because all was visible, but as night came and we bore closer to land, my
familiarity with steering was really put to the test. (I had learned what I knew on
Khyber, where nothing was automatic, the helm was a big old traditional wooden
ship’s ‘wheel’, and the length of the ship allowed it to respond very quickly to the
wheel’s turning; Mantua’s helm was smaller than that of a car, there was no feeling in
the hands as the rudder responded, the wheel eliciting only electrically transmitted
effects, and the whole ship responded only slowly to turns, it being much longer and
more squat in the water than a conventional hull shape). I was also disconcerted to
learn that Plaju was five hours sailing up a twisting river that, to my jaundiced eyes,
made the Tyne look like the Amazon. And the pilot who boarded inspired little
confidence; a tiny man dressed in a shabby suit, he completed an odd trio with the
mate, who was by now on the bridge, and the enormous figure – and personality
– of Basil. Furthermore, the river was apparently quite shallow, a matter for more
future concern, as, fully loaded, our draught changed from a few to many feet. I was
relieved to see, however, that Basil took this all in his stride. He allowed the pilot
to assist (he was so short that he had to stand on a stool to see over the ‘dodger’ –
the front of the bridge) but had no hesitation in taking over control whenever he
deemed it necessary, as it frequently was. (I don’t believe that the vessel had ever
before been to this port, so this was quite a virtuoso feat). Much to my relief, we
arrived without incident and almost immediately began loading (a tanker is only
making money when it’s transporting product from one place to another; dallying
in port was almost unknown).

Morning came, and we began the return trip. Daylight revealed the river to
be not quite the hazard that it seemed at night; nevertheless, I hoped that future
ports would be a little more tanker-friendly.

Singapore again, but as usual in virtually all oil terminals, well away from the
city; for relaxing off the ship, there was only a rather dull Seamen’s Club. Highly
efficiently, we discharged our cargo in a few hours and loaded our stores and
victuals; we had been advised that we were bound for the Persian Gulf. At that
time, most tanker routes led to the Gulf, but nothing that I had heard about that

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