Page 73 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

unpleasant. It was hot, of course, but nowhere near as intemperate as the Gulf.
It was a good time to catch up on the correspondence course and to get to read
big books, although the period of seventeen days without a word from home, or
indeed from anyone whom I knew, made me feel a bit glum. But there was one
strange incident that seared itself on my memory.
On one after-lunch Sunday I was sitting in the wardroom with a number of the
junior officers, including a couple of cadets, the 3rd and 4th engineers, and Hill,
the 4th mate. As on all ships, most relationships between officers were distant, but
generally amicable enough; a modus vivendi usually developed, though very few
friendships ever formed, in an environment in which, in general, little happened.
I was sitting opposite the 4th engineer, an amiable, bearded and slight young man,
and saw that a bit of an argument about some trivial point was developing between
him and Hill, who was standing directly behind his chair. Suddenly there was a
sharp exclamation and I was astounded to see Hill violently punching with both
fists both sides of the 4th engineer’s head. Several people jumped up, but almost as
soon as he had started, Hill stopped and stalked out of the room. The 4th engineer
looked startled, but despite what looked to me like a quite vicious assault, seemed
uninjured, though to me Hill had by no means pulled his punches. I felt that I
should have done something, as I did not see this action as uncharacteristic of what
I knew of Hill, but the group silently dispersed without further discussion, and,
oddly enough, I never heard another word about this incident. This was to me a
seminal moment; throughout life one is presented with many occasions taking just
a second or so, but during which one is, as it were, frozen into inaction. Perhaps only
heroes or fools can react with the decision about which they afterwards fantasise,
but even today I still do not know what to make of it … but I was always more than
a little cautious thereafter with someone who evidently had a very short fuse. In
fact, after Mantua, I never heard what happened to Hill; I certainly never wished to
sail again with him. Nor did I have to.

The arrival in Durban was not a moment of exaltation. As frequently occurred,
the port was not ready to receive us. We therefore were obliged to anchor offshore
awaiting a suitable berth, but with a calm sea and a rather kindly sun, this was not
by any means an onerous obligation. In fact, rather the opposite, for in my youth
I had never been inured to the pleasures of fishing, and this, it quickly became
apparent, was one of the main pleasures of the Chief Steward. Miraculously a
number of fishing rods appeared after he appeared on deck (a rare occurrence)
with his gear and some fish from the freezer as bait, and a good number of officers
decided that joining him might be a pleasant afternoon’s pastime. The ship being
fully loaded, we were only a few feet from the water, so I watched from the bridge
(someone still had to ensure that we remained at our allotted anchorage) as a
pleasant afternoon’s fishing got under way.

It didn’t happen. The few baited hooks quickly yielded a few interesting

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