The Firefighter Blues. Alan Bruce
both had calmed down. Maybe their apologies were carried out away from us children; who knows? My sister, Jenny, and I learned all sorts of Scottish slang and swear words at a very young age. Although I still think even the vilest cursing sounds comical when spoken with a Scottish accent.
‘Hud yer weesht! No, you hud yoors!’ Scottish slang for ‘hold your tongue’ or ‘shut your mouth’ was commonly heard around our house.
‘Stop yer havering or I’ll skelp yer lug,’ was often directed at me.
'Quit yer greetin or I'll gee ya something tae greet aboot' was another.
I definitely don’t remember my parents having harsh words or anything resembling a robust argument on our voyage to Australia. Our cabin was so cramped that privacy was non-existent; I only remember smiles and laughter and the odd bout of seasickness.
~
It was 1962, I was almost five years old and we were steaming towards the Suez Canal. Thoughts of Scotland, the only home I knew, were already being tucked away safely in the back of my brain. Like thousands of other British families, we were immigrating to Australia, taking advantage of the Australian Government’s Assisted Passage Migration Scheme. Mum and Dad paid ten pounds each and my sister, Jennifer, and I, travelled for free. It was a deal too good to pass up for countless families in post-war Britain. Many believed that Australia was ‘the promised land’, offering an abundance of work, fantastic weather and opportunities galore for those willing to seek them out. At least that’s what the brochures implied.
Our ship, the Castel Felice, was small compared to today’s super liners but to a young boy who loved to explore, it seemed huge. She was built in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1930 and commissioned as the Kenya, spending most of her early years as a troopship. A major refit was completed in 1952 and the Kenya became part of the Sitmar Line and was renamed the Castel Felice.
Mum, Dad, Jenny and I occupied a small cabin just above the waterline. I remember we had a tiny porthole that the crew would lock shut and cover up when the weather turned bad, which was quite often. We were luckier than most; we had a family cabin all to ourselves. Most families were split up, fathers and sons in one cabin and mothers and daughters shared another. Despite our living quarters, I loved being out on the ocean – and still do. There’s nothing that invigorates my soul more than the sight and smell of the sea.
One crisp, breezy morning, Dad and I ventured out onto the lower deck. As I strained my neck to peek over the side, I was deafened by the piercing whistle of the wind blowing through the rusted rails and weather beaten balustrades of the Castel Felice. Like cavalry, a never ending procession of white crested waves attacked the bow of our ship. A cycle of low deep thuds and sinister hisses saw salty spray shooting to the heavens, signalling the start of the next briny onslaught. The swell would lift us skywards before disappearing under the well worn, travel weary hull. The flimsy-looking rail was the only thing that separated me from the foaming sea below; it was both frightening and exhilarating for a four year old, yet somehow, I felt safe. I always felt safe in my father’s arms. It didn’t happen often, but when he did pick me up, I thought he was the strongest man in the world. I knew he wouldn’t let me go, his tattooed forearms had sinews, veins and muscles popping out everywhere. To me he was like a giant, or a superhero.
I didn’t know it then, but that was to be one of the last times he would hold me that close. He hugged me so few times, I can still remember them all. When I was six, he playfully carried me across Wattamolla Lagoon and then we ‘accidentally’ hugged fifteen years later at my wedding. I don’t remember too many other times. I knew he loved me, but it was love from afar and he was uneasy and uncomfortable about showing it. A trait I’ve no doubt inherited.
My mother and sister were playing board games in our cabin, but Dad and I were out for adventure; we were looking for pirates. Staring into the glare, we were on the lookout for distant masts daring to fly the skull and crossbones. I loved tales about pirates and hidden treasure and I’m sure I was some type of seafarer in a past life. I also found the ocean had a gentle side. There’s nothing more peaceful than falling asleep to the sound of lapping waves or the gentle rolling of a ship.
My lookout duties were temporarily interrupted by something magical. I’d spotted hundreds of strange creatures alongside our ship. One minute they flew through the air like giant dragonflies then they would hit the water, making frothy little explosions before once again surfing the bow waves. I can still smell my Dad’s tobacco breath as he whispered, ‘They’re just flying fish, thousands of them oot here.’
Not to me; to me they were magic.
I’m still amazed at the odd things I remember about our six-week voyage. I was mesmerised by the Italian crew’s strange accents; weird ice cream (gelato) and a very dark and scary movie theatre, deep in the bowels of the ship. I had my first taste of pineapple juice and even today, that sweet smell still reminds me of breakfast on the ship.
The link between memory and smell is, for the most part, pleasurable, but sadly for me it became a curse later in life and an unwanted trigger for memories I would often try to suppress.
One unsavoury recollection from our voyage was the ship’s one and only swimming pool. I had never seen one before; it looked so dark and deep and I was terrified of falling in. My mother always made sure that Jenny and I stayed a safe distance away, as neither she nor my father could swim.
‘Dinnae be gawn near that pool.’
Her nervousness just added to my paranoia.
As the voyage dragged on, every now and then, one of us would need something from one of our three ‘kists’ (Scottish for case or trunk), which were stored deep in the cargo hold, well below the waterline. I often went with Dad to retrieve whatever it was we needed. Even though it was cramped and claustrophobic, I could always conjure up something to turn the chore into an adventure. It always smelled strange; a mixture of musty old clothes and the sea. I liked to dart in and out of the trunks and cases piled to the ceiling, playing some weird type of solo hide-and-seek.
We stopped only twice before our first Australian port – Fremantle. At the north western end of the Suez Canal, we anchored at Port Said before sailing through the canal, into the Red Sea to Aden in Yemen. We left the ship for a shore excursion at Egypt's Port Said. The strange aromas, the humidity and the crowds were like nothing any of us had ever experienced; except for Dad, he seemed to take it all in his stride. Maybe he was still drunk from his hours spent in the ship’s bar. I can still feel how tightly my mother was holding my hand as we brushed past noisy locals tending dozens of shabby market stalls. Her grip was crushing my tiny fingers.
‘Dinnae you bairns let go of ma hand,’ was something we heard over and over.
I was sure she was terrified that my sister and I were going to get lost and the ship would be forced to sail without us. Completely illogical but this was the first time she had left the shores of Scotland.
Dad, on the other hand, had travelled extensively and this was just a walk in the park for him. He would barter, haggle and abuse the locals in his strong Scottish brogue and I felt completely calm when I was with him.
Jenny and I were allowed one gift each but the choices were limited; a tin tractor or a stuffed camel. Naturally I chose the tractor but my sister had to surrender her camel when we arrived back at the ship as there were rumours that they were stuffed with old bandages. The Castel Felice’s quarantine officers weren’t taking any chances so poor Jenny went without.
~
One day there was a real buzz about the ship as we were told by one of the staff in an Italian accent, ‘Tomorrow we’ll be crossing the line.’
This meant the Castel Felice would be crossing the equator. For centuries seafarers would celebrate the occasion with some sort of festive event which usually involved the Roman God, Neptune. We, the children, were to have a fancy-dress party. My mother somehow managed to transform me into a Native American, complete with headdress, tomahawk and war paint. I’m