with a few prospective girlfriends who clearly preferred a plumber or a carpenter to warm them during cold nights, to a captain away from them for months at a time. Nothing worked, and I went to nautical college to prepare for a career at sea.
I went to sea when I was nineteen years old—an apprentice filled with school knowledge that had been all important when preparing for my exams. All too soon I made the painful discovery that much of it was rather useless in real life. In fact, I barely knew port from starboard, and in general, was very ill-prepared for the life that awaited me on that rusty old freighter I boarded in the port of Rotterdam. Mother brought me to the ship, the trunk of her Ford filled with suitcases she had supervised packing, the contents of which I was not at all sure. Her eyes showed more and more alarm as we drove through the harbor area trying to find the ship, while at the same time avoiding forklifts and trucks. Traffic rules so carefully adhered to in normal life did not seem to exist behind the gates we had just passed.
My first trip would take me to West Africa, to places with exotic names like Sierra Leone and Ivory Coast. Little did I realize that the days of the great steamship lines were almost over, and that the ship I was boarding, was a relic from the past that had outlived itself and its profitability already by a good many years. To me the Freetown, although rather rusty, was the start of a new life, a life I had been looking forward to ever since I could remember.
Climbing the long wobbly gangway with only a few ropes as a handrail was a dangerous undertaking, certainly when carrying two suitcases, filled with everything my mother could think of. While packing them, it had taken me a good deal of talking to convince her that the selection of small mirrors and colored beads she insisted I should bring, would not save me from a tribal cooking pot as they had done with various missionaries in times long gone.
“You idiot, are you trying to kill yourself!”
I stopped in my tracks and balancing precariously somewhere halfway up I looked behind me, trying to figure out who the idiot could be that the uniformed man at the top of the gangway was yelling at. There was nobody behind me. To my consternation, he started running down the plank, causing it to sway dangerously. Did he want to pass me on that narrow thing? That was impossible. Before my thoughts could progress any further, the man reached me and grabbed me by my collar with his left hand, while with the other, not too kindly, he took one suitcase from me. A few minutes later we reached the deck of the ship where I received a dressing down, I will not lightly forget. The bearded man appeared to be the Chief Officer of the Freetown, who I later learned possessed a kind and caring heart, but whose verbal expressions and opinions about mankind in general would indicate the total opposite.
The man I met that first minute on board was the prototype of the seamen I would get to know so well during all these years at sea— introverted, rough with words, often very explicit in their choice of them to voice disgust, but so generous with help and always ready to assist the very creatures they so vocally professed to dislike. I soon learned that the lowest form of life was that of those living ashore with a 9:00 to 5:00 job. Particular disgust often was voiced about those anonymous souls who worked at the head office. According to what I heard, these people were never there when needed. According to the speakers, that was just as well, as during the rare occasions when they were available and tried to help, it usually went wrong anyway.
The seamen I sailed with over the years on cargo ships, were often a rough lot, not afraid of anything it seemed, especially not when one listening to them during after-work hours, sitting at the ship’s bar behind an ever increasing number of empty beer glasses.
During those first weeks on the old Freetown I listened to them, red-eared, taking it all in and marveling about this strange world I had entered—a world of fantasies about women and strange adventures in exotic ports, about hurricanes, shifting cargos and North Atlantic gales.
After more than twenty-five years at sea, now I know that most of the stories I was told and believed at that time must have been a compilation of many happenings—adventures that had reached the teller, not through his own experience, but via a neighbor at a bar somewhere in the world, who in turn, most likely also had heard it from somebody else.
I was unpacking my suitcase in a tiny cabin with a desk, a bed, a porthole and just enough space to turn around, provided the chair was under the desk, when suddenly bells started ringing and the ship’s whistles started to blow. Having successfully passed the exams at the nautical college I was sure there had to be some meaning to all this noise, but I simply could not guess what it was. Making a fool of myself had already happened once that day, and doing so twice was clearly not advisable. After all, the gentleman at the gangway had told me that he never wanted to see me again if I kept doing such stupid things. He had used terms that were unfamiliar to me, and it would be many months before I even vaguely would begin to understand them. It was clear, however, that they referred to my whole family, the quality of modern day education, and my appearance in general.
Hurriedly, I pulled out my brand new uniform and put it on, fumbling with the tie. A few days before, I had pictures taken in it out in the yard. My mother very proud, and had wanted to show of to the neighbors and friends. A few kids playing nearby had been very impressed when I appeared in the garden followed by my mother clicking away on her old Kodak. Now, wearing it again, I felt less sure of myself. Gone were the admiring glances of the neighborhood kids, and gone was the respect of the junior students at the academy for their seniors ready to leave for sea.
Finding the navigation bridge only took me about thirty minutes and when entering I found myself in surroundings that looked totally unfamiliar. Without doubt, however, I had arrived at the right place. I saw charts, clocks, brass lamps, an enormous wooden steering wheel exactly as I had expected to see, and an array of mysterious instruments. A small group of men, obviously the officers, going by in their uniforms, were standing in front of a window, staring outside with their backs to me. One of them with four gold stripes on his shoulder boards, was the captain.
At the academy, the teachers had told us about the officers we would meet and how we were expected to behave. Whenever they talked about the captain, they always lowered their voices and told us students that this was an almost godlike figure with dictatorial powers—a man to be friends with and certainly not one to cross.
I had forgotten when entering, that the door to the navigation bridge had needed considerable force to open, and apparently a formidable door closer had been installed.
WHAM!
A gun fired next to me could not have made more noise than the door slamming shut. I almost died right there, and so did the four men with their backs to me. The captain spilled most of his coffee over his starched white uniform. The chief officer recognized me and started another of his colorful descriptions, again including my family, but this time commenting on their actions going back as far as three generations. The captain, mopping his uniform with a napkin, apparently was used to tirades like this and waited patiently for the chief to finish, meanwhile looking at me like a farmer appraising his cattle.
“Who is that?”
“Our new apprentice, Sir.”
“Looks even worse than the one we lost two months ago.”
“I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”
“What’s his name?”
“What’s your name?”
“Hans Mateboer, Sir.”
“His name is Hans Mateboer.”
“Has he been at sea before?”
“Have you been at sea before?”
“No,
