[CW] Christmas at Sea = Harry Nicholson

[D.J.J. Ring, Jr.]

The years are telling, but I'm still writing. To mark this festive time, I
snipped a bit from my published memoir "You'll See Wonders":

https://www.amazon.com/Youll-See-Wonders-memoir-sea-ebook/dp/B08HY7HFZ4?
[image: 1.jpg]
Brocklebank ship SS Mahanada North Atlantic, New Orleans to Liverpool, Dec
1957:

After Sunday inspection:
The door opens and closes with a thud; we have a slight roll. 'Coffee,
sahib.' The elderly Hamid floats in with coffee and two biscuits on a tray.
'I bring ee-special Sunday biscuit, sahib; American, shore-side chocolate
biscuit. Bahut-achcha (very good).
'Thank you, Hamid.' I clear a space for his tray. I take a sip of coffee.
Hamid watches. I've persuaded him to be less heavy-handed with the sugar
and condensed milk. The coffee has progressed to a state that's become
acceptable. He's a grand old fellow and does his best. He served at sea
during the war — I must get around to asking about that.
'Thig hai (OK), sahib?'
'Thig hai, Hamid. Thanks.'
Hamid rocks his head from side to side as Indians do, whereas Westerners
give a nod. He drifts back through the door. I'll next see him when he
serves lunch in the saloon. Before the captain's Sunday inspection, he'll
have tidied my cabin and given the washbasin taps an extra polish and buff
for when the captain does his rounds. A radio officer with Brocklebanks has
a comfortable billet. Apart from the sweat of the Indian coast, it can be
the Life of Riley. This is luxury compared to existence on a grubby collier
out of the Tyne where, after a two days at sea, the cook sends the cabin
boy ashore with a hefty order for fish and chips.
I roll a cigarette with tobacco I bought in New Orleans. I'd read in a
Western novel how Bull Durham is the rolling baccy of the cowboy. Made of
tiny flakes, and dry as dust, it spills everywhere. When the roll-up is
complete, the baccy runs out of one end like sand. Such rubbish. Mixed with
Anton Justman's Dutch Shag, and moistened with a drop of brown rum, it
holds together. I light up, sip the coffee, put my feet on the desk and
consider how today is my favourite time of the week. There's a sublime
sense of peace on the ship; no hammering and chipping at the rusty bits, no
sailors jabbering in Hindi, painting this and that. The catering is at its
best. We work seven days a week, and to work a Sunday at sea is to earn an
extra day's leave. The Old Man will please the company if he contrives to
have us in port for the Sabbath.
Sundays are relaxed. The only disturbance is from the Moslems in the crew.
After approaching the navigator for the direction of Mecca, comes a brief
call to prayer. They assemble in rows on the deck and prostrate towards
their holy city. In fine weather this can occur five times a day. In hard
weather there's no sign of ritual; perhaps it takes place within their
cramped quarters.

* * * * *

By the ship's chronometer, we are close to noon on Christmas Day. The
captain, his officer of the watch, and two cadets, are on the wing of the
bridge, each with a sextant — a brass instrument that carries a small
telescope and mirrors, and a Vernier mechanism for calculating angles. They
focus on the horizon and, at the same time with a shaded mirror, locate the
sun.

The noon bell sounds. Navigator's fingers draw down the image of the sun
until its lower curve touches horizon. The exercise is a tricky business on
a rolling ship. They examine the engraved brass quadrant to read off the
angle of the sun relative to the horizon. By taking account of the height
of the ship's bridge above the sea, our latitude on the surface of the
Earth is calculated. Today, we should be midway between the east coast of
Florida and the island of Bermuda. The captain and the watch officer will
compare results and reach a conclusion. The cadets' calculations are
appraised and criticised. Captain Newman pretends not to notice that the
foremast has been decorated for Christmas. The apprentices have climbed the
mast and it now streams with robust Izal Germicide toilet paper.
on the Coast of India
Despite passing through The Watery Triangle (later known as The Bermuda
Triangle) where ships and aircraft mysteriously disappear, we are in fine
form. (In December 1945, five Grumman torpedo bombers of the US Air-force
on a training flight, vanished hereabouts. They followed orders to practice
bomb the Hen and Chickens rocks, but were never seen again).

For two days, southwest winds have pushed our stern homeward. Mahanada
pitches as the Atlantic swell lifts her tail. Wind-torn scraps of cloud,
like old shirts on a clothesline, parade overhead; through them a friendly
sun dries the decks of sea spray. All is cheer as we gather in the saloon
for Christmas Dinner at 1300 hours.

I pick up the menu. Good grief! Who can trench their way through this?
We'll be going down with gout!

Grapefruit Maraschino
Potage Minestrone or Creme du Barry

Fillet of Plaice, Tartare

Tournedos of Beef, Garni
Baked Kentucky Ham, Chutney Sauce
Roast Virginia Turkey
Cranberry Sauce. Savoury Stuffing
Brussels Sprouts, Broad Beans
French Fried & Duchess Potatoes

Plum Pudding, Hard & Brandy Sauce
Peach Melba

Cheeses: Monterey Jack, Danish Blue, Cheshire
Water Biscuits, Cream Crackers
Mince Pies, Assorted Nuts
Christmas Cake, Fresh Fruit, Coffee.
* * *
end of clip.

Have a contented Christmas, shipmates.
Harry Nicholson
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