LAST AUSTRALIAN VOYAGE OF THE ‘ANSON’

November 1998

By Martin North

One Monday I received a very hesitant phone call from Roy Finnis known to me slightly as a relief tug skipper.

“We were wondering if someone like you might be interested in signing up as Master of the Anson for the delivery voyage to a new owner in Brisbane. She sails tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.” Roy went on, “$400 a day at sea for the Master and airfares home, crew of six in total, two Engineers, me as Mate, two Deckhands, one as cook, old Anson hands all.”

It appeared from Roy’s tone and late call that most potential Masters were unavailable or had pulled out at the last moment. Evidently “someone like me” was the invitation of last resort. His manner was one of a man on a mission failed.

“And someone like me?” I probed.

“Yeah” acknowledged Roy.

Without much enthusiasm I wondered who was like me, and in what way. A candidate for a hairbrained pierhead jump, or a cautious meticulous planner seasoned with years of prudent pilotage? Someone desperate for $400 a day and glory, or a senior, respected cautious Master Mariner? Supressing the ridiculous quandary, I asked why two engineers for such a small vessel. Roy seemed unsure, thrown no doubt, by the incredible perceptiveness of the question. Unsure or perhaps evasive – no hesitant. Hesitant, that was it, reluctant to appear overbearing and forward with a Pilot whom he routinely took orders from as a junior tug skipper. That AMSA required two was all he could say.

Absurdness began to creep over me. Was it possible, could I join this venture so late and enjoy a lucrative cruise to sunny Brisbane – lair of my former employer Queensland Transport? Could I singe their beard like Drake and run into the home port of my despised enemies as Master of and Australian ship? Was there time, could it be done? Eleven hundred miles up the East Coast, a good crossing of Bass Strait the key to it all. The weather map couldn’t be more favourable for a hasty departure. The money would be useful and I’d often speculated on the prospect of a final voyage beyond the pilot station. My interest began to germinate; perhaps the venture was within rational grasp. Hobart shipping was light in the week, possibly I could be spared.

The small vessel had a colossal reputation for seaworthiness. Her cargo of Zinc Works waste once loaded would set if not dumped off the continental shelf within a certain time. She sailed when much larger and more prestigious ships limped, battered by storms, into Hobart Town. And old Anson men all, men who knew the ship intimately – the same men who sailed when others ran for port,

sailed because their job required it. Aye, mine would be a secondary role, there just for the Certificate, a kind of watch keeping passenger with status, Master of competent professionals.

“Safe as a Church,” Roy had mentioned. Suddenly I was in, mixed feelings and complicated reasons motivating my change of heart.

That niggling question of folly was drowned in the task of overnight preparation, courses to lay off on the charts and a sea bag to pack for the first time in 12 years. Maybe it was better to gloss over my recent shore employment. My Master Class One Certificate counted for enough with these men. Better not mention that it expired soon and that it could not be revalidated only on my employment as a pilot. It was just valid for departure, if not for much longer. No need to unsettle Roy and the other hands with details. A puffed chest, hoisted from a sagging belt line, and confidence in front of the crew – that was how to command.

Roy met me next morning and showed me around. Navigation equipment sound, GPS good, the radar and echo sounder fine. The gyro driven autopilot in working order. True, accommodation was basic, primitive even by the standards of the 50,000-tonne container ship I last sailed on. But what an adventure, one with gold, or at least plastic notes, at the end. The merchant buccaneer spirit was building despite the flashes of rational dignity.

A tatty plastic sign indicated ‘Captain’ in a temporary sort of way. Perhaps these considerate and appreciative men had rearranged accommodations for my comfort knowing my history. The door opened to reveal a small cabin with a transverse vinyl day bed, fore and aft bunk and three stout lockers. One locker for each former swing Roy advised. Resting at one end of the day bed under a locker was an immense moth-eaten cardboard box, its contents obscured by the locker above. Two closed portholes with vertical bars and open deadlights admitted sunshine with the promise of air if thrown open completely. Rags collected leakage through the ports. Four light globes could illuminate the tiny space at night. Roy didn’t say but it was a light for each swing and one for the bunk. Maybe the former Captains of swings each preferred a particular wattage, eyesight varying between the generations.

Three bulkheads were of greasy painted steel and the fourth, isolating the bunk from the adjacent Engineer’s sleeping quarters, was a flimsy plywood that promised to transmit every secret of my neighbour’s rest. The dirty green steel deck radiated heat from the engine room even in port and warmed the cabin nicely in the Tasmanian Spring. Upper bulkheads and the deckhead were covered in a labyrinth of old wiring, much of it with decaying insulation. Snug described my cabin in a word. A bit run down and messy perhaps. Still, no sigh of vermin. Was that a bad sign? Didn’t rats abandon doomed ships by some sense of clairvoyance?

Access to the toilet was either through the engine room top plates or around the open deck. Shower, galley and saloon all accessed through the seamen’s known, I was to learn, as the seal rookery. Unless the weather was bad the rookery was dodged by stepping out onto the deck over enormous storm sills and passing around to avoid disturbing the off-watch occupant.

The whole accommodation tightly embraced the engine casing and all cabins, especially mine, felt more like machinery annexes than the spacious suites I had been accustomed to on 50,000 tonners. Still, it was my own cabin – the tatty plastic sign declared that. Others had to share, and the crude austere layout added to the spirit of adventure. If men could boast of founding Cape Horn in open necked shirts, I could brag of braving Anson’s day boat accommodation eleven hundred miles into the tropics.

Roy brushed past his own cabin with a wave in its general direction. It was strategically located opposite the toilet and adjacent to the shower. The elements need not be braved, or the engine room crossed for that irritation night visit. From the glance I enjoyed he had prepared it well. As

sponsor of the venture, he had ample time to contrive his comforts. It seemed larger on the inside than was possible – like the Tardis – and the fittings appeared plush. A square of neat carpet nicely matched the thick bedding and the vinyl day bed looked to have a chintz cover with scattered cushions. Framed nautical pictures lined the spotless steel bulkheads and pillows ballooned over the bedhead. The coffee table held a secured fruit bowl and a family photograph. Mounted pot plants and a trim bookcase completed the picture of a homely fisherman’s cottage. A gentle breeze gusted through the entranceway indicating space of ample ventilation. The door panel showed signs of a missing door plaque of identical dimensions to the one on the Captain’s cabin. No doubt the word ‘Mate’ had long since disintegrated.

“Might have to rough it a bit,” Roy went on, “sleeping bags and the like. Water’s a bit doubtful with the ship laid up for a year. Fitzy’s getting bottled to drink but plenty in the tanks for washing. He’s also getting the grub and I think we’ll do all right on that score. He can cook a bit. Diesel’s been worked out as well. She’ll make 9.5 knots so it’s Brisbane Monday if we sail soon. We have fuel for the trip plus 20%. At 9.5 she’ll burn 3,000 litres a day and we have a good 22,000 litres plus another 2,500 in a day tank that’s just a little bit iffy sort of, having sat for the year”.

Mental arithmetic confirmed Roy’s conservative estimate. She had, in fact, enough oil for seven and a bit days without the iffy stuff. More like a 50% reserve, ample for the intended voyage, heaps in fact.

At noon the next day, Wednesday 4 November 1998, Anson departed from the Prince of Wales Bay tug depot. This was her final departure from Hobart after 20 years of Zinc Works duty. Despite the toxic nature of her cargo, few questioned the faithful service to her former owner. For most of the crew the departure marked a sentimental moment with many owing all material wealth to Anson employment. Roy steered her out of the shallow bay sounding the whistle to announce this final sailing. It seemed rather sad that few marked her passage that last time.

On the Tug Company wharf a small crowd had gathered, some wishing well and envying this last voyage, some just waving through custom, whilst others, more mischievous, predicted disaster and rescue by tug later in the day. The cheerful pessimists happily joking about doom stirred my suppressed qualms. Were those pinched furry faces looking out from under cover ashore watching their former home sail to oblivion? Or were they native rodents simply native rodents seeking scavenging advantage in the turmoil of our departure? Time would answer the legend of rats departing.

AMSA had declared the vessel ready in all ways for the voyage. The surveyor was satisfied with the particular crew and had laboured the point that only those nominated were to sail.

Those six and only those six. No others, no passengers, and no cargo, understand? Nothing was mentioned of vermin.

The surveyor had also insisted on a very sophisticated EPIRB, one that would float free should the ship founder. Catastrophe would be transmitted in an instant to a passing satellite that would relay our situation instantly to Sea Safety Canberra. The beacon was automatic ad registered to our particular vessel. It was mounted reassuringly to a short mast on the boat deck beside the two six men liferafts. Roy’s earlier words echoed, “Safe as a Church she is”. Nah – the doomsayers were wrong. With this crew of old Ansonites it was Brisbane on Monday, my part was a watch-keeping passenger of some status.

Once clear of the Tasman Bridge Roy engaged the automatic pilot. The displayed gyro compass heading was absurd and remained fixed despite the ship swinging.

“Ah, the gyro hasn’t settled” Roy cheerfully advised. “This sometimes happened before, it must have lost shore power during the night. Normally it comes good by the dump site, about five hours or so,” he recalled.

The others gathered and agreed, “Yeah it’ll come good in a couple of hours at most. We’ll steer by hand off the magnetic compass to Brisbane if need be.”

None wanted to turn back and face the ridicule sure to come from some quarters. Besides the weather could turn in a few hours and cost us dearly. The gyro handbook confirmed the five-hour settling period. We pressed on holding the land a few points off the port bow, steering by eye on the push button system and, when crucial, using the magnetic steering compass just forward of the manned hydraulic wheel. One problem difficult to overcome was the distance to the tiny compass lubber line. The lubber line is the mark on the case of the compass indicating the actual heading on the swinging card. It was on the forward side of the binnacle and consequently some distance from the helmsman’s position with the wheel, hydraulic pipes, and compass structure between. Good eyes were needed to see clearly and all aboard resorted to spectacles. A good track was difficult to hold since the man at the wheel could not turn the rudder sharply enough to counter the following seas. Nor could the push buttons accurately follow the swinging card. Nevertheless, we were going in the right direction and patience would improve our fortunes. I suspected we made as good a track as medieval mariners, steering to a half cardinal point of 22.5 degrees. By Captain Cook’s day Quarter Points were routinely set, being eleven and a quarter degrees. I went below and tried to sleep for a few hours before my evening watch.

In my bunk I reflected on the crew. Roy the mate was from London and felt he owes Anson a lot in terms of his material welfare. His accent was undiluted by years of Australian residence and he seemed to have a knack of using precisely the correct words when explaining things. Like Shakespear he had the ease of conveying great depth of description with an economy of words. Grammar was another matter. Roy held a Master Class 4 obtained recently following years of service on the Anson as a deckhand. An intelligent thoughtful man, he made up in natural ability what he lost in certificated experience. As the voyage progressed, he summarised the history of the ship and provided a brief personal background.

A drunken master who holed up in his cabin drinking whisky and using the empties to relieve himself had delivered the Anson from England. By Hobart, man and cabin were foul. The Mate had carried the voyage. The ship had been built for river work as a motorised hopper barge, opening its bottom to dispose of dredging spoils. In Zinc Works service she dumped a toxic cocktail of heavy metals and process waste over the continental shelf. Being a river craft, her legendary seaworthiness was all the more remarkable.

The Chief Engineer was Les, a man of few words. He was dearly competent and had a vast knowledge of the ship having served below since she came out from England. He was – it turned out – a shy man cautious of a new skipper. Tall and slender with unkempt grey hair he had the look of an eccentric scientist however his accent was pure rural Tasmania.

Simon the Second Engineer was the sort of man who exhibited quiet confidence. Well experienced in the ship he added another dimension to the engineering department with extensive time across the industry and a more formal professional education. The two engineers were a perfect complement for one another. They shared the cabin next to mine with Simon in the bunk and Les preferring the day bed. Each kept a watch, Simon with me, Les with Roy.

Mark the A/B shared the seal rookery with Kevin (Fitzy). Mark also had long service on the ship as a motor man. Here was a man with two strings to his bow, handy below and on deck. As a former Navy submariner, he was rock steady. A seaman unlikely to crack under any pressure.

Kevin Fitzgerald rounded out the crew. Also, with service on the Anson his was the only portfolio involving deep sea big ship experience. Very quickly I began to regard him as an enigma. Vocally militant on union issues and clearly of strong left wing-political views he enjoyed right-wing tastes in his lifestyle. His first words to me were that we should have jacked up the owner for more money. An uncomfortable start for a voyage that demanded intimate cooperation between all hands. The greatest surprise however from this proud and able seaman was his genius in the galley. We were to dine like lords.

Mark joined Roy and Fitzy was on my watch, going below to cook as necessary, coming up when he could or if called.

Sleep was not really possible in the noisy cabin, but I rested and dozed until 1700. On rousing I joined Fitzy on the poop and together we marvelled at Tasman Island now abeam. The low cloud-filtered sunlight set off the sheer black cliffs in striking contrast to the steel grey sea. Seals, dolphins and albatross joined us in our transit. This was my first passage, Fitzy’s only one of many. Like many southern landmass tips this was a striking place of huge atmosphere. We had struck it in a favourable mood.

News from the wheelhouse was not good. A blown fuse had just been found in the gyro and the five hours for it to settle had begun anew. Roy had however filed a sailing plan with AUSREP detailing our intended course to Brisbane and expected speed. This was something we were now committed to update by 1400 every day. Failure to report would initiate a thorough air and sea search.

Dinner lifted our spirits, an Italian dish of cannelloni and rich sauce.

On we lurched into the night and the East Coast of Tasmania. Our watch to midnight failed to settle the gyro but I supposed the five hours to be conservative given the ship’s movement. Once dark, it became impossible to hold the land two points to port and Fitzy took the wheel steering by compass. Speed was not good but Les and I had agreed to run her easy, mindful of the long voyage ahead, her enforced layup, and age. Better to run on moderate revs and take longer than to push hard and break down. The wild yawing nature of our course also added to the drag and distance covered. Speed was not yet an issue.

Our next watch at 0600 Thursday 5 November began with no gyro but Les had discovered a voltage irregularity in the night. Just corrected, the five hours began again. This gyro was now something of a Holy Grail, a quest always tantalisingly close, always just out of reach. With daylight we reverted to holding the bow off the shore on push button steering and Fitzy went below to make breakfast. From time-to-time Simon came up and I took out my sextant to brush up on old skills as he steered. If all else failed, we could still navigate and safely make land with a compass, chronometer, tables and almanac. Still the gyro refused to settle and mid-morning we turned it if off to attempt a fresh start. The five-hour count began again.

By noon St Helens, the last Tasmanian town, was abeam. A message was passed to AUSREP through the local volunteer VHF radio station who appeared surprised and thrilled at some passing radio traffic. I also took advantage of the last mobile phone reception and called AUSREP direct. The operator was slightly condescending at our progress and double contact. Bass Strait loomed ahead now and without land we would have to steer by magnetic compass and wheel for the 30-hour crossing. Fatigue under this regime would become our likely downfall and oblige a call into Eden in southern New South Wales.

The gyro was becoming a lost cause. Despite many readings of the manual nothing was obviously wrong. In the section titled “Troubleshooting” the book helpfully suggested calling a Tokyo phone number:

“Gyro compass working not following instructions to calling listed below number is being recommended”.

I imagined toothy bespectacled Japanese technicians hunched over a translating dictionary. The sentence probably took longer to construct than the machine itself – literally rendered into English word for word from technical Japanese. This profound advice was doubtless reached after they realised the unattainable and impossible task of translating all their proficient knowledge into legible English instructions.

Wires into the autopilot box were checked and rechecked without much hope. The fuse was checked again. Autopilot settings had been studied and considered. An option existed for the choice of compass input, but this configuration listed only one selection – magnetic compass. No gyro input was registered, and the magnetic input selected was plainly unusable. Clearly the fault lay with the gyro and not the autopilot.

We simply lacked the resources to keep six and six watches and hand steer for another six days. As it was, we kept watch, ate, and slept; or at least rested in our bunks. The ship’s current accommodation was never intended for more than a day voyage. It looked increasingly like we would have to put into Eden to fix the gyro and hence activate the autopilot. Eden was seen as a sort of defeat, a Dunkirk, obviously better than returning to Hobart but not what our owner or we had expected. Again, dinner lifted our spirits with a steak beyond restaurant quality. I visualised a passing observer seeing our tiny vessel scruffy with rust and struggling north on a wandering track. They could only assume we were a ship of shame with an exploited and cowering Asian crew squatting over a fire eating rice and fish heads. From the air Anson probably looked like a ship returning north from a human smuggling run. Instead, we were dining as well as any five-star passenger ship might. Cunard could envy our menu. We lacked only an extensive wine cellar, or indeed a wine cellar of any sort. Fitzy was well please when I suggested his food lifted the level of culture on the ship from roughing it to dignified and refined. Certainly, the cuisine buoyed our morale.

When Fitzy finished in the galley at 2100 to take the wheel, Simon and I went into the engine room and examined the gyro. It was mounted below on the centre of the ship’s roll to minimise possible errors. This was new to me, clearly the instrument was not all that sophisticated if it had to be so located. I climbed up the stepladder to see and, as the ship rolled across Bass Strait I clutched a pipe with one hand concentrating on not falling. The perch was precarious to say the least, and any slip may well have been fatal onto a steel deck. Simon joined me in a more acrobatic way by climbing up pipe brackets, boots gaining a tiny purchase on old fittings. Between us we had two free hands, two brains, and four eyes. The gyro mechanism appeared dead through the glass top despite the green running light. With nought to lose, the top and side case of the device were removed. Nothing inside was obviously broken, no wires were loose, and the half expected electrocuted mouse was not there. Nor was there a note from a saboteur to mock us. Gingerly I probed the works inside. Everything appeared dead; there was no resistance to moving the gyro itself. No compass is of any use unless it resists movement away from North. This device was inert and beyond our abilities to resurrect. A skilled technician was obviously required. My invented Japanese electronic expert could never have detailed instructions, even in his own language, to cover this bizarre circus act:

“Roll up, roll up, come to see the swinging metal ladder act with 1,000 volts and two daring performers tempting electric shock without harness or net, two metres above a pitching deck.”

Maybe it was carefully plotted revenge for Hiroshima. Eden looked certain now.

Crushed, we began to replace the cover on the accursed and lousy thing. But wait, why were there magnets on the compass card? Two parallel bar magnets had been glued onto the card. Glued, not by the manufacturer, but clearly subsequent to the factory. Why? Why would magnets be glued to a gyro compass card? On top of the case fastened to the glass was a flat black cylinder, like an old

tobacco tin mounted on a circle of wood. A groove in the wood allowed a cable under the cylinder to pass clear with all parts lying horizontal to the gyro top. A steel bolt joined the wood and tobacco tin. The wire ran up a metre or so to a junction. Was the tobacco tin sensing the magnets? If so why? Why wasn’t a signal taken digitally from the gyro? Checking the gyro case revealed no wires other than the power supply. There was no electronic digital output. I had never heard of a gyro without a digital output. But this seemed to be one. I knew it was possible to convert a magnetic field into an electric one. Dynamos and electric generators work that way. I had seen transmitting magnetic compasses on some ships. Perhaps, just maybe, this autopilot feed was magnetic. Hope surged. Following the tobacco wire up we unplugged it. The fitting was the same as those on the back of an autopilot. Like madmen we removed the cylinder and scrambled up to the wheelhouse stumbling and slipping in our haste. My jacket was torn in that crazy ascent and Fitzy at the wheel must have wondered what possessed us as he was pushed aside to access the back of the autopilot. The gyro input wire was removed, and our booty inserted – it fitted.

Taking my metal pocket torch, I held it against the tobacco tin and rotated my hands. The compass heading on the scrolled in keeping with my torch. Struggling to contain our exuberance the sensor was placed over the centre of the magnetic steering compass. Were these magnets strong enough to create a useable field? Yes, a heading was displayed on the pilot that changed in accordance with the ship swing. As best we could, by rotating the sensor in place on the compass glass, headings were aligned. Electrical tape was used to secure this most precious ‘Iron Mike’ – the new automatic steering. We were back in business. The feeling on our watch was one of absolute elation; we could not wait to show our reliefs the startling success of the six to twelve vigil.

Fitzy was bewildered as well as elated. He could not have been more impressed had we transported a Japanese technician in – Star Trek style- to conduct repairs. Simon and I could hardly credit our own achievement. Over successive watches improvements were made, and the system began to steer straight, efficiently and true. Roy and Les suggested reducing the rudder angle limit, initially set at 30 degrees, to assist what we thought would be a crude system at best. They pointed out the drag caused by this coarse setting. At an 8 degree limit the course held was tight and we all felt the easing on the engine governor and steering mechanism. The only unresolved issue was one of compass error, unknown due to the constant movement of the vessel as the sensor was adjusted and secured. However, by steering between fixes and adjusting the course up or down we made good and predictable progress.

The other watch was not allowed to touch the Simon-Martin ‘patented’ system. In the end it took us to the berth in Brisbane being reliable enough to use even under pilotage. Our superiority and pride irritated Roy’s watch and they began to seek a great problem to solve. Surely a resolution to the meaning of life could challenge our elevated status.

Our progress north elevated the seawater and air temperature. What had been a nice warm deck alongside in Hobart now became a curse and my cabin heated up. Unable to sleep one night due to heat I set off the find a means of opening the tightly dogged portholes. My attire consisted of a towel that barely reached around my belt line and

heavy shoes need to explore the engine room. Just in from my cabin I remembered a bulkhead mounted fire axe with a spike that would fit the porthole eyebolts. Standing on the top plates I turned to leave, one hand clutching the axe and the other holding closed the towel. Glancing down a most peculiar sight confronted me. On the bottom plates of this ancient and noisy engine room Les was sitting in a stout lounge chair, legs crossed, wearing earmuffs and reading a novel. His comfort was obvious.

I had stumbled upon the Engineer’s secret lounge, hidden in the depths of the machinery space far from the prying eyes of the deck department. Possible opulence fired my fancy. Heat and vibration, diesel fumes and noise, together with a corkscrew motion refreshed these exceptional men. Were other amenities available on this vessel discretely hidden from outsiders like me? Jealously I recalled Roy’s comfortable fixtures in his cabin. Was I missing out? Fearfully I moved on and as I tackled the storm step out, the towel fell. Naked except for heavy shoes and a fire axe I bent to retrieve my towel. What if Les were to look up? He could only assume his shy caution to be justified with a skipper gone troppo through the pressure of the voyage. There I was clutching a fire axe, stalking through the ship naked, dragging a towel in booted feet. Quickly I scuttled off undiscovered.

At my door I checked the Captain tag. The shadow under the sign did not match. It appeared smaller, shorter in fact; had the original plate said ‘Mate’? Had Roy shifted it from his current cabin? Certainly, the choice of cabin in terms of ventilation, space and proximity to amenities was now Roy’s. Against that, mine was closer to the unused but potential internal access to the bridge. If the voyage were longer it would be worth some discreet inquiries. As it was it seemed churlish to speculate. And I had been warned, “Might have to rough it a bit”. Still, the Mate’s cottage, the Engineer’s lounge.

Did the seamen also have a secret saloon? Perhaps I should have purchased that ‘Demtel’ cabin comfort package after all. “Not only an easy chair, the envy of any Engineer, but also a folding chesterfield and the entire fittings to create a seaman’s cottage. But wait, there’s more, a seaman’s marlin spike and an autographed photograph of Captain Cook” and if I ordered before the close of business, a complete set of buccaneers cutlery, filleting and flick knives, cutlass, boarding pike, stiletto, flensing and throwing blades, scrimshaw chisels and a wooden leg.” Clearly the heat and fatigue were causing irrational thoughts.

Climbing up on the day bed to unbolt the porthole with my liberated fire axe disturbed the immense cardboard box stowed there. Inside the box were dozens of soft toilet rolls. Suddenly the absurdity of my wife’s packing struck me. In my sea bag she had included as many luxuries as imagination and space would permit. An immense bag of mixed nuts and boxes of ‘cuppa soup’ lest the catering leave something to be desired. Two novels to while away those idle hours. Several jumpers and two heavy coats to fend off the Arctic cold. A tie and shirt with collar to impress the owner and officials in Brisbane. And a toilet roll in case we ran out. How could anyone have imagined that? Of all things we had enough toilet paper to circle the globe. That the ship carried enough loo paper to supply Brisbane was incredible enough. That it was stowed in the Master’s cabin was beyond belief. What regime held sway that toilet paper was issued by the Captain? Was its use so important that the skipper tallied it? Or did it hold some special place in the culture of the Anson? Were favourites rewarded with issues of soft paper? Did the Captain hoard it for his own dark purposes? Maybe it was better not to speculate further on this eccentric puzzle.

Raising my speculation on the paper at the next change of watch caused great mirth as well as a matter-of-fact explanation. Unhappy with stores being delivered almost daily in a Coles shopping bag rather than provisioning for a reasonable period, one former and widely experienced Captain had complained, drawing comparison with the industry norm. The monumental and overwhelming supply of toilet paper had shown him the delusion of his lament. But the quantity of paper and its absurdness in our circumstance struck a chord. Crazy schemes using loo paper and salvaged gyro

parts to advantage began circulation the ship. Could the gyro be turned into a bow thruster or paper pulper? Could ventilation fans be made of tissue paper, mechanically driven by a geared gyro motor? (If British India could have a ‘Punkah Walla’ we would have a ‘Steam Gyro Walla’). “It was a relief mission to Brisbane that was suffering a scarcity of tissue. Bogus stock market behaviour was reported on the movement of soft paper”. Paper was now our cargo despite AMSA’s clear instructions. The mood of the voyage was becoming established.

However serious and dry, matters need attention, and we were now forced to consider our radios. Crossing Bass Strait with the luxury of automatic steering, attention could be given to other areas. The HF radio seemed to be very quiet when it should have produced a constant stream of signals. Along the coast within VHF range of stations little attention was paid to the HF which tended to be set to a background low volume on the distress frequency. VHF signals are little more than line of sight except in exceptional atmospheric conditions but as we moved north of St Helens no stations were in range. Up to this point the VHF was busy and had been used to send AUSREP reports. On checking, the engineers discovered that the battery power was low, and that the HF could not draw enough power to operate. Fortunately, manual battery management revived the system.

Batteries were used for all bridge electronics due to the ship being old and DC powered. Later, having crossed Bass Strait, we found the batteries unable to cope with HF and VHF together so being in range of first Sydney and then Brisbane Radio relay stations we turned the HF off. The VHF was able to cope well. Batteries were subsequently to be the root of another scare.

Our lack of speed was now becoming an issue. Rather than the 9.5 knots calculated she was only making 7.25 knots. Twenty-four hours of efficient tight automatic steering did nothing to improve the average speed. It was difficult to decide if this was due to a dirty bottom, the swell and consequent pitching, or a counter current. Only our feeble and erratic hand steering could be dismissed from the speed equation.

The east coast of Australia is subject to a prevailing south setting current generally found to be strongest on the 100-ffathom line south of the Great Barrier Reef. Although I had expected to experience some reduction in speed due to the stream it was unexpected so early. Prevailing wisdom was for north-bound ships to either set a direct course up the coast and hope that the slightly shorter course would mitigate the current’s effect or alternatively, to run slightly longer close inshore hopefully with no retarding set. Occasionally beneficial drift could be found if close enough to the land. At 7.25 knots our fuel range would be tested. Maybe we could take on fuel at Newcastle for it would be bad form to run out of fuel in the Brisbane River ‘attempting to singe Queensland Transport’s beard’. Like the gyro, small increases gave rise to great hope quickly dashed when the overall average was calculated.

We took some seawater ballast into the after cargo holds in an attempt to push the propeller deeper but on one isolated run it is impossible to say if a net gain was made. Certainly, the engine governor’s work eased, and the propeller stopped cavitating so much. The ship also worked in the sea easier. But speed, we can never know for 7.25 knots was our final average from Hobart to Brisbane.

In the early hours of Friday 6 November, we made Gabo Island on the south-east coast of mainland Australia having departed the Tasmanian coast just the day before. Nevertheless, with Bass Strait behind us we felt a major victory had been achieved. The favourable weather map on departure was holding well.

Saturday dawned with us close inshore off Montague Island. Partly to test the VHF and partly for social reasons I called the Australian vessel Enterprise southbound on the 100-fathom line. The ship and master were known to me as a regular Hobart client. Overcoming his astonishment at being called by a Hobart Harbour Pilot 500 miles from home the Master, Peter Zahnah, recommended an

inshore track to us since he had a favourable two knots offshore. With pleasantries exchanged, I returned to my watch routine and presently on 16 VHF was disturbed with:

“Are you there, Martin?”

Now it was my turn to be overwhelmed. The mystery caller was John Whitehead, these days Master of Goliath overtaking us just offshore. I hadn’t seen John since my time as Harbourmaster Thevenard in South Australia eight years previously. He had eavesdropped on my social with Peter Zahnah. Even more of a coincidence John now lived in Hobart. We agreed on a reunion and parted as John further endorsed the close inshore track for a slow vessel like Anson.

My shipmates were slightly surprised at the coincidences of the morning. I explained events had always consisted of extraordinary coincidences with me, but that overall good luck outweighed bad, resulting in a life of remarkable harmony and interest. The requirement for a last-minute Master, my subsequent call and my ability to join at short notice; my certificate just being valid; the unique and intuitively substituted makeshift autopilot, and its original failure, were all recalled. I think they believed I was exaggerating. Within ten hours all were to be firm converts drawn directly into an incomparable realm of coincidence and alternate cyclic fortune.

At noon handover, Roy was warned to keep clear of the Sir John Young Banks just north of Jervis bay. These banks break in heavy weather and pose a danger to passing ships. The chart cryptically notes:

‘Dangerous sea with S & SE winds.’

Although we now had a freshening NE wind, a strong southerly change was due, and with prudence to the fore I determined Sir John Young Banks were dangerous in any wind. Roy was to keep us clear in his watch. Going below I rested fitfully, not through concern at the bridge watch but through physical discomfort. Noise and vibration were taking their toll and the regular cups of tea and coffee sipped on watch (to stave off thirst caused through endless story telling) obliged regular visits to the bathroom, either across the engine plates in shoes or around the open deck barefoot. The outside route was favoured since it avoided startling occupants of the Engineer’s Lounge and the wearing of shoes.

Returning to my Captain’s suite from the toilet at about 1520, I looked out ahead to gauge progress. We looked to be nearing Point Perpendicular and to be clear of Jervis Bay. A couple of points to port, between our course and the shore, looked to be a large ship heading south, hull down on the horizon with only the accommodation block visible to us. But something was wrong with the movement of the ship, it seemed to be rolling excessively, and extremely rapidly. It was also surprising to have a large vessel inshore of us, somewhere close to the Sir John Young Banks.

I was intrigued and went to my bag to find spectacles in the hope they would reveal more to my slightly imperfect eyes. The range had shortened, and the glasses clarified the situation but created a greater mystery. It was not a ship’s accommodation at all but rather a harbour ferry side on, that is on and east west course. Being double ended it was difficult to say which way it was headed, and no logic could explain its destination. The course was wrong for Jervis Bay or any other coast port. Offshore any port was too far for such a craft to serve: New Zealand? Norfolk Island?

As I considered a situation that was clearly unusual a knock at my cabin door roused me. It was Mark from the bridge, could I come up, a Sydney ferry had broken down and was in distress, drifting into the cliffs at Point Perpendicular. The propeller shaft linkage to the engine had broken.

On the bridge, Roy was now heading toward the ferry, a couple of miles off by now. He advised me that it was the Lady Cutler on a delivery voyage from Sydney to Melbourne. Its odd heading was explained by the fact that it had broken down and was drifting to the wind. Its peculiar movement was due to it being stopped and at the mercy of the sea and swell. Repair of the problem was beyond

the scope of those on board. The wind was now strong at about 25 knots and the Lady Cutler was drifting directly onto the terrible cliffs.

We had no time to lose and little thought was given to our actions. Either we towed it clear or took those aboard off. Inaction would result in the death of all the Lady Cutler’s crew. A glance toward the breaking seas on

the cliff face rocks was all that was needed to urge us on. No such vessel would hold together between such a hard place and the prevailing sea. Only a powerful rock climber could hope to scale the cliffs if they could even start from the sea. At seven knots we raced towards our goal. Roy and Mark went down to rouse the others into action and set up a tow. In this scratch crew each man was perfect. Professional tug men to rig the towing line and a harbour pilot on the wheel to manoeuvre the Anson.

Lady Cutler is a double-ended ferry, that is she simply switches ends at her terminus and the bow becomes the stern. What had been the rudder is locked into the midships position with a pin and it becomes the stem of the bow. A propeller is fitted at both ends. Because of this, no particular end seemed best to tow from and the proximity of the shore weighed against debate. I took Anson upwind of Cutler and turned to run downwind. It seemed likely that Cutler would drift at a greater rate than us and I didn’t want her blowing down onto us. Better it seemed that we held stern to the wind and could use out power to pass close by and continue from under her lee.

Running out on deck to check on readiness, Fitzy called up and asked if we should tow from a bridle. A bridle would mean a more complex task for us in preparation but should lead to an advantage in towing. Yawing shocks by the tow would be better distributed with the tow line able to slide on a bridle rigged around our stern. However, these men were the tug specialists and I left it to them to decide. The men indicated they would be ready in a few minutes and I judged the conditions and felt the movement of the ships. Here at last I was on firm ground for as a pilot I earn a living putting ships near other objects. Cutler was told to stand by to take a line and we made our run.

I called Roy up to assist and he took the wheel allowing me scope to pilot from the boat deck where I could see clearly ahead on the starboard side. Orders were shouted in as Roy turned the wheel and worked the engine. We passed offshore of the ferry which was laying across the wind. A line was thrown and almost dropped onto the deck of the Cutler we were so close. In this position I was able to hold the vessel at right angles to the other within a metre of its end. Both vessels were moving in the seaway but for perhaps a minute by judicious use of our helm and engine we sat a metre off, sometimes above sometimes below the pitching bow of our target. All the time we were drifting toward the cliffs under the freshening north-easter. At one stage the flare of the dead ship’s bow was over the heads of our crew who were under the bridge holding the heaving line to the other vessel. Clearly the next downward pitch would be onto us.

The rudder was hard over towards Cutler in anticipation of this undesirable situation and Anson was deliberately being held just so to maximise the thrust about her pivot point. I shouted to Roy, “Half ahead…stop” The thrust against our hard over rudder lifted our stern away from the threatening bow and it plunged into the sea where an instant before Anson’s deck lay. We were now only inches from

the other vessel with a line across, but Lady Cutler’s crew were making a meal of taking the line. The kick ahead to clear the chopping bow had put our accommodation at an angle to the wind and we were beginning to be pushed around, under the drifting vessel’s lee, by the sail-like effect of the wind on our uneven profile that presented more windage aft than forward. The moment was gone, the chance to secure a tow line lost. We pulled away for another run.

Once clear and parallel to the wind we backed up and put our stern under the inshore end of the Cutler. This time our crew could work from the stern deck and experience from the first run dictated they instruct the other vessel’s crew who seemed to be out of their depth. The heaving line was taken, and the tow line passed. I could hear calls, “Put the eye through the through the lead and over the bollards. Now take a few turns. Watch it doesn’t chafe as we tow, if necessary, wrap a blanket or something round the line as it passes through the lead.”

With a line secure, I gave Roy the con in view of my negligible towing experience. We towed first offshore directly to the east to build up sea room should something go wrong. This meant we had to turn the Lady Cutler 180 degrees. As the cliffs were put astern of us the tow could be seen and felt to be yawing

wildly. The consensus of our crew was that the towing line was fragile. It had been made up of our mooring lines and could not be expected to serve well. I needed no convincing. Disappointing as it was, I could not safely tow north despite our destination. The issue of fuel reserves was again highlighted. Clearly backtracking spelt disaster to the range and towing another vessel for any time would seriously affect consumption and reduce speed.

The nearest commercial port south was Eden, passed the previous evening. In any case, the forecast was for a strong southerly change later in the day so even Eden was likely to become unreachable. For a moment I felt like the Flying Dutchman, cursed to wander the seas towing a hulk awaiting a coincidence of favourable winds to make some port, any port.

The situation called for decisive thinking. What if we towed Lady Cutler into the Navy Base of Jervis Bay? Quickly I called Sydney Radio on the VHF radio and asked them to advise the Navy of our intent. Once anchored and safe the rescued vessel would not be our concern. We turned again and headed south downwind angling in toward the Navy haven. This was better. Jervis Bay was only a few miles off and the Navy thrived on emergency response. Soon the Federal Police joined us in a launch stationed at the harbour and they guided us into a safe anchorage. Lady Cutler was cast off and she dropped her own anchor. The police took over with the disabled ferry safely delivered and we left Jervis Bay with their endorsement of a rescue well executed.

Fate is a fickle thing and those on the Lady Cutler owe it a great deal. A huge chain of coincidence linked our proximity and ability to the ferry’s breakdown. Anson’s crew could have been hand-picked for the task sprung upon us. All tug men except for the pilot who specialised in manoeuvring ships. What if we had been further offshore, or had made a better speed and passed earlier? What if we had put into Eden for gyro repairs or had a crew of men unfamiliar with the tasks called upon?

Later I found out that the Lady Cutler was being taken to Melbourne by an amateur crew of ship lovers who felt they could make a business of her in Port Phillip Bay now her working life in Sydney was over.

All in all, we lost four hours and steamed an extra 18 miles in rescuing the ship lovers. This could not help our limited fuel stocks.

On we ran into the night and as we approached Port Kembla a violent lightning storm developed. Now I may be unusual, but there is something uncomfortable floating in electrolyte in an iron box whilst lightning strikes the sea all around. I suppose the steel mast reaches up invitingly to the electric bolts. The flashes and the rain impair night vision. I’ve never heard of a modern ship loss directly attributable to lightning, but many have gone without trace or reason. Iron Sturt had only recently been struck in the same vicinity losing most of her bridge electrics. On the bright side, perhaps a strike would zap our batteries into a new lease of life. As usual the storm passed without causing more than uneasiness. Not that we were disappointed in such an anticlimax.

The next morning was fine and clear after the electrical displays the night before. Walking out onto the deck I could see Sydney six miles away and wondered at the contrast. Millions ashore going about their lives, a very few of whom would even glance at our world of six as we went about our business. On the other side, moths were flying in the same direction looking, no doubt, for a daytime roost. The wind had changed overnight and was now following. Despite that we were now catching and passing insects. Surely this augured well for our speed.

At the first chance I contacted the new owner in Brisbane to discuss the fuel situation. It would not do to run out in the Brisbane River. He agreed and we decided to review it again late in the day before we got to Yamba in northern NSW – the last possible refuelling stop before Brisbane.

Contacting AUSREP with the daily report revealed a marked change in attitude.

“Oh, Anson yes. How can we help? How’s the voyage and speed?”

No longer did they feel we would become clients of the rescue services. By the rescue of Lady Cutler, Anson had proved her worth in northern waters. Hence AUSREP’s shift in attitude. In Hobart, people have almost lost count of the rescues she made over the years, sometimes in horrific conditions.

The thunderstorm had also marked a shift, this time in the weather, and we ran on into a gloomy overcast damp day. The crisp horizon and clear visibility of colder climes was falling behind and the steadily climbing thermometer confirmed our progress north. And the coastline was changing too, from steep rocky shores to prominent points with rock outcrops joined by low sandy bays. Now we needed to remain further offshore than before, partly to keep out of the shallows and partly to cross the bays between headlands.

Radar positions from the shore could not always be relied upon with sand returning a poor and indistinct echo. I we remained outside the 100-metre contour no isolated danger could hinder us. I switched on the echo sounder and fiddled with the controls to find a suitable range scale. Roy advised that in service one long serving master had refused to adjust any settings with it all established for the Zinc Works dump site.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to establish compass error. An alteration of course by 20 degrees true sometimes needed 10 degrees compass, sometimes 30 degrees. The magnetic compass had probably never been corrected for anything other than local Hobart conditions. Distinguishing between wind leeway, current set, and compass error was impossible. Sometimes she held the track for a couple of hours then she would wander off by as much as 10 degrees. It was not too bad if she was caught early or if she tended offshore, but clearly great vigilance was needed. That evening I ran the sounder as an additional precaution and intended to watch the trend of the seabed trace. We were passing some fishing boats when suddenly the ship veered off to starboard across the bow of an oncoming fisherman. Quickly Fitzy took the wheel, and the autopilot was turned off. The course was regained, and a collision averted. In horror we checked the autopilot, but it all seemed the same. Yet the ship wouldn’t steer to it and sheared off again.

Simon noticed that the echo sounder had also failed. Quickly we worked out that the sounder had drained the battery bank. The autopilot had no power. Turning off the sounder restored power to the autopilot. Clearly the sounder could only be used sparingly due to its huge drain of power. Despite this further setback spirits remained high. We now felt that most things had been thrown at us and we were coping. Obviously, we were well-matched shipmates for whom the voyage had now become an exercise in resource and fatigue management. This was altering the mood of the voyage from a high-spirited adventure into a professional duty. We were all grimly enjoying a situation like SAS induction training – to press on despite weariness and failing equipment. This was something office-bound businessman did to find themselves. Out task was now to deliver a vessel without mishap. The steering failure brought home the potential dangers but also highlighted our achievements to date.

Fuel calculations at noon showed the situation had not improved. Although we had a reasonable following wind and tried to keep inshore out of the main southerly current the speed remained the same at 7.5 knots. Arrangements were therefore made to call in at Yamba and a pilot booked. Yamba has a reputation for a dangerous bar at the river entrance and I was not relishing the prospect of passing through broken water on an underpowered vessel. None of us had slept properly since Hobart five days ago and the fuel stop was not welcome if for no other reason it delayed our return to a proper bed and normal duties. Nevertheless, it seemed unlikely that we could sail before midnight and I asked the new owner if we could spend the night alongside in Yamba in an effort to gain a decent rest. It would not change our arrival date in Brisbane, so his daily wage bill would remain the same. He agreed and fuel was arranged to be delivered at 0600 Tuesday morning.

I knew the Yamba pilot, Alan Jones. Years previously we had sailed together but had been nothing more than shipmates. I knew him to be a competent ship’s officer but a relatively inexperienced pilot. I suspected he might be uncomfortable given my pilotage background and experience, and I discretely went to some lengths to put him at ease. Yamba is not a busy port, but ships of Anson’s size were normal, and Alan did a good job, and fortunately for my nerves the bar was, according to Alan, “as low as I’ve seen it”. We berthed well up the harbour at last light and arranged for Alan to return at 0900, hopefully after the bunkers were aboard. Fitzy and Simon scrounged a lift ashore with Alan, and at the risk of rudeness, I stressed that we must sail at 0900. Like all good seamen they felt obliges to sample the fleshpots of Yamba, some 25 kilometres way by road on the other side of the river, necessitating a trip inland to cross the bridge then back out to the river mouth. I need not have worried for the fleshpots released them at 2230, coincidentally pub closing time.

Fuelling was complete by 0530 and at a decent time we rang Alan to ask if he would collect the daily papers and a tub of ice cream for us. Then we were under way again. In a perverse way I felt that with extra fuel aboard we would suddenly make such good time that the fuel would prove to be unnecessary. I was wrong. Despite the following wind freshening the speed reduced to 7.1 knots. Early in the evening we were passing the Gold Coast and as it got dark, I could see the loom of Brisbane over Stradbroke Island and Moreton Bay. Dinner was a bleak affair compared to the earlier banquets. Like the fuel, the provisions had been planned for a nine knot average and we were only left with tinned food and ice cream.

At 0450 we rounded Cape Morton and commence the final north-westerly course of 24 miles up to the Pilot Station. We gave the Brisbane pilots a final ETA of 0830 bargaining on a final run of just over seven knots. Once we were committed, the vessel threw off the shackles and we were making the awesome speed of nine knots. It looked as if we could make the pilot at 0730 so we slowed down and put in some dog legs to arrive at 0830. After 1,100 we were finally making the normal speed. Early on I suspected our erratic hand steering had slowed progress and as the autopilot came into play and our steering improved, I think we found the current unusually far south. We held the adverse current until Cape Moreton was rounded and Anson only had 24 miles as a fair go. Roy was more ‘scientific’. He pointed out on the final chart, a dumping ground for dredging spoil near the Pilot Station. Roy felt the Anson gained a second wind as she neared a normal destination, the dump ground.

As we approached the Pilot Station a very serious and pompous Brisbane Traffic Control gave final instructions:

“Pilot ladder starboard side please, two metres above the water, boarding speed nine knots Anson.”

“Sorry Brisbane, I cannot comply with any of that. I only have a port side ladder, we do not have two metres of freeboard and absolute full speed is nine knots,” I replied.

“What kind of vessel are you Anson, a tug?”

“No, a motorised hopper barge, don’t worry we will provide a safe boarding for the pilot and I will talk to the pilot boat coxswain.”

Captain Matthew Richardson stepped down from his launch and onto our main deck. Eager hands were available to ensure that he did not slip twixt launch and ship. Matthew was known to most as a former Hobart pilot and he lost no time setting up on the bridge and catching up with colleagues not seen for a year or more.

Since we were going right up the Brisbane River, Matthew expected to be with us for six hours or so and, as we slowly made our way in, other ships and pilots passed. Many were known to me and they all looked at Anson as they passed by many decks above our wheelhouse. Some were aghast at the size or apparent age of this rare ship. Some recalled her from Hobart and others speculated at her new owner’s intentions. All we know was that he planned to run her in a Pacific Island trade following conversion from hopper barge to cargo ship.

Certainly, it was a long time since a vessel resembling Anson flying an Australian Ensign had entered Brisbane. It was a long way from the River Humber in England where she started her working life. The builders could never in their wildest speculations have foreseen this turn of events. A British river craft entering Brisbane. Most passing pilots gave their regards to Matthew and me. At first Matthew was suspicious of our ‘patented’ autopilot but he soon came to trust it in the open parts of the pilotage.

Once in the river proper, I rang the new owner and advised him we would reach Newstead Wharf in an hour. As we passed the Fishermans Island container terminal a bizarre pantomime unfolded on

the Anson’s foredeck. Fitzy was doing a splendid imitation of Basil Fawlty’s Nazi depiction, goosestepping up and down our catwalk with his left finger over his top lip and his right arm achtunging in and out ferociously in the direction of a German ship at Patricks Wharf. I was mortified. This loon had cooked and shared the camaraderie of the last week. How could he show my fine 7.25 knot ship up so much and what hatred did he hold for the Germans to behave thus? Maybe his ancestry was not Irish as his name would suggest but had been changed to hide some hideous Second World War atrocity inflicted on the family. I called out for him to desist but he laughed maniacally and redoubled his efforts.

John Cleese himself could not have drawn more attention to the Anson. By the look of us, observers might have thought we had been up in a New Guinea river since 1943 festering over and blaming Germany for our plight. Certainly, the display on my main deck could not reasonably be explained. But short of sitting on Fitzy, what could I do? Maybe I should try to concoct some lame excuse when called to Canberra to explain. We passed by, and with a final flourish the act on deck drew to a close with a sneeringly elaborate and sarcastic cavalier style bow towards the container terminal. He grinned up at me and I felt like reciprocating with a fire hose. And then I realised the unfortunate German ship was not the object of the fantastic insult acted out in pantomime on the main deck. It was directed at Patrick’s stevedores who were involved in a spiteful dispute with the Seaman’s Union. At last I understood.

The new owner was waiting at Newstead and helped u tie up. We rang of the engine with a solemn ceremony at 1500m exactly, seven days and four hours out of Hobart. Matthew gave me a pilot chit to sign as master that ‘services had been conducted satisfactorily’ and I handed him a treasured Tasmanian toilet roll in lieu of the more traditional bottle of scotch. Roy had spent the previous day drawing up a meticulous and scrupulously accurate account for our services. After various pleasantries were exchanged with the new owner the conversation turned to air tickets and payment. It was the moment we had all been putting off. What if he would not pay us, or not pay us for the extra days? What if no air tickets were supplied?

“Look, it’s late” he declared, “the bank cannot process this today, I’ll see you tomorrow at 1100 and settle up. I suppose you’ll want to stay aboard tonight?”

I declined, preferring instead to check into a quiet still hotel. The others joined me. As I entered the room the bed beckoned me and I was asleep in seconds. Nobody had dare discuss the thought of a no-show at 1100 the next day. We met at 1900 and went into the city by river cat for dinner. The ticket collector was a man known to Roy from his recent Maritime College course. Here was one man ending a fine adventure and a classmate collecting tickets for Brisbane Metropolitan Transport. Worlds apart, these two men.

We ended up at an eccentric place for dinner, one that suited our mood. A week at sea in the confines of Anson had detached us from reality. Things seemed larger than life and the Fluffy Duck Restaurant had a duck theme. The menu was all duck. Octopus for example, was eight-legged duck. The waitress was a young woman who must have thought us most odd, a group of men giggling and winding down. Because the place was almost empty, we asked for a toy stuffed duck each that played quacking tunes if you pressed its wing. If conversation lapsed a quick squeeze of a wing and the random tune jolted us into dialogue. A real thrill was to be had if several ducks quacked in competition. The meal was great, and we did not offend the lady on duty.

Next morning, I awoke early and rang Ansett. Yes, flights were booked in various names to Hobart at 1330. At 1055 we assembled and much to our shame the owner turned up with six envelopes suitable named. He encouraged us to check the contents and greed took hold. Each retired to a corner and huddled over our loot as we counted it. Grunts of satisfaction could be heard as cash was

rubbed between thumb and forefinger. Camaraderie flew out the window as base instincts took over. Furtive glances were made to ensure no one approached as we wallowed in our spoils.

Roy sang out, “we are rich, filthy rich” as he made to throw his money up into a cascade.

Ait tickets were offered next and in our embarrassment we calmed down. Decorum began to hold sway and our former employer on hearing no complaints took his leave. Two cars were booked, and we left for the airport. Fitzy was to remain in Brisbane visiting a friend. At the airport I was able to gain access for my colleagues into the Ansett Golden Wing lounge and like a pack of pirates we descended on the businessman’s lair.

“What goes on here?” Roy asked with a leer.

“Scantily clad maidens give massages and adult movies are available” I advised. Sadly, the reality was different but in a buoyant mood, we made the best of the hour or so before the flight, eating the complementary snacks and generally enjoying Ansett’s largesse.

At on stage my former colleague, the Mackay Harbourmaster, came in on his way home from business and we chatted briefly. Here was a man who flew regularly and knew intimately the calibre of men to be found at Golden Wings. Bold adventurers such as we were not the norm as we struggled to understand the earnest and important people hurrying about momentous business ventures. Our task was done and behind us. ‘Suits’ all around regarded the lounge a sonly an interlude between opportunities, although for some the lounge itself provided rich commercial pickings via hasty meetings and mobile phones. We on the other hand were more interested in picking over the food tray and soaking up the ambiance. It is as well entry to the lounge was not priced on comfort and pleasure derived for our price would have been too high.

The flight home was nearly uneventful other than the improved mood of us all. At check-in I was given five boarding passes since I was still sort of unofficial Captain and sponsor of the Golden Wings lounge. At the boarding gate, I handed a pass out to each without checking names. I knew seats had been allocated in a block, two in one row and three behind. Roy had a boarding pass marked Captain North and mine was rightfully his. No matter, we were seated in a block. Suspicious I might be but given Roy’s good fortune and the cabin on the Anson it seemed doubly cruel that with my pass he scored an empty seat next to him and was able to spread out over a seat and a half. I on the other hand was singled out as Mr Finnis and ended up re-seated, not in business class, but between a visiting American Grid Iron team who had just played and caught the flight without showering. A great thirst overcame them and, as they held a loud post-match debriefing, I listened to noisy reruns of strategy punctuated with thrusting beer cans and slopping alcohol.

Roy seemed comfortable enough with his shipmates several rows ahead listening to classical music and drinking wine. Occasionally he would spare me a glance but had trouble spotting me between strategic football gestures, swilling tins, and shoulders level with my head. At Hobart International Airport we bade farewell to each other.

So far as I know Anson is trading in the Pacific in her third re-incarnation (see notes below).

(Martin North, Wednesday 24 November 1999).

NOTES:

FATE OF MV ANSON:

The Anson’s trading venture in Pacific failed and she was abandoned, beached in Palakulo Bay, Vanuatu (John Wedd photograph).

THOMAS MARTIN NORTH (1954 – 2017)

The Australian Maritime Officers Union News noted the death of Thomas Martin North on 18 December 2017 in Hobart following a long battle with cancer.

Martin was born in Geraldton on 25 April 1954. He became a senior deck officer with the Eastern & Australian Steam Ship Company serving aboard Arafura and Ariake. He came ashore to take up a Marine Pilot's position in Hobart. Martin ultimately became Harbour Master in Hobart and is recognised for making a major contribution to the welfare and industrial interests of Hobart Pilots and Tasmanian Pilots generally.

Martin moved back to his place of birth to take up a Marine Pilot's position and again became Harbour Master, occupying this position until shortly before his death.