It was early in June 1975 and unseasonably cold even for that part of the world. A low pressure just to the north of Scotland had moved southwards introducing a band of Arctic air that left snow lying over hills and heavy drifts in parts of the Highlands.
With
mixed feelings, Pauline and I boarded the Loganair Trislander at Lerwick’s Sumburgh
Airport for the two hour flight to Aberdeen, the first leg of our journey to
our next ship, Lindinger Gold waiting for us on the other side of the
continent three plane trips and a car journey to Turkey’s Sea of Marmara.
The
little 16-seater was fully loaded with heavily built men looking more like the
Scottish rugby team than a group of oil industry workers. There was no aisle,
just double bench seats each accessed with its own door. Pauline and I were
squeezed into the rear seat just in front of the luggage compartment. I’ve
flown on the Trislander many times since that day, and I have no
doubt that its description as one of the most reliable and durable commuter
aircraft is well deserved. On that day however, and in that miserable weather,
feeling already quite disappointed at the early end to our North Sea interlude,
it was a most uncomfortable and unpleasant experience. It was with shaky legs that we climbed out of
the aircraft at the terminal at Aberdeen’s Dyce Airport to transfer to a
hopefully more comfortable flight.
We
had originally expected to travel from Aberdeen directly to Heathrow to
connect with a flight to Istanbul, but the need for clothing more suited to a Mediterranean
summer diverted us instead to a brief overnight stop and unanticipated family
reunion at Pauline’s home in Nottingham. The next leg thus saw us aboard a more
comfortable HS 748 for the two hour Danair flight to East Midlands.
The
next morning feeling a little subdued after perhaps one too many pints of Courage
Best, we were on the same train to London and tube trip to Heathrow that we had
followed less than a month earlier on our frustrated expedition to Norway and Lindinger
Surveyor. This time there was less haste as our four hour flight to Istanbul was not leaving until early that evening.
It
was decidedly warmer than Lerwick when we finally arrived around 1.00 am at our
Istanbul hotel. Lindinger Gold was still enroute to her destination, so
we would have the full day tomorrow to acclimatise and perhaps do a bit of
shopping before a car was due to take us the following day across the Bosporus
to our ship.
Our
hotel was big, but at one o’clock in the morning it was as though we were
entering a mausoleum. A smartly dressed uniformed doorman relieved us of our
bags and led us toward a huge reception area empty save for a sole desk clerk
who greeted us as though he had been long expecting us, and we were his only
guests. Huge revolving fans wafted warm air down on us from a high vaulted
ceiling as we searched for our travel papers and passports for the third or
fourth time that day. We were booked in for two nights, breakfast included, but
we would have to fend for ourselves for lunch and dinner. This was all fine by
us, at this point, all we wanted was sleep.
We
eventually arrived at our room, accompanied by an aging hotel porter who looked
as though we had disturbed his sleep, which we possibly had. I gave him what
was left of the few lira I had in my pocket and judging by the look of indifference
on his face, it was evidently not enough. I smiled encouragingly, thanked him
as warmly as I could muster, and waited for him to shuffle out of the door.
The
room was large, with an iron balcony overlooking a quiet street. A smaller relative
of the giant fan in the hotel lobby, turned slowly above our heads. The bathroom
was spacious, but the green tiles covering the walls from floor to ceiling made
me think more of a public bar in an outback pub than a upmarket Middle Eastern ensuite.
Did
I mention the cockroaches? As big as anything the North Queensland tropics
could offer, these huge black creatures didn’t bother to scurry away – they
stared boldly as if saying, “I’d like to see you try!”
We’d
had a couple of long and tiring days, so we went to bed. Nothing was going to get
in the way of a decent sleep and a good lie in before strolling down in the
morning for a relaxing breakfast.
In
the Islamic world, there is a widespread saying that the Qur’an was “revealed
in Mecca, recited in Cairo and written in Istanbul”. I have since read a version
of this regarding the call to prayer which says that it was born in
Medina and recited in Istanbul.
We
were in no position to doubt this statement when an amplified call from the minaret
of a nearby mosque woke us with a jolt at 4.45 am. In Turkish culture the adhan
is referred to as the chants of the nightingales of Allah and His
messenger. It is an inseparable element of the city of Istanbul.
It
was at this point that we also became aware that the quiet street of last night
was slowly coming to life and within the next half hour evolved into a
cacophony of car horns, motorcycle engines, reversing trucks and loud voices.
Maybe leaving the window open had not been such a great idea.
The
lie-in and the leisurely stroll to breakfast was out of the question – but we were
hungry, and with that in mind we rose, braved the cockroaches and got ready
for the day.
The
dining room was a vast white tableclothed chamber, with a steady thrum of busy
diners and rushing waiters. The ever present giant fans spun gently at us as
the desk waiter led us to an unoccupied table.
I
was ready for a coffee but was unprepared for the thimble-sized container of thick
black syrup which was placed in front of me. There was going to be no
cappuccino here. Pauline asked for tea, and when a milky sweet lukewarm substance
arrived, we both decided to stick to water.
It
was also our first experience of goat cheese. At first we thought the butter
was rancid, but we soon got used to it, and it went very well with the Turkish
bread of which there was ample supply. Breakfast was on the whole an enjoyable
affair, with coddled eggs, a wide selection of cheeses, jams, cured meats and olives.
We
decided not to be too adventurous for the rest of the day. It was hot and humid,
and we were not inclined to stray too far from the hotel. We were informed that
we were within a few minutes’ walk of the Grand Bazaar and with that in mind we
ventured out into the streets. Having spent time in many of the world’s major
cities including Paris, New York and Tokyo, I was still completely unprepared
for the intensity of this overwhelming metropolis. It truly was a confluence of
east meets west with wonderful old buildings with towering turrets and minarets
hemmed in on all sides by high density three and four storey apartments, shop
front workshops, barber shops, rug merchants and tailors. Wall mounted air
conditioners dripped condensate on to the heads of passers-by (at least I hope
that is what it was). Wires were strung haphazardly from building to building
and trucks and delivery vans negotiated narrow streets accompanied always by
honking horns and much waving of arms and loud voices.
We
didn’t get to the Bazaar. We wandered around browsing for perhaps an hour and then
returned to the sanctity of our hotel to check out the swimming pool. Perhaps
it was the disinterest of our relative youth, or the weather, or the prospect
of the job ahead, but neither of us were in the mood for being tourists.
We
ate in the hotel that night and were collected the following morning at an
early hour for the two hour car ride to the ship.
Suddenly, we were part of that throng again, as our driver honked his way north through the morning traffic toward the main boulevard and the road leading to Asia.
In
1975 there was only one road route across the Bosporus. Built two years
earlier the single span suspension bridge was at the time the world’s fourth
largest. Today there are two additional bridges plus a highway tunnel; but back
then the Bosporus Bridge was the highway to Asia. It turned out to be the
highlight of a singularly unappealing journey as the sprawl of Istanbul
continued on the other side of the bridge and soon merged into further
industrial areas as our driver, clearly on a mission to break the speed record
between the two points hurtled towards our destination.
It
was thus with a genuine feeling of relief that we farewelled Turkey’s answer to
Niki Lauda and made our way up the gangway of Lindinger Gold as she lay
alongside the wharf at Derince. It was like coming home.
Gold
was
less than two years old with a gross tonnage of around 2,000 tonnes and in
almost every way identical to her sister ships in the fleet. Our little cabin
was the same – starboard side main deck, a window looking forward on to the
main cargo deck and another one looking seaward just
above the lifeboat.
She’d
had tied up in the early hours that morning having arrived overnight from Constanta,
about 18 hours away on the Black Sea coast of Romania. My predecessor had been
hospitalised in Constanta and the ship had travelled with two engineers instead
of the normal three, so, if nothing else, from that respect they were happy to
see me.
The
holds were loaded with machinery. We were due to spend another day in port
before returning to the Black Sea and the Bulgarian port of Burgas.
We
settled in. I re-familiarised myself with the lovely 18-cylinder B&W main
engine, introduced myself to the ship’s cook (always someone to stay on the
right side of), checked that the spare parts were all in order and, as far as I
was concerned we were good to go. Looking back nearly 50 years later, I will
say this about the Lindinger company – they knew how to build reliable,
comfortable seaworthy ships – some of those ships are still in service today.
There
was a period during the 1960s and 1970s when it was a great time to be an engineer
or a deck officer in the Merchant Navy. Positions were plentiful particularly
for engineers and the pay and conditions had improved considerably. Lindinger
was a good company who generally seemed to employ good, competent people. Unfortunately these golden days were not going
to last.
I recently
came across an article in the Danish maritime magazine Søfart (Shipping)
which is worth sharing.
Lindinger’s
owner, Asger Lindinger, was a businessman, mountaineer, skydiver and adventurer
who ran a successful and profitable business importing agricultural chemicals. In
order to reduce taxation he took advantage of a Danish government aided scheme which
involved him launching a shipping company. He began by buying a fleet of small
coasters and ferries.
In
1971, he increased the size of the company and started building his own ships. He
brought in other investors, but unlike most companies who profited by selling
the ships at a price higher than the construction cost, Lindinger offered the
equity at the newbuilding price.
Eight
ships suitable for general cargo were built in Germany with the first ship, the
3,000 ton Lindinger Amber delivered in 1972. He started a naming
system where subsequent ships were delivered in alphabetical order with names
of gemstones. In the first series, were Brilliant, Coral, Diamond,
Emerald, Facet, Gold and Hyacinth. Then in 1974 a new series of
twelve larger ships began. Lindinger Ivory came first with Lindinger
Unique in 1977 the last in the series. Then the money ran out.
The
ships were popular and flexible and were widely used for sailing to the newly oil-rich
countries of West Africa who were importing a lot of building materials and
other goods.
After
the oil crisis in 1973, the ships became more expensive to operate. The market for these type of ships became
less favourable with most cargo now shipped in containers. Lindinger's
finances took a turn for the worse and in 1978 he filed for bankruptcy and
the company closed down.
But
this was 1975 and from our perspective, it was a Goldilocks age. We left Derince
early the next morning and within a few hours were back within sight of the
Bosporus Bridge, this time from below as we sailed under it, through the
straits and into the Black Sea.
Burgas
is a large seaport in Bulgaria about a half a day’s sailing away and we arrived
later that evening.
The
following morning was a day off for us and Pauline and I left early to explore
what the town had to offer. The ship was sitting low in the water as we
wandered down the gangway, through the docks area, across the railway line and
towards the town centre. It was oppressively hot and humid with the mercury in
the high 30s and barely a breath of wind. We were soon out of the docks area and
found ourselves in a wide avenue walking past some serious architecture with monuments
and sculptures presumably honouring the wars against oppression and the success
of collective socialism. Aging single deck buses rumbled by alongside Ladas and
Moskvitchs and the occasional Renault or Fiat.
We eventually
came to a road sign which pointed straight ahead to “плаж” (plage).
Thoughtfully, as well as the Cyrillic text it also had written beneath it the
simple word “beach”. We continued on and soon came to a white pavilion
and a wide beach teeming with locals enjoying their Black Sea Riviera. I have
since learnt that Bulgaria has many highly popular tourist destinations,
notably Sunny Beach resort some 30 or 40 km to the north of Burgas, but I would
be lying if I said that Burgas Beach brought immediate visions to mind of our
two weeks on the Barrier Reef in North Queensland less than 12
months earlier.
The
sand was fine but quite discoloured, probably from organic matter. It was not the most appealing body of water that I had seen. Hopefully it
is much improved today, but in 1975 The Black Sea received pollution from at
least four major rivers disgorging a significant level of contaminated water
into this deep and cold sea.
We didn’t
stay long. We were getting hungry and were ready for a cold drink. We made our
way back through the city and came upon a pleasing little café just off the
main road with a shaded outside eating area. We sat inside by the window, away
from the street noise, and where it was somewhat cooler beneath the customary large
fan. We asked for wine and were brought a bottle of white Dimyat the mostly
widely produced wine from this area of Northern Thrace. It was light and dry
and went down handsomely with the bread and olive oil which had been put before
us.
We
had not been there long when a familiar face came into view. It was Jens, our blonde
and bearded chief mate who walked into the café looking for all the world like
he too was ready for a drink. He saw us, flashed his wide Scandinavian smile
and said, “Just what I am looking for, can I join you?” – and he did.
The
next few hours passed quickly and pleasantly. There was more white wine
consumed. Food arrived consisting of white cheese, pickled vegetables and a
local salami and at Jens’ insistence, a round (or maybe two) of a local highly
potent fruit brandy called rakia. “Nazdrave!”, we all cried, more than
once as I recall.
We
were due to sail in the morning so eventually, Pauline and I decided to make
our way back to the ship leaving Jens and our Bulgarian hosts to continue to
share toasts and enjoy the fellowship.
This
is where things took a turn for the worse. As we walked out of the bar
and into the evening air, we soon realised that what five minutes ago promised
to be a pleasant early evening stroll back to our ship, had become a task more challenging
than expected. It may have been the pickled cucumber, or perhaps the lukanka, but
I would be lying if I said that we were not just a little less than steady on
our feet. We weaved our way, in what we hoped was the direction we had
travelled earlier in the day. The task was not improved by my wise choice of purchasing
a half dozen bottles of the fine Bulgarian wine we had enjoyed so much that
afternoon.
It
was indeed quite an effort. I may have tripped once or twice, and to this day,
I maintain that there was much debris on the ground, particularly as we crossed
and recrossed the railway siding that seemed to take up a lot more of the dock area
than it had earlier in the day. Even Pauline lost her footing once or twice,
which was made all the more difficult by the need to keep putting my case of
wine carefully down, before helping Pauline to regain her footing.
Eventually
we arrived at our ship and stood at the foot of the gangway. Something had
changed since we left the ship sitting low in the water with a horizontal
gangway a few hours ago. Now with the tide having risen, and the ship having discharged
its cargo, we were staring up at a gangway at an impossible angle. How on earth
was I to get myself, Pauline and the case of wine, up that steep incline.
My fears
were alleviated as a uniformed guard, our knight in shining epaulettes, looking
like he had just come from a session guarding Lenin’s tomb, swiftly came down from
the top of the gangway where he had been keeping vigil. He gently placed Pauline over one shoulder, with his Kalashnikov still slung over the other, and with no more effort than if were carrying a small roll of carpet,
bounded up the gangway and deposited her safely on board. I bravely followed,
bearing my goods, and with as much dignity as I could marshal, stepped over the
gunwale and on to the deck. I thanked him for his help and offered him a bottle
of wine to which he politely declined with a smile and held open the watertight
door as we entered the passageway to our cabin and home.
We
sailed at dawn the next day, and I confess, that I was feeling just a little frail
all through my 6 to 12 watch that morning. Pauline was still sleeping, so I left
her to her own devices and spent the afternoon on the wing of the bridge,
watching as we approached again the entry to the Bosporus and made our way into
the Sea of Marmara and the Dardanelles. We had a week of hopefully fine weather
sailing ahead of us to our next port of call at the other end of the Mediterranean.
That
evening a very subdued Pauline joined everyone in the Officer’s Mess for the
evening meal.
Jens
beamed across the table at her, “Velbekommen Pauline. You will be excited to
hear about our next destination. We’re going to Cartagena, and they have the
most excellent red wine there – you’ll love it!”
Pauline looked across at him, looked back down at her plate and very softly with more than a touch of irony in her voice returned the traditional Danish greeting. “Velbekommen”, was all she said.
Footnote:
For some unaccountable reason, the white wine didn’t quite live up to expectation
once we had left the Black Sea - maybe it just didn't travel.