I just started reading James Bach’s Secrets of a Buccaneer Scholar. Buccaneer scholar is Bach’s term for someone who takes responsibility for their own education rather than having it handed to them by the authorities.

The book is an odd mix of autobiography and How To guide. The autobiographical bits have remarkable parallels with my own life right down to our reasons for learning harmonica and the kids we saved from certain death (I came across mine floating face down at midnight in the pool at Corton’s Holiday Camp with not another soul around).

A sampling of coincidences …

We both learned to program in BASIC from a book before we even had a computer to type them into. I used to write programs during French classes in a book under my desk and then type them in when I got home. I typed mine into a Zx81; James into an Apple II. I graduated to Z80; James to 68000.

James left home and school at 15. I waited until I was 16. We left for about the same reason – school was boring and we felt we weren’t learning anything. It took me several years though before I bluffed my way into my first programming job. I would’ve done it much earlier except I didn’t know it was an option.

Unlike James, I loved taking exams as a kid. It was a chance for me to excel at school without actually doing any work. In England, at that time, the only thing that counted towards your final grade was the exam at the end of the year, so I was pretty much able to do zero work for the rest of the year and still come top of my class. Sadly for them, American kids don’t have that option.

I should clarify what I mean by zero work. Like James, I was incredibly driven to learn. Apart from teaching myself to write software, I read lot of books – just not the ones my teachers wanted me to read. My dad got me a college textbook on organic chemistry for my 14th birthday. I read that several times.

Also like James, I excelled at antagonizing my teachers and was constantly in trouble at school. I also had an episode of failing exams on purpose.

The Navy had a very strict policy on throwing people out if they weren’t able to keep up academically. We had an exam every week or two for the four years of my apprenticeship. If you failed one, you were put on a Commander’s Warning; two got you a Captain’s Warning and so on as you worked your way up the hierarchy of shame. Each warning came with ever increasing ceremony (picture a military court and you’ll have the setting about right) and ever more impressive certificates of failure.

I got very good at getting exactly 49% (50% was a pass) but, on a surprising number of occasions, when I got my paper back, it had been altered to give me a couple of extra points and a passing grade.

When I received the final warning signed by the Commander in Chief himself, my Divisional Officer scribbled on a note “this beautiful certificate is even more impressive than the one you’ll get when you graduate”.

One more failure and I was out. But I blew it. I was so disenchanted with how low the academic standards were in the navy that I wanted to know if I could still pass a proper exam. A friend of mine was taking A-Level Maths and I went and asked if I could take it too.

The education officer explained how it was a two year course and no one had passed it in ten years and failures reflected badly on him and it was a waste of his time and blah blah. Somehow, I conned him into letting me take the exam without taking the classes.

A couple of days after I got my CinC Warning, I was pulled out of class and told to go see the Captain. I was not told why, but I assumed that I had failed my fifth and final exam and that the end of my career in the navy was imminent. Imagine my surprise when I learned that the Captain had called me out of class to give me my A-Level result personally. I had got an A.

It took them a couple of days to figure out that I was the same dude who had been failing all those exams. When they did, I was told in very plain terms that I would not fail any more exams or there would be serious consequences. In a couple days, I had hatched my new scheme: I would become an officer and exercise an officer’s option to resign…but that’s a story for another day.

Back to the book.

I am about three quarters through it already. I’m enjoying it immensely but it’s hard for me to recommend it.

If you are the kind of person to quit school at 16, you probably did that already. And you probably don’t need James’s lessons on how to learn.

If you are not that kind of person, you probably think of people like us as reckless fools. You are probably better off taking the establishment path to an education anyway.

I have a very special memory. One that I have not thought about for years but it came to me today in the middle of Saving Private Ryan. I don’t think I’ve shared it before.

In my solitude, you haunt me

A long time ago, I had a girlfriend and I used to sing to her. At that period of my life, I was entirely entranced by Billie Holiday and my most favourite song was Solitude and my girlfriend used to ask me to sing it to her. I sang it over and over.

With reveries of days gone by.

Eventually we broke up and she moved out and went her own way but a few months later she called me out of the blue and said she was afraid and asked if she could come stay with me for a few days.

In my solitude, you taunt me

She was having headaches and problems with her memory. We took her to the doctor who sent her to the hospital where they told us she had a brain tumour. It was inoperable but they might be able to treat it with radio-therapy.

With memories that never die.

The treatment didn’t work out and her memory and her headaches got worse and eventually she slipped into unconsciousness.

I sit in my chair

And, filled with despair,

Her parents flew over from Malta and came to stay with me in my little apartment and, one by one, her friends and relatives from all over the world came to join us sitting by Rita’s bedside.

There’s no one can be so sad.

We sat by her bed for days and weeks and months and, every now and again, she would drift back into our life and say a few words before drifting back into the twilight. One day she slept and didn’t wake up again.

With gloom everywhere,

I sit and I stare.

I used to sing to her while she slept her deep sleep – especially when we were alone, just Rita and I. One day, one last time, she spoke to me.

“What’s that song? I know that song.”

“It’s Solitude by Billie Holiday.”

“It’s a beautiful song. My boyfriend used to sing it to me.”

Then she went back to sleep. She didn’t wake up any more.

I know that I’ll soon go mad.

In my Solitude.

I promised that I’d never forget you, Rita. I kept my promise.

I’m praying,

Dear Lord above,

Send back my love.

When I returned from travelling around the world, I took a crappy job fixing avionics on planes at Heathrow Airport. Ooooooooooh how I hated that job. I quit after about three months with no idea of what to do next. Eventually, I narrowed it down to one of five things.

• Six years in the navy had not cured me of my love of the sea. I applied for a job on a millionaire’s yacht based in Antibes.
• I rather liked tropical islands. I applied for a job fixing satellite tracking equipment on Ascension Island.
• I rather liked “abroad” in general. I applied for a course to learn to teach English as a foreign language (TEFL).
• I had a tiny twinge of regret that I had not been to university. I applied to Cambridge.
• I vaguely remembered that I had been good with computers as a lad. I applied for an adult education class in software engineering.

I didn’t really have a strong preference and decided to accept the first offer that arrived in my letterbox. Software engineering came in first so software engineering it was. I headed up to the East End of London for a five month course.

If you have ever been to Whitechapel, you will know that it is one of the poorest, crappiest parts of London and home to recent immigrants, gangsters and outcasts. Imagine a neighbourhood that has not changed one whit since Jack the Ripper’s reign of terror. That should help you picture the environs of my classroom.

If you have ever been unemployed in England, you will know that there is a prevailing threat that your benefits will stop unless you attend an endless stream of adult education classes. That should help you picture my fellow students.

Our instructor was a total nutcase. It was not clear that he had ever programmed a computer before but that didn’t stop him from having a sackful of forceful opinions about software engineering. Fortunately he only showed up for class about one day in four.

My fellow students were delighted. There was a pub next door and I got pretty good at pool. Winner stays on was the prevailing convention and one of the highlights of my life was racking up for the first game at 11AM and not leaving the table until the pub closed at 11PM after thrashing all-comers including several shady-looking character as the evening hours wore on and the bar filled with gangsters.

A few weeks into our course, the four of us who were not receiving unemployment benefits decided to complain about the lack of instruction. The company that ran the course – fearing for their government funding – promised to find us a new instructor. They gave us a copy of The C Programming Language by Kernighan and Ritchie to help pass the time while they searched for the new guy.

I opened the book and, on the very first page, was the program that changed my life.

#include <stdio.h>
int main()
{  
  printf("hello, world\n");
  return 0;
}

Our new instructor eventually showed up and tried to teach us ADA but I wasn’t interested. I already had my White Book. I had my passport to a successful career.

Two weeks later, I finished my first C program – an editor for sheet music that could playback the music you had entered. Two months later, I had my first programming job [remind me to tell you about my first gig at Reuters]. Two years later, I was managing a 12 person team building insurance software (Ultima is still on sale!). Two more years and I was working on Wall Street then, later, Silicon Valley.

My story is not complete unless I tell you about the Women into Technology class next door or, rather, about Rita, a woman in that class and how we moved in together and… well… that’s a longer story and I’ll save it for another day…

Epilogue
The very day that I started my class, I received a letter from Antibes requesting that I fly down for an interview on that yacht but I’d already made my choice and I stuck with it. I wonder how my life would have been different if I had got on that plane?

I bought The Golden Treasury of English Verse and a harmonica as my only mementos of civilization when I set off to go backpacking around the world. I’m not entirely sure why though because I couldn’t play the harmonica and I hated poetry.

By the time I got back, I was enchanted by both.

Being untutored in the arts, I was free to decide for myself what I liked and didn’t like even if what I liked wasn’t the right thing or it was unfashionable or whatever. That sentiment applied equally to my music playing and to poetry.

One night, in Darwin, during a bone-shaking thunderstorm, I heard someone playing blues harp in the other room. It was the most amazing sound I had ever heard come out of a harmonica and I went to investigate. There was an Australian dude a little older than me and we got talking.

He invited me to play a little too and he said words to the effect of “Wow! I have never heard anyone play the harmonica like that!”. I am still not sure if he meant Wow! That was great! or Wow! You suck!

Since I had no idea how I was meant to play it, I just played what sounded good to me. Same deal with poetry.

I jumped around all over the book and each poem launched me into a quest for more poetry like this. I had been force-fed Wilfred Owen at school but reading him of my own accord felt reckless, revolutionary. After six years in the navy, I had to read poetry to find out what war was about.

I have, again, no recollection of why I decided that I should learn The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by heart but I gave up after about 75 verses. I was heartbroken when my new team at work decided that Team Albatross was too gloomy for a team name. They must not have read Coleridge (or heard the song).

My tastes were eclectic (sorry, Dylan, that I made you learn For Whom the Bell Tolls for a recital) and after mini-expeditions with Kipling (Kim, The Man Who Would be King), DH Lawrence (The Rainbow, Lady Chatterley, Sons and Lovers, Women in Love) and a day trip or two with Tennyson and Betjeman, I settled on George Gordon Byron as my travelling companion and soulmate.

I read everything that Byron had ever written and, for a short, mad while, I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the second mortal to swim the Hellespont; I wanted to so scandalize my wife on my wedding night that she would file for divorce the very next day (must’ve been a pretty successful night as it produced Lady Ada who also discovered the joys of programming); I wanted to seduce the wives, sisters, sons and mothers of prominent politicians, including the prime minister’s; I wanted to raise a private army and go liberate the Greeks from the Turks or to die trying – like Byron did.

Shelley and Keats travelled with us for a while, but neither thrilled me the way Byron thrilled me.

I haven’t read poetry for a long, long time – except to read old favourites to my daughter. My passion, like Byron’s life, was brief but intense.

Crossing the line is an important milestone in a young sailor’s life. King Neptune demands that every time a ship crosses the equator, everyone aboard be called to account for his sins and he rises from the deep to hold court. He pays special attention to those who are crossing the line for the first time. A visit from Neptune is an momentous event and the day that a ship crosses the line is set aside for festivities and the libations flow freely.

Three-Legged Volleyball

The first event of our day was the Race to the Line. The brave souls from the ship’s crew launch all manner of craft into the inky blue ocean and race the last 100 yards to be the first to cross the equator. A few sailors take the race seriously and  build elaborate sailing vessels and canoes but emphasize novelty over velocity and a more typical craft is an inflatable sheep or a sex doll chosen, no doubt, for her seaworthiness rather than her pulchritude. Sadly, our race had to be called off on account of the unusual number of sharks surrounding our ship so we turned to the second event of the day – the three-legged volleyball.

Chief MEM Doing a Handstand Dive

My readers have doubtless run a three-legged race in their youth and three-legged  volleyball is organized along the same principles. Each team consists of four pairs of player, each tied to his neighbour at the ankle and the thigh. The ball is tethered by a long rope to the net posts to prevent it going over the side. The combination of the Siamese contestants, the tangling rope and the vast quantities of beer is practically guaranteed to ensure hilarity. The WEMs’ mess – my mess – won the day! Hoorah! More beer for us!

Inward Dive

Time for the diving contest and the Jimmy decided that we would safe from the sharks if we posted sailors with machine guns on the bridge wing. No one wondered whether we would be safe from drunken sailors with machine guns. We had three dives each and I took second place with a pike dive, an inward and one-and-a-half somersaults. Hooray! More beer!

One Down, Half a Somersault To Go

I did a little extra curricular diving later in the day. I dived from the bridge wing – about 35 feet up. You had to dive out about 8 feet to clear the side of the ship and my foot slipped as I dived. I tumbled a full somersault and narrowly missed hitting my head on the side. Oooh. Close one!

A Last Minute Contestant

Next up was the deck hockey. Deck hockey is a traditional naval pastime – more ancient that Uckers – played with a puck made of masking tape and a set of walking sticks which double as weapons. The WEMs won again! More beer!

Time for the main event of the day – The Court of King Neptune. The role of the King was played by the Chief WEM who was the fattest man that I have even seen in real life.

King Neptune with his Entourage

He was also the meanest. We called him Ten Bellies. Not to his face, of course – except that one time when Jumper Collins called him that over the phone. Ooooh! That did not end well!

King Neptune has a large entourage of oddball characters – a judge, a doctor, his queen, some henchmen and (honestly) the Three Bears. Neptune’s Queen Consort was played by my very best friend Jacko.

King Neptune starts the proceedings with a speech about how there are sinners aboard and he has come to deliver justice. One by one, the sinners were called up to the dock and the charges against them are read aloud.

Silence for King Neptune!

The Captain is the first defendant and then the Jimmy and they are followed by all the first-timers. The routine is the same each time and – as far as I know – has barely changed over the centuries. King Neptune calls the name of a sinner and Neptune’s henchmen armed with maces, battle-axes and clubs made from masking tape apprehend the suspect, beat the crap out of you and drag you to the dock – a large, red chair – where you prepare to face justice.

The Judge reads the trumped-up charges and quickly finds you guilty [this is not too different from normal military justice, about which more another time - ed]. The Doctor forces you to swallow a disgusting and unfeasibly large pill and then the chair dumps you unceremoniously into a pool filled with nasty-smelling leftovers from the galley where the three bears beat you some more.

The Trial

I have compared notes with sailors from other navies and they all report a similarly bizarre  ceremony with only minor differences in the proceedings. How great is it that such a crazy ceremony should survive for so many years?

Wikipedia has an account from 1825.

There were on board the ship a great number of officers and seamen, who had never yet gone South of the Tropics, consequently were to be initiated into the mysteries of crossing the Equinoctial line, and entering the dominions of Neptune; great preparations had been making since our leaving Woolwich, for an event which promised to some part of the crew great amusement, to the other great fear; many a poor girl at Woolwich, and at Spithead had been deprived of some part of her wardrobe, to adorn Amphitrite; from one a night cap and gown had been stolen, from another some other part of dress, and although I had no hand in it, I was as bad as the rest, for I was consenting thereto. An immense grey horse hair wig, sufficiently long to reach well down the back of Neptune, had been purchased in England by subscription, accompanied by a venerable grey beard to sweep his aged breast; a tin crown and a trident completed the regalia. On a review of all those who previously had crossed the line, I was selected as Neptune; in vain I endeavoured to defend myself from being deified, it was useless, I must be Neptune, all remonstrance was vain; I took it, resolved to use the trident with mildness. Now reader fancy to yourself the writer of these lines with his legs and arms well blacked, his cheeks, vermillion, short and very loose trowsers, a double frilled shirt, from whose ample folds the salt water dripped plentifully, two swabs for epaulets, a long grey horse hair wig, a venerable beard of the same colour, a tin crown, a trident, and to complete the whole, a hoarse church yard cough; fancy all this I say, and Neptune, or your humble servant in his shape stands before you. The evening before we expected to cross the line, the lookout man reported at 8, P.M., a light a head; presently a hoarse voice hailed “ship ahoy” which being answered by the Captain, Neptune intimated his intention to visit the ship early next morning. Accordingly early in the morning the ship was made snug, the top-sails were close reefed, courses hauled up, top gallant sails furled, a new sail was secured to the gunwale of the barge on the booms, the other edge to the hammock netting, leaving a hollow of eight feet, capable of containing an immense quantity of water; into this sail the very men who were to be dipped in it, were employed in pumping and bailing water, little thinking, poor creatures, they were making a rod for themselves. A gun had been dismounted on the forecastle, the carriage made into a car, on which were to sit Neptune and Amphitrite, and between them the Triton; in order to keep all secret, a sail was run across the forecastle to screen Neptune and his gang from observation. Just before the appointed time, all who were likely to undergo the dreadful operation of shaving were ordered below, the gratings put on, and a constable stationed to prevent the ascent of more than one at a time; a wise regulation, for our numbers were nearly equal, and had they shown fight, might have conquered; a rope was rove through a block on the main yard arm, to one end of which was secured a handspike, astride of which sat a man with his hands fastened to the rope over his head.

…

The first of the ship’s company that were shaved, who was brought up blindfolded by the whole posse of constables was the armourer, a weather-beaten honest old Hibernian, who had been a farrier in the Peninsular Army for many years. At the reduction, he had found his way as armourer of some small craft, and thence to our ship; on his entering for our ship, so anxious was he to be within the given age, which was thirty, that on being asked his age he gave it as eight and twenty, although fifty six was written in legible characters on his old cribbage face, which throughout the ship’s company had gained him the cognomen of old eight and twenty. On this man then the barber had to perform his first functions; a bucket was filled with all the cleanings of the hen coops, pig-stys, &c. and with it a due proportion of tar had been mixed; with a large paint brush dipped in this villanous compound, and his razor, close to him the barber stood waiting the signal. My first question was “what is your name my man?” “John S—-, your honour,” at the instant of his opening his mouth the brush went across it, when the face the poor creature made it is impossible to describe, “phoo what do you call that?” “what do you call that?” I again asked the old man how old he was, “eight and twenty your honour, and so I am; oh I will spake no more, I will spake no more.” As a last effort to make him open his mouth, I said if you mean to put him overboard, mind have a good rope round him for perhaps he cannot swim. Terrified at the idea of being thrown overboard the poor fellow said “I cannot swim, oh, I cannot swim;” but as the brush again crossed his mouth, he uttered with his teeth closed, “I will spake no more, by J—s I will spake no more if you drown me.” Amid a roar of laughter two men tripped the handspike on which he sat and sent him backward into the sail where the bear was waiting to receive him; it was soon over, he escaped and stood by to see his shipmates share his fate. At the time of his being shaved he was not aware who Neptune was, when he found it out I could not get him to speak to me for some time; at length Irish good temper conquered, and we were friends again.

—John Bechervaise , Thirty-six Years of Seafaring Life p.146-150

Long may King Neptune reign!

Epilogue

After I left HMS Southampton, the Navy instituted new fitness requirements and Ten Bellies was forced to leave the service. No one cried. Did I mention how mean he was?

I lived with Jacko in five different houses and he was my very best friend for a long, long time. I lost touch with him when I came to the States. If anyone knows his whereabouts, tell him I am trying to track him down.

See, I was looking for a picture of a freshly inked tattoo. I knew it was there somewhere but I found a thousand other pictures first. There goes my evening. I’ll have to look at every single one of them….and so will you!

First up, Falklands tour from September, 1984 to March 22, 1985. Your blogger was eighteen years old and had already been in the Navy for two years. I joined HMS Southampton, a Type 42 Destroyer -  in June of ’84 and was with her for a year.

HMS Southampton

Trivia note from the Wikipedia article:

In 1984, she ran over one of the Shambles Buoys off Portland during final War Games before deploying to the Falklands, sinking the buoy and resulting in repairs in dry dock.

I was on board when that happened!

We had left Portsmouth and stopped in Portland for some war-gamey kind of exercises and finally set off for Gibraltar. We had just made it out of Portland when the ship lurched and there was a painful scratching sound. Then the propellers started making a horrible noise. Back we went to dry dock to have one prop shaft replaced and the other straightened out a bit. We then headed with careful haste to Gibraltar.

Top of the Rock of Gibraltar with a Barbary Ape

It was pretty funny when we arrived in Gibraltar as we were the lead ship of our convoy and the two frigates had to salute us as we came into to harbour. All three ships were in full dress with all the crews lining the decks and right after the salute, each of the  frigates unfurled a ginormous banner over the side.

One said

Buoy, Oh Buoy! What a Shambles!

The other said

Congratulations! It’s a buoy!

Note to Americans: “buoy” is pronounced like “boy” in normal countries (as in buoyant).

Our Captain went mad. He was very embarrassed. But not nearly as embarrassed as he was when he got court-martialed. And though they did a fine repair job of trying to straighten out that shaft it wasn’t fine enough and for the next six months, if we went above 12 knots, the noise in our mess – right above the seals where the shafts entered the ship – was absolutely unbearable. We couldn’t even shout to each other. My bunk (pit in nautical lingo) was about 4 feet from the seal.

From there, we were headed south!

[I'll tell you about our Crossing the Line ceremony another day]

Shit Fish!

Next stop:- Ascension Island where we encountered the shit-fish. They were like salt-water piranhas. We used to throw huge bags of garbage (gash in the lingo) over the side and watch them get eaten. The water would swarm and froth and the whole thing would be gone without a trace in a couple of minutes. Legend had it that if you fell off the ship, you would have a heart-attack before you hit the water. Any ichthyologists know what they are really called?

On to the Falklands!

The Falklands sucked really, really bad. It’s hard to imagine a worse place on earth. My family almost moved there in the late seventies as my dad worked for the company – Southern Ships Stores – that owned most of the fisheries there. We used to call the people that lived there Bennies after Benny from Crossroads until, one day, we weren’t allowed to call them that any more because someone noticed that it was derogatory. So we called them Stills (because they were still Bennies). I coulda been a Benny!

Port Stanley, the capital of The Falklands, had four pubs and they all sold the same cans of Penguin Ale. It was not uncommon to get banned from a pub in Port Stanley and, indeed, on one night I got banned from all four of them.

We spent Christmas Day anchored in San Carlos Water which the military historians among you may remember as one of the main landing sites – and the scene of a ferocious battle- from which British forces had recaptured the Falkland Islands two years earlier.

The picture on the right is taken on the Flight Deck. See the clear blue skies? I think that must’ve been the only clear day the whole time we were there. The five of us (Harry, Jock, Andy and Pincher) were great friends and went everywhere together. I wonder where they are now?

And here’s us having dinner. For some reason that I don’t quite remember, I wasn’t drinking at the time but everyone else was pished as a fart.

Dunno who the dude at the front was but I remember he was like just turned sixteen. Impossibly young to us eighteen year olds!

Here’s me with an after dinner coffee and my Green Machine Fighting Machine (the name of my mess’s football team) t-shirt.

Wearing that very t-shirt, I managed to play a full 90 minutes of football with 6 pints of beer in me, narrowly missing George Best’s record by 2 pints.

And here’s me sitting on my bunk.

Note that the bunks were stacked three high and note also that all of the bunks in the mess were, in theory, collapsible to make a kind of couch but, in practice, only two of the bunks ever were actually collapsed – the bunks in the two mess squares where the fridges, stereos and TVs were and where all the socializing happened.

The pits in mess squares were reserved for the most junior of junior ratings … unless… unless there was an Artificer Apprentice on board. Artificers (or Tiffies) were engineers and, because they were destined to be rapidly promoted up to a senior rating quite quickly, were condemned to suffer twice as badly during their apprenticeship. Most people had to tolerate 3 months in the mess square before they got promoted into a gulch pit, but tiffies – me and Jacko – had to spend the whole year there.

The rule for Mess Square pits was that you weren’t allowed to go to bed before Pipe Down at 23:00, but even then, you would have people sitting on your bed drinking until 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning while you were trying to sleep. Fortunately, you couldn’t hear them over the noise of the bent propeller shaft.

After Christmas, we had a fun little trip over to South Georgia. I hope to tell you more about South Georgia another day so I’ll just mention that South Georgia may be the most beautiful place that I have ever visited.

It wasn’t all fun and games though. As an apprentice, I had to work for a period in each of the Weapon Engineering departments (small arms, Sea Dart, 4.5in Gun, Comms, Radar, fire control, Sonar plus some others that I don’t remember). That was my day job. But we each had other responsibilities too. Defense Stations and Action Stations.

For Defense Stations (americans have a funny term for this – Sean, help me out), but it basically means “we are not under attack right now, but we might be at any moment”. Defense Stations has half the ship’s company manning the weapons systems. We were at Defense Stations for most of the time we were in the Falklands and my Defense Station was the 30mm BMARC.

It was a pretty cushy gig actually. Each gun had two people (one to load and one to fire) and a little cabin where you could be ultra-ready which was code for sleep. Actually, I was teaching myself A-Level maths at the time and spent all of my watches working through a text book that I borrowed from Jacko (except for the dog-watches, which were cur-tailed).

Every now and again, we would spring into action.

“Alarm aircraft! Bearing: Red nine-zero! Elevation two-two!”

Usually it was a drill but one time it was for real when two Argentinian Jets came to give us a scare. They closed us to about a mile before they veered away and left us in peace.

Also, every now and again, we would actually fire the thing.

Defense Stations in a 30mm BMark

A brave pilot would tow a target on a wire – or release a drone – and the

“Alarm aircraft! Bearing: Green nine-zero! Elevation two-two!”

would be followed by

“Port guns, engage!”

And then I would blast away at the target at 60 rounds per second per barrel, flanked by two 20mm Oerlikans and accompanied by the 4.5in Mk8 gun in the bow, all filling the sky with tracer.

My Action Station (translation: we are about to engage the enemy) was in the gunbay.

The gunbay is the magazine underneath the 4.5in mk8 gun way up in the bow of the ship. The gun fires a shell every 2.4 seconds and there is a feed ring thingie in the gun bay below decks that has, like, 12 rounds ready to go. There are also rows and rows of shelves of additional shells. My job – along with a little scottish dude named Jock – was, when the gun was firing, to make sure that the feed ring never got empty. Because then the gun would stop firing and we would get shouted at.

Now. Imagine, if you will, a rolling sea. Imagine a magazine full of rounds weighing about 80lbs each. Imagine two 18 year old who have 5 seconds each to grab an 80lb shell and carry it over to the feed ring.

Any Gun in a Storm

Did I mention that we were way up in bow? When the ship rises and falls in a heavy sea, the forces on your legs are so strong that you can barely stand – never mind carry an 80lb shell. If it’s rolling too… fahgettaboutit.

Now imagine this:

“Naval Gunfire Support! 300 Rounds! Engage!”

Holy crap, that was hard work! The top shelves in the magazine were so high that you had to stand on tip-toe to drag the shell down from the shelf and catch it on your shoulder. 4 times out of 5, it would hit your collar-bone. Holy crap, that hurt!

The rest of our tour passed without incident. Oh. Except for the Argentinian submarine that followed us for a day or so before we started following him for another week or two. Oh. And the storm that caused the ship to roll over so far that one of the seas dart missiles fell over and we all thought we were going to die. Oh. And the Force 11 storm  that followed us for a week on our way home.

Actually that was pretty nice. On any given ship, about half the people get sea sick and about half don’t. I get sick for about the first 2 or 3 days and then I am fine and nothing will bother me. Our Captain and The Jimmy both suffered from seasickness so, whenever there was heavy weather, they would send everyone who wasn’t actually required to keep the ship sailing to bed. The half of us who didn’t get seasick got to sit around drinking and playing cards. Sweet! A storm that lasted a week was a week’s vacation!

I am sure I have missed some important bits – like the Master of Your Domain contest (predating Seinfeld by several years!) and the deckchair bonfire and my Two Days’ Nines and the three-legged volleyball, but I am tired so, if I remember them, I’ll tell you about them another day.

[continued from There Be Dragons...]

Actually getting the tattoo was pretty cool.

Tattoo parlours always intimidated me from the outside but inside it was just like going to the dentist (if your dentist had a lot of tattoos) [is that supposed to be less intimidating?-ed]. My hostess – I wish I remembered her name. The google was no help. I’ll call her Tattooed Lady – sat me down and pulled out a Bic razor. Ooooh! Didn’t expect that. Never had my legs shaved before (or since).

Next, Tattooed Lady traced the outline of a dragon with a Bic ballpoint pen (didn’t expect that either) before going over it with the needle thingie. Holy crap! It hurts when the needle hits your tibia! I don’t know how people can tolerate it when they get the really bony bits – like the top of their feet – tattooed. When I mentioned this to Tattooed Lady, she showed me the half-finished tiger that she was having on her skull.

My Brand New Tattoo

Colouring the tattoo didn’t really hurt (though, oddly, when I had my other tattoo done it was the colouring that hurt most). As far as I could see Tattooed Lady was working blind because all I could see was a mess of red and yellow ink. Every now and again, she would wipe it away and I’d get a brief glimpse of a stunningly vivid dragon before the ink (or was it blood? *shrug*) would flood back and my dragon faded back into the mess.

When she was done, she covered it with a bandage which quickly got soaked with red ink (or was it blood? *shrug*). She gave me the after-care speech and sent me on my way.

I happened to be staying with my mother at the time and it was hard to hide the huge, red-soaked bandage. She assumed the worst but all sympathy vanished when she found out that I had not been in a horrible accident.

Everyone thought I was nuts. I got all the usual lectures.

“Only bad people get tattoos. People will think you are a bad person.”
“You’ll regret it when you are older.”
“They cost a fortune to have removed.”

But I can honestly say that I am still fiercely proud of my tattoos. I don’t notice them very often but when I do, I still get a flash of pride – as though I drew them myself. I know a ton of people that regret their tattoos and it’s usually because they are sick of seeing them or because they got some spur-of-the-moment image that they don’t like any more. Don’t even get me started on the people that tattoo the name of a former lover.

To summarize, my tips for getting a tattoo that will give you a lifetime of pleasure:

• Get it on a part of your body (ideally not a bony part) that you don’t have to stare at all the time
• Don’t settle on the first image that takes your fancy. Take your time over it. You will have to look at it for the next 60 years. Make a few trips to the parlour until you are sure.
• Don’t be under the influence when you get it.

Bonus tip that may or may not apply to you:

• I like to make big decisions alone. Getting advice is fine but in the end, it’s me that has to make the decision and I like to do it free from pressure. I make better decisions that way so I went to the parlour alone. YMMV.

I still love my tattoos. Will you still love yours in 60 years?

I read a book once where the protagonist made a list, at a young age, of certain pleasures that he wanted to save – read King Lear, visit the Bahamas, eat a durian – until he was 40. He didn’t want to use up all the good stuff too early, I suppose.

Here are some things that I have wanted to do before I die.

• Join the Navy (check)
• Live in Australia (had a job offer once. turned it down.)
• Play Clair de Lune on piano (almost)
• Backpack around the world (check)
• Live on a boat (not yet. haven’t given up on this one.  navy doesn’t count.)
• Go to Tahiti (check)
• Leave the Navy (check)
  
• Learn to speak French (got pretty good once – in Tahiti. forgot most of it.)
• Live in a big city (check. London, New York. I’d like to do that again.)
• Learn to surf (check. wasn’t very good at it though)
• Start my own company (tried. failed)
• Live way out in the countryside (fail. not sure I’d enjoy it anyway now)
• Learn to speak Georgian (fail. I have no idea why I wanted to speak Georgian.)
• Live in France (I have had two job offers and turned them down. Epic fail.)
  
• Dive with one and a half somersaults (check)
• Design an application that makes money (not yet)
• Smoke opium (this is my end of life plan in case I need to relieve the horrible pain)
  
• Learn to speak Indonesian (got pretty good once. forgot all of it.)
• Get a degree (I’ll get back to this one day)
• Own a convertible (check. miss it terribly. need another one.)
• Design an application that people want to use (not yet)
  
• Draw a portrait (check. forgot how.)
• Sleep on a beach (check)
• Score a goal from a bicycle kick (fail)
• Take my wife to the places I travelled in my youth (not yet)
  
• Enjoy a beer with my son (not yet)
• Draw a nude (check. forgot how now.)
• Play Marsha’s Mood on piano (fail)
• Get married on a beach (check)
• Go back and walk through the streets where I grew up (check)
• Brew beer (check)
• Live in the Caribbean (fail)
• Take a life drawing class (fail)
  
• Design an application to recreate physics experiments (not yet)
  
• Live by the beach (Lived in sight of the ocean – ok. the English Channel – twice. I’d like to do that again.)
• Live in a little village (fail)
• Sing Heartbreak Hotel on stage (check)
• Learn to make tapas (working on it)
• Run a training company on a boat in the Caribbean (I still dream)
• Swim on the Great Barrier Reef (check)
• Decorate my study with drawings of my heroes (fail – never had a study)
  
• Model for a life drawing class (fail)
• 360 on a snowboard (check)
• Frequent a pub where everybody knows my name (not for a long time)
  
• Dance with my daughter (not yet)
  
• Dive into the ocean from a very high place (check. almost killed myself)
• Play guitar (working on it)
• Own a country pub by a river (fail)
• Get air in the halfpipe (check)
• Visit a nudist club (check)
• Take my kids to celebrate Christmas with family in England (before they are too old to appreciate it [too late? - ed])
• Score from a free kick bent around a wall (still time)
• Decorate my study in a 1930s colonial style (fail – never had a study)
  
• Own a hamster (check)
• Sail around the Greek islands (soon, i hope)
• Go to Cambridge (fail)
• Visit Tuscany (not yet)
• Backside 180 mute (check)
• Ride a horse into the ocean (check)
• Write a book (fail. there are too many books in the world already)
  

Some things that I have tried to avoid:

• Run a marathon (check)
• Go to Chicago (close call – changed planes in the airport once)
• Live in suburbia (epic fail)
• Own a lot of stuff (fail)

Some things that I have started that I’d like to finish one day:

• Program: Emulate a Zilog Z80 (so close)
• Essay : Why I am Ceremonial Deist (couple more drafts to go)
• Program: Evolution simulator (this will get me my Nobel)
• Portrait: Wife (will have to re-learn to draw it’s been so long)
• Article: Software Design is a Waste of Time (seemed like a good idea when I started it)
• Web site : www.ceremonialdeists.com (to host essays by famous ceremonial deists)
• Game: Massively-multiplayer online puzzle solving game (didn’t get very far with that)
• Poem : Return to Wonderland (doubt I’ll ever get return to that)
• Program: Play & recommend music from Rhapsody on my SqueezeBox (Making good progress. Just needs a physics engine.)
• Web site: www.tremblr.com (Step 3: profit)
• Game: A Question of Speed (the oldest unfinished item on my list)
• Program : Physics Experiment Simulator (just started!)
• Game: Diplomacy over IM (it works. just need to finish the UI)
• Blog: Tales of a Submariner (not even sure what it was about now)
• Blog: New wordpress theme (haven’t actually started yet. have to finish this post first.)

Some things that I really need to do soon:

• Fix the waste disposal
• Make Jazz a real pendulum drawing table
• Buy some blinds for my room
• Book trip to Barbados
• Synchronize Jazz’s Sansa
• File expenses
• Renovate bathroom
• Replace garden fence

As I mentioned, we had quite a few stories of teacher on pupil violence. Mine was best:-)

It was the end of the third year (8th grade for the ‘mercans)  and we had to pick our subjects for ‘O’ Level so Paul and I went to speak with Mr Lewis to get some advice.

As a result, we were late coming into Mrs Timm’s history class. We so often were, but this time we had a rock solid excuse.

So we milked it.

Mrs Timm [angry]: Where have YOU been?

Kevin [shame-faced]: Er….

Paul [shame-faced]: Ermm…

Kevin [frantic]: Where shall we say we were?

Paul [scheming]: What if we tell her we were talking to someone?

Kevin [relieved]: Sure. Who?

Paul [delighted]: How about we say we were talking to Mr Lewis?

Kevin [delighted]: OK. Let’s say that.

Paul & Kevin [together]: We were talking to Mr Lewis.

Mrs Timm [still angry]: You know I can check?

Kevin & Paul [together. shocked]: Er? Really?

Kevin [conspiring]: Shall we change our excuse?

Paul [assertive]: No. Let’s stick with Mr Lewis.

Paul & Me [together]: We were talking to Mr Lewis.

We forgot all about it as taunting Mrs Timm was just the usual harmless fun and, anyway, we were telling the truth.

We forgot about the incident until the next day when we heard the Tasmanian Devil coming up the stairs to room 41, four at a time. The door almost burst off its hinges and it wasn’t Taz. It was much worse.

It was Basher Lewis. And he was very, very angry.

Basher Lewis [very, very angry]: How dare you take my name in vain!

[Basher Lewis takes backhanded swing at Kevin. Kevin ducks. Basher Lewis misses]

[Basher Lewis tries a forehand and connects with Kevin's cheek]

Basher Lewis [angrier]: Why…

[Basher Lewis hits Paul open-handed in right ear]

Basher Lewis [ibid]: did…

[SMACK!]

Basher Lewis [ibid]: you…

[POW!]

Basher Lewis [ibid]: lie…

[SOCK!]

Basher Lewis [ibid]: to…

[CRACK!]

Basher Lewis [ibid]: Mrs Timm????????????

[sound of sobbing from the girls in the next row]

Kevin: But…

Paul: We…

It’s hard to tell your side of the story when blows are raining down on your head and eventually our teacher, Mr Gooden, decided to intervene and walked us out of the class.

Don’t know what happened next with Mr Lewis but we never did get to tell our side of the story. Until now. I hope he read it and feel guilty:-)

[I have another story with even more violence but that'll have to wait for another day as I have to go check in for my flight]

It started with a random comment on a blog.

A few months back, I blogged about a rather famous party at my school and, last week, Helen left a comment. It’s always exciting to get comments on my blog- especially when the commenter is someone you haven’t spoken to for 25 years. Helen was at the party too.

I mentioned that I was coming to England for a visit and, a couple of emails later, the reunion was on.

It was supposed to be just a coffee at lunch time but Helen asked Jo, and I asked Mark and the coffee turned into a meeting at a bar in the evening. 8pm at Hall Place. (is there a bar at Hall place? *shrug*)

I got there early and, having not slept for more than about 6 hours for over a week and, being super-jet-lagged, I managed to catch 17 minutes of sleep while I waited.

I woke up in time for Mark to arrive and catch up on the missing years (Mark and I started school together on the same day in 1971. Mark is in this photo, can you spot him? He hasn’t changed.)

Helen and Jo arrived just after 8 except that it was Wendy and Jo (Sadly, Helen couldn’t make it).

The memories flowed and flowed.

We were sharing our stories of teacher on pupil violence (stay tuned for mine) and of romances past and of who was married to whom when a man walked in who looked oddly familiar and he obviously knew who we were.

I had instantly recognized Wendy but it took me a moment to remember David’s name! David said he didn’t care much about people from the old days but he said if I cared enough to cross the Atlantic, he should probably care enough to stop by on the way home from work. I am glad he did!

We had a great time (at least I did. I should let the others speak for themselves). I could have talked all night…and we would have if the bar staff had not turned the lights down and sat on a table sighing obviously.

I enjoyed it all the more for being so spontaneous and I am looking forward to the next one in 2044. We’ll be 68. Maybe the rest of you will show up next time.

UPDATE: It’s 3:30am. My flight leaves in 3 hours and I still haven’t slept. As Geir used to say on a big powder day at Tahoe: You can rest on the lift.