Trafford Publishing: Under Eight Flags: Vol II 1948-1957

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Under Eight Flags: Vol II 1948-1957 - The Next Ten Years at Sea

by Anthony F. (Tony) Winstanley

233 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #00-0054; ISBN 1-55212-390-1; US$23.50, C$27.00, EUR19.50, £13.50

A description of the author's early years in Canada where he failed to find a job ashore and was forced to return to the sea.

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After 11 years at sea, Tony Winstanley saw little reason for staying in the British Merchant Navy. He had reached a dead end. Difficulty with passing exams, and the prospect of long absences from home cast a gloomy future. The answer was to emigrate to Canada, to make a new life for himself and his family. This meant finding a good job ashore. This second volume of memoirs is about his futile attempts to achieve this. He toiled in a fish plant, took a soul-destroying job as a salesman, even worked in an ice cream factory where he was fired for dropping the flavour of the month onto the conveyor belt. Finally he realized that the only way to support a growing family was to pursue his destiny to remain at sea. During the nine years covered by this book he sailed in cargo and passenger ships both deep sea and coastal, and did a stint inland aboard a tug on Lake Okanagan. "I had a tendency to quit jobs if I did not like them. This was hard on my wife, but we always managed to pay the bills."

Reader Review

"This was to have been my bedtime story--read a few pages then go off to sleep--but it didn't work that way. I couldn't put it down. It brought me back to my youth, serving as I had done, under similar conditions, in both Canadian foreign-going ships as well as on the coast of British Columbia. I re-lived those carefree days when I sailed the oceans of the world, and then, with some difficulty, had to learn the intricacies of navigating rugged coastal waters. As both Tony and I found, in the transition, it was like night and day.

"Tony Winstanley has done a wonderful job of telling his story over those long and arduous ten years. His description of the life of an immigrant family--his family--and a visible majority family at that, pulls at the heart-strings. Waiting with baited breath, to find out hopefully that everything will turn out well. His description of the south sea islands that he visited brought back my own delightful memories of tropical isles, and the anticipation of a trip ashore to stretch the legs, whatever. And although he occasionally uses the language that was used by many of the seamen, its use brings back, to those of us that were there, a flavour of those times, and memories of some that spiced each sentence with at least one cuss word. His experience with our Canadian seamen--the majority of whom were very decent, and good seamen to boot--also reflects the sad conditions that we were faced with by an unruly minority, so that what he relates in his story is, in fact, what it was like out there. Having now read both of Tony's volumes I am saddened that I did not record the day to day events during my own career at sea. Tony not only kept his journal but has done an extremely fine job of relating the events in such desciptive and eloquent terms--a story well told, and well worth reading."

-Captain Hill Wilson, MNI Master Mariner, BC Coast Pilot (Ret'd)

About the Author

Tony Winstanley was born in London in 1920. He went to sea at 16 and served his apprenticeship with a Scottish shipping company. During the war he served as a deck officer on British and Dutch ships. In 1948, he emigrated to British Columbia, Canada with his wife and two children and continued seafaring on coastal and deep-sea ships. He gained his Master's Certificate in 1962. He has served on many different vessels including tankers, troop ships, research vessels and cruise ships. In 1973 he joined the B.C. Ferries where he worked for the next 13 years. Over a period of 55 years Tony has sailed under eight national flags. He has nine children and ten grandchildren and resides in Victoria, B.C.

Under Eight Flags Volume I
Under Eight Flags Volume III

Excerpt
FROM CHAPTER 10 -
August 4TH 1951, my diary read: "At long last the day has come to leave New Zealand. We have been away from home for over six months, but we should be back in Canada in September. Today we loaded crates and boxes marked 'Rarotonga', 'Apia', and 'Tahiti', and I realize that the best part of the voyage lies ahead. This will be my last voyage away from home and I must jot down my impressions of the Pacific Islands as it will be my only chance to see them."
"Our new master is Captain Ritchie, a New Zealander who has little to say other than to tell me to plot the courses for the Cook Islands and leave the charts out for his inspection."
"Several wives (some hopefuls) and girl friends of our crew gathered on the dock to give us a tearful send off. Our passengers were five missionaries, all men. A crowd of their women stood apart on the dock and began singing hymns, but their plaintive voices did not blend well with the vulgar shouting and suggestive comments made by our crew and their women. There were tearful farewells and cries of anguish as our lines were cast off. Three blasts on the whistle and the ship moved out into the harbour."
August 5TH. By daybreak we were well out to sea heading for Rarotonga and rolling heavily to a westerly swell. To my disgust I was sea sick. This has not happened for a long time, I had thought that I had overcome this scourge. I had company on the bridge during the night watch. A bull terrier puppy, whose pedigree name was "Grecian Fearnought", was put aboard to be delivered to our agent in Papeete. Someone had the bright idea that he should be kept in a pen on the bridge as his barking might keep the passengers on the deck below awake. Oddly enough he settled down after I gave him the bully beef sandwiches which the steward had left for my consumption and for which I had no appetite!
August 6TH "Meridian Day" (we crossed the date line) and I had the dubious pleasure of having two birthdays.

The Waikawa at anchor off Rarotonga

August 8TH 1951: At noon we sighted Rarotonga fine on the port bow, then a rain squall blotted it out. We were still eight miles off but being very cautious the old man reduced to half speed and the mate and chips went forward to clear the anchors. A pilot was not required as the masters in the Union Company know the islands and do their own pilotage. Nearing the anchorage the rain cleared and we found that the government steamer Maui Pomare was there loading a cargo of bananas. She was flying the "Blue Peter" signifying that she would leave shortly. It was a difficult anchorage there being only room for one large ship. The coral reef stretched out for about four cables (2400 feet) from the shore and then there was a sudden drop into very deep water. After the Maui Pomare was clear the old man maneuvered the ship while I took compass bearings of Donald's Store (the most prominent building on the shore) and the Government jetty in order to place the ship in exactly the right position before we dropped the port anchor in 20 fathoms of water. The anchorage was an exposed one and the ship continued to roll to a low swell.
The island presented a lovely picture. Luxuriant vegetation extended to the very summit of the mountains, the highest being 2100 feet. Soon after the anchor had been dropped a launch came alongside with the company agent and a gang of islanders to work the cargo. What a picturesque bunch they were--fine looking people with strong physiques. Some of them wore nothing more than a cloth around their waists; some wore a bandana of leaves on their heads and all were smiling. They went to work with a will. We had brought a few thousand cases of bully beef, a food much in demand on the Islands, plus other items of general cargo. Work stopped at dusk; the Islanders went ashore; we weighed anchor and put to sea as there was always the danger of the swell increasing and our dragging the anchor.
At day break we returned to the anchorage and as I had taken half the mate's watch as well as my own I was free to go ashore. I woke up at 8 a.m. to the pleasant sound of the surf breaking heavily on the shore nearby and the laughter of the Islanders who had just returned aboard. The best way to get ashore was to stand at the cargo hatch and wait for a sling load to be lifted out of the hold. The winchman allowed me to grip the cargo hook and I was lowered on to the heaving lighter. Once loaded the lighter was towed ashore by a small launch. Sparks came with me, saying he had been to Rarotonga many times before. "I never tire of the islands," he said, "the people are the friendliest on earth; they are "Nature's own children" (he was quoting Robert Louis Stevenson who lived with the Samoan Islanders but presumably meant all Polynesians) "If I could find a way of arranging it, I would spend the rest of my days on one of them. Rarotonga is a tropical garden paradise."
We walked along a winding foot path amid lush growth past houses made of pandanus, coconut matting and bamboo, each with a verandah to provide shelter from the hot sun. There were a great number of trees and plants I had never seen before but Sparks identified them as bread fruit and paw paw. Men and women were working on their crops, the women dressed in gaily coloured pareus. They called out to us, it being their custom to greet strangers this way. There were no requests to sell us anything, quite the opposite, we were offered pineapple and coconuts and I returned aboard feeling that my first visit to the Islands was every bit as exhilarating as I had hoped.

Rarotonga, a tropical garden paradise.

Next day I met John Taripo. He was twenty years old and his ambition was to go to New Zealand to work. He had seen pictures of cities like Auckland where people lived in big houses and drove shiny cars. He imagined that it must be a paradise. I resisted the temptation to explain to him that he was far better off where he was. He operated the radio telephone for the company and had brought his equipment aboard and installed it in the chart-room so that we were in contact with the office ashore. He was the essence of politeness and ever ready to be of assistance. I told him that Sparks and I wanted to walk across the island. "You will have a long hard walk, better to cycle, I can find two bikes and the road around Rarotonga is OK."
Conditions were perfect. A cool breeze blew off the ocean as we set off. I hadn't ridden a bike for years and the brakes on mine did not seem very effective. It didn't matter much as the roadfollowed the coastline and was level. Every turn presented a scene of great beauty, the ocean swells turned into foam as they crashed on to the golden beach on one side. Swaying coconut palms, dense foliage and the peaks of the mountains shrouded in mist on the other. We came to a place where offshore islands created a lee and the water was calm and crystal clear. Casting our bikes aside we plunged into the sea. It was a welcome break as by this time I was sweating profusely. Cycling under a sun which was directly overhead may have been all right for short distances but we had covered about ten miles. We reached a village where children came running out to watch us go by. They asked us where we came from and giggled when we said "Canada." I told them that we were thirsty and they asked us to wait while they ran off to speak to women standing on the verandah of a hut. Presently cups of refreshing coconut milk were given to us. Nobody asked us for money and they would likely have felt insulted if we had offered any. We had circled the island in three hours, a distance of 22 miles. I was saddle sore, weary but convinced that one of the best ways to see a South Sea island is to cycle around it.

Rarotonga, Cook Islands, an island of serenity

Soon after the sun went down, the sound of drums were heard from ashore, and a few lights appeared amidst the foliage. The island came to life at night, and the drums were the signal that a party was about to begin. The bus which meandered from village to villageduring the day was now picking up people to take them to Avarua the largest town on the Island. The bus ran on a very loose schedule and the driver was in no hurry. Those who had ridden in this bus said that it would often stop outside a hut and wait while a girl arranged her hair. No one complained. The driver put his feet up on the dash and smoked. Passengers were in a festive mood, the sounds of laughter and singing mixed with noises from livestock, the clucking of chickens and the grunting of pigs.

Rarotonga, the friendliest people on earth.

August 16TH 1951, happy gangs of Islanders came aboard for the last time to load a hundred tons of mother of pearl shells. A local man had struck it rich by exporting these shells (gathered from neighbouring Aitutaki Island) to the U.S.A, where they were used for making buttons. At 6 p.m. we weighed anchor and sailed away. An hour later I looked wistfully astern to see the lofty peaks of Rarotonga still visible in the fading light. I was jolted back to reality by having to adminster an injection of penicillin for the usual complaint.
One of our passengers was a French doctor returning to Tahiti after attending a conference in Australia. His dress seemed unusual; he wore a highly coloured shirt depicting an idyllic island scene. I needed his help in lancing a whitlow on the index finger of seaman Kirkham. He surprised me by the seemingly brutal manner in which he went about it and poor Kirkham almost passed out.
Before we sailed, Sparks received news that the small steamer Alexander had struck a reef on nearby Aitutaki Island and needed assistance. She was berthed near us in Auckland and we knew some of her crew. The Alexander was a 49 year old Clyde built ship. She reported that she had 5 feet of water in the forward hold. The Union Co. offered the services of the Waikawa to haul her off the reef, but this was not accepted. She was then abandoned as a total loss.
The passage to Bora Bora was an uncomfortable one. A rough sea churned up by the strong south easterly. trade wind and a heavy swell, plus the fact that we were almost empty, produced a fast roll and some sickening lurches. But with the sea behind us we averaged over 11 knots, and soon after midnight on the 19TH August we sighted the peaks of the mountains on Bora Bora We reduced speed to wait for daylight and the pilot. My watch was over at 4 a.m. but I had no desire to sleep and miss a visual treat of exceptional beauty.

Approaching Bora Bora, Society Islands.

I had heard that of all the island groups in the South Pacific the Society Islands were the most spectacular and of these Bora Borawas the jewel. The renowned French writer and traveler Alan Gerbeau described it as the most beautiful island he had ever seen. In the early morning light the lofty peaks stood like sentinels, the most prominent of them being sheer sloped and 3000 ft high, its pinnacle sword-like piercing the sky. It was a magnificent sight.
We stopped two miles off the entrance to the lagoon to pick up the jaunty French pilot who wore a straw hat and spoke little English. The passage through the reef was deep enough to allow ships of the deepest draught to enter. During the war the liner Queen Mary had called at Bora Bora to embark American servicemen who had been stationed there.
The lagoon was spacious enough to accommodate the entire U.S. fleet. The waters of this lagoon were deep blue changing to aquamarine nearer the shore where the town of Vaitape could be seen nestling among the palms. Men in outrigger canoes and small sailing craft waved at us as we moved slowly through the placid water.

The lagoon at Bora Bora was large enough to anchor the entire US Fleet.

On entering the lagoon there was some commotion on the bridge when the pilot gave the order "Starboard" which the 3 rd mate took to mean "Stop her" and moved the engine room telegraph accordingly. This caused the pilot to gesticulate wildly and shout, "Non, Non, Starbor the wheel." No harm was done, and we movedslowly to the quay and tied up. A gendarme came aboard and greeted the captain volubly in French. He replied in English and neither appeared to understand the other. A large crowd had gathered on the dock to watch our arrival as it was not often a ship the size of ours came to Bora Bora. It was easy to understand why visiting seamen to this island spoke rapturously about the native women for among the throng looking up at us were several smiling wahines (women of French Polynesia) of exquisite beauty. Wearing colourful pareus and with flowers in their hair they were the very picture of the romantic fantasies that sailors would dream about and desert for! The tedium of weeks at anchor off Auckland were now forgotten.
The U.S. Army had been here during the war, and they had left evidence of their stay as some of the sandy-haired, blue-eyed children running about on the dock were obviously of mixed parentage. But unlike other places where such children were unwanted it was different on Bora Bora. The women were very proud of their association with a foreigner and it was said that they would even fight over who would look after the "Little Yankees!" In the parliament of one colonial power the minister responsible for a group of Pacific Islands was asked what was being done for orphans and old people? The reply was that there were no orphans in the Islands as there were no unwanted children. As for old people they lived with their children until the day they died. Even then their remains were not far away. During my tour of Rarotonga I had seen many gravestones scattered among the huts and was told that these were members of the family at rest.
When my watch was over I took a walk along a dusty road that followed the shoreline. At every turn of the road a scene of unparalleled beauty came in view. A gentle breeze rippled the water of the lagoon, mangrove trees thrust their branches out over the waters edge and in the background the splendid twin peaks of Bora Bora were covered in vegetation. I watched fishermen throwing their nets in a curving sweep over the water and after walking about a mile I reached a cluster of huts scattered among the trees, some the largest town on the island. A crowd had gathered around the pier to welcome a French doctor who had arrived from Papeete on an inspection tour.
When his small plane had landed he stepped on to the pier. Drums were beaten in fast tempo and sixteen dancers assembled, wearing brightly coloured grass skirts, head bands of beads and flowers. The men were lithe and muscular, the girls slim and alluring with flowers in their hair which in Tahitian fashion hung down to their waists. The dancers swayed and gyrated with great energy, their bodies glistening with sweat. The little doctor, dressed in a palm beach suit and wearing a straw hat, smiled indulgently. When the dancing and drumming stopped, he said a few words. A beautiful wahine placed a lei of frangipani around his neck and he was escorted towards a small building which I assumed was the hospital. With such a reception it was not surprising that the French did not want to leave the Society Islands.

Bora Bora welcome for a visiting French doctor.

We had come to Bora Bora to load 500 tons of pipe and scrap metal which had been left behind by the Americans seven years earlier. The pipes were needed in Papeete for water mains. Fortunately for us this took over two days to load and I was able to go ashore again. On my second visit to Vaitape I stopped at the "Grog Shop" where some of our crew were sampling the vin rouge.This establishment had a grass roof supported by bamboo poles; there were no walls and it overlooked the lagoon. It was owned by an American beachcomber called Pokey Wheeler who had tired of the ruthless ways of doing business in Chicago, and had given up everything for life in paradise. He lived with a native woman, had adopted the native dress and ways and was seldom sober. He was a lanky, loud mouthed middle aged man with straggly hair and his manner seemed to suggest that his search for happiness had been in vain.

Wahine of Bora Bora, Society Islands.

When I arrived he was arguing with the bosun about the cost of drinks he had served. By now some of the ship's crew had found feminine companions who had put leis around their necks and it appeared the men were not in the least inclined to be as belligerent as they were in New Zealand. Chickens, pigs and dogs wandered about the premises looking for scraps. Naked children chased each other around a bougainvillea bush and a comely wahine sat beside it strumming a guitar. A matronly lady was selling grass skirts and mother of pearl shells. I paid a few francs for a model out-rigger canoe, and was given a shell necklace as a present. I wondered how I would take the canoe home since it was four feet long. I joined Mike the 3 rd mate who was glassy eyed and in earnest conversation with a girl, although he spoke no French and she no English. It didn't seem to matter, their heads were close together and they werelooking into each other's eyes. Simple meanings could be conveyed by sign language!
Our stay in this idyllic island was slightly marred by the theft of a bicycle. I was wakened from a deep slumber by the agitated voice of Pokey Wheeler announcing that he wanted to see the captain because he had reason to believe that one of our crew had stolen his friend's bicycle. I went out on deck and was confronted by a bare footed Pokey dressed in ragged, dirty trousers and shirt. He was accompanied by an attractive girl whom I had seen earlier playing a guitar outside the grog shop. He gazed at me with blood-shot eyes, "One of your men will have to pay for this." I disclaimed all knowledge of the matter and told him see the mate. But he received no satisfaction as Bentzen did not want to talk to anyone. I directed him to the old man's room and he appeared in his dressing gown rubbing his eyes, in no mood to receive visitors. "What the hell is going on, and who the hell are you?" he said pointing at Pokey. "What right have you to disturb me like this? I will call the police." Pokey explained that his friend was very angry. She was a school teacher and needed her bike to get to school. The old man told me to take Pokey and the girl to the crew's accommodation to identify the thief. This proved futile as most of them were either asleep or ashore.

Bora Bora, world's most beautiful island.

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