The Life Of Riley
By Frank Riley

BOOK TWO - PARTS FOREIGN

Chapter Two: The River Of No Return

Time wore on. The day arrived when I was to say good-bye for ever to that great institute of learning known as St. John Fisher and Sir Thomas Moore secondary-modern school. I had reached the vast age of fifteen years and it was time to fly from the nest. It had long been my intention to go to sea in Her Majesty's Merchant Navy, but first I must serve my apprenticeship.

Through Dad's influence I was able to secure a berth as deck-boy on a river barge, and for the next year I plied the river Mersey from one end to the other. Our sole purpose was to haul sand sucked up from a dredger anchored at or near the mouth of the river. From the dredger we would transport our heavy burden to all ports inland. For the most part this task was immensely pleasing, though at times there were moments of high adventure. However, I do remember a wonderful feeling of freedom during this time. It was marvellous to be rid, for days on end, of the rigours and traumas of life at home.

On the occasions when Liverpool was our destination my job, as we approached the sea wall, was to leap from the bow of the barge on to an iron ladder affixed to the stone blocks which made up the sea wall. With a coil of rope draped over my shoulder I would wait, poised in readiness, as the captain negotiated the heavy swells. Many times my life and the safety of the barge were placed in the hands of this skilful mariner. Even in the dead of night, with the wind blowing furiously and the seas rising up and sinking so low as to reveal barnacles on the lowest rungs of the ladder, he would approach with great caution and infinite patience. Never once did he lose his temper when a chance to jump was missed. The wall at low-tide towered some thirty or forty feet above the deck. The climb to the top encumbered with heavy clothing and the fifty-foot line around my shoulders one might have thought would have been too much for a frail lad such as I. Yet it is amazing what strength can be summoned when one is scared out of one's wits.

For a short spell I served a stint of duty on the dredger itself. We would head out to the mouth of the river very early on a Monday morning and remain there until late Friday evening.

Boredom was never a problem. There was always enough work to keep me occupied. Even in the idle hours, few though they may have been, I would watch with joy the great ships of the world pass close by. I pestered my older shipmates as to their destinations or their nationalities and in time I built up quite a store of knowledge on types of ships, national flags, and approximate tonnage. The day would soon come when I would be a part of that famous maritime tradition instead of being just a spectator.

One Friday night as the dredger docked in Liverpool for the weekend, three of our crew, myself included, decided to remain on board until morning since our respective modes of transport had by now ceased to run. My chauffeur, for instance, had run off with the maid just the week before - such a frightful bore, really. Anyway, we sat down to late supper in the forward cabin and then began to tell each other ghost stories; which, when you think about it, was a pretty natural thing to do on a dark and dismal Friday night.

This ghoulish occupation continued into the wee hours of the morning until sleepiness demanded that we turn in. The bosun went down aft to his cabin. The seaman remained where he was, since it was his cabin in which the supper party had taken place, and I repaired to the mess-room where, between two stanchions, I slung my hammock. I lay there in pitch-darkness, the boat now in deathly silence, save for the occasional cracking of the steam pipes as they cooled down. My mind was still absorbed with the many horrible stories that had been told in the past few hours. I had my hands behind my head with my fingers entwined in the ropes of the hammock when, suddenly, I felt two hands grab me and a long wailing scream shattered the silence!

I felt my hair stand on end. I panicked and in doing so I fell out of the hammock onto the deck. Just as I landed the lights were turned on and there, laughing his head off, was the seaman with tears of helpless laughter streaming down his cheeks. Charming! That's bloody charming, that is! I thought. The bosun came dashing into the mess-room to see what the commotion was about and on learning, they both had a grand old time at my expense. I didn't get a great deal of sleep that night.

In the course of time I transferred once more to a barge. She was a squat little tub of a thing with the ambitious name of Elizabeth, or "Lizzie" as she was affectionately called.

One day, shortly after we had pulled away from the dredger, fully laden with wet, soggy sand and barely two feet of the vessel showing above the water-line, we headed down river into the full force of a gale. The violent winds came straight towards us and the waves were already surprisingly high. I was down below in the forward cabin attending to my chores and in the process being tossed and thrown about the place at random. Suddenly, a great burst of sea water came pouring down the air-vent in the deck-head above me. It was followed by another, and yet another. Then, just as suddenly, a sheet of water crashed down the hatchway, obliterating for a second or two what little daylight there was. Time to go, chaps, thought I.

I had just reached the foot of the ladder when, to my astonishment, the hatch-cover closed, locking me inside. Through a tiny crack in the boards I saw the unmistakable figure of the bosun making his way aft, clinging to anything that would hold as the seas crashed over him.

I shouted at the top of my voice to him, but he appeared not to hear me. I kept on shouting, to no avail. The water in the cabin now sloshed about the deck from side to side. A terrible feeling of doom fell upon me. I was trapped and it looked as if poor old "Lizzie" was not going to make it. What a stupid way to die; what a waste. I knew that the old girl had the buoyancy equivalent to that of a good-sized house-brick and when the time came, it would happen quickly.

I pounded my fist on the hatch-cover, trying both to make a loud noise and perhaps to dislodge a board or two. As this desperate action was taking place the sky above suddenly appeared and there, towering over me, was the bosun. Nice to know you haven't forgotten me, old boy. He shouted down to me to grab all the life-jackets and to put one on for myself. I was not exactly slow in obeying his command.

I scrambled up the ladder with the jackets, he took them from me and ordered me to close the hatch again. We both then made our precarious way down aft towards the wheel-house where, through the open window, our valiant skipper, with fixed jaw and glassy eyes, could be seen fighting with the wheel. The bosun threw a life-jacket through the window to him. It hit the captain full in the face, but he continued to stare straight ahead, like Ahab in sight of the great white whale.

As we reached the wheel-house we were met by the engineer and the engine-room-boy, a lad my age by the name of Ged Stringer - my best friend. He told me that the engine-room was starting to flood and that the water was already knee-deep. We looked at each other, grinning foolishly in our fears.

The rain and the wind lashed the boat in a fury. We huddled together by the side of the wheel-house staring at the waves, which by now were impossible - how could you get waves that big in a river? Meanwhile, a conference was taking place between the skipper, the engineer and the bosun. The latter came and told us that we were going to try to run with the wind and make for Liverpool. He cautioned us to be on the alert for when the barge turned side-on to the waves as that was the most dangerous moment. If she makes it past that point, he told us, then all would be well. If she didn't, then every man - or boy - for himself, and be sure to jump well clear and swim like hell.

The engineer disappeared below to the engine-room to await the commands of the skipper. It was a terrible risk for him - for if the manoeuvre failed he would surely be trapped.

The moment had arrived. The skipper bellowed down the voice-tube, rang the telegraph and shouted to the rest of us to hang on. Slowly, the bow began to turn to port. Slowly, slowly, then as the wind took her she began to swing much faster. For a moment we were held side-on to the wind and waves; the seas crashed into us; water poured into the open cargo-hatch, covering the already soaked sand. Would she make it? It seemed impossible that she could stay afloat. Then gradually, the bow began to turn again until we were headed on the opposite course, running before the wind in search of a safe harbour. Eventually, we reached the docks of Liverpool and after some anxious moments, whilst the lock-master was consulted, we were given permission to enter port. The great lock gates swung open and our little barge scurried in. Now all was calm. The wind still howled above us but the seas were banished - they had not obtained permission to enter the lock.

Throughout all this I had been in a high state of tension, but not especially afraid, except for when the hatch-cover had been closed on me. Now, as we docked and were safe once more, I began to shake uncontrollably. I made as though I was cold and began to beat my arms about me, but I don't think I fooled anybody.

We conclude our publication of Frank's story with the start of the next Chapter of his book - when he signs on for deep-sea sailing, and takes his leave of Widnes, via Liverpool.

My apprenticeship was now deemed to be over. I was accepted into the Merchant Marine service on the 18th of May 1962 without having to serve the usual probationary period. On the 28th of May of that year - my birthday as it happens - I joined my first ocean-going ship, the M.S. Falaba…

(The picture below is of the FOURAH BAY, sister ship in the Elder Dempster fleet to the FALABA, from Ian Coombe's Merchant Navy website: iancoombe.tripod.com/id1.html, with thanks for permission to use here.)

The dream of my childhood had actually come to fruition. I could hardly believe it. This young man, exactly sixteen years old, was agog with anticipation. What mysteries and adventures lay beyond the horizon? What fantastic stories would unfold? My friends back in Widnes would surely be green with envy.

The time had come when we were to quit the apron-strings of Mother England and steam henceforward to strange and wondrous lands.

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