Randy Dandy

The Master of the small coaster was a dandy, a dapper dan. 'Clothes maketh the man,' he was fond of saying, because he liked the way it rolled off the tongue and sounded learned and profound. After leaving school at fourteen he'd worked in a clothing factory for a couple of years and regarded himself as a bit of an expert. He wrote to his tailor regularly, about nothing in particular, but it kept him in touch and impressed the lower ranks. He discussed turn-ups and vents, pin stripes and chalk stripes, with Pilots and Agents, Customs and anyone else, whose ear he could bend, trying to impress - airing his knowledge. He was on safe ground, most seafarers weren't interested in the style and fashion of clothes, and all thought him a bit of a crank. He'd served in the Home Trade all his seagoing life, and arrived at the exalted position of Master (without qualification) by a low cunning and fawning up to his superiors. In the Winter when the weather was bad, he would take extended leave and supplement his income collecting weekly insurance premiums for the Co-op. Always immaculately clad in the latest style suit with matching shirt and tie, he was known amongst the housewives as a bit of a prude and nicknamed, 'Randy Dandy'. Somewhat afraid of women, it was a title he didn't enjoy.
     The only person he was really afraid of was his wife, a large, stout woman, with a moustache and booming voice. She subjected him to a continuous flow of criticism, and kept him firmly under her thumb. Her friends at the bridge club, always preening themselves and boosting their confidence with tales of their husbands exploits, were always ready with a venomous jab below the belt, if they were given the slightest whisper of anything untoward or improper. They would gossip - spreading like fertiliser - any scrap of scandal. Once, when out to a dinner-dance with his wife, she'd picked him up by the lapels and hissed into his ear, 'That's Mrs. Stafford over there, go and comb your hair and put your tie straight.' 
     He'd had one too many sherries and his wig had slipped and Boadicea was annoyed.
     Mrs Stafford, Daphne to a select few, was the leading light at the bridge club, a dreadful snob and malicious gossip, and the only person his wife feared.
     At sea, amongst his crew, he was the total opposite, a slob. Careless with his dress, he slouched around for days in old baggy pants and plimsolls. He became a Captain Bligh, asserting his authority, wielding the big stick, cursing and swearing at the two mates, whom he terrorized at every opportunity. Unshaven and unkempt he would prowl the bridge looking for someone, anyone, to shout at. If it was the Mate, a small fat Geordie who was on watch, he would feel deprived, as a child denied its favourite plaything. The Mate was deaf and very eccentric, and would turn off his hearing aid whenever he needed a bit of peace and quiet. Secure in his deafness he would look at the 'old man' barking away like a bad tempered terrier, and smile vacantly into the middle distance and thus withhold from him the satisfaction of any reaction.
     If it was the Second Mate he happened upon, so much the better. He revelled in seeing the large, powerful frame, quaking and trembling, and the clear blue eyes suffused with tears. He would feel heady with power and scurry to his cabin and read the riot act to the large photograph of his wife. As the feelings of exuberance and exultation wore off, the steely gaze from the large bulbous eyes would glint with mockery and amusement, and he would slam the frame face down on the desk, trembling, and run into the toilet and lock the door.
     Approaching port he would shower, shave, and don an immaculate uniform with shirt and tie to match. Sheltering behind his uniform he was an officer and a gentleman, as he was in his sharp suits ashore. They seemed to give him confidence, but made him condescending and snobbish. When the female of the species was near he would be on his best behaviour, not a hair out of place, the creases in his trousers sharp and straight - his shoes gleaming. This contrast in his attire was only witnessed by the crew, who'd sailed with scruffy Masters before, but never with one who dressed up with the full regalia of four stripes and 'scrambled eggs' - not on the coast! Not on a scruffy old coaster! The incongruity of it all, escaped him.
     His greatest enjoyment was when berthing at a public quay, at the height of the holiday season, with an audience of sight-seers. Drawing himself up to his full height of two inches over five feet, a large megaphone clamped to his mouth, he would bark orders at the Mate whilst standing on a box which enabled him to see over the dodgers. Playing to the crowd, assuming, in his imagination, a role in a scene from the Cruel Sea, or in moments of panic when the ship behaved unexpectedly, he would forget about the box and step out into space and disappear from view. Appearing almost immediately, looking somewhat dishevelled, his cap askew, he would scream at the Mate, who, has a precaution, had already turned off his hearing aid, and would stand with a beatific expression on his fat, bovine face, and signal he couldn't hear - his hearing aid was kaput!
     Clothes were a shield to the world at large, but when surrounded by the open sea and a few seagulls, and exposed only to the eyes of his 'minions' - as he contemptuously called them - he didn't need his morale boosting. As far as they were concerned, he had the skin of a rhinoceros.
     Every afternoon he would take a nap and woe betide anyone, who disturbed him. The hours from 1300 to 1500 were sacred, and anyone who had business on the bridge during this time, always used the port side. His two pet hates were, being disturbed during his siesta, and being seen, especially by women, in a state of undress. His worst nightmare, and one he had frequently, was where he had to give a speech on, 'Mans Apparel through the Ages,' in front of a large female audience. He was introduced, in a hoity-toity voice, by Mrs Daphne Stafford, (slightly superior to his wife) whose suspicious eyes, scrutinizing his hair line - looking for the join, suddenly dropped and focussed on his crutch. A murmur, a ripple of amusement swept through the crowd, he looked down and was horror-struck - his flies were undone! He would wake up in a panic, sweating and shaking, and charge out on deck ranting and raving, at anyone within range, screaming, 'Who's been making all the F---ing noise?
        Large and powerful, with a baby-pink skin and china-blue eyes to match, the Second Mate resembled a large contented baby. He had the mental and emotional development of a child of twelve, and took great delight in crushing tin cans in his large powerful hands. He often giggled, indulgently, 'He! He! He!' like some overgrown Billy Bunter, as he let the crushed remains fall to the deck. From an island to the west of Scotland, he was timid and extremely shy, and much preferred his own company to that of his fellow men. He was a relic of times past, before certification, when Second Mates were selected because someone liked them; their faces fitted; they were reliable or big and strong, and therefore handy when the crew kicked up. If they were also smart and intelligent - so much the better! 
     Sitting in the small wheelhouse behind the wheel, sucking on his pipe, he felt contented and at peace with the world. The 'old man' who'd been on the warpath all morning, was safely out of the way, and the weather was fine. The Sunday lunch had been his favourite - roast beef and Yorkshire with two veg. His eyes on the compass, he picked his teeth using the dividers, and belched contentedly, his face contorting into a smile like a baby with wind. He pushed the wheel two spokes to starboard (the old girl was steering like a dream) and squirmed on the hard wooden seat into a more upright position. Behind him the steam steering engine chugged and hissed briefly, then lay silent waiting for its next command. Peering through the windows he scanned the unbroken horizon until, two points on the starboard bow, Flamborough Head came into view.
      The pleasure boat Yorktown Belle was almost full with holiday makers, mostly women and children, as the grizzled old Skipper cast his eye skywards. Not a cloud in the firmament.   
     'Shouldn't be many sick this trip,' he mused.
     The sea was flat and oily smooth, and with a few light airs would remain so until the sea breeze later in the afternoon.
     When he caught their eye, some of the middle-aged ladies, looking at him curiously, would look away quickly and peer into their handbags or look up at the screaming gulls. Others would smile at him coyly, some invitingly, making him feel uncomfortable. He would then retire into the small wheelhouse and tap the barometer, or twiddle the knobs on the VHF, and take stock of his life and slyly peep through the rear windows at the more brazen of his fares.
     After getting the thumbs up he gave the order to cast off, swung the vessel on the wooden jetty with the expertise of many years practise, and pointed the bows between the piers. Another uneventful Sunday afternoon trip was underway. 
      Wondering what was for tea, his eyes hypnotically fixed on the lubber-line, the Second Mate realised his pipe was unlit. Leaning forward, arm outstretched for the box of matches, some distant glint on the blue sea caught his eye. Fumbling for the binoculars he kept his eyes on the small white speck. Now where had that come from? He adjusted the focus and saw the pleasure craft was 'end on' heading straight towards him. Must have come from behind the land. Well he didn't have to worry about him, these week-end sailors didn't stay out too long, he would be turning round and going back in shortly...still he'd better keep an eye on him. He lit his pipe, and cheerfully puffed away.
      Looking over the crowded top deck at the brightly dressed passengers, the old Skipper was thinking what he could do to make the short round trip more enjoyable, more memorable. Give them something to talk about when they got back home to their smoke-grimed cities. Tales to make their neighbours envious. Most of them were staring wide-eyed at the land on the port side, or at the water rushing by over the side.
     Clearing the headland he saw a puff of black smoke on the horizon and decided to investigate. Probably one of the many colliers; one of the Saturday afternoon sailings from the coal ports of the NE coast, bound south to the power stations in the Thames. Although usually they'd all passed Flamborough before this time on a Sunday, sometimes the odd straggler, held up through engine trouble or crew shortage, wandered past before evening twilight. He would go over and give him a hail. He looked around for the megaphone, then gave a testing tug on the whistle lanyard. Something to look forward to; break the monotony; keep the paying public happy. He swung the bows to port and steered straight for the smoke.
      The Second Mate, pipe discarded, thoughts of food abandoned, was becoming agitated; the small pleasure boat was still on a collision course. If it continued much longer he would have to alter course and any slight variation in the forward progress, the least perceptible change in the steady motion, would penetrate the inner recesses of the subconscious and disturb the slumbers of the 'old man'. He was more afraid of this than having a collision. Many near misses he'd experienced, in the middle watch, because of this pathological fear. He didn't like other ships around, they were likely to call up on the lamp or VHF, and when that happened he would hide on the opposite side of the bridge until they'd passed or got fed up calling. He rang down for the helmsman, and when relieved, went and stood on the port side as far away from the approaching pleasure boat as possible.
       A buzz of excitement droned through the holiday crowd, someone had spotted the old coaster. All eyes swivelled to get a glimpse of this alien craft. Not one amongst them had seen a ship in its natural environment before, and the moment was to be savoured, and remembered for the telling. Cameras appeared reflecting the sunlight, their owners peering through the view finders and squinting up at the sun. The old brass telegraph tinkled, and the white bow wave shrank back into the sea. The accustomed sounds and feelings of movement and vibration diminished, as the sound of voices appeared louder and the screeches of the gulls more raucous.
      The old coaster steaming along serenely, belching forth black smoke, appeared to be deserted. The dirty ensign stirring sluggishly at the stern and the legend 'HOLDYEROWN' emblazoned on the bow, freshly painted, indicated British owners. The Skipper lifted the binoculars a fraction and scanned the wheelhouse. The windows were small, a sign of its age, and he couldn't see beyond. He looked at the black woodbine funnel, defaced with a large white H, at the radial davits, and at the bar stem barely disturbing the placid sea. He lowered the glasses and slowly shook is head - this would really impress the holidaymakers!
     He put the wheel to starboard until the two vessels were beam on, converging, then picked up the megaphone and blew into the mouthpiece - testing. All eyes were now focussed on this greyhound of the sea plodding along at a steady seven knots, with its rusting plates and dirty brown superstructure, trying to imagine what kind of men would sail on such a vessel.
    

'AHOY THERE! HOLDYEROWN! AHOY THERE!' The voice boomed across the narrow space, reverberating off the steel bulkheads, shattering the peace and tranquillity of the quiet afternoon.
The Second Mate, hiding on the port side of the wheelhouse, ducked his head and clamped his huge hands over his ears as the salvo of sound reached him. The 'old man' below, in the land of nod, twitched, rolled over on to his back and started to snore.
        Lowering the megaphone he continued staring at the bridge. No one! Not a sign! There must be someone in the wheelhouse. He reached up and pulled the whistle wire. The ensuing blast drowned all other sounds and deafened the would-be photographers. They all stopped what they were doing and looked up, grimacing, as if in pain. Some of the children howling, frightened. Still no sign of life. Only twenty feet now separated the two vessels so he increased speed and edged away, deciding to cross ahead and steam down the other side.
      The 'old man' sat bolt upright as if poked by a sharp instrument - interrupted in mid snore. What the hell was that? Sounded like a ships whistle! He sat listening, eyes closed, foggy with sleep and the memory of a pleasant dream, but all he could hear was the normal ship noises and a child crying.
Child?... Crying?... He opened his eyes...all quiet! Through the port the sea - serene, the sky - blue. The Yorkshire cliffs, a grey smudge, sandwiched between. The child must have been part of the dream, but it was fading fast, so he lay back trying to recall.
     The Second Mate had just lowered his hands from his ears when sound waves from the whistle's blast battered his eardrums. He fell on all fours, deafened and confused, cowering, waiting for the inevitable. After a few seconds he clambered to his feet and sheepishly peeped over the dodger to see the white-hulled boat, with its human cargo, pulling ahead, departing. He rolled his eyes and looked up, offering silent thanks then walked through the wheelhouse on tip-toe to the starboard side and looked down, anxiously, at the next deck to see if the 'old man' was on the prowl.
          When the old coaster was five cables dead astern, the Skipper put the wheel hard-to-port and reduced speed. He steadied the swing when the coaster was a couple of points on the port bow, and allowed it to run down his port side. As it passed he searched the wheelhouse. The sun reflecting off the windows from a different angle, allowed him to glimpse a dark figure behind the wheel - and then it was past. So there was life on the old tub, but what form did it take? Was it intelligent? If so why couldn't he get a response? Determined to resolve the mystery he swung round to port and followed the coaster.
      The Second Mate had been watching the manoeuvring of the Yorktown Belle with a feeling of impending doom. First it had almost gone into the 'old mans' cabin; then it had shot ahead, turned round and passed down the port side; then rounded the stern and was now overtaking on the starboard quarter, alongside the 'old mans' cabin again. What did the lunatic want?
     Hiding in the wheelhouse peering through the rear windows, his eyes and mind on the other vessel, his hearing was always attuned to that part of the bridge ladder where at any moment the 'old man' might appear. That was the area of greatest danger.
     Without warning a cannonade of sound exploded against the wheelhouse, causing the windows to rattle
     'HOLDYEROWN AHOY! HOLDYEROWN AHOY!'
     The Second Mate cringed, 'Jesus Christ,' he whispered, 'Why doesn't he f...k off?' He pushed the man off the wheel and told him to go and see what he wanted.
      The Yorktown Belle was now almost alongside. Still holding the megaphone, the Skipper, becoming frustrated, yanked the whistle wire violently, once, twice, thrice, quickly.
     The young AB, black with a Rastafarian hair style, leaned over the bridge wing and smiled at the Skipper, just fifteen feet away, holding the whistle wire. Behind him sitting on benches a hundred and twenty people all stared at him with open curiosity. Some nudging their companions, looking slightly shocked; some looking through view finders clicking cameras, then hastily lowering them to see what it was they'd snapped.
     The Skipper, who thought he'd seen it all, stared at the long twisted locks and gleaming white teeth, and realised his mouth was open. He muttered something, attempting to cover his momentary lapse of control, and let go of the whistle wire. Making a great mental effort, for the benefit of his passengers, he lifted the megaphone to his lips.
     'HELLO THERE CAPTAIN. WHERE FROM?'
     'BLYTH,' shouted the young sailor, flattered.
     'WHERE BOUND CAPTAIN?'
     'LONDON,' getting into the way of things.
     'WHAT CARGO CAPTAIN?'
     'COAL...NUTTY SLACK' getting clever,
     The two vessels were almost touching. The Skipper, satisfied now that he'd fulfilled what he thought was his obligations to his fare paying passengers, looked them over with a fatherly eye. Well it was time to return to base. They'd had a good run for their money. He waved and smiled at the mop of hair.      The 'old man' had dozed off again but the dream had changed, now he was being chased naked through fields and woods by a huge flabby female wielding a large pair of tailors shears. Her hand was on his shoulder when a voice came to his rescue and woke him up, sweating. The three blasts penetrated his fear and cleared his mind - the clammy hand letting go. 
     'What the f..ks going on?' he says aloud, 'It's that big fat pillock of a Second Mate.'
     Then voices - loud voices. Throwing back the blankets, shaking with rage, he ran to the door and flung it wide. The momentum of his anger drove him, unseeing, across the narrow space from his door to the rail. The pent up venom spewing forth in a torrent of abuse, he was screaming, demanding, 'What's going on? Who's making all the  F...ing noise?' when the realisation that instead of an empty sea and a cringing Second Mate, there in front of him was a sea of faces; one hundred and twenty, mostly females; ladies - of the opposite sex, looking at him with astonishment, some with shock. It was as if he'd walked into a brick wall! He stopped in mid-curse, terror and panic coursing through his frail body - gripping him. He was wearing his long johns in front of an audience! A female audience! His oldest pair! Without his wig and without his teeth! His worst nightmare, come true! He turned around quickly and almost made it to the door when the laughter washed over him, and a woman’s voice, hoity-toity, loud and clear, 'HA, HA, LOOK WHO IT IS DAPHNE - IT'S RANDY DAN.
Bill China R408847
4th March '04