Myles serialised some of his journeys for the Shields Gazette later in life. Here is the beginning of one of his stories.
Sea-Dog of Days That Are Gone
By A.B.
(M.Toale)
Old Geordie sang as he stowed away his tea gear in the
locker. When he finished singing, by way of apology for his outbursts, he
remarked to his mates –
“That’s
one of the ditties all us young fellow-me-lads years ago delighted in. When the
sea spirit was strong and we thought sailor, talked sailor, lived in a sailor
atmosphere, with sailor notions – some of them Yankee ones – that I'm afraid
have now reached vanishing point.”
“Listen
to Lord Nelson moaning,” cried Bill the expert leg-puller. “I supposed the
young-uns today haven’t got the right spirit. What cheer and Bristol fashion
like eh? In your day they were real sons of the sea – but go ahead and tell us
of our loss.”
Scenting a cuffer, the rest prepared for it. Lighting their
‘dudeens’ or newly rolled fags, they puffed away in dignified respectful
silence – artists in appreciation.
“Righto
young Sarcasticus,” replied Geordie casting a withering glance on the smiling
Bill. “Other days – other ways I know, but the lads I knew had great pride in
their calling; to them a sailorman, were he A.B. or skipper, was the real
he-man, the master man to whom they rendered homage; where he went they went,
following in his wake – they simply had to – not aboard yachts, big liners, or
fancy craft, but on brigs, schooners, deep-watermen, ironoremen, across the
‘Westard’, Black Sea tramps, colliers and ‘scuffers’; a hard school, but the harder
the better, they meant to be sailors, glorying in their hardships for A.B.’s
weren’t made in a dog-watch then.
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