Mariner's Tale Theme Tune: Toiler on the Sea

We all went to see The Stranglers at Brixton Academy a few weeks ago and roundly agreed that this tune should be in the running for Mariners Tale theme tune:

The Stranglers - Toiler on the Sea

What is Time?

One of the most rewarding things about going through my great-grandfather's journals has been the personal discovery of learning a little more about who I am and where I come from. I have always been slightly obsessed with imagery around time, flight and travel - latching on to passages from T.S. Eliot about measuring time in coffee spoons - and they litter Myles's writings. Even the little things: he signs off letters 'Au revoir' or 'Bon nuit' and throws in gratuitous foreign words to describe what he and his shipmates are doing or seeing. I am occasionally guilty of the same.

I see in much of what he writes my own thinking - which has made me wonder whether the ideas that resonate most strongly with a person are innate or whether you learn to examine and explore certain themes through regular exposure within your family.

Rifling through some loose leaf papers, I came across this poem. Over the years I had heard my grandfather recite it to my sisters and I many a time, but never fully appreciated where it had come from. For your reading pleasure....

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What is Time? – Lines to an Inquirer

Time is the ever present now

Man measures by a clock

That keeps coy hands before its face

While its in’ads laugh. Tick Tock.

By solar time as east to west

The sun it seems to go

Though learned he knows quite well

Of course it is not so.

He’s sure a very clever chap

Whose thoughts seek the sublime

Yet thinks to make a longer day

With his clock pushed summer time

Time flies and on its wing

We are borne along.

Amid life’s cloud and sunshine

Pray friend, our hold be strong.

Past, present and the future

That stupendous trinity

makes humble as we ponder

dim-visioned, on its unity

Yet with the grade of God to guide us

As we sing aloud “Credo”

In our hearts we find the answer

To all we wish to know.

Written in 1957 by great-grandfather

Myles Toale

True British Sailors

To be known as a sailor in the old days was a true mark of pride, as Geordie describes as he continues his story below. This is the final instalment of the story as it was printed in the shields Gazette. 

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A Real Sailor

            “A few like myself with no great desire to be other than what was once our ideal have stuck to the deck and the fo’c’sle but we are thinning in numbers.

            “Last time at home I passed by a ‘pub’ –  yes, you hobos – I passed by a ‘pub’ – I do sometimes; it was near a dry dock. I saw a gang of chaps having a pow-wow, ‘chewing the rag’ you know. As I went by one of them grabbed my by the arm and in excitedly anxious tones, mellowed by a few pints of beer, entreated me to tell the rest that he was a sailor.

            “You know me Geordie – I’m a sailor ain’t I – tell them I’m a sailor,”

            “I looked. Sure enough he was one o the sea lads I knew. Crippled on a government trawler in the war he was; now not able to go to sea for a living.

            “’You bet you are, Fred,’ I said and he looked triumphantly at the crowd.

            “The old spirit lived. To be known as a sailor was his greatest pride.  

            “That pride was held of course by all the old mates and skippers, in fact they sometimes claimed a monopoly of it. There’s a yarn about a lady visitin’ to a ship that will show you whiat I mean.

            “She was very inquisitive keeping her officer friends busy passing along information. Noticing some of the crew working aloft, she asked –

            “’Are those the sailors?’”

            “’Oh no,’ she was informed by the mate, pointing to his pals of the afterguard, ‘We are the sailors – They are the roustabouts.’

            “You see although most of the old forecastle hands were full of this pride of craft, they were seldom given credit for it, and often treated as though they knew it not.

Changing Times

            “Times have changed and many things are in a state of transition. It can’t be expected of an old timer to see eye to eye with everything new. Changes are not always for the best.” So you will understand some old Lord Nelson – as Bill remarked – moaning about the passing of the spirit that animated him; he wonders – are even the officers losing it.

            “In my last ship the second mate was a smart young chap who got his ticket at his first attempt becoming second mate of the same ship in which he served his time. Always in uniform he was modern – natty and scholarly – a real good sort but – this is what he said to me at the wheel when the mate – an elderly man who had been officer in sail – had left the bridge after a wrangle about the ship’s position. ‘You know Brown we’ve got a mate on this ship but he’s simply a sailor’. – What did he mean?

            “There’s a change alright boys. Of late when ever I take a pasear to the old hunting grounds, I find little trace of the old type. A few riggers and sailors still haunt the Market Cross, but in King Street – the one-time parade of the ‘crowds’ from the sailing coasters – Whitstable men, Channel Islanders, Newhaven men, Devon men, to say nothing of Geordies and Scotties – an unforgettable lot to those that knew them, with their velvet collared coats, silver earrings, and unmistakeable sailor air – there is no sign they were ever there.

           

Old Spirit Survives

            “In Ocean Road brassbounders bound no more, not roll gunnels under. They have sailed away, leaving one or two old locals with a lot to think about as they wander aimlessly, lost among the crowds of pleasure seekers making for the beach – the Ocean roaders – “

            Here Geordie stopped overcome with emotion.

            Bill, ever ready, filled the gap, saying, “Never mind old hoss – old sailors never die – you – well they’ll have to hang you – and don’t you worry about the sea spirit. What about your young townie, the ordinary and the apprentice; I’m damned sure they are full of it. What do you say, hombres?”

            “Regular young sea dogs,” was the opinion of the ‘hombres’. That given to show them they were also, they sang with no uncertain voices a verse of

            “We’ll rant and we’ll roar

            “Like true British sailors.”

Call of the Sea

Part 2 of the Bygone Days of the Tyne as published in the Shields Gazette (date unknown). Geordie continues to wax lyrical about the old sailor spirit and describes the scene on the Ocean Road. 

Ocean Road in 1923

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Call of the Sea

            “There was no such thing as signing ‘sailor’ and getting an A.B.’s pay. No, they had such a tough time for a year or two – sure thing – Anyhow, go to sea they would, even if they started as the cabin boy, messroom ‘fat’ or deck-boy.

            “When a few of them boys met at home, well, it was – “Clear out you small swells and make room for the big sea’ –

             “Down Ocean Road they went arm in arm, and with no policeman in sight they probably sang “No more I’ll go aroving” – keeping in mind the order at starting ‘Now then boys, all roll together’.

            “I can see them now, each rigged out with a ‘Second mate’s bad discharge’; a bright leather peaked cap, its strap pulled over the top – worn cock-billed on three hairs.

            “Those with square cut jacket, over their guernseys, back silk mufflers round their necks – the knots canted to port shoulders, were the schoonermen.

“The ‘Yanks’ wore no waistcoat, so as to expose a fancy shirt bought in the ‘States’ and a flowing tie. Of course those guys kept their pants up with the aid of a nice buckled belt.

            “The messroom fats – regular sea swells – wore linen collars and flash white silk mufflers, the ends tucked in their vests well down. 

Looking the Part

            “Pants were semi-bell-bottomed and shoes high heeled, though it the weather was wet Wellington sea boots were the fashion. Oh, they dressed sailor and were proud of it. Nowadays you can’t tell a sailor from an insurance collector.

            “Leaving the ‘bob’ side of the road they would invade the ‘two shilling side’ where they swanks fancied they held right-of-way; I mean the sailing ship apprentice in his smart uniform; the Brassbounder he was called, and between you and me he was far too successful with the lasses to please the ‘locals’.

            “However they tried to get their own back by a scornfully uttered ‘Light the binnacle boy.’ Rivals in love, both parties had a sneaking regards for one another. Really the locals had great respect for the brass-buttoned sailing ship apprentice, who might – if he hadn’t been a young sport – bring up ‘all standing’ some of them, perhaps truthfully with the paralysing phrase then still in use ‘Steamboat sailor!’ 

            “Steamboat sailor or not the spirit was there, and although some of the locals became skippers, I know their greatest pride is in the name of sailor. Even those that became cooks and stewards, firemen or donkeymen as fortune willed, were at heart and will remain while they last – sailors."

Bygone days of the Tyne

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.

A Love Poem to his Lady

Myles's journals and letters speak clearly of his love for his wife Teresa and the desire to be back at her side whilst he is away. In one letter from 1917 he chides himself for getting soppy after saying "Teresa dear I miss you very much this time and I cant help thinking about you and I long for a feel of your arms and a taste of your sweet lips." He is worried that someone beside her or the "censorman", who would have reviewed all correspondence from sailors on Admiralty commission at that time, would see the lines.  

In honour of the Valentine's Day just passed, here is a poem he penned from a rambler to his dearest wife...

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Tuesday 19^th May, 1914

S.S. Welbury Algiers, Algeria a.m.

Dear Teresa,

Arrived here 7 a.m. and I received your letter of the 16^th May. I was very pleased to do so. You say that you have sent me more than four. I am sorry to have been worrying you in my letters about the strayed correspondences. I feel a bit of a beast after reading this letter of yours here. This is the second one I have got. Please forgive me. We are taking 250 tons of bunker coal. Will leave about noon. The address is M Toale S.S. Welbury c/o Herm, Daulsberg Esq, Ship’s Agent, Bremenhaven, Germany.

Hope you enjoyed your last social.

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I need no verse of learned prose

My hopes, ambitions, to disclose

And tell of love more pure than gold.

I pen one word and all is told

Teresa

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It took me a whole hour to compose the above yet it only faintly conveys the sentiment I feel.

Be good. I conclude with the best of love,

xxx Your loving husband, xxx

xxxx Myles xxxx

xxxxxx

Antwerp and Home 1912

Daniela and I visited Antwerp last week on the Mariner's Tale trail. Here are some of Myles's accounts of his journey to the City.  

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Wednesday 24^th January, 1912 - Odessa 

Mild weather today. Scraping and painted over the side all our working hours.

The forecastle were searched by Custom officials for contraband. They are very strict. My two packs of playing cards were took aft and sealed up, so there will be no more ‘poker’ while we are in this port. More Russian officials came aboard and mustered all hands on the poop. They called for Jacobsen the Finn who is a Russian subject. He went down the cabin to undergo a gruelling questioning. The trouble was, he could not speak Russian, nor the Russians speak Finnish or English. However he made out they wanted to see his passport. He had none to show he having lost it years ago. Because he was an elderly man, I suppose they let him off. The rest of us were not troubled.

In the afternoon we shifted to the breakwater mooring stern on whit the cable our for’ard. We will remain here for several days, our cargo, which rumour says we shall take to Antwerp, not being ready for us. The playing cards sealed up, poker was out of the question, therefore to while away the time we spun yarns, 'cuffers' we call them. At the start they were mostly of the sea and shipping, but somehow or other the recounting of schoolday incidents came uppermost. Schooldays, how dear they seem as we grow older. How we remember the most trivial items of those bygone days. With what gusto we relate them, and in the relating become boys again. Tempus Fugit! A few more years of toil, and all is over. Now Myles – steady there, you are only a common Jack. Sentimentality and the finer feelings are not for such as you.  Come hail, come shine, you must meet either smilingly and thankfully. I write this sitting up in my bunk. The watchman has just come along and told me its 10 o'clock so I will clew up, put my scribbling tackle on the shelf and have my usual smoke-o before sleeping the sleep of just, just so.

Bon nuit.

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Monday 26th February, 1912 - Antwerp bound

Fine weather continues making the slant a thing of actuality, not of hope. Wind S.W. Meeting a lot of traffic. Homeward and outward bounders. Work today consisted of blackening winches, using a wad and black paint. Very few men like to clean or paint winches, too many corners, nuts and sharp edges to be pleasant.

Ushant abeam 7:30pm. My wheel 8 to 10 steering up Channel E. by N½N.

Soon we’ll be in Antwerp. Go ahead old steamboat.

Wednesday 28th February, 1912 - Arriving in Antwerp

Middle watch on deck.

Hoisted two red lights well up the main rigging the signal for the Antwerp pilot. Sighted the cutter (schooner) at little to the Eastward of Dungeness 2:30am. Underway with pilot aboard by 6 bells. Below 4 to 8. On coming on watch at 8 found we were in North Sea. Ship in charge of pilot. Wind favourable. Reaching Flushing this afternoon. Changed pilots and proceeded up the Scheldt [River]. Ship stopped at 8pm to pass, or rather, be passed by the Port doctor. At 9 o'clock anchor was dropped (35 fathoms of cable in the water) just below the city to await the tide. Made a move again at 10 past 10. By 12:30am (Thursday) we were moored securely in berth 76. Siberia Dock.

..

Commenced discharging Friday March the first.

 

During our stay in port I had a good tour round and of course that included Skippers Straat a locality well know to seamen. This place – like others of a similiar kind – is not what it used to be. At least that is what the older salts say, and I believe with some truth. With the disappearing of the windjammer a lot of things are changing. I vow.

Paid off aboard ship Sat 9^th March and was sent home, passenger.

Glorious finish. All hands for’ard preferred that to making a passage light ship across the Western Ocean. Who would not.