Mahler's sixth symphony, called “Tragic”, is famous above all for the three “sledgehammers” of the last movement, including a special instrument. It is accepted, partly due to the testimony of his then wife, Alma de él, that the blows constituted a premonition of the three tragic events that life had in store for the composer. My life also reserved three blows for me in the ten years after obtaining the pilot's title in 1972, but I had no premonition. Two of them fall within the period considered here; the third almost killed me in 1982. In this brief anticipation of the second volume of my memoirs, if I ever finish it, I will only refer to them in passing, for they explain the zigzags of my career. The first volume was reviewed here; In the following link is everything that has appeared so far.
MY FIRST BOARDING AS A PILOT
After years of study and sailing practice, we were all looking forward to finally sailing as officers, seeing more of the world, having as much fun as possible, and earning a good salary. In my case I had a limiting difficulty; I had "got a girlfriend" during the Pilot course, so I looked for a shipment that would not take me far or for a long time from Spain. In July 1972 I made my debut in Barcelona as third deck officer on the ship MAR ADRIATICO, from the Nervión shipping company, an old ship, built in 1947, damaged and refloated, weighing seven thousand tons and 130 meters in length.
An indelible memory is the arrival in Lisbon. I left the guard at 12 at night, almost arriving at the mouth of the Tagus. After breakfast the next morning I went up to the bridge and found the ship already in the bay, waiting to dock: the beautiful view of the suspension bridge, then almost recently inaugurated, the famous monument of Christ the King, and the city in front of me, in a delightful day of sunshine and blue skies. The romantic city seemed quite provincial to me and the pretty trams did not make up for the old-fashioned air that I thought I observed everywhere. Curiously, many of the women were dressed in a somewhat dark and small-town fashion, and some of them wore a slight, unshaven mustache. The corporate state of the dictator Salazar did not differ much from the Spain of the time.
We were also in Algiers. I walked around the city, which seemed modern and quite European to me. I went up to the top, from where I could contemplate an interesting panoramic view of the city and the port. The bustle of the streets, the people and the markets made me perceive something of the Camusian atmosphere, surely more imagined than real. The Algerians already enjoyed the long-awaited independence, although the recent military coup at Boumedienne did not bode well.
When I had been in the ADRATIC SEA for less than a month, the company inspector visited us and made me fall for one of those tricks typical of the shipping companies of that time; He spoke wonders to me about another much more modern ship, a “barcarrón” in his own words: the CANTABRIAN SEA, and he suggested transferring me to it, which I happily accepted, since I had planned a trip to the US, which I was excited about. What was carefully kept is that after the American voyage the ship was leaving for Asia for a long time; innocent of me, I never suspected anything.
TO THE UNITED STATES
The CANTABRIAN MAR was a beautiful ship, with four holds at the bow of the castle and one at the stern, 12,000 tons and 142 meters long, built in 1967. It had to embark in Barcelona in August, which was one more attraction , Well, María Teresa lived there, my girlfriend, who would soon be my wife, so we spent some wonderful days together, which lengthened unexpectedly. She came to see me off at the port, shortly before the scheduled departure, but when I got on board I found out that the departure was postponed one day, so I ran out to look for her to give her the great news. I then remembered that captain of the PUERTOLLANO who tried to dissuade me from starting a career as a merchant marine, and I sensed that he was absolutely right.
We left for New Orleans, a city that I really wanted to see. Shipboard routines on a voyage on the high seas were new to me, but they offered no difficulty. My third officer watch, from 8 to 12, was comfortable, although I was only able to debut in the actual use of the sextant some day at sunset, taking the altitude of some stars to determine the position. It is also worth mentioning the noon rite, “la meridiana”, in which everyone, including the captain, would meet on the bridge to take the maximum height of the sun, which almost automatically gives the latitude; the length was estimated. The course to follow was calculated by great circle route, but it was enough to calculate an initial course each day and follow it until the next day.
The passage near Cuba and the navigation through the green Gulf of Mexico made me dream of future trips through those lands. The landfall at the mouth of the Mississippi River is impressive, as you have to cross a veritable forest of oil well towers, until you take the pilot. We actually went up the river to Baton Rouge, the capital of the state of Louisiana, where we were dropped anchor in the middle of the river. Like all fluvial navigation, it was impressive, because you always think that you are going to run aground or touch the shore.
The captains, always fearful of reprimands from the companies for undue spending, are reluctant to “set up a boat” so that the crew members can enjoy the port in question. Ours denied us, but with the 2nd Mate we went up to the bridge at dusk and managed to VHF hail for a launch, which picked us up shortly so we could disembark quietly and explore Baton Rouge's nightlife. There wasn't much to see, apart from some little bars to have a drink. We asked the owner of one of them what we wanted to see, and he answered definitively: “No striptease in Baton Rouge”. Local English is difficult, perhaps a product of so many mixed cultural heritages over the past two centuries. Walking through a poor neighborhood, I tried to start a conversation with a very cute black boy, only to find out, to my desolation, that although he seemed to understand me, I understood almost nothing of what he was saying.
After leaving Baton Rouge we briefly docked in New Orleans, where we did enjoy its famous nightlife. We sailors always know where we have to go, in each port, to look for what we crave the most: wine and women. So we end up on Bourbon Street, the beautiful French-style street, with its famous balconies. The scene was splendid: a lot of noise, girls and music everywhere and a myriad of bars and cabarets everywhere. At each door the “hooks” almost grabbed your arm to introduce you to their premises, parting the curtain a little so that we could glimpse the interior, full of scantily clad women, loud music and many customers drinking. But we resisted, mistrusting so much pressure. In the end we found something irresistible: over a large closed door was a dark blue canvas, with two mysterious holes. Suddenly, we saw two long female legs, naked and high-heeled, appear through them, disappear and reappear: it was a swing! We entered without delay to contemplate the part of that beauty that the canvas covered us.
The place was huge, and it was full of small tables, around which the customers sat to drink. The girl on the swing was a little far away, given over to her ethereal swings, but there were other beautiful young girls everywhere, waiting tables. One of them, wearing only a tiny thong, offered to dance at our table. Since I was the “official” interpreter, I had to attend to her until I understood what she was proposing. After some doubts I said no, because it was quite expensive, and we could also enjoy other topless girls dancing at the nearby tables.
Things fell off immediately, because nobody wanted to go any further, so I suggested looking for places where we could see and listen to the famous New Orleans jazz live: Dixieland. There I really enjoyed it, because I had always liked jazz very much, and especially that of the southern blacks of the USA. There were many places and some were so small that we could enjoy that happy music from the door without having to enter or pay anything. The atmosphere was very heavy with smoke and people chattering and drinking incessantly, and in the background the band, half sitting half standing, frantically playing those sensual rhythms. I couldn't help but recognize what I've already seen in a movie, for example from Louis Armstrong's band, so I missed his huge mouth and his brilliant white teeth.
The next morning I took a good walk through the center of the beautiful city; in this a blonde girl approaches me, who was doing a survey, to ask me I don't know what things. He was stunned when I told him I was Spanish, and the only thing that occurred to him was to ask: “Spanish from Spain?” I was totally astonished at America's ignorance of geography and cultural differences.
I also wanted to go to the Post Office. I had so many things to tell my girlfriend that instead of writing a long letter I recorded a tape with many details, including comments from the readings done during the voyage, where the classic stuff stood out: The Odyssey, The Iliad and The Divine Comedy, plays who then received my brief glosses, somewhat disappointed by the way. As I found out later, my girlfriend was very excited about the surprise shipment, to the point that at night she took the cassette to bed to fall asleep listening to my voice.
From New Orleans we left for the loading dock of a pulp mill on the East Coast, I think near Charleston. We had to load huge rolls of paper for Italy, which took time. The unbearable smell of the plant invaded the ship, in such an intense way that whenever I smell it, even from a distance, I identify it immediately. The factory was in the quimbambas and very poorly communicated, so nobody showed interest in going ashore, but I didn't want to miss anything, so I ventured until I found a bus stop on foot, whose line said “Port of Embarkation”. .
When the bus arrived, I got on and had some trouble understanding the driver about how much and how to pay. I noticed that he treated me with some disdain, but I didn't give it any importance, until I turned around looking for a seat and, as I passed through the rows of passengers, I noticed that they all looked at me with great surprise, and again a certain amount of disdain: they were all black. Without knowing it, he had violated one of the unwritten rules of the southern United States: a white must never get on a bus for blacks; Let's not say the other way around.
The city was small, but I was excited to believe I discovered something of that atmosphere so well described by southern American writers, I don't know if real or recreated by my mind. One detail caught my attention: the classic little sign hanging on some doors of beautiful wooden houses, announcing an Attorney at law, seen in so many movies. But what took the cake was walking the main street, crowded with temples of numerous religions, one after another: Catholics, Evangelicals of different denominations, Mormons, Jews, Freemasons, and a long etc. It was a totally unknown and prohibited show in our country, so even without being a believer, I was able to enjoy for a while that air of freedom that it would take us years to recover. The return to the ship took me more than an hour waiting at the stop, but I arrived safe and sound.
As we began the return to Europe, the gloomy word spread: we were supposed to unload in Italy, but after that the ship was leaving for India, apparently for a long time. The rout was general, so more than a dozen crew members disembarked in Savona. They took us to Genoa, where we took the ferry to Barcelona. The night on the ferry was lively; compared to a merchant there was no color, because in the bar-restaurant there were girls. I hit the thread right away with a beautiful and tall Irish woman who was traveling alone. Faced with my attempts to advance, she systematically stopped me, with which I left the last effort for the moment of accompanying her to her cabin, where I hoped to sneak in to keep her company. But she had other plans, she was tired and wanted to sleep; my masculine charms were not sufficiently appreciated beyond a few kisses with their corresponding hug, so my manly pride suffered a new setback.
It is noteworthy that many sailors, even if they are engaged, or even married, usually grant themselves a dispensation when they are away from their country, so purely carnal affairs with skirts do not count as "cheating" to their partners. The same thing seems to happen to some women when they travel far away without their partners; Being out of their environment makes them feel freer, and somewhat irresponsible, so they loosen up a bit. That reminds me of some Mohammedans who, when they are in a country of infidels, drink alcohol and eat pork: Allah does not see them there. We might call this surprising phenomenon geographical moral relativism.
THE FIRST MAZES OF LIFE
Once again we spent some unforgettable days with my girlfriend María Teresa in Barcelona. Money was needed, and she complained of sadness and loneliness, so I looked for a shipment that wouldn't take me too far. I found it in the BAHÍA GADITANA, an old oil tanker of 32,000 tons and 200 meters in length that had been fitted out to act as a pontoon and transfer tank in the Amposta well, near San Carlos de la Rápita. At the beginning of November 1972, a launch took me from the small port to the ship. As we got closer, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face leaning over the railing: it was Manolete! Hernández Lillo, the dear fellow student from the EON. When we went up the ladder we hugged, but we were only able to chat for a few minutes, since he had to take the same boat to go ashore, when he disembarked that same day. As fate would have it, relieving you as third officer was the last time we saw each other. I didn't hear from him again until many years later, only to learn of his early passing.
The work on board was scarce, if not zero, since it was not sailing, and the abarloe functions of other ships that had to come to load had not even begun. There was a very old Basque captain, with whom I had to weigh anchor shortly after, since we had to dock the ship in Tarragona for certain preparations. It was night, there was no gyro or radar available, and the bridge needle was unreliable, so we both climbed onto the flyover; The old man did not see well, so I took it upon myself to take the precise markings as best I could with the headlights in sight, in order to locate ourselves in the direction of Tarragona. Another officer relieved me and I went to sleep; when I woke up we were already entering Tarragona.
We stayed there for a few days, which I took advantage of to eat at my parents' house and have telephone contact with María Teresa. Once I had raised a little more money, I disembarked and started first in philosophy at the University of Tarragona, while renting a tiny studio in Barcelona, in El Clot. It was our first home, and we were finally able to become truly intimate and strengthen our relationship, which had been so bumpy until then. But alas, life was preparing to give me the first of the blows I mentioned above.
María Teresa had suffered from what seemed to be a severe underlying depression, already for a long time, as could be observed in her adolescent poems. I was then reading the works of Castilla de Pino, particularly his voluminous Study on Depression, which was very useful for me in forming an opinion. Her aunt Neus, who was a nurse, agreed with me, so she recommended a visit to a psychiatrist, Dr. Costa Molinari.
We saw each other after the visit and she was disappointed: some pills and wait. That same night she tried to commit suicide by ingesting the contents of several boxes of a powerful sleeping pill that she had hidden. Thanks to her aunt's quick action, the doctors were able to save her, but when she left the hospital she had to spend a few weeks in a residence in Horta. All this led me to make a decision: leave the merchant marine career and look for an administrative job on land. Already with a fixed income, although scarce, we rented an old furnished apartment in Sant Andreu, we got married in a civil ceremony in October, I was 22 years old and she was 19, and I continued my philosophy studies.
After a relatively quiet year, the second blow came. My dear friend from the Institute and from the Nautical School, Rafael Cerdá López, had a terrible motorcycle accident in October 1974, precisely when he returned to Tarragona, after unsuccessfully trying to visit us at our house in Barcelona, while we were absent. We went to see him at the Tarragona hospital and I found him very pale and emaciated; He told me the details of the accident with his Ducati 24 Hours, a dangerous motorcycle that I knew very well, since he had lent it to me while he was on a sailing campaign. He told me that he had had a leg operation and that he was waiting for a new operation. The next day I receive a phone call from my mother at work informing me of her unexpected death. He had very serious internal injuries, which were not addressed by the surgeons. I skip, until the book, the very painful details of the funeral.
THE TRIP TO THE PERSIAN GULF
My life required a change of direction and, taking advantage of the fact that María Teresa was stable, I decided not to ask for any more extensions for my military service and to join as soon as possible, something that took place in the Cartagena marine barracks in November, where we rented a shared apartment with other couples of sailors. I take a new leap and we leave at the end of July 1975, with the military finished, having completed the third year of philosophy and again without money. So it was time to sail again.
At the end of June I embark as third officer on the ship MERMAID, a Panamanian-flagged oil tanker, but Spanish-owned, with a good salary. A modern and huge ship, the largest I have been able to sail on, it loaded 80 thousand tons and was 230 meters long. Shortly I found out that the third machine was paid as second, so I demanded the same treatment, which I immediately obtained, to soon become second effective officer, to cover a landing, and remain that way throughout the campaign, until January of 1976.
The highlight of that season was the trip to the Persian Gulf, to load at Ras-Tanura; a month out and a month back, without disembarking in port, as is usual in oil tankers, with the only novelty being a few hours stopping in Cape Town for fresh food and new movies, which a boat brought us. María Teresa sailed with me for a while, while the voyages were short, but when she left for the Persian, she stayed ashore and returned home to wait for my return.
The harshness of a month of continuous navigation is something that only a sailor can understand. I had no problems, because I devoured books, took notes and wrote papers, preparing for the fourth year of philosophy, but many classmates had a really bad time, they slept a lot and drank too much. One of them came to see my guard and told me that he had made several trips to the Persian to recover from a disappointment in love: it was like a mental rest cure. We had a very funny Catalan captain; He was from Tossa de Mar and boasted of being a cousin of the famous contemporary composer Montsalvatge, with whom he shared the last name. He also often appeared on the bridge to chat, out of boredom; He liked to recount his visits to Saudi Arabia, and specifically to Mecca, where he recounted details about having seen a “hair of Allah” in a display case, mistaking Muhammad for Allah over and over again.
On one occasion I had to pass the Strait of Gibraltar on my watch. With such a big mess, maneuvers to change course have to be done ahead of time, so you have to be very alert watching the many ships you come across, as there is not much room to port or starboard. I had the autopilot on and I was making small adjustments to the course, often placing myself on the navigation chart with the radar. Normally you do not become a helmsman unless you are in a dangerous situation, in fog, or calling at port.
In this I detect with the binoculars a large ship in the opposite direction, slightly on the port bow, but ready to pass dangerously close. So I disconnected the autopilot and put a few degrees to starboard, to take a prudent distance when crossing. Almost immediately the old man appears, who was spying on us from the window of his cabin, and scolds me: "it was not necessary to put so much rudder to starboard man, as it shows that you lack experience!" I don't say anything, but to my astonishment he almost resets his previous course and looks at me with a victorious expression. We are getting closer to the ship in an alarming way; I make a move to adjust the course again, but the old man stops me with his hand; in the end we passed, I swear, no more than three or four meters away. From his port wing, the ship's officer of the watch looked at us shocked. I turn pale with fright and the old man leaves the bridge without saying a word, aware of having made a mistake out of mere cockiness.
THE LONG JOURNEY TO AFRICA
At the end of January 1976, I disembarked in Malaga and returned home, to finish fourth in philosophy with very irregular attendance at classes. The reunion with María Teresa was like a movie: we looked at each other sitting on our sofa, almost without touching and totally moved, with so many thousands of things to tell each other and with the passionate joy of being together again. Once the course was successfully completed, and with the savings finished, we looked for a ship in which we could sail together, which we achieved with the SIERRA JARA, which we joined in Santander in August.
The SIERRA JARA was a ship of the Northern Maritime, 6 thousand tons and 120 meters long. The main trips were three to Cuba, for sugar in bulk, to our great joy and excitement, since we really wanted to visit the only Spanish-speaking socialist country. I won't say anything about them because I have told them in the second part of my book Against Religion and Other Essays.
I'm running out of space, so I'll just share some juicy details from the final trip to Africa; I'll expand on the book. We started by going to Pozzuoli, near Naples, to load bags of cement, which we took advantage of to get to know the famous city of pizza and even to extend ourselves to briefly visit Rome by train. My wife stayed in the Canary Islands and I continued alone, due to the danger.
The discharge would be at Port Harcourt, at the mouth of the Bonny River, in Nigeria. Before we arrived, we knew that we had to anchor and wait for our turn to dock, but we never imagined that the wait would be a month. Very close to us, a Yugoslav ship was waiting, which soon contacted us to ask us for flour, since they were already without bread; in exchange, they offered sardines in oil. A boat loaded with boxes of sardines came and took a few sacks of flour. We ended up eating sardines as appetizers for weeks, so most of us hated them.
The wait was getting longer and tedium invaded us. I began to pay attention to the sea that surrounded us, being able to notice the nearby presence of large fish. Joaquín, the first officer, was wearing a complete spearfishing outfit, so I decided to prove, with the authorization of Captain Berenguer, that he evaded all responsibility. Everyone thought he was crazy, so when the time came the entire crew was hanging over the side for the show. The ship was heavily loaded, so it was very easy for me to go down the ladder to the water, already equipped with fins, goggles, a tube and a rubber rifle. Once the rifle was loaded, I got ready to explore the panorama, heading to the stern, as I was curious to see the rudder and the propeller up close.
Before we arrived, a small flock of huge barracudas appeared, about 2 meters long, swimming almost on the surface. I remembered what Víctor, a Cuban diver, told me (also recounted in the aforementioned book), and I did not risk shooting. Almost at the stern, I oxygenated my lungs well and submerged in the direction of the keel, which must have been about 7 meters away; Nearly arriving, three enormous reddish fish with big heads came out of the bottom in my direction, which must have measured 1 meter and weighed no less than 30 kilos each; they may have been groupers. With almost no time to aim well, I waited for the moment and, when I had one of them almost to the side, I fired.
Unfortunately I missed, passing the harpoon a few centimeters above him; but the worst thing was that the harpoon was not tied to the rifle, so it sank irreparably, which cost its owner a fight from me. There was no spare, so I went down a few more times for the fun of seeing what was there; in the blessed hour that I did it, because in one of the dives, something below the keel, I could glimpse a shark, probably a great white shark. It was a good size, more than two meters, with its typical elongated caudal fin, which was passing through: it paid me no attention and calmly continued its march until it disappeared. It is the only shark I have seen diving.
We finally docked, and immediately there was a problem with customs. A general of sorts came on board, with his gold and black staff of command, accompanied by two aides, all in brilliant uniform. The old man called me to his cabin and asked me to intercede, since I had good English and the guys wanted to take all the entrepot: lots of cartons of American tobacco and numerous cases of whiskey and gin. The general did not speak, but he rejected my successive proposals with his wand, to which the assistants gave verbal form. In the end, they took six boxes of tobacco and six of whiskey, and even thanks, because they even threatened to fine us for taking so much. I hope to tell a lot more about Nigeria in the book.
We left for San Pedro, in the Ivory Coast, to load large logs. The slow loading of the logs is a spectacle in itself. They came floating, guided by very expert local people, to a small platform alongside the ship. There a native prepared each one to be hooked to the ship's struts, which carefully hoisted them up. Our sailors, also helped by local people, stowed them making the most of the space. Some had a huge diameter, more than a meter, so an accident could be fatal.
The stay was very fun, as there was a young officer from Madrid with whom we explored the surroundings by swimming with his camera raised, and reaching a nearby cove. There we were able to dive again, but the water was rough; even so we were able to capture large oysters, they were not good to eat, but with their shells on board they made beautiful ashtrays for us by putting a turned wooden base on them. The trip ended in Abidjan, the capital, where my friend and I were able to enjoy a nice walk and a French-style dinner. I remember very well the trees on a walk, loaded with giant frugivorous bats, hanging from the branches. At sunset they took flight and displayed their enormous wingspan, no less than 1 meter, flying in flocks. That was my last image of Africa.
We left for Casablanca, where I disembarked in mid-May 1977, flying to Madrid and then to Barcelona, where we resumed our normal life. I finished fifth in philosophy, I prepared for high school exams, winning positions as an associate and as a professor in the same call in Madrid, in the summer of 1978, with which I said goodbye to boats forever and we started a new life, already with financial security. . A third blow was on the horizon, but nothing indicated that it would be the hardest and most destructive.
