Innocent on the run. Part 18.

Part 18. 'When are we getting to Port Arthur?' Ricky asked the Bosun. 'It takes us three days to cross the Gulf,' he answered. 'How long are we stopping in port?' was the next question. 'Probably a week, if nothing goes wrong with the loading. It depends on how many cranes they put on us. If there's four cranes we could be loaded in three days, but I've only once had four cranes, when there were hardly any ships in. Generally its two, and it takes six or seven days.' 'Anxious to get ashore, eh, Rick?' Dave asked. 'Will I be able to go ashore?' 'I would think so, once the Immigration boys have seen you.' 'I don't have a Seaman's book or a Passport, or anything.' 'Shouldn't matter, once the old man has given you a temporary book.' 'I don't know,' the Bosun said. 'They're pretty hot here on documents. Last trip over here they wouldn't let the Fourth Engineer ashore, because he didn't have a British Seaman's Book. He was from a Commonwealth Country, but that didn't count.' 'I hope they do let me off, I wouldn't like to be stuck on board while everyone else gets ashore.' 'You can't go in the bars anyway, Rick, you've got to be twenty one here.' Dave told him. 'I don't want to go in the bars, I just want to see a bit of Port Arthur, and maybe buy a few clothes.' 'Watch your step here,' the Bosun said. 'They all carry guns, and if you upset them, they'll shoot you down like a dog. I was ashore with some of the crew on my last trip here, sat in a bar having a quiet drink, when this guy bursts in the door waving a big gun and shouts, ''Stick up!'' We froze ! ''Gimme the money.'' he shouts at the bartender. ''Okay, Okay''. he says and reaches for the till with one hand and under the counter with the other. The till opens with a loud, 'ding,' the guy on the other side of this gunman throws his whisky in his eyes, and the bartender brings out this baseball bat and smacks him over the head with it. Bingo! They took his gun off him and kicked his bum out of there.' 'What! They didn't even call the cops?' Ricky asked. 'No, they're used to it. It happens all the time.' The Bosun winked at Dave. 'Aint that right Dave?' 'Yes, nearly every bar you go in, its the same. Although, the last time I saw a holdup, the other guy didn't throw whisky in his eyes, it was beer. Probably didn't want to waste the whisky.' The Bosun grinned! Ricky's mouth was hanging open! 'Blimey,' he said. 'I'm definitely not going in the bars.' 'Don't get into trouble with the Police, either.' The Bosun warned. 'They'll lock you up regardless of how old you are. They dish out real sentences here as well, none of our short term jobs, life means ninety nine years.' 'Don't worry', Ricky answered. 'I don't expect to be in trouble with the Police. Sergeant Moore in our police back home taught me a lesson. We were out pinching apples and he caught me coming over a wall with a jersey full. He kicked my arse so hard it was sore for a week.' 'Well, they'll do more than kick you here, they'll shoot you.' Llanerin tied up in Port Arthur and the Customs and Immigration Officers came aboard. They asked to see the whole crew, and their documents, and checked each man against his Seaman's Book, asking each one if he had anything to declare. In each case the answer was no, so they put their stamps in the back of the books and returned them to the Captain. In Ricky's case, they accepted the Captain's temporary book and said that he was allowed to go ashore. He was overjoyed. The Captain had said he could have the wages due to him, and he planned to get some American jeans and a check shirt. There was still work to be done on board though, it didn't stop because the ship was in port. The hatch covers were raised and the two cranes that were assigned to them started loading the cargo of grain. Ricky was kept fully employed sweeping up the grain that dribbled out of the grabs on the end of the cranes, and throwing it in the hold. He had to wear a piece of rag around his mouth and nose to keep the dust out.The cranes would be working around the clock, and at 1630 hours, one of the seamen relieved him so he could do his other jobs in the Galley and Messroom. He was covered in dust from the cargo, and Doc told him to get showered before starting work. That evening Ricky walked ashore with Dave and Doc to see a little of the city and to do some shopping. All the stores stayed open late and he wandered up and down the streets and boulevards looking in the windows, trying to decide what to spend his money on. Dave and Doc went into a bar, telling Ricky they would see him back onboard. The stores were huge, and he was amazed at the amount of different designs and quality of clothes that he saw. There were some good denim shirts and jeans in one shop that he went into, and he bought one of each. What he really wanted as well were a pair of leather cowboy boots with pointed toes and high heels, but he didn't have enough money for them. He hoped that he would be paid again before they left Port Arthur, so that he could come back for them. He wore his new clothes and packed his old ones in to a carrier bag, feeling like a real cowboy. There was a Pool Hall alongside the store and he went in, wondering if it was like the snooker halls back home. It was pretty much the same, with rows of tables occupied by dozens of people playing games for fun or for profit. The atmosphere was very smoky, cigar and cigarette smoke gathering under the lights suspended above the tables, and curling up in clouds to the ceiling. The effects of years of this treatment had stained the paintwork brown and discoloured the light fittings and furniture, so that now everything looked drab and brown. Noise from the laughter and chatter was added to by the juke box in the corner, thumping out Country and Western songs, voices wailing on about lost loves, bar room brawls and gunfights. He sat on the long bench around the walls and watched a game being played. It was a strange game, the player having to nominate the pocket that he was aiming for before taking his stroke. If the ball went into a different pocket, that was a foul and the other player had two shots. The balls were bigger than snooker balls and the pockets seemed huge in comparison. Half of the balls had a stripe going around them and the others had just a spot on the ends. He watched as the one youth, a tall, thin lad with freckles all over his face, sank his three remaining balls and won the match. The other boy said, ' Aw, Hell,' threw a dollar bill on the cloth and hung his cue up in the rack. 'You want some more?' the thin kid said, picking up the money. 'Hell, no. I gotta split. See Ya.' And he pulled on a satin windcheater with a large H on the back and headed towards the door. The thin boy looked at Ricky. 'You want to play ,kid?' 'O.K, but I don't know the rules.' 'Hey, you ain't from around here, are you ?' 'No, I'm off a ship in the docks.' 'Yeah ? Where you live?' 'South Wales.' 'South Wales ? Where's South Wales?' 'It's a part of the U.K.' 'England, right ?' 'Yes.' 'O.K.' He came across to Ricky and held out his hand. 'Call me Slim.' Slim was over six feet tall, with red hair cut into a crew cut. He was wearing baseball boots, jeans, and a tee shirt with a Mickey Mouse on the front. Ricky took the offered hand and said, 'Ricky.' 'Pleased to meet you, Ricky. Now, we play for a dollar. The only rules are that you must nominate the pocket you're aiming to get your ball in. We spin a coin to see who breaks, then you choose either a stripe or a spot ball, and that's what you stick with for the length of the game. It's simple. The last ball you sink is the black. If it goes down before it should do, you lose.' He took out a coin. 'Heads or Tails ?' he asked. 'Heads.' Slim spun the coin and it came down Tails. 'My break', he said, and lined up his cue ball in the baulk, and gave it a terrific thump. The triangle of balls at the other end of the table split with a crash and scattered. One of the Spot balls ended up near a pocket and Ricky lined his white up and potted it. 'Good shot,' Slim said with a grin. 'Hey you ain't a hustler are you?' 'No, I've never played pool before. We have snooker at home.' He nominated his next ball in the top right hand pocket, and was surprised to see it disappear. 'Luck !' he said. Slim looked at him with narrowed eyes. 'Oh, Yeah !' he replied. The game continued, first Ricky potting a ball, then Slim taking one. It was a tight game all the way through, and Ricky eventually won it by potting his last ball followed by the black. Slim paid his dollar and they racked the balls up and had another game. Slim won that one and Ricky gave him his money back. They went over to watch a big game that had just started on a table near them. Crowds of men had been arriving and positioning themselves where they could get a good view. There was a lot of money changing hands as people bet on either of the two men who were playing. Slim knew them both, and he put some money on the one he said ought to win it easily. The match was over seven frames and the winner stood to win five hundred dollars, as well as any side bets that he'd placed. Ricky was reluctant to gamble his last three dollars, but Slim said 'Go ahead, live dangerously.' so he went for broke and laid his money down. Ricky watched in horror as their man lost the first two frames, then sighed with relief as he won the third. 'Don't worry, kid.' Slim muttered . 'It's part of the plan!' The other man won the next, and Ricky was already kissing his money goodbye, when their man got inspiration from somewhere and won the next frame. Three Two ! On the break, their man potted two balls and chose stripes , as there were three striped balls near to pockets. He took the three one after the other! The other man took two, then left the cue ball safely touching the cush. It was a difficult shot, with only a small amount of the ball to hit, above the edge of the table, but it didn't bother him at all. He chalked his cue, lined up and struck the ball, hitting another of his colours into a pocket. Ricky was practically jumping up and down, willing his man to win the frame. His hands were clasping together in a washing action, and he was muttering to himself, 'Come on, Come on', as his man cued up and potted another colour. His next ball missed the pocket, allowing the other man to pot two more of his colours. A great breath of air whooshed out of Ricky as his man potted the last colour, positioned the cue ball in a perfect position for the black and sank it, stopping the cue ball dead in it's tracks. Three each! The last frame was very tense, with first one man taking a ball, then the other coming back and taking one. The crowd shouted out in anguish as Ricky's man hit the cue ball too low and it jumped clear of the table, then sighed in relief as it landed again and hit the object ball. People were biting their nails, glued to the action. The other man's last object ball was hidden by the black, and his supporters held their breath as he hit down vertically on one side of the cue ball, and skidded it around the black to hit the object ball, which bounced off the cush and settled near a pocket, the cue ball again being obscured by the black. There was a deathly hush as Slim and Ricky's man aimed the cue ball up the length of the table, bounced it off the cush and hit the other ball on it's return journey, rolling it into a pocket. The lads both jumped in the air and gave a great shout of relief, as his next stroke sent the black into the same pocket. Ricky got six dollars back! It was eleven fifteen, so Ricky said goodbye to Slim, as he had to be back onboard by midnight, and told him he'd see him again when he could get ashore next. He walked back through the docks, past the other ships that were tied up, and the piles of anchor chain, ropes, baulks of timber, skips full of rubbish and other junk that littered the docksides. There were flat railway trucks loaded up with cars, miles of them, waiting in their sidings to be delivered to dealers across the country. Huge tanks of chemicals, paints, oils and petrol were enclosed behind wire fences, with security guards manning the gates into the depots. There was a huge oil refinery with enormous chimneys belching out smoke and steam. Huge trucks filled with cargoes from other vessels lumbered past him. Iron ore, coal, timber and many other commodities. He marvelled at the size of the place and the variety of goods that were on the move, day and night. There were dockyard workers everywhere, going about their jobs, or drinking coffee in the dockside canteens, reading papers and laughing among themselves. There was a dry dock with two ships in it, and dozens of men swarming over them, riveting, welding, scraping and painting. They had large, compressed air driven tools for taking the old paint off the ship's bottom, and the noise from them was terrific! He watched as a crane swung a bright, shiny, new propeller over the dry dock side and down to the men waiting on a scaffolding platform under the stern of one ship. It was huge, and dwarfed the men who were handling it. It appeared to Ricky to be a huge task to get the propeller positioned on it's keyway on the shaft, and then inch it forwards with compressed air tuggers, into its final position, before screwing up the enormous nut on the end of the shaft to keep it in place. But it was a part of a day's work to these men, and he watched them skilfully manoeuvring it, before reluctantly leaving to get back aboard before his deadline. Copyright Deric Barry 2005