Circle the Globe HMNZS Monowai - a (long) Poem.

In October 1977, 130 souls travelled to Scotland to take charge of the Navy's new ship (The Love Boat).  What followed was a journey half the way around the world. In 1998 (20 years after the event) I wrote the following poem to eulogise the journey.  There are 57 x 7 line verses.  Point of fact.  I submitted it to Navy Today in the hope they publish it  They turned me down on the grounds it wasn't suitable.  Would love to see what you think.

There are two images in this blog, the first just below is ports from the first half of the journey, and the second halfway through  is ports from the last half.

Enjoy!!

Circle the Globe 1977 - 78

From Downunder to Up Top

Turned up to work,

a normal day, supposedly.

The boss calls me in,

Chief Petty Officer Brown,

grumpy old salt,

grey before his time.

“Zander, you're off to Scotland,

picking up the new ship.”

I stagger back. “Cheers, Chief,”

turn tail and tell my mates,

spend the next five days

sorting out business.

Fly to Singapore,

get drunk on the plane

with some Army boys,

show me around Boogie Strasse,

the depths of Sembawang,

drink Tiger beer ‘til sunrise, poolside.

Arrival in Up Top

Fly from Singapore over lush green

of South East Asia and India,

soon replaced by the stark brown

of Pakistan, Afghanistan and Iranian desert.

Touchdown for five hours in Bahrain sandpit,

kick sand pebbles on burnt tarmac

under the gaze of Kalashnikovs.

Fifteen hours later,

arrive in Heathrow, London,

new culture, punk rock revolution,

a stopover that soon drags to nine hours.

Seems air traffic control in Glasgow

loves to strike.

Catch a flight to cold Scotland.

Everything is grey or mottled green,

brick red edifices dyed emerald

with moss and lichen,

the drizzle a constant reminder

of the proximity of the arctic circle.

Find a hotel and await a ship.

Make it onboard. Large, white,

not exactly new but refurbished,

still an imposing figure on the Clyde.

Not as imposing as the “World Score”,

an oil tanker under construction behind us,

many football fields, and utterly huge.

Journey to the Antipodes - Part One, Bonny Scotland

All journeys back have a start.

Gourock, home of the dockyards,

Celtic football country,

Irish Jocks everywhere,

volatile men, warm women,

many cold nights in cozy pubs

and copious Guinness down the hatch.

It can only last a few months, though;

a few sightseeing trips to Glasgow,

Sauchiehall Street mainly,

sailors playground.

Also ogling around ancient Ayr,

a trip to Edinburgh by train,

a memory ruined by swilling premium Scotch.

Look behind, the coast dies away,

the stark harsh reality of Bonny Scotland

burns out of sight,

and the rough North Sea takes over.

Stomachs lurch their way across

to the locks of Holland,

up a river to the waiting port of Amsterdam.

Part Two - Dutch Culture

Makes for good reading,

New Zealand, originally a Dutch name.

A warm welcome and the key to the city,

do as we please,

and there is so much pleasure there;

Canal Street, the street of brothels

and window shopping a sight for sore eyes.

Walk past cafés that smell

very quaintly of marijuana,

some try, not me, I like my beer.

Heineken is the flavour of the scene.

Amazing what you buy drunk,

amazing what you can carry!

Wake in the morning,

a hangover, and a bed full of tulip bulbs,

an oil painting of a Dutch windmill in winter.

Find an empty packet of condoms

and a pocket empty of Guilder.

Write a letter home:

“Mum, dig the garden, I have something.”

Next day, a bizarre event.

A truck turns up on the wharf

with a gorgeous blonde in riding gear.

Wants to know if anyone wishes

to ride to the Heineken brewery

and sup of the local ale

straight from the vat?

Fifty sailors spent the day behind

a very entertaining host,

the view from behind very Dutch.

The ride back, however,

a disaster, people taking wrong roads;

something to do with the beer intake.

Everyone made it back, just.

Part Three - English Fare

Sailed south east from the locks

of Amsterdam, a rough North Sea,

ships locked in turmoil

tossed like matchwood.

We steamed straight into it,

Heineken guts spilling out

to feed deep sea blue cod.

Made landfall at England’s ancient port,

Portsmouth, on the south coast,

Naval base of centuries, Drake and the likes.

Old stone cottages and equally old pubs,

nine in all in a short walk

from the base gates down to

The Jolly Sailor guarding Pub Row's end.

England, after Holland, is as grey

as the dirty grey of Scotland,

yet the people as warm.

Spent time in nearby towns

imbibing the local delights,

equally delightful women,

the likes sailors go after at night.

Took a train to Southampton,

visited the Old Dell, the inner castle,

supped at the oldest pub in England.

Managed to buy some trinkets

for the whanau back home,

soccer scarves and hats mainly.

Swaggered home, on a drunk train.

One of life’s little indiscretions,

made a drunken fool of myself.

In Portsmouth, three days in London,

viewing the River Thames and Tower Bridge

from the safety of the guardrail,

while all my mates swigged Tennants lager

and waltzed London lasses with glee.

Got my chance, with my uncle,

a whistle stop tour of the city’s delights.

Then down to Kent, near the marine barracks,

to see another family member

and indulge in traditional English fare.

Dropped off with farewells

and see you soons, with thank yous.

The next few days were an alcoholic haze,

a catch up in rum technology.

I drop into the sordid side of life.

A sailor’s hangover only comes

when he sails from port.

That realisation came with the thrum

of engines and a bridge passing over.

Part Four - Le Mediterranean

That Bay of Biscay has an awesome reputation,

said to be one of the roughest areas around.

Stood up to its reputation

and once more wretched sailors

trying to recover their composure

lost meals to gravity,

but out the other end, Gibraltar.

Sailed into the mouth of the largest sea

in the known world, immense.

A little turn left and the tip of Spain,

that ancient entity of English rule,

isolated by Jose and Juanita,

a rock fortress and naval base

protecting trade routes and Blighty.

Protecting too, monument of that man;

Lord Nelson’s spirit lies there, buried

but not forgotten, and as sailors

we go to his grave and pay tribute.

Then off to the mountain top, the monkeys,

followed by the markets,

and sidewalk cafés and bars.

Many strange sights here,

a cultural mish mash.

Cultural Spain, drear Britannia.

A sixteen-year-old girl walking a Great Dane

elicits a broad baritone of sailor banter,

the girl oblivious to the excitement

of the obvious sign of Boy Dog.

Once again, Spanish schnapps,

some pilsner beer, and good old Navy rum

have us leaving Gibraltar with fond

yet very lost memories.

The ship leaves the Côte d’Azur behind,

across a peaceful expanse of blue sea,

'til the peaks of the French Alps appear.

From sea, dotted whitewashed buildings

and high-rise stainless steel,

a mixture of the very ancient and very new.

Through a small gut into a spreading marina,

berthed under the glare of Frenchmen

and foreign tourists alike,

seemingly indistinguishable.

Monte Carlo is movie star town,

the play place of the rich and famous.

How would they take to South Seas sailors

walking their avenues, supping of the vino?

First few days are spent sightseeing,

mopeds to Italy on the autobahn,

looking over Jacques Cousteau’s museum.

Even a chance meeting with the man himself,

smallish, but very much the sailor, adventurer.

Look at Rainier’s castle, and Chanel’s factory.

A roman ruin, the home of a triumvirate.

Some stand in awe it still stands.

Sober sailors wonder at the state of parties,

the actions of drunken roman gladiators.

Then it’s to the world famous casino.

Exquisite, but no one gambles;

need thousands to place a bid,

and sailors know where thousands is better spent.

So, off to the wine bars, drink French plonk

like water, and measure the effects.

See some walking on their hands back home.

One lucky film star was given

the royal salute present bums.

Rather than be horrified, out with camera,

lines up five sailors on an opulent street,

gets them to all do the salute,

then invites them and as many others as possible

back to her apartment. Party time.

It is Christmas Day in four days’ time.

Suddenly, trails of dirt from large pot plants

lead their way up the gangplank

and down to messes for future use.

The ship’s siren announces departure

and Monte Carlo slips away,

a Christmas tree proudly displayed on each mast.

Part Five - Desert Meets the Sea

Across the base of Greece, no landfall,

a stern breeze from the cold north

whipping waves side on.

Christmas Day, with roast New Zealand lamb,

pavlova, and cold Steinlager beer.

Trees, stripped of foliage by the wind,

still manage to uphold a nativity spirit.

Landfall one night. Well, a city, anyway.

Many, many ships at anchor, alight.

The lights of Cairo glow in the distance.

We sail to the head of the queue,

guide ship for a passage through Suez,

but first, we wait a day for more ships

to make a convoy worthwhile.

At anchor by the desert brown of Egypt,

dreaming of the Valley of the Kings

and the Pyramids in the near distance.

Meanwhile, Bumboats ply their trade,

dates, trinkets, clothes, and sailors

lap 'em up, haul their wares in buckets,

stow them away, a few dollars down.

A local magician, the Gulli Gulli man,

entertains all in the midday sun

with tricks of dexterity and guile,

wrist watches thrown overboard

only to appear on someone else’s arm.

The crowd applauds every effort

and soon the locals leave, the sun goes down.

Place a big searchlight on the bow,

lead off the convoy into the gut,

the separation between Israel and Egypt,

where rusting hulks bear testament

to the Six Day War ten years before.

We pass under the gaze of tanks buried

into the immense fortification banks.

The whistling! We paint ship bare to our waists,

the sun drying immediately our efforts,

and the Egyptian soldiers whistle

all the way along the Suez,

an eerie feeling made more foreboding

by Russian tank barrels poking at us.

Still the spirit of Kiwi happiness pervades.

Soon Port Said appears, the southern port.

See a hospital and other tall buildings

still pockmarked with shell holes,

another legacy of a time hence.

Appears no reparation being made

to bring the future into play,

to hide the sins of the past.

Out into the Persian Gulf,

and long fine days, no wind.

Nothing to hint at the troubled zones

that lay to the north, Iran and Iraq,

but the presence of a Russian patrol boat

anchored and painting ship mid-ocean.

We surprise them, catch them unaware.

Part Six - The East

Standing on the forecastle looking ahead,

see a brown haze, and then the smell,

still twenty-six miles out from Bombay.

Hear on the news a KLM 747 crashed

at Bombay Airport that evening.

A sense of foreboding overwhelms;

what to expect from this country?

It’s a busy shipping port, chocker.

Many ships, many nationalities,

and the wharves ring to the sounds

of accents from Scandinavia to Japan.

Set the rat guards on the lines, doubled.

A representative of the Navy comes aboard,

tells us lowly sailors where to keep away from.

Of course, the first night was mapped out,

all the spots mentioned, visited,

weak Indian beer consumed voraciously.

In a brothel, a couple of Kiwi girls,

an Australian and an English girl,

working their way around the world.

In fact, very few locals seemed to be there.

Walking down the street with two friends,

these poor kids in rags begging for morsels.

We’ve been told not to give money, trouble,

but one friend is racked, passes a rupee,

and suddenly we are inundated, utterly.

Manage to get a taxi, window is half-down,

and as we drive, a baby is pushed at us.

By night I keep watch on the gangway,

watch the Rat Pack. Skinny, emaciated dogs

roam the wharves looking for fodder.

Plenty around, some bigger than the dogs

that chase them, one the size of a rubbish tin.

Just as well the beer is weak, ineffective;

wouldn’t want to pass out anywhere.

New Year’s Eve meant the age-old tradition;

when in port, take some beer and visit

every ship you can and toast the occasion.

Beer, the language of indifference,

everyone friendly and open,

sailors celebrating another year passed,

another year safely negotiated of storms.

Soon, the misery of a mysterious land passes.

Across the southern tip of Asia,

to Singapore, Jewel of the Orient.

I revisit my previous escapades here,

find new bars, new hotels, and drinks

by a swimming pool that I make mine.

Bought a camera duty free, a watch, too.

Played some sport for the first time in ages,

the New Zealand Army garrison stationed

at Dieppe Barracks. Rugby, soccer, pool,

some real Kiwi beer again, like water

in the tropical cauldron that saps sweat.

Made it to the Melbourne Bar, the Jockey Club,

Boogie Street, all good Singaporean names.

Part Seven - Homeward Ho

Slipped past Indonesia with Asia passing,

passage for Cairns, subtropical Aussie.

Slipped into the oil berth, and a naval base

sitting right next door, ready for us.

A customs officer advises no food

to be taken ashore, the law.

Someone asks if we can defecate.

Been six weeks since fresh milk,

so, contrary to nautical tradition,

the first port of call is a milkshake bar.

Many pies and milkshakes later,

the sights and sounds of Northern Queensland

are lapped up to the extreme,

every bar a den of supercharged drinking.

The Great Barrier Reef soon gives way

to the familiar smell of the Tasman Sea,

and homesick sailors ready gifts,

fill in customs declarations,

eat like kings and drink like fish

to get rid of all consumables

before passing into familiar waters.

We look longingly at the landmarks

as we pass down familiar coasts,

the impact of a journey past

being washed away by the future;

family, loved ones, new babies for some,

maybe even the odd divorce or two.

Sailors always wax silent in this time.

The band plays M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E

as the Navy's newest ship berths.

Scores of people wave flags and children,

sailors yell greetings, nudging each other.

The gangplank gives way to exodus,

some coming up, some going down,

all meeting in the union of togetherness.

My dad and sister meet me, to take me home.

I have leave, and a few full suitcases.

We get back to my folks’ place,

all the family are there, waiting.

Suitcase one, dolls from every port

for my sisters. For my brother, carvings

and trinkets from exotic places.

Suitcase two, my mother’s painting,

the tulip bulbs since confiscated by Customs.

For my dad, special drink glasses from

ports where glasses were sold.

But last, for Mum, an old dark suitcase

filled with an ashtray from every pub,

bar or café from every port.

For myself, well, I ended up with my schoolmates,

partying the weekend away with a prize bottle -

one gallon of British Navy rum from Gibraltar,

the best rum in the world, it’s said.

My friends agreed. We had a ball,

and when they asked me where I went,

I told them the same story as you have just read.