British & Commonwealth ran an exchange program with the German shipping company Deutsche Dampfschifffahrts-Gesellschaft Hansa of Bremen—known simply as Hansa Line. I applied to their personnel department, was accepted onto the scheme, and joined the Werdenfels in Rotterdam in July 1963.
This was something special. While the Clan Line’s ships hadn’t evolved much technologically since WWII, everything on the Werdenfels was cutting-edge. Instead of the traditional heavy-lift derrick that struggled with 150 tons, the Werdenfels had a modern “Stulken” derrick capable of lifting over 200 tons. Instead of cruising at 15 knots, we raced across the ocean at 19. There were 12 passengers aboard. The bridge was on the foc’sle, and the well deck had 5-ton cranes running on rails fore and aft. The ship’s bridge was equipped with top-notch Plath sextants and Steiner binoculars supplied by Hansa Line.
The equipment was excellent, but the people were more challenging. Captain Herr Kapitan Fooken was a tall, imposing figure who, along with the Chief Engineer and Electrician, had spent much of WWII as a POW in Port Sudan. Not exactly a warm welcome for a British cadet. The second officer’s father had once dodged gunfire from Polish partisans while managing a Messerschmitt factory, and the third officer was openly a committed Nazi. Thankfully, the Chief Officer, Herr Öhletz, was competent, friendly, and human, and my fellow German cadet Hans Kolbe was great fun to work with.
One thing was familiar: the English-speaking Indian crew, which made communication easier after my time with Clan Line, even bringing a bit of Hindi back into the mix.
Our route was different too. Hansa Line’s liner trade ran between Europe, the USA, and the Persian Gulf. After stops in Marseilles, Genoa, and picking up heavy boilers in La Spezia, we sailed through the now-familiar Suez Canal. Instead of heading into the Red Sea, we turned left and anchored off Dubai.
In 1963, Dubai was little more than a mosquito-infested creek, under British governance, with no real port. The visionary ruler was dredging the creek to encourage trade. The airport was a simple sand strip, and oil production wouldn’t start until 1966. The boilers we carried were for a new power station, unloaded by the colonial stalwart “Grey Mack’s” onto barges towed out to the anchorage.
Next was Dammam, Saudi Arabia. The port was a long pier where only two ships could berth—one on each side—connected to the railway to Riyadh. Ships’ alcohol stores had to be sealed, though we weren’t stopped from drinking the beer we’d already bought. A case of 24 cans of Beck’s or Löwenbräu cost DM11.20, with the exchange rate at DM4.20 to the pound. Dammam was a grim place—no shore leave, working cargo round-the-clock in blistering heat and extreme night humidity. I took the night cargo watch with the second officer from 6 pm to 6 am; at sea, I had the 12–4 watch.
Cargo work was tough—making sure the right cargo was removed from the correct deck and hatch, preventing theft (no easy task when whisky was packed in unprotected cardboard cartons), troubleshooting crane issues, and climbing 60-foot ladders inside the hatches. It was hot, sweaty, and filthy work.
We continued around the Gulf to Kuwait, then up the Shatt al-Arab river to Basrah, Khorramshar, and Abadan. Basrah and Khorramshar had swimming pools for visiting officers, which I took advantage of despite the fierce heat—50°C in the shade by day, then humid nights. Our khaki uniforms would be drenched in sweat after a few hours; on one night in Khorramshar, I went through three sets of clothes. Luckily, our Indian crew included stewards and laundry service, so uniforms came back clean and crisp within 24 hours.
On bridge watch, I took to drinking iced tea, sometimes going through a gallon during a single night navigating the Gulf. At Khorramshar, we discharged most cargo and began loading 40 tons of caviar bound for New York—carefully stored in refrigerated compartments, as valuable as gold bullion on Union-Castle mail ships.
We briefly stopped in Bushir, then returned to Kuwait and on to Bahrain. In Bahrain, a friend of my father’s, head of the police force, took me to the old fort. We berthed alongside a pier with a cargo ship on one side and a Royal Naval Tribal class frigate on the other—a striking contrast, especially when I returned there 30 years later.
From Bahrain, we sailed to the USA via Mediterranean ports. Beirut was notable: a storm before arrival broke the starboard anchor cable, which we lost overboard. Beirut was a vibrant contrast to the strict Muslim Gulf. I met an American family—one taught at the American University of Beirut—and Hans and I were invited to their home. We enjoyed Saint George’s beach, lively with beautiful Lebanese girls, and took a day trip to Baalbek in an open-top Pontiac, whose enormous bonnet rivaled an aircraft carrier’s flight deck. The ruins were stunning—though returning now is unlikely due to Lebanon’s political instability.
After Livorno, where we lifted three 150-ton rail cars destined for the Ferrocarril Chihuahua al Pacífico, we crossed the Atlantic.
Arrival in New York was breathtaking. From a hundred miles out, the city lights glowed like a loom. We anchored at Ellis Island for immigration and customs. Hans and I handled all paperwork and greeted officials. In most ports, this was relaxed, but New York was rigorous. Immigration checked all crew against the illegal aliens list; many Indian surnames were flagged, so the entire crew underwent inspection. The process took six hours. By the end, after inspecting all Germans and Indians, they turned to me—the only Englishman—and joked, “You don’t half speak good English for a Kraut.”
Our first berth after clearing was in New Jersey, miles from civilization. I was tasked with figuring out how to get ashore. As the native English speaker—and with anti-German sentiment still lingering—I bought the bus tickets. It struck me how immersed I’d become in German when I awkwardly asked, “Does this bus to the town go?”
I’d worked hard on my German, but since all officers had to learn English for exams, they constantly spoke English to me. After a few months, I told the captain I’d only accept orders in German from then on. He gave me a stern look but agreed. Chaos ensued briefly, but my German improved rapidly.
We then made a hectic circuit down and up the US East Coast and Mexico—Philadelphia, Norfolk, Wilmington, Jacksonville, Brownsville, Tampico, Houston, New Orleans, Charleston, and back to Philadelphia and New York.
A few memories stood out: sailing past Norfolk’s reserve fleet of battleships and carriers, drifting through a massive shoal of hammerhead sharks off Cape Hatteras, buying guitar strings in Brownsville (where a gorgeous Texan blonde told me, “Y’all do speak English funny”), lively Latin music in Tampico, and visiting Preservation Hall in New Orleans for some traditional jazz.
New York was unforgettable. I bought my first blues LPs—Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, and Lightnin’ Hopkins. A pen friend near Vassar College invited me to spend a night; the train ride up the Hudson was a highlight. I played chess in Washington Square Park and was picked up by a nude art model who gifted me a Dostoevsky novel (which I can’t recall). At Gerde’s Folk City in Greenwich Village, I caught the early American folk-blues scene, with a female singer named Joanie performing a guest spot—perhaps Joan Baez.
I love New York.
The most poignant moment came on November 22, 1963—18 hours out of New York, en route to the Persian Gulf with 12 American passengers aboard—when we received news of JFK’s assassination. As the only Englishman, I was tasked with informing each passenger—a heart-stopping moment.
The return journey retraced the Gulf ports. Christmas at Dammam meant working cargo amid sandstorms—not fun—but the Saudis seemed to overlook how much alcohol remained in cabins.
One new stop was Karachi, Pakistan—my first visit. I paid respects to a friend of my uncle Len’s, John Cowasjee, who received me in his office. I also sailed briefly at the Karachi Yacht Club, where uncle Len had been a member.
Back through the Suez Canal, I was due to change ships to the Hohenfels for the return to Rotterdam. By then, I had enough sea time to qualify for my second mate’s ticket. Having already qualified as an able seaman and lifeboat handler at Warsash, I now had to study ashore and pass the rigorous “foreign going” second mate’s exams.
After earning my degree from Plymouth, I joined Williams & Glyn’s Bank as a City Division graduate trainee. After general banking training, I specialized in shipping finance, moved to Grindlays (later acquired by ANZ), and retired as General Manager of an Offshore Banking Unit in Bahrain and Country Head for Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Oman, and Kuwait.
Post-retirement, I worked as London representative for a Middle Eastern bank and chaired the International Bankers’ representative offices committee.
Now fully retired, I’m active as an International Judge for the International Sailing Federation, judging major regattas like the Barcelona Round the World Race.
