After Being Fooled

 In the fall of 1974 in Aberdeen Scotland, after being fooled, quitting a perfectly good job, getting cheated out a hundred bucks, and losing out on a job that never existed I retreated a bit.  It’s instinct, I think.  I slowed down, slept in, withdrew from most conversations, and stayed to myself. 

The old guys at the YMCA hostel, who by their age or infirmity had been granted the privilege of not being forced to leave the premises at 9:00 a.m. and returning at 4:00, watched me warily.  I think they thought I was going to fold up somehow after my change of fortune, get terribly drunk, and act out my pain and shame publicly.  But I didn’t.  Instead, I stayed away from the fellas and found my way to the public library.

Aberdeen’s central library wasn’t far from the hostel, or the harbor, but I’d missed it entirely.  It was a big stone building funded by Andrew Carnegie, a famed railroad baron and library builder back in the States.  He was born in Dunfermline, Scotland between Edinburgh and Glasgow. 

I just wanted somewhere quiet and warm.  But they also had a good map room, and the biggest globe I’d ever seen.  Libraries are good places to get your bearings; take stock of where you are, where you’ve been, and if you’re lucky plan where you’re going. 

Feeling warmth is a rare sensation during a Scottish winter on the North Sea.  Chalk it up to drafty old buildings, bad central heating, or if you wish the trite generalization that Scots are cheap.  But truth be told the cold is mostly a function of latitude. 

Aberdeen sits on the earth at 57.15 degrees North latitude.  If you strike an arc on a globe at that latitude by holding your finger at that latitude while slowly turning it toward North America, like I did, you’ll find your finger on the southern tip of Hudson Bay in Canada.  No wonder it’s so damned cold in Aberdeen.  It’s almost a thousand miles north of our farm in Danvers.  And the Scots claim the North Sea actually tempers their climate. How that frigid body of water helps keep them warmer is beyond me, but that’s the theory.

The Aberdeen library was uncharacteristically warm.  There in the map room, I would shed my pea coat and also a wool sweater I rarely took off, then soak up both the warmth and the silence.  The library had soft leather chairs where I sometimes snuck in a nap.  A librarian woke me only once that I recall and did so kindly.  I wasn’t the only indigent person sleeping in that library, and we clearly couldn’t pass as scholars doing research.  Most of us just wanted to escape the world outside.

When I was awake, I often moved a giant world atlas from its home on the shelf to a vacant wooden table to view the world in more detail.  When I reconstructed the route I traveled that summer and looked at it on the big pages of the atlas, my trip looked crazy.  I kept crisscrossing the continent.

I landed in Amsterdam and stayed up for 36 hours straight.  Caught a train to Frankfort, Germany to see an old Danvers friend in the military and from there went straight to Rome.  I learned that with a Eurail pass, one could board the train at night, sleep in those comfy enclosed European train compartments, and save the cost of a hotel stay.  Get tired, go to the train station, sleep all night, and wake up in another country.

From Rome to Vienna.  Vienna to Pamplona, Spain to catch the festival of San Fermin and the daily running of the bulls.  Seven days of bullfights, wine, and parties.  I pitched a tent in the park there and met people from all over the world; a Moroccan man trying to find a home in Europe, teenagers from Las Vegas, a girl from Alaska who wanted to cross the Straits of Gibraltar into Morocco.

First, she had to go back to France to meet up with friends and borrow money.  In ten days, she promised to meet me in Seville at the American Express office at noon. We would go together from there to Morocco.  

I went from Pamplona to San Sebastian Spain on the Atlantic coast.  There I decided on my immediate future.  I resigned from my teaching job in Ottawa via telegram, wrote my parents a long letter, and promised myself that I would spend at least a year, maybe longer, living outside the United States. 

I left the Basque country in northern Spain and made my way to Seville in the south but the girl from Alaska didn’t show.  No cell phones you know.  And no messages for me at the American Express office. For three days I hung out at a café across from American Express watching for her before going on to Morocco alone.  I tried not to take it personally but found that impossible. 

When I got to Morocco the world shifted.  I went from an orderly and familiar Christian continent to the Muslim world.  I loved the colors, the open markets, the crush of people in the streets, the kif, the mint tea, the exotic music, and the marked difference between that world and everything I knew before.

I met a ragtag bunch of Europeans on the boat from Gibraltar.  Together, after a few days in Tetuan, we went down the coast to a small fishing village called Targa and camped on the beach.  The locals greeted us with a gift, a bucket of fresh sardines.  They showed us how to cook them over an open fire.  It was wildly beautiful.  But I knew I couldn’t stay.  I went back to Amsterdam, sold my return flight to the States, took a tour of Germany, and then made my way to Scotland where there was money to be made.

Where would I go after Scotland?  I began to form a plan.  I decided to go back to Morocco in the spring and take it from there.  I consulted the big double-page display of North Africa in the atlas.  Even just a little planning would make my trip more linear and more economical than before.

From Morocco, I could follow the Mediterranean coast east to Egypt, passing through Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya.  At Cairo, I could go down the Nile River through Sudan, and head east to the port of Mombasa, Kenya on the Indian Ocean. I’d met a Portuguese couple who were heading that way to work on a boat, called a tramp steamer, from there to India.  Their goal was Goa, a former Portuguese seaside colonial state in India.  They wanted to be there by Christmas.  They might be on Goa’s beaches now, I thought, as winter approached in Scotland.  It was a plan.  But I’d need to finance it.  Maybe work along the way. 

The other resource I made use of in the library was the newspapers.  When all else fails, there are always the employment ads.  I scanned them daily.  One day this ad appeared for a job near Aberdeen.

Dairyman wanted.  State of the art milking parlor system.  Must be experienced.  Work with a team milking, feeding, and caring for 200+ cows daily.  Room and board provided.  Every other weekend free.  Apply in writing only.

As soon as I saw that ad I sat down and wrote a response.  I described the dairy farm I grew up on in Illinois, the cows, the types of milking machines we used, etc..  I laid it on thick, but I didn’t have to stretch the truth.  When you don’t know what else to do, it is comforting to fall back on what you know.

I gave the number of the pay phone at the hostel as a contact and told the old fellas in no uncertain terms to answer the phone if it rang.  It hardly ever rang.  The dairy farm owner called early two days later during breakfast.  I answered.

They hired me over the phone.  Not the best pay, but no need to spend a nickel of it.  I would take the first bus the next day to a small town northwest of Aberdeen, and they would pick me up at the bus station in a Land Rover to take me to the farm.  My unemployment didn’t last long.   Once again, I said goodbye to the fellas and assured them this time I wouldn’t be back. 

I went to bed early that last night at the hostel.  Sometime during the night, I was awakened by yelling from the day room.  Sound traveled well inside the hostel. The room dividers didn’t go to the ceiling, “so the heat can circulate better” the hostel manager claimed.

“What heat?” was the logical follow-up question.

I buried my head under the blankets, but the yelling continued.  Finally, I got up to investigate. 

It was Hamish, one of the older and perhaps frailest of the poor bastards who found themselves alone in their last years in that bleak facility.  He was sitting in the dark at a table in the day room, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his back to the windows that faced the street.  The only light came from a streetlight down the block.  When I came out, he was quiet.

“Hamish, what are you doing up?”

He looked up at me with big eyes.  He looked scared.

“Who are you?”

“What do you mean?  It’s Yankee.  You know me.  What are you doing up?  And what’s all this yelling about?”

“They’re coming after us Yankee.  Here they are again! Don’t let ‘em see ya.”

With that, he hunched under the table and began yelling.  No words, just pure fear.  A light shined through the windows, fell on the wall nearest us, and then swept around the room till it was gone.

“Stop yelling Hamish.  It’s OK.  Those are headlights from a car on the street.  Nobody’s coming to get us.”

“The hell they aren’t.  Tell the others.  They’ll kill us all.”

The look on Hamish’s face made the hair stand up on my arms.  It was as if he’d lost his mind.

“Wait here.”

I went back to the sleeping rooms and banged on Archie’s door.

“Archie, wake up.  Something’s wrong with Hamish.  He’s talking crazy.  You gotta see this.”

Archie answered from inside the room. 

“Let me get my pants on.”

He stumbled out of his room rubbing his eyes.  We sat on either side of Hamish in the day room.  Archie spoke to him in his slow deep voice.

“What’s this Yankee tells me about us being in danger Hamish?  Looks safe to me.”

“They’re trying to spot us with the lights Archie.  Once they get us in their sights, they’ll start firing.”

“How long since you’ve had a drink, Hamish?”

“Canna tell ya.  Three days, maybe four.  Me check comes tomorrow.”

Like most old guys who lived there permanently, Hamish was on the government dole.  

Headlights entered the room like before.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph they’re back!”

Hamish grabbed us both by the arms, tried to pull us under the table, and howled.

“Yankee, go turn the lights on,” Archie said.

I ran to find the switch.  When I turned back to the table, Archie had his arm on Hamish’s shoulder and was talking to him softly in Gaelic.  As Archie talked, Hamish scratched his neck hard with both hands.  His long fingernails, the first two on his right-hand brown from nicotine in the roll-ups, had made red streaks on his skin.  Some of the streaks were bleeding.  I hadn’t seen that in the dark. 

“He has the D.T.s Yankee.”

“What’s that?”

“Delerium Tremens.  Comes from alcohol withdrawal.  He needs a drink is all.”

“Jesus, Archie shouldn’t he be in the hospital?  He’s old.  This must be so hard on him.”

‘I’m not putting him in hospital.  If he chooses to go, when his head is clear, he can go on his own but I’m not doing that to him.”

“So, what do we do?  We can’t leave him like this.”

“We give him a drink.  Do you have any whisky?”

“Yeah, I have a full flask, but that sounds crazy.  He’s out of his mind because of alcohol, and we’re giving him more?”

“He’s out of his mind because his body craves alcohol.  Once he gets it, he’ll settle down.  He probably hasn’t slept for days.  Give him a jill and have him drink it slow.  Once he gets it down, wait ten minutes or so and give him another.  Then make sure he drinks a couple glasses of water.  Get him to bed.  He’ll be all right Yankee.  Once Hamish gets a bottle tomorrow, he’ll be himself again.”

“How do you know all this Archie?”

“I went through the D.T.’s myself a long time ago.  But I was able to quit the drink.  I’m not sure Hamish ever has.  And at his age, he may never.  Though I’m afraid never may last just a short while for our friend Hamish.  Will you do this for him Yankee?”

“OK.  Yeah.  I’ll do it.”

Thank you.  I’m going back to bed.”

That was my last night in the YMCA Hostel in Aberdeen.  The last time I saw Archie or Hamish or any of the old fellas.

Travel enlightens one so.

Glad That Didn't Happen to Me

 As the pipeline job outside Aberdeen went on the weather and working conditions worsened.  More and more the talk among the workers turned to when the job would shut down. 

“Why don’t they tell us the plan?” I asked.

“They don’t want us to quit,” the old man who loved rainbows and watched out for me explained.  “They tell us now the job is over Friday, and they won’t have enough men to finish out the week.”

“Where would we go to find better pay than this Paddy? I’m staying till the end.”

I’d taken to calling the old man Paddy.  He liked it.

“And then what Yankee?”  Scrabble around Aberdeen for weeks finding something else?  You’ll make nothing at all for two weeks and spend down your savings.  If you were smart, you’d have a line on your next job now.  And to think I once took you for a smart Yankee, if such a thing exists.”

“What are you going to do Paddy?”

“I miss my wife and her cooking.  The bones are creaking with the cold and there’s a peat fire back home waiting to warm me up.  I’ve tucked away enough money to get us through the winter nicely.  You won’t find me looking for work till spring.”

It sounded so good.  Paddy went on.

“You’re a long way from home Yankee, but I imagine you could get there if you wanted.   Will you be heading that way soon?”

“I’m not going home.  I’m planning to travel more come spring.”

“Would be a shame not to be with family at Christmas.  But Christmas is far bit away.  This job will never last that long.  You know that do ya Yankee?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I didn’t know what would happen next.  Usually, I love that feeling.  But that’s not how I felt walking to the hostel in the dark with my friends.  It was Friday, we’d gotten paid, but I was down.

My young Irish friends, who got me the job, were happy.  They could see the end of the job coming and the prospect of hometowns, family, and girlfriends.

“Come down to harbor with us Yankee.”

“I think I’ll skip it tonight.”

We’d been drinking near Aberdeen’s harbor, bustling with activity from the North Sea oil boom.   Our favorite pub was always crammed with sailors spending money.  It wasn’t the sailors that drew us there, so much as the girls that hung around the sailors. 

“Come on ya cheap laggard.  How many more nights will we be together?"

 

At the pub my mates got into a game of darts for serious money, and I stayed put on my bar stool.  An older man took a seat beside me and ordered a gill (say jill) of Dewars whisky and a Guiness back.  Then (1974) as many drank whisky in Scottish bars as pints.  Many drank both.   I was nursing a gill of White Horse whisky with a Newcastle Brown Ale chaser.

A gill is four ounces.  Never saw a shot (1.5 ounces) back then in Scotland.   Scots are serious drinkers.  And no “e” in Scotch whisky.  Whiskey is made in America or Ireland.  Whisky is Canadian, Scotch, or Japanese.  

At the dart board, my mates won their match and ordered themselves and me another round with the winnings.  They were laughing and happy, but then they would be home soon.  I didn’t know where I’d be.  Or what I’d be doing for work.

The stranger on the barstool next to me said something.

“Pardon me?”

“I say where you from?”

“The states.  Illinois.”

“Are you here working on the rigs?”

“No.  I tried to get on but couldn’t.  I’m working on a gas pipeline, goes from here to Peterhead.”

“I’m surprised the weather hasn’t shut them down.”

“I think it’s about to.”

“You going home when the job’s done then?”

“No.  I came to Europe in June.  I want to work through the winter, save money, and leave in the spring.  Maybe to North Africa.”

“So, what’s next after the pipeline?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

He had a sip of whisky, followed by a swallow of Guiness.

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in working in a ship’s galley, would you?  My cook’s helper up and quit on me today, and we shove off on Monday at noon.  If I don’t fill that job, I’ll have to cook and feed 30 crew members myself.”

“What kind of ship?”

“Platform supply vessel.  We shuttle supplies from the harbor out to the rigs, and stand by in case of fire or other emergencies.  Jack of all trades like.  We can move but the platform can’t.  We act as their legs.  Monday we’re hauling out a big load of pipe. You never know what they’ll call on us to do.”

I took a drink.

“So, you know your way around a galley?”

“Never been in a galley before but I know kitchens.  Worked at a roast beef sandwich joint in college.  Learned cooking from my mom on the farm.”

“Not much to it.  Lots of cutting up vegetables and washing dishes.  I’ll teach you the recipes.”

“How’s the pay?”

When he told me what a week’s wages were, I tried to appear calm.  They were nearly twice what I was making on the pipeline.

“I’m interested.”

“Well, you’re in luck.  The skipper authorized me to do the hiring.   He’ll do the paperwork with you on the ship, get you signed up all legal like.”

“Just like that?  Can I see the ship?”

“Sure enough.  It’s tied up right down the dock outside.”

We were standing in front of it within minutes.  I let out a long whistle when I saw it.

“My God, it’s huge.”

“It’s built to take on heavy seas.  The North Sea gets rough out there.”

“So, I just show up Monday?

“Yeah.  Be there by noon.  I’ll likely be on ship.  Ask for Sig Larson.  I’ll give them your name.  Oh my gosh, I don’t even know your name.”

“Dave McClure.”

We shook hands.

McClure. That’s a Scottish name.”

“It is?  I thought it was Irish.  My great-grandfather sailed to America from Ireland.  He lived in Antrim County up North.”

“Well, if he was born in Ireland some McClure before him went there from Scotland.  McClure is an old clan name.”

We talked more, standing there on the pier by the huge ship.  He asked about our farm, told me about his family which was originally from Norway.

“We should have another drink to celebrate.  How about one for the road back at the pub?  I’ll buy.”

He reached into his pocket.

“God help me, I left me money clip on the bar.”

He dug in all his pockets.

“I don’t have it.  I had nearly a hundred quid on me.”

“Let’s get back quick then.”

We went back to where we were sitting and flagged down the bartender.

“We were here not twenty minutes ago, and I left a money clip full of pound notes on the bar.  And it sure as hell wasn’t a tip.  Did you happen to pick it up did ya?”

“Sorry mate.  I don’t see many tips in here and I’ve not seen a money clip loaded with pound notes I can assure you.  That I’d remember.”

My soon-to-be boss pounded his fist on the bar and spun away facing the crowd.

“SOME LIMMER MADE OFF WITH MY MONEY AND I WANT IT BACK!”

The bartender was quick to respond. 

“Look here, mate.  Let’s not be yelling and scolding the customers.  You made a mistake and your money’s gone.  Now either have a drink or move on.”

“I’ll buy us a drink,” I said.

“No, let’s get outa here.”

I followed him outside as he stomped angrily out the door.

“I can’t believe I’ve gone and done that.  Here I am on a Friday night, with the banks not open till Monday, and I’ve let all my cash be blown to the wind.”

“I can lend you some till Monday.”

“No.  Lord, I’ve got a dinner date tomorrow night at a steak house that’ll cost me a bundle.”

“It’s OK.  I just got paid.”

The week’s pay was in my left pocket.

“What will you need?”

“Forty pounds or so.  But I couldna ask you for it.”

“No really.  It’s OK.  You can pay me back on Monday.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Forty pounds was almost a hundred dollars in 1974.  That was a whole lot of money to me then.  Still is.  But after all, the guy was getting me a job.  I took my week’s pay out of my pocket, counted out forty pounds, and put it in his hand. 

“I hate taking this from you.  But, I‘ll have it ready for you Monday when I see you on ship.  Noon, right?”

“Right.”

He shook my hand hard and gave me a big smile.  We parted ways, me up the hill to the hostel, and he down the street towards the ship. 

I had a lot to do.  I packed up my backpack for the first time in months.  Said goodbye to my Irish mates and asked them to say goodbye to Paddy and the foreman and the guys on the pipeline job.  I gave them the Wellingtons to return to the English foreman’s man. 

I checked out of the YMCA hostel and said goodbye to the old men.  They were happy for me and amazed I could get a job so easily as a seaman.   Archie, one of my favorites, was especially pleased. 

“I mean you have a way about you, getting these good jobs.  I’m proud of you for making your way through the world so well.”

Archie was from the isle of Jura, the least populated of the Hebrides Islands then, with somewhere around 200 people.  He was a simple man, and from what I could gather had lived a very simple life.  He talked slowly, laughed easily in a deep voice, and occasionally slipped into speaking Gaelic.  His most frequent expression was wide-eyed wonder, as if the world outside Jura was hard to fathom.  I’d always wanted to make it to Jura, where George Orwell lived for a time, and see firsthand its wild beauty.  Still hasn’t happened.

“By golly, Yankee I don’t know that I’ve ever met a man as lucky as you.  Who knows what you’ll be doing next?  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were elected to Parliament.”

Archie wore the same sweater every day and was always fiddling with his tobacco tin, worn and dented, filled with Old Holburn, which was cheap and rough to smoke.   He always offered me a rollup and I only took him up on it once.  Unlike the rest of the old boys Archie didn’t drink, although he may have in his youth.  Archie had a blank look about him at times.   How he ended up in that flophouse and what he lived on I don’t know.

“I’m proud of you Yankee, and I wish you all the luck in the world, though I don’t think you need it, what with talking your way overnight into a job as an able-bodied seaman.”

I checked out of the hostel after breakfast, took my time saying goodbye to the fellas, and killed time till about 11:00.  Archie walked me down to the door and shook my hand before I headed to the docks.  It was a sunny day, rare for Aberdeen.  I was excited to be going to sea.

When I got to the slip where the boat had been tied it was empty.  There were a crew of men working on the boat next to the gaping hole where it had been docked. I yelled out to them.

“What do you about the supply ship that was docked here over the weekend?”

A man yelled back.

”It left at first light.”

I closed my eyes and felt a rush of heat go from my head to my stomach.

“Who owns that ship?”

They gave me the name of a company and how to get to its office near the water.  I walked there straightaway and inquired of a desk clerk about Sig Larson.  The clerk stopped me and brought an older man from an office in the back.  I told him the story.

“I know most of the crew members by name and have never heard of him, but I’ll check the list to make sure.  Give me a minute.”

He came back quickly.

“As I suspected, no one with that name works for us.”

I just stood there.

“I hope you didn’t lend him any money.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Have you ever worked on a ship at sea lad?”

“No.”

“We’d never put you out there with no experience, even in this labor market.  You’d likely be flat on your back seasick for a week.  Sorry son.  I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

I walked back to the YMCA hostel and climbed the stairs in a fog.  When I entered the room where the old guys hung out during the day, the few they let stay looked up at me in surprise.

“What are you doing back here Yankee?”

I told them all the story.  There was no job.  I lent him money.  The ship had sailed.

Archie was sitting there and looked at me with a long face.  In his slow low voice, he said…

“I’m glad that didn’t happen to me.”

With that Archie picked up his tobacco tin, walked past me, and went to his room.