The Man Who Didn't Take the Ferry

By Julian Roe

This is the account of a high school dropout who didn't buy a ‘ferry ticket’ to carry himself through life but travelled his path in the style of a freedom seeking hitchhiker. His direction being determined by people he connected with along the way. Ultimately enabling him to visit more than fifty countries. Many of which he experienced whilst living aboard boats. Becoming financially worthless several times he survived to achieve a wealth of a different kind.
Diagnosed with stage four cancer he applied his positive attitude toward beating the disease and explains how others may adopt the same methods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781300648819

Book preview

The Man Who Didn't Take the Ferry

‘The Man Who Didn’t Take the Ferry’

Dedication:

I would like to thank each and every person who has helped me along my path of life. All those people who stopped to pick me up, when all they knew about me was that I had my thumb out and looked unthreatening. Those who gave me money when I needed it, (although I have never asked).

Also the women who have shared passion with me.

Bless you one and all.

Introduction:

As a non-conformist rebel I refused good advice and direction. Instead of getting a sound education and settling into a career to buy tickets to travel, I chose to stick my thumb out and see where people might take me. During my journey of life I meandered onward in a boneheaded manner suffering the constraints of meagre earnings.

‘Do unto others as you have them do unto you’, was said to me when I was young. Later I was told that we are only here ‘to learn and help others’. Both of these guidelines I have attempted to abide by.

I have set foot in many countries apart from my mother country England. Many I have just traveled through, some I have lived in for weeks and a few of them for years. Some I have visited more than once. They are listed in the order in which I first visited them.

Malta, Greece, Cypress, Turkey, Italy, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium, France, Andorra, Spain, Morocco, Canary Islands, Ghana, Togo, Dahomey, Nigeria, America, Canada, Sardinia, Ukraine, Tunisia, South Africa, Costa Rico, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Haiti, American Virgin Islands, British Virgin Islands, St Martin, Anguilla, Colombia, Panama, Jamaica, Cuba, Ecuador (Galapagos), Marquises, Tuomotus, Tahiti, Cook Islands, Niue, Tonga, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Cambodia, Romania and Holland.

Chapter 1: Wanderlust.

In the late nineteen seventies, at the age of eighteen I got ‘itchy feet’. So I spent hours sifting through yachting magazines looking for a position as crew on a charter yacht. My mother suggested that we make contact with my uncle who was running a charter boat in the Mediterranean and plans were hatched. I’d been struggling to make ends meet and this would be a fresh start. Soon I was on a plane to Malta, my first flight and my first venture into the big, wide, world.

When I arrived my uncle Derek and Elsaretta, who was his second wife, greeted me. My first impression of my uncle was that he had style. He was dressed in a blue jacket, white turtle neck shirt and blue slacks and looked very ‘Mediterranean’. Although he was retired from the R.A.F. he continued to use the title ‘Wing Commander’.

As arranged I was to share the crewing labor with the two Nicks, Nicholas my cousin and his girlfriend Nicky. We all had dinner and sorted out our sleeping quarters. There were only berths for two crew so I got the ‘Lazarette’. A small crawl space under the aft deck. It was cramped and smelly but I made the best of it. Later in the season I started sleeping on deck, which was much better.

There was a lot of work to be done before the charter guests arrived. One of my jobs was to break open a set of mahogany steps (‘companionway’ in nautical terms) which were no longer needed. I had vowed to stop swearing but this didn’t last long when I hit my thumb with an almighty blow. The resulting damage to my thumbnail took another thirteen years to grow out. During my forties I hit the same thumb with the same consequences; my language remains colorful.

We left Malta and travelled to the Greek islands, the Turkish coast, Cyprus, and Sicily. Picking up our pre-booked guests along the way. I worked hard and quickly learned about this new lifestyle, the weather, the sea and the charter business.

One of the charter groups was a French mayor and his family who had chartered Derek’s boat every year for ten years. They brought with them a family friend who was also French. One day whilst anchored for lunch another yacht flying a German flag drew close. On seeing the flag the French woman went crazy shouting obscenities at the people aboard. The occupation of France had been over for thirty years but there was still hostility and resentment. I realized how powerful the memories of war can be, people don’t forget easily and nor should they.

Another memorable guest was a master of ceremonies for ‘University Challenge’, a television competition between universities. He and his group of intellectuals seemed way ahead of me. I hadn’t completed high school and had gone to work at a boatyard before my sixteenth birthday.

Much of my time was taken up with cleaning and dish washing. Early in the morning it was my job to remove the salt from the teak handrails. Occasionally I would find a dead flying fish which had landed on the deck. I marveled at the sea and its occupants. I saw dolphins, large jumping fish and my first whale.

In the evenings I stayed on the yacht. Everyone went ashore and partied. I had been invited but wanted to be sure I was well rested and ready for my work the next day. I hadn’t discovered indulgences such as drink, cigarettes and women, plenty of that came later. For the time being I was, in more than one way, an eighteen year old virgin. At that time I was never muscular but I wasn’t skinny either. We were swimming one time and I heard Nicky and Elsaretta whispering compliments on my masculine proportions. Although I blushed, their comments were a great boost to my self-esteem.

The charter season came to an end and the Nicks went back to England. Derek, Elsaretta and I stayed on Meteor in Piraeus near Athens. The dock was in the middle of nowhere so once a week we went by taxi to the nearest town eight miles away. Derek wasn’t paying me enough to take taxis to go out and try to make a social life for myself and I didn’t speak the language either. The prospect of spending the whole winter isolated like this was daunting, so I decided to return to England, I felt I had no choice.

The way I travelled back to England was an adventure. I booked a train from Athens to London, through Greece, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany and Belgium. There was nothing available to eat aboard the train so I bought my own food. I underestimated both my appetite and the length of the journey and soon ran out. Fortunately my fellow travelers helped me out by sharing their food. This was my first experience of the friendliness and helpfulness of people whilst travelling. I vowed to be as obliging if ever the roles were reversed.

Chapter 2: Thumbing it.

It wasn’t easy adjusting to being back in England. The weather was miserable and everything seemed so grey after my summer in the sun. I went back to a boatyard and worked through the winter.

In the spring I was ready to leave for sunnier climes. It didn’t really matter to me where; as long as I travelled south. My father gave me a lift part of the way then I put my thumb out. Hitchhiking intrigued me and I never thought that it was just dumb luck to be picked up. I would always present myself with a smile on my face and I learned how to position myself to make the pickup easy. Adapting my skill using my other thumb for those who drive on the ‘wrong side’.

I didn’t know my future, whom I might meet along the way and I had very little money, however I felt happy and above all free.

In those days there was no such thing as the Lonely Planet guides or the internet. When I crossed over the English Channel to France I was in another world and I didn’t speak the same language either. I was on my own and learning to survive. One time I remember ordering an omelet only to be served two runny eggs staring up at me from the plate. There didn’t seem much point in trying to explain what I had anticipated getting, so despite their consistency I ate them. This was before being able to make your selection from a range of photographs which made things far easier.

Hitching through France was easy and I only felt ill at ease once. This was in a shiny black and chrome Citroen driven by a Frenchman who spoke no English. I spoke no French so as the journey progressed we communicated with gestures. Soon I realized he was propositioning me to stay at his house and in his bed. I decided it was time to get out.

Another memorable ride was in an ancient grey Citroen Diane, a rattling affair which stopped running when the engine got too hot. The driver would stop for half an hour for the engine to cool; then we would continue for a few more miles. The driver seemed quite content with this and we obeyed the law of his little car. There was some consolation for me because the stop-start routine allowed me time to take in the wonderful views of the French countryside.

During one ride I was offered a cigarette. Although there had been many opportunities previously I had always resisted but this time I accepted. My head seemed to explode and I coughed violently and felt quite sick. When the driver dropped me off I was outside a small store. After a few minutes I felt the urge to buy a packet of cigarettes. I coughed and spluttering through my second cigarette and realized that this was stupid and had to stop. I threw the packet into the hedge and walked away.

For twenty minutes I stood waiting for a lift. Then I couldn’t take it anymore I had to have a cigarette, I scrambled into the undergrowth and retrieved the packet. This was the start of an addiction which lasted fifteen years!

For this trip I had designed my own tent, and a friend of mine who made tents for a living had manufactured one to my design. I decided it must be small and lightweight. I tested my masterpiece one rainy night and it was a complete disaster. The tent had only one short pole at my head which I erected once inside the ‘tent sack’. However as soon as it started to rain I got wet. This was the end of my tent and my attempts at tent design. A few years later I saw a similar design using plastic hoops which seemed to work well, I guess I was too early with my idea.

I was at a campsite watching others erect far more sophisticated affairs. On one occasion a man drew into the site in an open top sports car with a beautiful woman at his side. From the trunk of the car he produced his total holiday home, including in a flourish of affluence, inflatable arm-chairs. I’m not of a jealous nature but in comparison I was travelling in a far more simplistic fashion.

By chance I travelled through the town of Pamplona. I didn’t know anything about ‘The running of the bulls’ and actually arrived there the day after it was all over. Another example of me being ‘A day late and a dollar short’.

Without a destination in mind I was traveling aimlessly and running short of money. I had just enough to get me back to England where I could guarantee a job rather than press on and run completely out of funds. So I returned, not with my tail between my legs but with experience behind me. I had learned a great deal and I’m sure I benefited from the three week adventure, except of course for starting to smoke cigarettes.

Chapter 3: Village life.

Back in England I looked for work and found an opportunity renovating an old house owned by the father of my friend the tent-builder. I lived in the house whilst I did the building work. Apart from a couple of pubs the only other opportunity for a social life was at the weekend dances held at village halls in the area. They became the highlight of my social scene.

My budget was small and uncomplicated; just enough food for the week and beer money for the weekends. I made several friends and we would drink at the pub before going to the dances. It wasn’t long before I met Eric. His brother played bass in a local band so whenever the band played at the dances Eric and I helped to set up the equipment.

Unfortunately the village halls were laid out with chairs against each opposing wall and all the girls would congregate on one side with the boys on the other. Any couples would huddle together in the corners. The group would start playing to an empty dance floor. I felt part of my duties was to get the party into gear. So putting my thinking hat on and risking publicly scrutinized refusal, I thought of whom I might ask to dance. Eventually the safe bet to me was the oldest lady on the row of chairs. This worked like a dream and become a regular way to encourage others to get up and dance.

It was the first time in my life that I had a gang of friends around me. Sure I didn’t have much money but I had a lot of fun and there was great camaraderie.

Nine months went by and I grew restless. England’s economy was as bad as ever and seemed to be getting worse. So I put it to Eric that he should think about going hitchhiking with me. Seeking conviction to my idea I said give me your answer by the end of the week. He didn’t hesitate one minute and immediately told me he was ready to go as soon as possible.

Eric was brought up by his stepfather William and his mother Joan. William was a chimney-sweep and Joan kept house. She was always there with a sandwich or drink for anyone lingering about their council house. In those days, even in the midst of summer, the open fireplace was used to heat a back boiler for hot water. Year round William would come back from his work covered in soot and in need of a bath. The heat from the fire was homely in the winter but in the summer it was difficult to tolerate.

The youngsters of the family were the two brothers Eric and James and three Nigerian children, two girls and one boy. Their parents were ‘perpetual students’ in London and the three were fostered by Joan and William. The immigration authorities clamped down on the parents studies and deported them and the happy household was torn apart when the children were forced to return to Nigeria. This must have been very difficult for everyone, not least the children who had been born in England and now forced to leave for another country and another culture.

Eric and I needed a direction for our travels so since we had the address of the family in Nigeria we thought best to head that way. It was also on the way to our dream destination of Australia, just because of lots of sunshine. Looking back this was quite naive of us and we had little worldly knowledge, our only reference was that of a friend who had ‘done India’. We figured if he could survive we might also and there was nothing in England holding us back. We decided to start hitchhiking on the day after my twenty-first birthday; June the eighth.

A party was planned, a combination of birthday and goodbye bash. We hired the local village hall and a disco. The group we had worked with played for free. What a night to remember; I didn’t realize how many friends I had accumulated and they were all there. Booze, mainly party-sevens and light-ale in bottles was provided by the guests on a ‘bring a bottle’ arrangement and I danced my socks off. Next day I took all the refundable bottles back to the pub and added a bit more to our travel fund.

Chapter 4: ‘‘Come on Eric let’s go’’!

Eric and I had sold up what few possessions we had, we bought a just one backpack between us (which was plenty enough for our meager possessions) and went travelling. We hitched to London then to Dover where we took the ferry to Calais France. Then onward to the outskirts of Paris to the road heading south towards Lyon. There was a long line of thirty hitchhikers or so standing at the entrance to the motorway and here we learned some hitchhiking etiquette. Actually it was a lesson in tolerance. Two girls got out of a car and planted themselves at the beginning of the line. With the merest flick of a thumb, (perhaps more of a flick of fleshy leg), they brought a car to a screeching halt and got their next ride. The hitchhikers code of conduct defines that they should have gone to the back of the queue. Ultimately though it’s the drivers’ choice, this time it was the prettiest of the bunch who got lucky.

Proceeding south we encountered our first real sunshine and with it, sweltering heat. In the Mediterranean I had been gradually acclimatized to climate change but this searing heat was thrust upon my fair skin and my English head abruptly. Standing with my trusty thumb poised waiting for a lift in central France my legs went to jelly, my mind went blank and I sank to the ground with sunstroke.

Eric dragged me to a nearby tree and gave me the last of our bottled water and I was revived. Wow, what a feeling of helplessness. Not since a bullying boatyard worker had dangled me by the throat twenty feet above the ground, had I felt as near to my Maker. Where would I have been without Eric to save me? We were to share the next eleven months together and as I recall we only had one argument which was more of a disagreement about the direction in which to go. For eleven months Eric was my staunch friend and companion.

To help to determine our general route to Nigeria and onward to Australia I had packed with us a pocket atlas, this was bought during my school days and at the time seemed expensive. Unfortunately it carried inside the front cover a reminder of the twenty-one different addresses I had lived at before my twenty-first birthday, due to my parents’ separation and ultimate divorce. Despite this it proved invaluable as a guide to our travels.

On seeing the map of Spain and the enormous lump of land ahead of us before Morocco we decided to take a train. Neither Eric nor I were ever given to dishonesty but temptation came upon us. The rail ticket down the length of Spain was expensive and we wanted to save some money. I had read of travelers buying a ticket for the nearest stop but then carrying on much further down the line. This we attempted to do, we bought two tickets for Carcassonne, which was listed as being the next stop. During the train ride we found out that this was almost all the way to Algeciras our stop off point for the crossing to Morocco, so in the long run we didn’t save much. We felt a lot less guilty though.

After a night’s stay in Algeciras we took the ferry over the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco. On arrival we were besieged by children hassling us to buy hashish, constant hoards surrounded us trying to pressurize us into buying. The crowd followed us into the nearby town and was becoming a nuisance and quite unbearable. It was so distressing that we decided to return to Spain as soon as we could for the sake of our sanity. We drank real mint tea, leaf and all, at a café and checked into a ‘Pension’. Eric played a trick on me suggesting to the much overweight, elderly landlady, that she could sleep with me to pay for the room. He was not popular with me for a while but I did see the funny side. We took the next morning’s ferry back to Spain and pondered our next move.

Originally we thought to go by land all the way to Nigeria but the hassle in Morocco persuaded us to try and go by sea. Eric had less money than me and he suggested he should go back to England. I assured him that we would survive whatever there was ahead of us together and so we pooled our remaining money.

Chapter 5: Off to sea.

We decided to take a ferry to the Canary Islands. They seemed a long way south and in the general direction of Nigeria. We knew we wouldn’t have enough money to buy a ticket onward when we got to the islands we would have to get lucky, atleast we weren’t going back.

Since all the tickets to sleep on deck had been sold we were forced to buy a ticket for a cabin which was a little luxury for a change. This left us enough money for about two day’s survival in the Canaries.

During the crossing I got drunk and attempted to climb one of the chimney funnels. I only found out about this from Eric the next morning. How I survived I don’t know. All that I could remember was dancing on a tiny dance floor near the bar and after that absolutely nothing. I guess this was my first blackout.

The Canaries were a very different place for me since the volcanic beaches seemed to be so dark in color compared to that of the Mediterranean. It was interesting for us to see bikini clad girls being escorted by their Catholic mamas who were dressed all in black with barely a hint of exposed flesh. Somewhat frustrating too.

I guess when you are down to your last coin and getting hungry something must happen to help and sure enough it did. No lottery win but a ride onward toward Nigeria. We bumped into an African sailor who explained in broken English a problem he had and our reward if we could help him.

He was from a fishing ship out of Ghana Africa and had been with a prostitute on his way to the Canaries and had developed an ‘itch’. We directed him to a doctor. He seemed to think we could help him personally in some way, perhaps he thought that we were experienced in such matters. Our reward was to meet with the captain of his ship who was known to be eager to entertain English people. In fact could we meet him at a certain restaurant that evening? Sure we could, any chance of conversation with sympathetic folk was ok by us.

That afternoon we had our meal of tomatoes and bread and got as clean and tidy as we could in readiness for our meeting. To our delight not only did we meet the captain but also the owner of the shipping fleet who invited us to join them for dinner. Wow, from tomato sandwiches to a gourmet spread. We tucked in, eating as much as we could but trying not to show that we had not eaten a square meal in a long time.

During the evening we found out that the Ghanaian owner had sent his son to England