# Taking Over Command



## BosunsMate

Has any member had to take over command of a ship when the captain fell ill during a voyage. If so, did the event get entered in to the ship's log book?


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## loco

Not seen Mate taking over as Master, but did have 2/E taking over as C/E after the latter mangled his hand in a watertight door. I think the ship had to get formal permission to sail from one of the UK Official agencies, but can't remember which one. Ship was in US at the time, sailing for Brazil.

Martyn


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## makko

If I remember correctly the protocol........:

If the vessel was underway and the Master were conscious and able, he would have to formally hand over to the mate, with witnesses, a formal minute drawn up and signed. I assume it would have to be entered in the log, that is, that he had formally, and willingly, handed over command.

If the Master were unconscious or unable to communicate, an offcial administrative act, witnessed by all the senior officers, would have to be drawn up. This would detail the reason for the assumption of command, and witnessed/signed. This would also have to be entered in the log. If the protocol were not followed, it could be construed as "mutiny"!

If in port, a dispensation would have to be obtained from the nearest PoR marine office and the handover acknowledged by the company. It would not, therefore, be entered in the log.

I just cannot remember though what happens to the Articles: I don't know if everyone would have to sign off (Discharged at Sea, if the vessel were underway) and signed back on again with the Mate signing as Master.

I stand to be corrected, it was a long time ago that I did my HND "Supervisory & Legislative" module!

Rgds.
Dave


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## garryNorton

I remember while anchored off Dubai in the 1970s the Captain was signed off sick and was not replaced and in the meantime the Chief Engineer and self shared the running of the ship and all company correspondence was pinned on the notice board so all crew members knew what was happening.It worked well and no complaints from all on board and the London Office after about a week sent a new master. It shows that a ship can run without a captain.


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## geoffu

TUT TUT.


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## Stephen J. Card

garryNorton said:


> I remember while anchored off Dubai in the 1970s the Captain was signed off sick and was not replaced and in the meantime the Chief Engineer and self shared the running#


Where was the Mate while all this was going on?


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## lakercapt

Even when changing masters e.g. one is going home on vacation, an entry has to be made in the official logbook.
Joe Blow is superseding Jimmy Block as master.
This muist ber done as the crew agreement is with a master and crew.


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## makko

lakercapt said:


> Even when changing masters e.g. one is going home on vacation, an entry has to be made in the official logbook.
> Joe Blow is superseding Jimmy Block as master.
> This muist ber done as the crew agreement is with a master and crew.


My point exactly, Lakercapt. The Articles are between the Master and crew - They are only sent to the vessel from the companies "pool" of available hands and ranks and subject to the Master's acceptance, ultimately.

Merry Xmas!
Rgds.
Dave


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## Stephen J. Card

SUCCESSION TO COMMAND IN EMERGENCY:

"In the unfortunate event of the master dying at sea or being left behind unfit at a port abroad, the question arises as to who shall succeed him in command. If the mate is properly qualified he is without question the proper person to take over for the time being and, in the absence of the information from the ship's agent owners propose to make different arrangements, he will in the port where the ship is or next arrives make the appropriate reports and get authority to have his name on the certificate of registry."

CREW AGREEMENTS

"Section1 requires that, with certain exceptions, an agreement in writing may be made between each person employed as a seaman in a UK registered ship and the persons employing him. The agreements made with several persons employed in a ship are to be contained in one do***ent (referred to as a crew agreement) except that in certain cases the D. o. T. may approve (a) agreements being in one more than one crew agreement and (b) one crew agreement to relate to more than one ship. The agreement must be carried in the ship in to which it relates whenever the ship goes to sea. However, if the agreement relates more than one ship it is to be kept an address ashore in the UK and a COPY must be carried in the ship. Such copy must bear a certificate signing by the master certifying that this is a true copy and must at the address at which, and the name of the person by whom it is kept. Agreements relating to more than one ship are referred to 'multiple ship agreement' and are normally restricted to cross-channel ferries, bt an application can be made to the D.o.T. to have them in respect to other ships."


From above: The Crew Agreement is made with the OWNERS not the MASTER. Should a master die at sea it would be the mate or second mate or third mate would take the vessel to the closest port. The mate, if the master had died, would make the relevant comments in the Official Long Book. Witness? For sure. Whole crew and have a new agreement? No. The Agreement is between the owners, not the master. Of course if the owner is also the master that is a different kettle of fish!. In this case the D.o.T. would get involved... quickly.

Stephen


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## jmcg

Would different jurisdictions (Flag State) have different applicable requirements/ agreements in these cir***stances?

BW

J


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## lakercapt

Stephen J. Card said:


> SUCCESSION TO COMMAND IN EMERGENCY:
> 
> "In the unfortunate event of the master dying at sea or being left behind unfit at a port abroad, the question arises as to who shall succeed him in command. If the mate is properly qualified he is without question the proper person to take over for the time being and, in the absence of the information from the ship's agent owners propose to make different arrangements, he will in the port where the ship is or next arrives make the appropriate reports and get authority to have his name on the certificate of registry."
> 
> CREW AGREEMENTS
> 
> "Section1 requires that, with certain exceptions, an agreement in writing may be made between each person employed as a seaman in a UK registered ship and the persons employing him. The agreements made with several persons employed in a ship are to be contained in one do***ent (referred to as a crew agreement) except that in certain cases the D. o. T. may approve (a) agreements being in one more than one crew agreement and (b) one crew agreement to relate to more than one ship. The agreement must be carried in the ship in to which it relates whenever the ship goes to sea. However, if the agreement relates more than one ship it is to be kept an address ashore in the UK and a COPY must be carried in the ship. Such copy must bear a certificate signing by the master certifying that this is a true copy and must at the address at which, and the name of the person by whom it is kept. Agreements relating to more than one ship are referred to 'multiple ship agreement' and are normally restricted to cross-channel ferries, bt an application can be made to the D.o.T. to have them in respect to other ships."
> 
> 
> From above: The Crew Agreement is made with the OWNERS not the MASTER. Should a master die at sea it would be the mate or second mate or third mate would take the vessel to the closest port. The mate, if the master had died, would make the relevant comments in the Official Long Book. Witness? For sure. Whole crew and have a new agreement? No. The Agreement is between the owners, not the master. Of course if the owner is also the master that is a different kettle of fish!. In this case the D.o.T. would get involved... quickly.
> 
> Stephen


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## lakercapt

As it is some time since I sailed I was surprised this was the way things are done today.
I am glad I sailed when I did as now I would not even know where to start except port and starboard are still the same !!


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## Stephen J. Card

lakercapt said:


> As it is some time since I sailed I was surprised this was the way things are done today.
> I am glad I sailed when I did as now I would not even know where to start except port and starboard are still the same !!



What on earth are you talking about?  The information is from my 'Business & Law' for the Shipmaster by RN Hopkins. Published 1961. Port and Starboard are NOT the same. When I started port & starboard were red and green. Some twit then decided that sidelight boxes were to be BLACK. In daytime it is impossible to tell which is starboard or port! Mind, by the time you get close enough to tell the colours of the side boxes you had better to hard a starboard and quickly!!!

Stephen


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## Pilot mac

When I sailed as Mate I had the task of taking over from a Master on several occasions because he was too drunk to perform his duties. So drunk that he could not even make it to the bridge to pick up the Pilot and berth the ship in Rotterdam. Whilst alongside he did manage to get up, but proceeded to make a nuisance of himself in the crew messroom, drunk again or maybe still drunk. He missed sailing and appeared on the bridge at full away. After a chat with the C/E we decided to phone the owners. There response was 'Im glad you called, we are aware of whats been going on as we have already had calls from the Pilots and the Agent'. We were only sailing to the UK so a few hours at sea and we were back alongside at a UK port. He was instantly dismissed on arrival and his relief joined about 5 minutes later. Is there any wonder why ships are now dry?

brgds
Dave


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## Harry Nicholson

Taking over from the captain: In 1956 I had a stint as r/o on a Tyne collier. It was a stark contrast to my first year on a BI troopship - baked Alaska for afters, and palm trees in the saloons. We had a sad skipper, brought low by the drink. Loaded with coal from Barry we tried to reach the Plymouth glue factory in a storm (the Barry pilot advised we should not sail, but skipper insisted). I wrote about it in my memoir "The Best of Days'. Here's a snip:


'This is no good, Mr Mate. This is no bloody good at all.' The captain's words are a trifle slurred. He has a job to keep his feet, but not necessarily due to the motion of the deck. He grabs hold of the compass binnacle and sways there.
'This is the course you asked for, Captain. What do you want now? Too late to get into the lee of Lundy.'
'Then keep her head into the weather. Put her back to due west. Hold her there until we sort things out!' As we lurch onto the new course I hear the captain's cabin door slam shut.
'Right, that's it.' The mate's voice has a tremble. 'Did you catch his breath, helmsman?'
'I did, Mr Beswick. Whisky! Nearly knocked me off the bloody wheel.'
'Hold her steady while I roust out the second mate.'
I look through the hatch to see Mr Beswick hurry from the wheelhouse. He shortly reappears with Jack Knaggs, the second mate, a Sunderland man with bushy eyebrows. The hefty ship's cook lumbers in behind them.
'Now, Jack, you mind the bridge. We won't be long. Come with me, Cooky; you'll be my witness.' The mate and the cook disappear.
Ten minutes later, the first mate is back. 'Right! I've taken command till we get out of this. Skipper's tucked up in his bunk and sleeping like the dead.'
The second mate's eyes bulge beneath his thick brows. 'Suppose he wakes up, comes back and starts giving daft orders?'
'He'll not be doing that.' He pulls a key from his bridge-coat pocket. 'I've locked him in his cabin – for his own safety, him being a bit potty tonight.'
'Do we put all this in the log?'
'Nowt goes in the log; though I'll leave space should things turn nasty. Remember, you're all witnesses to what's transpired.' He looks at me – my face is still framed by the hatch. 'And you too, Sparky.'
_Corburn_ ploughs westwards. The wind climbs to severe gale force 9 (45 knots), waves are twenty foot with dense streaks of foam that lace the water. Spray lashes the wheelhouse windows.
Within the hour we are in storm force 10, followed soon by violent storm force 11 on the Beaufort Scale – a wind speed of 62knots (70mph). The edges of the wave crests are now torn into streams of foam. Our bows charge into hollows, then attempt to climb slopes of forty and fifty feet. Often we fail and simply crash through the marching seas. Sight of the deck is often lost and only the masts stand free of surging water. An oil tanker intersects our course; she will be bound for the refinery at Milford Haven. Her lights rise and fall; they disappear altogether when she slides into a trough. Likewise, we will vanish from her sight. Cook does his best, but dinner is reduced to a bowl of tinned Scotch Broth, heated after a fashion. That's followed by tinned pilchards between thick wedges of bread, to be washed down by mugs of slopping tea.

The radar scanner does its best to deliver images to the wheelhouse, though the cathode-ray-tube display is filled with confusion. The centre of the screen, and our position, is surrounded by reflections off the wave tops, a mass of white blobs known as _sea clutter. _An intermittent echo that resembles a wisp of wool can only be the west coast of Lundy Island. The range-finder indicates that Lundy is now twenty miles astern. A bearing of that 'scrap of wool' says we are heading due west. I can confirm our position by tuning the direction finder to a beacon on the South Bishop light-vessel, and two others, wide apart on the Irish coast. The three bearings intersect to form a triangle called a _cocked hat. _We are somewhere within that triangle. The smaller the _cocked hat_, the more accurate the bearings. Despite the radar churning away, the mate asks for a group of bearings every hour. It's going to be a long night. One hundred and eighty miles ahead is Cape Clear on the southern tip of Ireland, but we cannot detect it yet, the range of the radar is only forty miles and unreliable at that distance. As night falls, the cabin boy scrambles up the bridge companion-way with mugs of cocoa and fish-paste sandwiches

At 0600, a grey, watery dawn reveals the Irish coast fine on the starboard bow. The storm has ameliorated for us; it will now be exhausting itself among the Welsh mountains. But we still have gale conditions. The first mate orders a change of course from west to southeast. We are doing a dog-leg to the tip of Cornwall. The wind is now on the starboard stern quarter. We do not pitch so much, but the motion has become a screwing roll. The captain is still locked in his cabin; he hammers on the door, shouts for tea and bacon sandwiches. They are delivered, but he's kept locked in.

By evening we are in sight of the tip of Cornwall. To round the peninsula and steer for Plymouth will put us in the shelter of land. We are all weary and look forward to that. First though, _Corburn_ must pass between the wreck-strewn, spouting reefs of the Scilly Isles and the growling granite cliffs of Land's End. All looks well; men are smiling again, but as we come abreast of Land's End, the engine stops.
The comforting thump-de-thump of our Doxford diesel no longer throbs through the steel bulkheads and deck. We are left with the howl of the wind in the halyards and stays, and the crash and hiss of waves on the hull. In the wheelhouse, just as the mate grasps the hand-cranked telephone, it gives a harsh ring.
The mate answers, 'Bridge.' A pause. 'How long?' A pause. 'We've no helm, and we're two mile off shore. Be as sharp as you can.'
Ten minutes drag by, during which we are without steering. We are broadside on to huge seas and _Corburn_ leans as if she cowers with fright from the ocean. I clamber along the alleyway into the wheelhouse. I stand alongside the mate and peer through the spray-lashed windows. Little is to be seen of the deck except for two masts. All is surging sea water as wave after wave rolls over the bulwarks. The able-seaman on the wheel attempts to put the ship's head into the weather, but there's no response from the rudder.
The mate cranks the handle of the phone to the engine-room and shouts above the noise of the wind, 'I need to know how long till we have engines.' I note his knuckles are white. 'I'm broadside on. I've no steering.' His stubbled face is gaunt with fatigue. 'Well, let me know as soon as you can. I don't like the look of this.'
In my mind, I'm composing my first distress signal. To have to key out SOS is not something I've considered before today. The mate staggers to the port window and peers into the gloom. On the next roll, he slides back and grabs the compass binnacle. 'Sparks, you'd best warm up your transmitter. This is bad.'

I can see the dark profile of the Cornish cliffs on the port side, just as well as the mate. They seem to be closer, but between them and us rides a line of surf surmounted by a light. 'What's that?' I point to the lighthouse that gives a long five-second flash every ten seconds.
'That's the Longships, a line of reefs and islets a mile off shore. Power up that transmitter.'
By the wheelhouse door, I turn. 'If it's to be the SOS distress signal, the coast station will want our position and situation. If it's less serious, the next one down is XXX, the urgency signal. If it's to be that, they'll still want the info.'
'Not SOS. We're not in distress yet. Does no good to alarm the owners without good reason, Sparks. The urgency signal will do for now, so warm up the gear while I write out the details.'
Back in the wireless room, I have the Marconi _Oceanspan_ transmitter tuned to the distress frequency of 500 kc/s. The _Mercury_ main receiver glows alongside its little partner, the fixed-tuned _Alert. _Both are tuned to 500 kc/s.
The mate's face is at the hatch. 'Sparks, you'd best send the Urgency message. Here it is.' He tosses through a scribbled note for me to convert into a signal.
The deck shudders from breaking seas and leans at an uncomfortable angle as I key: 'XXX XXX XXX DE GQMF GQMF GQMF MV CORBURN. BARRY FOR PLYMOUTH. HALF MILE WEST OF LONGSHIPS REEF. ENGINE FAILURE. NO STEERING. SEVERE GALE. REQUEST VESSEL TO STANDBY.' I repeat the message three times and then listen for response.
Land's End Radio station gives immediate reply: 'GQMF GQMF GQMF DE GLD GLD GLD QSL WILL PROMULGATE TO ALERT ALL SHIPS. ADVISE IF SITUATION CHANGES.'
I acknowledge receipt: 'GLD DE GQMF QSL TU'
Land's End Radio is close to the location from which the first transatlantic radio transmission was made in 1901 by a young Italian named Marconi. The Longships reefs we are being pushed towards are unyielding islets of igneous rock, three of them growl at us now: Tal-y-Maen, Carn Bras (on which stands the lighthouse) and Meinek. Legend has it they are fragments of King Arthur's drowned kingdom of Lyonesse. But these are small matters compared to our predicament.
Fifteen minutes pass. The cook lumbers into the wheelhouse with mugs of steaming cocoa. I detect the tang of added whisky. 'Thought you might be needing this.' He stares through the port window at the spouting reef and grunts, 'Bloody Nora.'
The mate cranks the telephone. 'Any joy?' He shouts. Then, 'Don't take that tone with me! I need to know how long!'
There's a tonk-tonk noise and a slight vibration through the arms of my chair, then silence. And again, tonk-tonk. Then tonk-tonk-tonk. It throbs beneath my feet, and the note holds. Ah … the comforting beat of pistons and crankshafts. My spirits lift in harmony. I briefly wonder how the captain is taking all this; locked in his cabin.
The mate gives a whoop. 'We've got steering! Helm, due west. Quick about it. Let's clear off out of here.'

I was mostly tropical deep sea and saw cyclones enough, but the only time I felt anxious was on that little coal boat off Cornwall


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## lakercapt

Harry Nicholson said:


> Taking over from the captain: In 1956 I had a stint as r/o on a Tyne collier. It was a stark contrast to my first year on a BI troopship - baked Alaska for afters, and palm trees in the saloons. We had a sad skipper, brought low by the drink. Loaded with coal from Barry we tried to reach the Plymouth glue factory in a storm (the Barry pilot advised we should not sail, but skipper insisted). I wrote about it in my memoir "The Best of Days'. Here's a snip:
> 
> 
> 'This is no good, Mr Mate. This is no bloody good at all.' The captain's words are a trifle slurred. He has a job to keep his feet, but not necessarily due to the motion of the deck. He grabs hold of the compass binnacle and sways there.
> 'This is the course you asked for, Captain. What do you want now? Too late to get into the lee of Lundy.'
> 'Then keep her head into the weather. Put her back to due west. Hold her there until we sort things out!' As we lurch onto the new course I hear the captain's cabin door slam shut.
> 'Right, that's it.' The mate's voice has a tremble. 'Did you catch his breath, helmsman?'
> 'I did, Mr Beswick. Whisky! Nearly knocked me off the bloody wheel.'
> 'Hold her steady while I roust out the second mate.'
> I look through the hatch to see Mr Beswick hurry from the wheelhouse. He shortly reappears with Jack Knaggs, the second mate, a Sunderland man with bushy eyebrows. The hefty ship's cook lumbers in behind them.
> 'Now, Jack, you mind the bridge. We won't be long. Come with me, Cooky; you'll be my witness.' The mate and the cook disappear.
> Ten minutes later, the first mate is back. 'Right! I've taken command till we get out of this. Skipper's tucked up in his bunk and sleeping like the dead.'
> The second mate's eyes bulge beneath his thick brows. 'Suppose he wakes up, comes back and starts giving daft orders?'
> 'He'll not be doing that.' He pulls a key from his bridge-coat pocket. 'I've locked him in his cabin – for his own safety, him being a bit potty tonight.'
> 'Do we put all this in the log?'
> 'Nowt goes in the log; though I'll leave space should things turn nasty. Remember, you're all witnesses to what's transpired.' He looks at me – my face is still framed by the hatch. 'And you too, Sparky.'
> _Corburn_ ploughs westwards. The wind climbs to severe gale force 9 (45 knots), waves are twenty foot with dense streaks of foam that lace the water. Spray lashes the wheelhouse windows.
> Within the hour we are in storm force 10, followed soon by violent storm force 11 on the Beaufort Scale – a wind speed of 62knots (70mph). The edges of the wave crests are now torn into streams of foam. Our bows charge into hollows, then attempt to climb slopes of forty and fifty feet. Often we fail and simply crash through the marching seas. Sight of the deck is often lost and only the masts stand free of surging water. An oil tanker intersects our course; she will be bound for the refinery at Milford Haven. Her lights rise and fall; they disappear altogether when she slides into a trough. Likewise, we will vanish from her sight. Cook does his best, but dinner is reduced to a bowl of tinned Scotch Broth, heated after a fashion. That's followed by tinned pilchards between thick wedges of bread, to be washed down by mugs of slopping tea.
> 
> The radar scanner does its best to deliver images to the wheelhouse, though the cathode-ray-tube display is filled with confusion. The centre of the screen, and our position, is surrounded by reflections off the wave tops, a mass of white blobs known as _sea clutter. _An intermittent echo that resembles a wisp of wool can only be the west coast of Lundy Island. The range-finder indicates that Lundy is now twenty miles astern. A bearing of that 'scrap of wool' says we are heading due west. I can confirm our position by tuning the direction finder to a beacon on the South Bishop light-vessel, and two others, wide apart on the Irish coast. The three bearings intersect to form a triangle called a _cocked hat. _We are somewhere within that triangle. The smaller the _cocked hat_, the more accurate the bearings. Despite the radar churning away, the mate asks for a group of bearings every hour. It's going to be a long night. One hundred and eighty miles ahead is Cape Clear on the southern tip of Ireland, but we cannot detect it yet, the range of the radar is only forty miles and unreliable at that distance. As night falls, the cabin boy scrambles up the bridge companion-way with mugs of cocoa and fish-paste sandwiches
> 
> At 0600, a grey, watery dawn reveals the Irish coast fine on the starboard bow. The storm has ameliorated for us; it will now be exhausting itself among the Welsh mountains. But we still have gale conditions. The first mate orders a change of course from west to southeast. We are doing a dog-leg to the tip of Cornwall. The wind is now on the starboard stern quarter. We do not pitch so much, but the motion has become a screwing roll. The captain is still locked in his cabin; he hammers on the door, shouts for tea and bacon sandwiches. They are delivered, but he's kept locked in.
> 
> By evening we are in sight of the tip of Cornwall. To round the peninsula and steer for Plymouth will put us in the shelter of land. We are all weary and look forward to that. First though, _Corburn_ must pass between the wreck-strewn, spouting reefs of the Scilly Isles and the growling granite cliffs of Land's End. All looks well; men are smiling again, but as we come abreast of Land's End, the engine stops.
> The comforting thump-de-thump of our Doxford diesel no longer throbs through the steel bulkheads and deck. We are left with the howl of the wind in the halyards and stays, and the crash and hiss of waves on the hull. In the wheelhouse, just as the mate grasps the hand-cranked telephone, it gives a harsh ring.
> The mate answers, 'Bridge.' A pause. 'How long?' A pause. 'We've no helm, and we're two mile off shore. Be as sharp as you can.'
> Ten minutes drag by, during which we are without steering. We are broadside on to huge seas and _Corburn_ leans as if she cowers with fright from the ocean. I clamber along the alleyway into the wheelhouse. I stand alongside the mate and peer through the spray-lashed windows. Little is to be seen of the deck except for two masts. All is surging sea water as wave after wave rolls over the bulwarks. The able-seaman on the wheel attempts to put the ship's head into the weather, but there's no response from the rudder.
> The mate cranks the handle of the phone to the engine-room and shouts above the noise of the wind, 'I need to know how long till we have engines.' I note his knuckles are white. 'I'm broadside on. I've no steering.' His stubbled face is gaunt with fatigue. 'Well, let me know as soon as you can. I don't like the look of this.'
> In my mind, I'm composing my first distress signal. To have to key out SOS is not something I've considered before today. The mate staggers to the port window and peers into the gloom. On the next roll, he slides back and grabs the compass binnacle. 'Sparks, you'd best warm up your transmitter. This is bad.'
> 
> I can see the dark profile of the Cornish cliffs on the port side, just as well as the mate. They seem to be closer, but between them and us rides a line of surf surmounted by a light. 'What's that?' I point to the lighthouse that gives a long five-second flash every ten seconds.
> 'That's the Longships, a line of reefs and islets a mile off shore. Power up that transmitter.'
> By the wheelhouse door, I turn. 'If it's to be the SOS distress signal, the coast station will want our position and situation. If it's less serious, the next one down is XXX, the urgency signal. If it's to be that, they'll still want the info.'
> 'Not SOS. We're not in distress yet. Does no good to alarm the owners without good reason, Sparks. The urgency signal will do for now, so warm up the gear while I write out the details.'
> Back in the wireless room, I have the Marconi _Oceanspan_ transmitter tuned to the distress frequency of 500 kc/s. The _Mercury_ main receiver glows alongside its little partner, the fixed-tuned _Alert. _Both are tuned to 500 kc/s.
> The mate's face is at the hatch. 'Sparks, you'd best send the Urgency message. Here it is.' He tosses through a scribbled note for me to convert into a signal.
> The deck shudders from breaking seas and leans at an uncomfortable angle as I key: 'XXX XXX XXX DE GQMF GQMF GQMF MV CORBURN. BARRY FOR PLYMOUTH. HALF MILE WEST OF LONGSHIPS REEF. ENGINE FAILURE. NO STEERING. SEVERE GALE. REQUEST VESSEL TO STANDBY.' I repeat the message three times and then listen for response.
> Land's End Radio station gives immediate reply: 'GQMF GQMF GQMF DE GLD GLD GLD QSL WILL PROMULGATE TO ALERT ALL SHIPS. ADVISE IF SITUATION CHANGES.'
> I acknowledge receipt: 'GLD DE GQMF QSL TU'
> Land's End Radio is close to the location from which the first transatlantic radio transmission was made in 1901 by a young Italian named Marconi. The Longships reefs we are being pushed towards are unyielding islets of igneous rock, three of them growl at us now: Tal-y-Maen, Carn Bras (on which stands the lighthouse) and Meinek. Legend has it they are fragments of King Arthur's drowned kingdom of Lyonesse. But these are small matters compared to our predicament.
> Fifteen minutes pass. The cook lumbers into the wheelhouse with mugs of steaming cocoa. I detect the tang of added whisky. 'Thought you might be needing this.' He stares through the port window at the spouting reef and grunts, 'Bloody Nora.'
> The mate cranks the telephone. 'Any joy?' He shouts. Then, 'Don't take that tone with me! I need to know how long!'
> There's a tonk-tonk noise and a slight vibration through the arms of my chair, then silence. And again, tonk-tonk. Then tonk-tonk-tonk. It throbs beneath my feet, and the note holds. Ah … the comforting beat of pistons and crankshafts. My spirits lift in harmony. I briefly wonder how the captain is taking all this; locked in his cabin.
> The mate gives a whoop. 'We've got steering! Helm, due west. Quick about it. Let's clear off out of here.'
> 
> I was mostly tropical deep sea and saw cyclones enough, but the only time I felt anxious was on that little coal boat off Cornwall


Good story Harry but I think there was a mistake somewhere. I did the coal trips from Barry loading at the "Staiths" when I sailed with Gem line and it was all to southern ports. Certainly would not see the Irish coastline nor the Longships if you were going to Plymouth from Barry.


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## taffe65

Harry Nicholson said:


> Taking over from the captain: In 1956 I had a stint as r/o on a Tyne collier. It was a stark contrast to my first year on a BI troopship - baked Alaska for afters, and palm trees in the saloons. We had a sad skipper, brought low by the drink. Loaded with coal from Barry we tried to reach the Plymouth glue factory in a storm (the Barry pilot advised we should not sail, but skipper insisted). I wrote about it in my memoir "The Best of Days'. Here's a snip:
> 
> 
> 'This is no good, Mr Mate. This is no bloody good at all.' The captain's words are a trifle slurred. He has a job to keep his feet, but not necessarily due to the motion of the deck. He grabs hold of the compass binnacle and sways there.
> 'This is the course you asked for, Captain. What do you want now? Too late to get into the lee of Lundy.'
> 'Then keep her head into the weather. Put her back to due west. Hold her there until we sort things out!' As we lurch onto the new course I hear the captain's cabin door slam shut.
> 'Right, that's it.' The mate's voice has a tremble. 'Did you catch his breath, helmsman?'
> 'I did, Mr Beswick. Whisky! Nearly knocked me off the bloody wheel.'
> 'Hold her steady while I roust out the second mate.'
> I look through the hatch to see Mr Beswick hurry from the wheelhouse. He shortly reappears with Jack Knaggs, the second mate, a Sunderland man with bushy eyebrows. The hefty ship's cook lumbers in behind them.
> 'Now, Jack, you mind the bridge. We won't be long. Come with me, Cooky; you'll be my witness.' The mate and the cook disappear.
> Ten minutes later, the first mate is back. 'Right! I've taken command till we get out of this. Skipper's tucked up in his bunk and sleeping like the dead.'
> The second mate's eyes bulge beneath his thick brows. 'Suppose he wakes up, comes back and starts giving daft orders?'
> 'He'll not be doing that.' He pulls a key from his bridge-coat pocket. 'I've locked him in his cabin – for his own safety, him being a bit potty tonight.'
> 'Do we put all this in the log?'
> 'Nowt goes in the log; though I'll leave space should things turn nasty. Remember, you're all witnesses to what's transpired.' He looks at me – my face is still framed by the hatch. 'And you too, Sparky.'
> _Corburn_ ploughs westwards. The wind climbs to severe gale force 9 (45 knots), waves are twenty foot with dense streaks of foam that lace the water. Spray lashes the wheelhouse windows.
> Within the hour we are in storm force 10, followed soon by violent storm force 11 on the Beaufort Scale – a wind speed of 62knots (70mph). The edges of the wave crests are now torn into streams of foam. Our bows charge into hollows, then attempt to climb slopes of forty and fifty feet. Often we fail and simply crash through the marching seas. Sight of the deck is often lost and only the masts stand free of surging water. An oil tanker intersects our course; she will be bound for the refinery at Milford Haven. Her lights rise and fall; they disappear altogether when she slides into a trough. Likewise, we will vanish from her sight. Cook does his best, but dinner is reduced to a bowl of tinned Scotch Broth, heated after a fashion. That's followed by tinned pilchards between thick wedges of bread, to be washed down by mugs of slopping tea.
> 
> The radar scanner does its best to deliver images to the wheelhouse, though the cathode-ray-tube display is filled with confusion. The centre of the screen, and our position, is surrounded by reflections off the wave tops, a mass of white blobs known as _sea clutter. _An intermittent echo that resembles a wisp of wool can only be the west coast of Lundy Island. The range-finder indicates that Lundy is now twenty miles astern. A bearing of that 'scrap of wool' says we are heading due west. I can confirm our position by tuning the direction finder to a beacon on the South Bishop light-vessel, and two others, wide apart on the Irish coast. The three bearings intersect to form a triangle called a _cocked hat. _We are somewhere within that triangle. The smaller the _cocked hat_, the more accurate the bearings. Despite the radar churning away, the mate asks for a group of bearings every hour. It's going to be a long night. One hundred and eighty miles ahead is Cape Clear on the southern tip of Ireland, but we cannot detect it yet, the range of the radar is only forty miles and unreliable at that distance. As night falls, the cabin boy scrambles up the bridge companion-way with mugs of cocoa and fish-paste sandwiches
> 
> At 0600, a grey, watery dawn reveals the Irish coast fine on the starboard bow. The storm has ameliorated for us; it will now be exhausting itself among the Welsh mountains. But we still have gale conditions. The first mate orders a change of course from west to southeast. We are doing a dog-leg to the tip of Cornwall. The wind is now on the starboard stern quarter. We do not pitch so much, but the motion has become a screwing roll. The captain is still locked in his cabin; he hammers on the door, shouts for tea and bacon sandwiches. They are delivered, but he's kept locked in.
> 
> By evening we are in sight of the tip of Cornwall. To round the peninsula and steer for Plymouth will put us in the shelter of land. We are all weary and look forward to that. First though, _Corburn_ must pass between the wreck-strewn, spouting reefs of the Scilly Isles and the growling granite cliffs of Land's End. All looks well; men are smiling again, but as we come abreast of Land's End, the engine stops.
> The comforting thump-de-thump of our Doxford diesel no longer throbs through the steel bulkheads and deck. We are left with the howl of the wind in the halyards and stays, and the crash and hiss of waves on the hull. In the wheelhouse, just as the mate grasps the hand-cranked telephone, it gives a harsh ring.
> The mate answers, 'Bridge.' A pause. 'How long?' A pause. 'We've no helm, and we're two mile off shore. Be as sharp as you can.'
> Ten minutes drag by, during which we are without steering. We are broadside on to huge seas and _Corburn_ leans as if she cowers with fright from the ocean. I clamber along the alleyway into the wheelhouse. I stand alongside the mate and peer through the spray-lashed windows. Little is to be seen of the deck except for two masts. All is surging sea water as wave after wave rolls over the bulwarks. The able-seaman on the wheel attempts to put the ship's head into the weather, but there's no response from the rudder.
> The mate cranks the handle of the phone to the engine-room and shouts above the noise of the wind, 'I need to know how long till we have engines.' I note his knuckles are white. 'I'm broadside on. I've no steering.' His stubbled face is gaunt with fatigue. 'Well, let me know as soon as you can. I don't like the look of this.'
> In my mind, I'm composing my first distress signal. To have to key out SOS is not something I've considered before today. The mate staggers to the port window and peers into the gloom. On the next roll, he slides back and grabs the compass binnacle. 'Sparks, you'd best warm up your transmitter. This is bad.'
> 
> I can see the dark profile of the Cornish cliffs on the port side, just as well as the mate. They seem to be closer, but between them and us rides a line of surf surmounted by a light. 'What's that?' I point to the lighthouse that gives a long five-second flash every ten seconds.
> 'That's the Longships, a line of reefs and islets a mile off shore. Power up that transmitter.'
> By the wheelhouse door, I turn. 'If it's to be the SOS distress signal, the coast station will want our position and situation. If it's less serious, the next one down is XXX, the urgency signal. If it's to be that, they'll still want the info.'
> 'Not SOS. We're not in distress yet. Does no good to alarm the owners without good reason, Sparks. The urgency signal will do for now, so warm up the gear while I write out the details.'
> Back in the wireless room, I have the Marconi _Oceanspan_ transmitter tuned to the distress frequency of 500 kc/s. The _Mercury_ main receiver glows alongside its little partner, the fixed-tuned _Alert. _Both are tuned to 500 kc/s.
> The mate's face is at the hatch. 'Sparks, you'd best send the Urgency message. Here it is.' He tosses through a scribbled note for me to convert into a signal.
> The deck shudders from breaking seas and leans at an uncomfortable angle as I key: 'XXX XXX XXX DE GQMF GQMF GQMF MV CORBURN. BARRY FOR PLYMOUTH. HALF MILE WEST OF LONGSHIPS REEF. ENGINE FAILURE. NO STEERING. SEVERE GALE. REQUEST VESSEL TO STANDBY.' I repeat the message three times and then listen for response.
> Land's End Radio station gives immediate reply: 'GQMF GQMF GQMF DE GLD GLD GLD QSL WILL PROMULGATE TO ALERT ALL SHIPS. ADVISE IF SITUATION CHANGES.'
> I acknowledge receipt: 'GLD DE GQMF QSL TU'
> Land's End Radio is close to the location from which the first transatlantic radio transmission was made in 1901 by a young Italian named Marconi. The Longships reefs we are being pushed towards are unyielding islets of igneous rock, three of them growl at us now: Tal-y-Maen, Carn Bras (on which stands the lighthouse) and Meinek. Legend has it they are fragments of King Arthur's drowned kingdom of Lyonesse. But these are small matters compared to our predicament.
> Fifteen minutes pass. The cook lumbers into the wheelhouse with mugs of steaming cocoa. I detect the tang of added whisky. 'Thought you might be needing this.' He stares through the port window at the spouting reef and grunts, 'Bloody Nora.'
> The mate cranks the telephone. 'Any joy?' He shouts. Then, 'Don't take that tone with me! I need to know how long!'
> There's a tonk-tonk noise and a slight vibration through the arms of my chair, then silence. And again, tonk-tonk. Then tonk-tonk-tonk. It throbs beneath my feet, and the note holds. Ah … the comforting beat of pistons and crankshafts. My spirits lift in harmony. I briefly wonder how the captain is taking all this; locked in his cabin.
> The mate gives a whoop. 'We've got steering! Helm, due west. Quick about it. Let's clear off out of here.'
> 
> I was mostly tropical deep sea and saw cyclones enough, but the only time I felt anxious was on that little coal boat off Cornwall


Should have plugged in the dilithium crystals 🤣


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## lakercapt

I know it's a long time ago since I was granted my Master Mariner certificate of competency in1962 June to be exact and sailed in Canada for a long time but I thought what I mentioned about the "Articles of Agreement" was my understanding of what was the correct method. They are between the master and the crew which is why the master's signature is the first one.


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## Harry Nicholson

lakercapt said:


> Good story Harry but I think there was a mistake somewhere. I did the coal trips from Barry loading at the "Staiths" when I sailed with Gem line and it was all to southern ports. Certainly would not see the Irish coastline nor the Longships if you were going to Plymouth from Barry.


The storm was so fierce the mate advised we shelter in the lee of Lundy, but the master insisted we steered west into the weather. We hardly saw the deck (all accomodation etc was aft). There was argument, but we followed his orders. Dawn came and we did indeed see the Irish coast and promptly turned tail. We hardly knew where we were, but hoped for shelter in the lee of Cornwall. The master was well inebriated by then. He was locked in his cabin for the safety of us all. 
After the event, he made no issue of it, but became like a lamb. On reflection I wonder if the poor chap was bi-polar. He gave us a couple of other frights. I signed off in Hull and went back to college for another ticket. It was Brocklebanks after that.


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## Stephen J. Card

lakercapt said:


> I know it's a long time ago since I was granted my Master Mariner certificate of competency in1962 June to be exact and sailed in Canada for a long time but I thought what I mentioned about the "Articles of Agreement" was my understanding of what was the correct method. They are between the master and the crew which is why the master's signature is the first one.


Don't panic! For 1962 you are completely correct. I have kept all of my Business & Notes from when up at Glasgow for Master's in 1978. Here is the what I found on the very dusty shelf....

EMPLOYMENT OF SEAMEN:

Employment of seamen on UK ships registered is governed by a crew agreement, formerly between master and crew and now between shipowner (or possibly charterer) and crew.

Further: Merchant Shipping Act 1970

Below are the note here on my notes and underlined in RED.

"Crew agreements must be in writing and are between seamen and person employing...."

Stephen


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## searover.don

BosunsMate said:


> Has any member had to take over command of a ship when the captain fell ill during a voyage. If so, did the event get entered in to the ship's log book?


I don't know for sure about the repercussions of the Captain being incapacitated, but I do know about Radio Officers - before they became 'redundant" in 1999. I was the R/O on a cargo ship. We had just left Karachi, bound Bombay in 1957 when I fell very ill. So now our ship had no contact with the outside world. The captain put into a small port to contact the company and see if there was a doctor, as I had now been unconscious for quite a long time. The Doctor said I "had a chill of the stomach" and recommended using Glucose-D. My temperature at the time was over 106F apparently. So the ship arrived in Bombay, almost unannounced two or three days later and I was whisked into the great Breach Candy Hospital. As no ship was allowed to sail without a Radio Officer in those days, the company had to fly out a replacement before the ship could sail. In contrast, maybe any ship could sail if anyone with a Master's ticket could take charge but most cargo ships only carried one R/O. Fortunately, my company was P&O and now, somewhat healthier, they sailed me home as a first-class passenger on the Stratheden. The replacement R/O, after a long flight in those days, arrived and the cargo ship resumed its travels. I rejoined that ship when she arrived back in England - but now, with a different Captain, I never had a chance to apologise for the added burdens I had caused. This had been my first trip with P&O and yet they treated me really well.

Guaranteed my incapacity would have had to be entered into the Ships Log, but there was no one to enter it into the Radio Log where my last entry was QTO Karachi.


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## makko

I know it is a little "off thread", but I remember why I remember, so vividly, the requirements for "assumption of command".

My story is a little different but also echoes Harry's story.

On one ship, we had a ChOff who was not very well received by anyone. 'Nuff said, he was tolerated by the Master. Anyway, one departure Stand By, I realized that he was EXTREMELY under the influence of alcohol. There are several facets to this story, which I won't dwell on now but, when the Mate called down to confirm Stand By in fifteen minutes, I refused to confirm. Things happened quickly - The C/E arrived in the ER and questioned me, he went to the bridge, the Master called me specifically and asked why I would not accept the Stand By. I answered, truthfully,"Sir, I do not think the vessel is fully ready!". He just said,"Okay, let me see what I can do."

Minutes passed, the C/E arrived, jovial and tight-lipped as ever. RING!-RING!, the ER phone. I answered - The Master directly for me. "Are you ready to accept the Stand By?". I locked eyes with the Chief and I swear that he nodded at me. A set-up? THe Master continued,"Please rest assured, I am assuming the watch, do you accept the the Stand-By?". 

"Yes Sir, ER ready, prepared and all systems normal, I accept the Stand By and will open the Log", I said.

I had some very ineresting "interviews" with senior officers after this event. However, I was not surprised that, on a following trip, the 3/M had summarily relieved the Mate, at the behest of the Cadet, entering Vancouver. The Mate, under the influence of drink, had mistaken the sights and almost put the vessel on the rocks. The Cadet disobeyed course and helm, got the vessel back into the channel and raised the alarm.

After lines were ashore, the Mate wasimmediately sent packing and his sea career and dreams of promotion turned to dust.

I always thought that I did the right thing and am still convinced that my simple act of defiance probably set in motion a process that saved a vessel and crew.

Merry Xmas,
Rgds.
Dave


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## George Bis

loco said:


> Not seen Mate taking over as Master, but did have 2/E taking over as C/E after the latter mangled his hand in a watertight door. I think the ship had to get formal permission to sail from one of the UK Official agencies, but can't remember which one. Ship was in US at the time, sailing for Brazil.
> 
> Martyn


Would this have been a matter of enough certificates on the ship. I presume every deep sea ship would have needed at least a Chiefs Certificate and a Seconds/Dispensation


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## makko

Hi George,
I am unaware of the date range of the posting, but the Cadet schemes provided well qualified engineers who only had to complete seatime and then orals. I sailed with many 4/E's who had C/E certificates! The same for many in the deck dept., sailing as 3/M with Masters.
Rgds.
Dave


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## George Bis

This didn’t involve command but


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## George Bis

George Bis said:


> This didn’t involve command but


I do recall that on one of the Sugar Line ships the Master took I’ll and there was a big problem In that the Mate didn’t have a Masters certificate


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## Stephen J. Card

Not all Mates have a master's ticket. You only need three tickets... 1 Master, 1 Mate and 1 2nd Mate. On one ship I was 2nd Mate with a Mate's ticket. The Mate thought the world was going to end because I didn't have a master's ticket! I got my Master's and two weeks later I was in command and only a 'temporary' ticket with a 'pass' note from the DTI. 

How many times have you been in ship with only the Cheng and 2nd Eng with tickets? The 3rd & 4th didn't have any ticket at all.


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## makko

Yes, Stephen! That all ended in the 80's - 4/E OOW, Unlimited was compulsory. It put a lot of professional 3/Es out of a job. In BF/Ocean, they kept some on as RoRo Engineers, technicians to attend to the forklifts, ramps, watertight doors etc. but no ER work. I got onto RoRos because one of the RoRos had crushed his hand lowering a differential. I was the only qualified engineer with an HGV licence.

Rgds.
Dave


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## loco

George Bis;

After this length of time, I don't know what the status of the 2/E and other engineers' qualifications were. It may have been the need for a single trip dispensation if there wasn't another C/E certificate on board, but at the time, there were a number of engineers sailing as 3/E or 4/E with 2/E or even C/E certificates. The 2/E may even have had a Chief's certificate; I don't know. A replacement chief (the other regular chief-the ships were running with two regular masters and C/Es alternately self-relieving) joined us on arrival in Brazil.

On another ship, the C/E suffered a heart attack when crossing the Indian Ocean, and was saved by the doctor we had on board for the trip; the C/E was landed in Freemantle, but on this occasion, a C/E from another Company ship which was loading in Auckland was flown to Freemantle to take over until we reached our destination, coincidently Auckland, where a replacement C/E joined.

Regarding certificates in general ; it was a factor in me leaving the Deep Sea company I was with, as I had been sailing as 3/O with a Chief Mate's certificate for four years with no promotion in sight, despite being told, that allegedly, 'I was next in line for promotion'. The final straw was when the company consolidated the crew's overtime, which meant that I only earned more than the ABs on my watch by virtue of the C/O certificate; if I'd been sailing with just a 2/O certificate, the ABs would have been on a higher salary than me.

Martyn


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## garryNorton

Stephen J. Card said:


> Where was the Mate while all this was going on?


I was the mate but was 1st trip Ch Off with P&O but had been Master before in the Pacific Islands and to go master meant going ashore to sign the ships register and in Dubai at that time was difficult and it was easier to let sleeping dogs lie and it worked.To get a reply out of P&O office was next to impossible at lhat time.


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## Stephen J. Card

makko said:


> I know it is a little "off thread", but I remember why I remember, so vividly, the requirements for "assumption of command".
> Dave


As soon as I had sufficient sea time I went up to Glasgow, spent a couple weeks at the college do some some refreshing work. Passed and then went home. Two weeks later head office called and wanted me to fly out Yokohama. Not exactly happy. I had just finished an 8 month trip. The Super said, "You are going out as Master." "OK, what time is that flight?" I was told that Capt Jack Bobbin was there and he would give me a good week for a good handover. Arrived on board. Bobbin was there, ticket in hand and ready to leave. Had about two hours. Signed for the ship's do***ents, the cash in the safe and that was that. Next morning sailed for Busan. Inland Sea, fog, dodgy radar. Oh well. Two crewmembers were younger than I. The two pantry boys. The Ch Eng was a good 60s. One of my first requests from the Chief was for a tour of the Engineroom.


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## lakercapt

Like you Stephen I too was an "Old Man" and the youngest in the crew My first master' job. just about my last.
We sailed and going round the North Wales coast the C/E called me and said the 3/E had had a heart attack. I called for radio advice and the reception was not good but did understand was get him to the nearest port and give him morphine.The nearest port was Fishguard and we were sailing there at full speed to land the crew member. A fishing boat asked me what was our draft and when I told him 21 feet his advice was stop immediately as there is only 18 feet there at this time of tide????


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## lakercapt

I did not mention the great asset in that tome "Ship Masters Medical Guide" (wonderful reading material) helped as I had never administered morphine. Gave him a couple and he we not in the least concerned about his well being. He was safely landed and did recover but I received a bill for the ambulance later!!


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## jmcg

Jeez, what a mercenary lot in the ambulance service to levy a charge in the case above.

BW
J


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## Stephen J. Card

Right after the Ambulance you will find the 'Ambulance Chasers'.... the lawyers. They are the ones that make the dosh.


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## Tim Gibbs

Pilot mac said:


> When I sailed as Mate I had the task of taking over from a Master on several occasions because he was too drunk to perform his duties. So drunk that he could not even make it to the bridge to pick up the Pilot and berth the ship in Rotterdam. Whilst alongside he did manage to get up, but proceeded to make a nuisance of himself in the crew messroom, drunk again or maybe still drunk. He missed sailing and appeared on the bridge at full away. After a chat with the C/E we decided to phone the owners. There response was 'Im glad you called, we are aware of whats been going on as we have already had calls from the Pilots and the Agent'. We were only sailing to the UK so a few hours at sea and we were back alongside at a UK port. He was instantly dismissed on arrival and his relief joined about 5 minutes later. Is there any wonder why ships are now dry?
> 
> brgds
> Dave


On Feb 2nd 1972 the British Embassy in Dublin was attacked and the agent came to say we should leave pronto because the situation in Dublin may be getting out of control. Unfortunately we had one boiler down and the Captain was "indisposed" with his "usual" problem! We sailed anyway and headed for Liverpool. On arrival we were met by Superintendents who arranged the Captain's removal and we assumed that was the end of him. A few months later I joined a ship in Canada and there he was again. Things were so bad on the way to Cape Town we had him removed on arrival . A new Captain arrived and we set off for India. Two months later we are back in Cape Town and who was on the quay to meet us ...?! As I write this I'm thinking, did a dream that or just make it make it up?


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## Radioroy

Harry Nicholson said:


> Taking over from the captain: In 1956 I had a stint as r/o on a Tyne collier. It was a stark contrast to my first year on a BI troopship - baked Alaska for afters, and palm trees in the saloons. We had a sad skipper, brought low by the drink. Loaded with coal from Barry we tried to reach the Plymouth glue factory in a storm (the Barry pilot advised we should not sail, but skipper insisted). I wrote about it in my memoir "The Best of Days'. Here's a snip:
> 
> 
> 'This is no good, Mr Mate. This is no bloody good at all.' The captain's words are a trifle slurred. He has a job to keep his feet, but not necessarily due to the motion of the deck. He grabs hold of the compass binnacle and sways there.
> 'This is the course you asked for, Captain. What do you want now? Too late to get into the lee of Lundy.'
> 'Then keep her head into the weather. Put her back to due west. Hold her there until we sort things out!' As we lurch onto the new course I hear the captain's cabin door slam shut.
> 'Right, that's it.' The mate's voice has a tremble. 'Did you catch his breath, helmsman?'
> 'I did, Mr Beswick. Whisky! Nearly knocked me off the bloody wheel.'
> 'Hold her steady while I roust out the second mate.'
> I look through the hatch to see Mr Beswick hurry from the wheelhouse. He shortly reappears with Jack Knaggs, the second mate, a Sunderland man with bushy eyebrows. The hefty ship's cook lumbers in behind them.
> 'Now, Jack, you mind the bridge. We won't be long. Come with me, Cooky; you'll be my witness.' The mate and the cook disappear.
> Ten minutes later, the first mate is back. 'Right! I've taken command till we get out of this. Skipper's tucked up in his bunk and sleeping like the dead.'
> The second mate's eyes bulge beneath his thick brows. 'Suppose he wakes up, comes back and starts giving daft orders?'
> 'He'll not be doing that.' He pulls a key from his bridge-coat pocket. 'I've locked him in his cabin – for his own safety, him being a bit potty tonight.'
> 'Do we put all this in the log?'
> 'Nowt goes in the log; though I'll leave space should things turn nasty. Remember, you're all witnesses to what's transpired.' He looks at me – my face is still framed by the hatch. 'And you too, Sparky.'
> _Corburn_ ploughs westwards. The wind climbs to severe gale force 9 (45 knots), waves are twenty foot with dense streaks of foam that lace the water. Spray lashes the wheelhouse windows.
> Within the hour we are in storm force 10, followed soon by violent storm force 11 on the Beaufort Scale – a wind speed of 62knots (70mph). The edges of the wave crests are now torn into streams of foam. Our bows charge into hollows, then attempt to climb slopes of forty and fifty feet. Often we fail and simply crash through the marching seas. Sight of the deck is often lost and only the masts stand free of surging water. An oil tanker intersects our course; she will be bound for the refinery at Milford Haven. Her lights rise and fall; they disappear altogether when she slides into a trough. Likewise, we will vanish from her sight. Cook does his best, but dinner is reduced to a bowl of tinned Scotch Broth, heated after a fashion. That's followed by tinned pilchards between thick wedges of bread, to be washed down by mugs of slopping tea.
> 
> The radar scanner does its best to deliver images to the wheelhouse, though the cathode-ray-tube display is filled with confusion. The centre of the screen, and our position, is surrounded by reflections off the wave tops, a mass of white blobs known as _sea clutter. _An intermittent echo that resembles a wisp of wool can only be the west coast of Lundy Island. The range-finder indicates that Lundy is now twenty miles astern. A bearing of that 'scrap of wool' says we are heading due west. I can confirm our position by tuning the direction finder to a beacon on the South Bishop light-vessel, and two others, wide apart on the Irish coast. The three bearings intersect to form a triangle called a _cocked hat. _We are somewhere within that triangle. The smaller the _cocked hat_, the more accurate the bearings. Despite the radar churning away, the mate asks for a group of bearings every hour. It's going to be a long night. One hundred and eighty miles ahead is Cape Clear on the southern tip of Ireland, but we cannot detect it yet, the range of the radar is only forty miles and unreliable at that distance. As night falls, the cabin boy scrambles up the bridge companion-way with mugs of cocoa and fish-paste sandwiches
> 
> At 0600, a grey, watery dawn reveals the Irish coast fine on the starboard bow. The storm has ameliorated for us; it will now be exhausting itself among the Welsh mountains. But we still have gale conditions. The first mate orders a change of course from west to southeast. We are doing a dog-leg to the tip of Cornwall. The wind is now on the starboard stern quarter. We do not pitch so much, but the motion has become a screwing roll. The captain is still locked in his cabin; he hammers on the door, shouts for tea and bacon sandwiches. They are delivered, but he's kept locked in.
> 
> By evening we are in sight of the tip of Cornwall. To round the peninsula and steer for Plymouth will put us in the shelter of land. We are all weary and look forward to that. First though, _Corburn_ must pass between the wreck-strewn, spouting reefs of the Scilly Isles and the growling granite cliffs of Land's End. All looks well; men are smiling again, but as we come abreast of Land's End, the engine stops.
> The comforting thump-de-thump of our Doxford diesel no longer throbs through the steel bulkheads and deck. We are left with the howl of the wind in the halyards and stays, and the crash and hiss of waves on the hull. In the wheelhouse, just as the mate grasps the hand-cranked telephone, it gives a harsh ring.
> The mate answers, 'Bridge.' A pause. 'How long?' A pause. 'We've no helm, and we're two mile off shore. Be as sharp as you can.'
> Ten minutes drag by, during which we are without steering. We are broadside on to huge seas and _Corburn_ leans as if she cowers with fright from the ocean. I clamber along the alleyway into the wheelhouse. I stand alongside the mate and peer through the spray-lashed windows. Little is to be seen of the deck except for two masts. All is surging sea water as wave after wave rolls over the bulwarks. The able-seaman on the wheel attempts to put the ship's head into the weather, but there's no response from the rudder.
> The mate cranks the handle of the phone to the engine-room and shouts above the noise of the wind, 'I need to know how long till we have engines.' I note his knuckles are white. 'I'm broadside on. I've no steering.' His stubbled face is gaunt with fatigue. 'Well, let me know as soon as you can. I don't like the look of this.'
> In my mind, I'm composing my first distress signal. To have to key out SOS is not something I've considered before today. The mate staggers to the port window and peers into the gloom. On the next roll, he slides back and grabs the compass binnacle. 'Sparks, you'd best warm up your transmitter. This is bad.'
> 
> I can see the dark profile of the Cornish cliffs on the port side, just as well as the mate. They seem to be closer, but between them and us rides a line of surf surmounted by a light. 'What's that?' I point to the lighthouse that gives a long five-second flash every ten seconds.
> 'That's the Longships, a line of reefs and islets a mile off shore. Power up that transmitter.'
> By the wheelhouse door, I turn. 'If it's to be the SOS distress signal, the coast station will want our position and situation. If it's less serious, the next one down is XXX, the urgency signal. If it's to be that, they'll still want the info.'
> 'Not SOS. We're not in distress yet. Does no good to alarm the owners without good reason, Sparks. The urgency signal will do for now, so warm up the gear while I write out the details.'
> Back in the wireless room, I have the Marconi _Oceanspan_ transmitter tuned to the distress frequency of 500 kc/s. The _Mercury_ main receiver glows alongside its little partner, the fixed-tuned _Alert. _Both are tuned to 500 kc/s.
> The mate's face is at the hatch. 'Sparks, you'd best send the Urgency message. Here it is.' He tosses through a scribbled note for me to convert into a signal.
> The deck shudders from breaking seas and leans at an uncomfortable angle as I key: 'XXX XXX XXX DE GQMF GQMF GQMF MV CORBURN. BARRY FOR PLYMOUTH. HALF MILE WEST OF LONGSHIPS REEF. ENGINE FAILURE. NO STEERING. SEVERE GALE. REQUEST VESSEL TO STANDBY.' I repeat the message three times and then listen for response.
> Land's End Radio station gives immediate reply: 'GQMF GQMF GQMF DE GLD GLD GLD QSL WILL PROMULGATE TO ALERT ALL SHIPS. ADVISE IF SITUATION CHANGES.'
> I acknowledge receipt: 'GLD DE GQMF QSL TU'
> Land's End Radio is close to the location from which the first transatlantic radio transmission was made in 1901 by a young Italian named Marconi. The Longships reefs we are being pushed towards are unyielding islets of igneous rock, three of them growl at us now: Tal-y-Maen, Carn Bras (on which stands the lighthouse) and Meinek. Legend has it they are fragments of King Arthur's drowned kingdom of Lyonesse. But these are small matters compared to our predicament.
> Fifteen minutes pass. The cook lumbers into the wheelhouse with mugs of steaming cocoa. I detect the tang of added whisky. 'Thought you might be needing this.' He stares through the port window at the spouting reef and grunts, 'Bloody Nora.'
> The mate cranks the telephone. 'Any joy?' He shouts. Then, 'Don't take that tone with me! I need to know how long!'
> There's a tonk-tonk noise and a slight vibration through the arms of my chair, then silence. And again, tonk-tonk. Then tonk-tonk-tonk. It throbs beneath my feet, and the note holds. Ah … the comforting beat of pistons and crankshafts. My spirits lift in harmony. I briefly wonder how the captain is taking all this; locked in his cabin.
> The mate gives a whoop. 'We've got steering! Helm, due west. Quick about it. Let's clear off out of here.'
> 
> I was mostly tropical deep sea and saw cyclones enough, but the only time I felt anxious was on that little coal boat off Cornwall


Hi Harry - yes I remember the MV Corburn and the same Captain. She was my first solo R/O ship that Marconi in East Ham depot sent me to after being nr the 2 R/O on the mv Port Auckland (GWRB). The Corburn was then running between Amsterdam to London or Rotterdam to London with the specia..l powerderd coal for the Battersby Power station. One of many instances comes to mind we hit something underwater leaving Rotterdam and all the crew, myself included, thought it was the pile of emptys that the Captain had thrown overboard!!
Keep writing Harry your tales are great!
73's
Roy VK6RR ex GTZM.


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## lakercapt

I noted on your discharge book that you sailed as R/O on the Ingleby. I must have just missed you as I joined that old wartime "Ocean" boat the following trip. I was an apprentice then and it was not a pleasant trip. I was on for eight months getting to way out places. Very basic equipment from what I remember and the radio shack was stuck at the aft end of the wheelhouse.


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## Harry Nicholson

Radioroy said:


> Hi Harry - yes I remember the MV Corburn and the same Captain. She was my first solo R/O ship that Marconi in East Ham depot sent me to after being nr the 2 R/O on the mv Port Auckland (GWRB). The Corburn was then running between Amsterdam to London or Rotterdam to London with the specia..l powerderd coal for the Battersby Power station. One of many instances comes to mind we hit something underwater leaving Rotterdam and all the crew, myself included, thought it was the pile of emptys that the Captain had thrown overboard!!
> Keep writing Harry your tales are great!
> 73's
> Roy VK6RR ex GTZM.


Hello, Roy. Enjoyed your story of the empties, I often imagined a submarine mountain of Tennants cans running from Finisterre to Port Said, then on to Aden., and how, one day we would take the ground on all those empties! 
I joined Corburn in July 56 - about 15 months after you left. She had lately been to Europe - in my cabin was a Dortmunder beer glass. I've been drinking ale from it ever since - 65 years man and boy.
Keep smiling through, Roy - and all ye of the golden generation.
Harry


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## sea-land-air

lakercapt said:


> As it is some time since I sailed I was surprised this was the way things are done today.
> I am glad I sailed when I did as now I would not even know where to start except port and starboard are still the same !!


the computer control ships of today are beyond my pay grade. Likes Line bought an old German ship that had a 20 foot paper tape to program the computer. Instructions were to keep the bridge cool - ie - doors closed. There old fart had to have doors open. Computer craped and I would have to run the tape again. MMUSMM


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## sea-land-air

makko said:


> I know it is a little "off thread", but I remember why I remember, so vividly, the requirements for "assumption of command".
> 
> My story is a little different but also echoes Harry's story.
> 
> On one ship, we had a ChOff who was not very well received by anyone. 'Nuff said, he was tolerated by the Master. Anyway, one departure Stand By, I realized that he was EXTREMELY under the influence of alcohol. There are several facets to this story, which I won't dwell on now but, when the Mate called down to confirm Stand By in fifteen minutes, I refused to confirm. Things happened quickly - The C/E arrived in the ER and questioned me, he went to the bridge, the Master called me specifically and asked why I would not accept the Stand By. I answered, truthfully,"Sir, I do not think the vessel is fully ready!". He just said,"Okay, let me see what I can do."
> 
> Minutes passed, the C/E arrived, jovial and tight-lipped as ever. RING!-RING!, the ER phone. I answered - The Master directly for me. "Are you ready to accept the Stand By?". I locked eyes with the Chief and I swear that he nodded at me. A set-up? THe Master continued,"Please rest assured, I am assuming the watch, do you accept the the Stand-By?".
> 
> "Yes Sir, ER ready, prepared and all systems normal, I accept the Stand By and will open the Log", I said.
> 
> I had some very ineresting "interviews" with senior officers after this event. However, I was not surprised that, on a following trip, the 3/M had summarily relieved the Mate, at the behest of the Cadet, entering Vancouver. The Mate, under the influence of drink, had mistaken the sights and almost put the vessel on the rocks. The Cadet disobeyed course and helm, got the vessel back into the channel and raised the alarm.
> 
> After lines were ashore, the Mate wasimmediately sent packing and his sea career and dreams of promotion turned to dust.
> 
> I always thought that I did the right thing and am still convinced that my simple act of defiance probably set in motion a process that saved a vessel and crew.
> 
> Merry Xmas,
> Rgds.
> Dave


Had to chuckle - the wreck of the John C. Chief came to meals in a food stained under shirt. Captain told him to set at the mates table and me to set at his table. Captain came close to ruining aground 2 times and was going to dock at a grounded vessel in Vung Ro Bay. The drunk 12-4 came close to running into Tokunoshima Is. And I found Lot's Wife dead ahead one morning at dawn, hauled her off to stbd. Next's voyage she was grounded in the Formosa Strait's. MMUSMM


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## sternchallis

lakercapt said:


> As it is some time since I sailed I was surprised this was the way things are done today.
> I am glad I sailed when I did as now I would not even know where to start except port and starboard are still the same !!


Though colours could be changed, red to pink and green to torquoise so as not to upset the non-binaries and coloured bra and panties added to the flag locker.


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## George Bis

I can’t vouch for all this but in 1972 I was told of a coasting tanker arriving at Leith and having to anchor off before docking 
Apparently this didn’t suit the Master & C/E who got a lift ashore, hired a car and drove around the town Apparently they drove so badly that they were involved in a serious road accident and jailed waiting for serious charges!
At this point “the shore”let the ship know that they were ready for her to dock which created a most difficult problem for the C/O and the 2/E.
Sadly the person telling me this tale was interrupted at this point and I never heard the end of the story!


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