# For the Crew of the Stavronikita. R.I.P.



## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

At 0315 hours on our tenth day out from Porto Grande, I anchored Debut in ninety feet of water, with five shackles of chain, off the Careenage of Bridgetown. Once all the machinery had been shut down, the silence was deafening. We had been subject to a barrage of sound for some eight and a half days... two hundred and five hours in total... and its cessation was unbelievable.
I was completely satisfied with my ship, and was now sure that 
I'd made a good purchase. I had steamed her from Hull to Barbados without putting a spanner to the main engine. It was with great elation that I drifted off to sleep in my bunk, with Jacky cuddled in my arms.
Barbados was a wonderful experience for us all, from the hubbub of Bridgetown, with its faded old colonial splendour, to dancing in the sleazy night-clubs-chum-*****-houses till almost daylight to an impromptu honky-tonk jazz band. Old sailing schooners were still being fitted out in the Careenage to trade between the islands... although the modern trend was to turn them into mock pirate ships to carry tourists along the coast on booze-cruises. And there was mile upon mile of sugarcane plantations, some even complete with the dilapidated plantation houses from the days of slavery.
Out walking along the country roads, we came across small wooden bars, made from sheets of plywood and four-by-two timber, where the local people meet to sip their rum. And Mount Gay was the best rum I have ever sipped in the world... and the owner of the bar would bring you glasses and a pitcher of iced water to your table.
When you were ready to leave after a pleasant drinking session, he would mark the level of rum left in the bottle and write your name on it. You could leave the bottle for your return, or you could take it with you on your journey. Such hospitality is unheard of in the money-grabbing society of the western world.
Although most of the island is less than sixty feet above sea level, the centre rises to a height of eleven hundred feet at Mount Hillaby. Below the surrounding hills are a warren of pot-holes and caves, carved from the coral and limestone rock over thousands of years. As Blue, my chief engineer, and Andy, the third engineer, were both keen cavers back in England, we set out with Jacky to explore some of the underground systems.
Since our departure from Hull, we had expended half of the fuel supply in our bunkers. With the eighteen and a half tons burned in crossing the Atlantic from the Cape Verde Islands, the total amount now used was some fifty tons of diesel oil. Before much longer, I'd have to find some work for my ship and top up my tanks again to continue our voyage of adventure.
The harbour master came out to my ship in his launch, and I greeted him as he stepped on deck at the top of the companionway. After taking him to my cabin and settling him on the settee with a cold beer, he asked me if I was interested in buying the diesel oil from the burned out ship lying on the inside of the L-shaped main jetty. He briefly told me her story.
After catching fire by the selfish disrespect of one of her crew for his other crew-mates, the master had sent out a mayday on his radio. The ship had been set on fire by the careless indifference of this crewman, using cigarettes and strong alcohol while dozing in his bunk. By the time he came to his senses, his cabin was a blazing inferno. Unfortunately for the rest of her crew, more than the culprit responsible died in the flames... he took the lives of five of his crew-mates with him. 
As Barbados is some sixty miles to the east of the other islands in the Windward and Leeward Island chain, the harbour tug at Bridgetown was the nearest vessel capable of towing her to safety. She towed the freighter into harbour with her accommodation block well alight. Once she was safely anchored in Carlisle Bay, the remaining crew were taken off so the harbour authorities could start to fight the fire in her aft accommodation block.
The harbour master asked me if I was interested in buying her fuel, to cover her salvage and the harbour charges incurred. As the fire had been started by one of her crew, the insurance company had refused to pay out. He offered it to me at a generous rate, but I was unsure what condition it would be in. At night, I'd heard small portable pumps going on board her, and suspected the local fishermen were taking the opportunity to top up their tanks. My concern was that they may have topped off these tanks with sea water to cover their traces.
I was also certain that I could make a better deal while in the islands. I still had seventy tons of fuel on board Debut, so I was not in a hurry to spend my money on this seemingly generous offer. I declined with many thanks, and he left my ship with a rye smile on his face, clutching a bottle of rum and a carton of cigarettes for his inconvenience.
It was while we were anchored in Carlisle Bay that the Harbour Authority decided to sink the ten thousand ton Stavronikita. She was to be scuttled along the sheltered western coast as a diving attraction for the visiting tourists. And in front of a considerable crowd, the charges went off with spectacular effect, throwing pieces of wood and steel into the clear blue sky. She settled on an even keel, with the top three feet of her main mast protruding from the littered sea.
Needless to say, we were the first to dive on her, coming equipped with diving gear in our launch... but the authorities were on hand to make sure we didn't remove any artefacts for souvenirs. 
One of her forty foot cargo derricks floated vertically nearby in the calm sea, with only the top eighteen inches bobbing above the small waves. I started heading towards it in my launch, but the Harbour Authority launch turned toward us. As I didn't particularly want a confrontation with them, especially as I didn't buy their diesel oil, I turned south and headed back to my ship. I only intended telling them about the floating derrick... an absolute menace to yachts and inter-island shipping... so I left the responsibility in their court. Just imagine a small vessel running into that at night... they wouldn't even stand a chance. By the time they lifted their heads from their pillows, the little ship would continue straight to the bottom. A few days later, Debut got underway bound for the French island of Martinique.
I've personally fought so many fires on board ships at sea, donning my diving gear to go down into the engine room to start the pumps going and operate the valves in the valve-chest. This is the greatest fear of any ship's captain... fire on your ship at sea... and now that I'm a pensioner, I hope I'll never have to face it again.
Good luck to all of the crew of the Stavronikita, and my deepest respect for those who died. May you rest in peace. Cpt Dick Brooks.


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