# Where are you, Leon Pugh?



## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

Biche was on a broad reach, with the fresh SW wind filling her sails. We had just passed the buoy at the southern end of the Galliper Sands and were entering the north-bound shipping lane. The Galliper Sands is half way across the North Sea from Felixstowe to Oustende, and is like a traffic island, separating the south-bound column of ships from the north-bound column. With clear visibility, the array of ships was like two convoys passing during the Second World War.
Leon climbed the starboard ratlines to get a clear view ahead. He pointed dead ahead with his outstretched arm and called down to me at the open helm that he could see the first two floors of the Europa Hotel, on the waterfront of Oustende. Since it's construction in the late sixties, it was like a beacon to all ships transiting the North Sea, when the visibility was clear enough.
Mr Froom's charter party were excited at our swift crossing of the North Sea, and many of them were still out on deck to savour the experience of being under sail, although it was in the early hours of the morning. They had all attended university together at Cambridge, and this was their first get-together since graduating. And what a wonderful trip it had been so far!
This was my first tall-ship charter, after spending four years rebuilding and fitting out Biche while working as a police officer in Ipswich. She had new masts and rigging, and a new set of tanned flax sails. The 4,000 square feet of sail was giving her eight knots across the North Sea to Oustende. The flood tide was now offsetting the leeway on the starboard tack. What a picture she had earlier looked in daylight!
I worked Biche through the rows of sandbanks on the eastern side of the North Sea, similar to the same on the western side, but not quite so pronounced. Taking RDF bearings on the radio station at The Hook of Holland, and cross-checking them on bearings from the Europa Hotel, I could accurately plot my course. Soon the flickering lights of Oustende were filling the distant horizon in front of the ship, in the early morning dawn.
As Biche approached the outer breakwater at the entrance to the harbour, we lowered the 2,000 square foot mainsail into its lazy-jacks... the forty foot steel gaff resting on top of the forty foot main boom. The headsails and mizzen were quickly lowered, and the twenty foot bodkin raised at the stern. As Biche motored down the outer entrance to the harbour, her Perkins T6354 purring sweetly, Leon climbed the starboard ratlines of the main mast to perform his party-piece. He climbed through the crows-nest, and up to the flag yard at the top of the mast, sitting on the button. He waved to the pedestrians having a morning stroll along the western breakwater, and saw the members of the yacht club chatting at the windows of the bar.
Once Biche was in calm water by the yacht club, he stood on the seventy foot steel mast and stretched his arms out each side of him. Despite losing his left eye in a welding accident while on an apprenticeship, he stood outstretched in front of his incredulous audience. Wearing a black patch over his left eye, he looked every part of Blackbeard's crew. The Belgian National flag fluttered on the starboard cross-tree above the yellow pratique flag, and the Flemish dragon fluttered from the port cross-tree. His audience clapped and cheered him for his effort, especially when he slid down the jib-stay and walked arms outstretched along the 25 foot bowsprit.
Following a week of pubbing and clubbing around the town, the crew was asked to sing at the Oustende Festival in Paulus Straat, leading into the town from the Mercator. I absolutely loved that square-rigger, and paid her a visit every time I visited Oustende Harbour.
With the small town square packed to bursting, I got to my feet on stage, along with my crew, and gave them my rendition of the 'A is for the anchor', sea shanty. The crowd came out of the surrounding bars around the square, especially the Kruskern Bar, owned by Iwane, a friend of mine. We finished off with my own lewd version of 'Old McDonald had a farm', which the audience loved the best, from the applause they gave us.
Half way through the charter, we headed NE to Holland. With a following wind and all the sails straining to pull her forward, Biche made good time for Scheveningen, just north of the entrance to The Hook of Holland. The residence were somewhat reserved when they saw me, because of the German captain's hat that I wore at the time, but soon relaxed with me when they found out that I was off the English sailing ship in the harbour. The residence had been treated very badly during the German occupation in the Second World War.
Our passage back to Ipswich could not have been more different to our earlier crossing. We still had a fresh southerly wind, which had backed to the SE, but visibility was down to less than a hundred yards. I couldn't slacken my speed, as I was sailing across a tidal current up to five or six knots, and I had all the sandbanks on both the Dutch and English side of the North Sea to contend with... let alone the busiest shipping lanes in the world. I kept up my full set of sails, and was making eight knots into the gloom ahead of me.
Both Leon and my old pal, Johnny Martin, were crouched at the bow as lookouts, but I knew they couldn't see much more than me, and knew that I was approaching the main north-bound shipping lane. Despite the fog, we were making good time, but every surface on board was dripping wet with moisture. It was one of the most eerie feelings I've ever had.
Without me seeing any reason why, both Leon and Johnny got to their feet and ran down the deck towards me. Before they could even utter a word, there was the deep blast of the loudest and deepest air horn I've ever heard, right in front of the ship. The first thing I saw was a massive anchor coming out of the fog, some fifty yards in front of Biche. It was soon followed by the seventy foot high bow of a massive ship. The whole air and sea around us pulsed to the heavy beat of her propeller, as the captain of the 400,000 dwt Globtic Tokyo put his massive engine into full astern.
Because my sails were wet with fog, Biche was giving the radar echo of a large ferry. I brought over the wheel to full port and ran down the starboard side of the massive fully laden tanker, her weather-deck still sixty feet above the waves. The captain of the Globtic Tokyo ran out of the wheelhouse to the end of the starboard bridge-wing, nine decks above the weather-deck, took off his captain's hat and threw it at me... jumping up and down, shaking his fist at me. There wasn't much else I could do, other than wave back, encouraging my crew to do the same. Within seconds, the ship was gone in the fog, and I altered my course back to pass south of the Galliper Sands.
It was a fabulous trip, and wasn't marred by any incident. My navigation was accurate, despite the fog, and we were soon entering Harwich Harbour on our way to Ipswich. It was a wonderful first charter, and Mr Froom booked me again right away for his next adventure the following year.
Leon sailed with me for another three years, before he shacked up with Irene in Oustende... Ewane's wife. Despite her being some twenty years older than the twenty year old lad, they got on well together... and she was very pretty for her age. They ran an antique shop together until I lost contact with him on my voyage to Dubai, in the Persian Gulf on my third ship, Dauntless Star, in 1975. Get in touch, Leon, where ever you are, so we can get on the beer together and talk of old times. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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