E-Book, Englisch, 452 Seiten
Smith PASSAGE THRU LIFE
1. Auflage 2001
ISBN: 978-1-61842-020-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
E-Book, Englisch, 452 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-61842-020-6
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
A humorous and reflective look into growing up in a simpler time in 'Gods Own Country', New Zealand, travelling the world as a Merchant Marine, family life and migrating to NSW, Australia.
Autoren/Hrsg.
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The Skinny Apprentice
Between the schoolboy days and those of an engineering officer in the Merchant Marine there was a period to be consumed as an apprentice to the Fitting and Turning trade. Swanson Engineering was the only heavy engineering workshop in New Plymouth, so it was to this establishment that I went to show off my school-acquired talents. “Will the potential employer whom I meet perceive that he is in the company of a rocket scientist?” The owner and interviewer of Swanson Engineering was Mr. B Titter and it was after meeting this man that a trade was offered if I was able to get a pass in my School Certificate. I did, and my days in the Fitting, Turning and Machining duly began with a lad of thin appearance and in oversized boots walking through the doors on a Monday to report for work. Many years later, I was to work for a man whose maxim when it came to employing apprentices was, “If the lad is good at mathematics and spelling, he is no bloody use to me.” This man should have interviewed me in my skinny past. I was soon to discover that the words “bugger” and “bloody” as used around the family home would not cut the mustard in a workshop environment. Those words that only a few weeks ago were very servable describing words, were superseded with much bigger “expletives deletives” and were used with far greater passion. Dinner table material they were not; nor could they be used within earshot of your parents. I did discover that some of those describing workshop words would induce Dad to take aim at your backside with his boot. I was getting ready to open the front door of the house one time after using the “F” word in the kitchen. What I did not realize was that, Dad had followed me up the hall and used his boot to assist me through a door that was still closed. “Thanks Dad.” The jump from schoolboy to apprentice was rather large. Some made the transition more easily than others and as luck would have it my transition proved to be at the harder end of the scale. All the first year apprentices discovered shortly after starting that Mr. B Titter was a man to be feared by one and all. The “Screaming Skull” was his behind the back nickname. When you were face to face with the boss, the more formal greetings of, Sir or Mr. Titter where the norm. Some used scuttling silence as a form of acknowledgment. “Did you see the way that so and so slipped under that piece of plate steel when Mr. Titter arrived?” “I’m no doctor, but I think he needs an infusion of backbone.” Thankfully, scuttling was not a method that I choose to use when in the company of the “Skull”. There were very few men or boys who could withstand the arm waving and swearing of this short, thickset maniac. When he came into the top of the workshop even those who were genuinely discussing a current job would experience a strong urge to be elsewhere. Some days, when I was feeling particularly foolhardy, I would stand my ground, even though I had been deserted by every workmate. A polite “Good morning, Mr. Titter” did not elicit too much of a reply from the boss. In the mornings, the foreman would get the jobs and the various staff organized but this schedule would inevitably change the instant the MAN came down from his upstairs office with arms a-flapping and a blast of obscene language. Swanson’s went through a lot of foremen in regards the days planning and their boisterous rearrangements. The more durable foreman seemed not to have a lot of backbone, and they also used the word, “Sir,” with great alacrity. Mr. Titter drove a big yellow Plymouth motorcar (“the yellow submarine”). In his anger one morning, after sorting out the foreman’s best plans, he charged out of the work shop and, in his blind anger, hopped into the back of the vehicle. “The controls for your car are in the front seat, in case you have forgotten, Sir.” This man died of old age, but it should have been a heart attack. The apprentices at Swansons discovered another person to be careful around, a certain Mrs. J Lovell, my mum, whom they seemed to regard as a female version of Mr. B Titter. “We think it would best for all concerned if Graeme comes round to our place rather than us going round to Young Street.” “We will not take the chance of getting yelled at by your Mum, thank you very much.” Even when the boys had been out on the town and had certain amount of Dutch courage in them, they would not front this lady. “We will just drop you at the front gate, Graeme. You should be able to find your own way from there to the back door.” “ Come on, guys. Mum is a pussy-cat. Would I tell you lies?” In addition to the Fitting and Turning Department where the ship repair and general engineering was done, there was the Boiler Making Department that did all off the heavy engineering tasks. Between these two departments there were some 12 apprentices - and a motley crew we were. Pimples and unwashed hair helped to mark us out from the more civilized beings on the planet. Surfing, long hair and the Beatles were all to test Mr. Titter and his various foremen to the limits. Let the games begin. In fact, surfing was more important than eating, even if my beach buddies were going to persist in calling me “Bones.” The park of our boyhood was now supplanted by the thrills of the Taranaki coastline. The boards were long and kneeling to paddle was the way to get out the back. I surfed long enough to see the advent of shorter boards, and even started experimenting with them, but in general the long board was what we used. We would surf in the morning, at lunchtime and after work, summer and winter. That Blue Gum bending wind off the mountain was very cold, so leg cramps were inevitable when winter surfing. But this offshore wind also helped to give the waves shape and height so it was not to be resented. A case of swings and round-abouts I guess. Winter meant, of course, no surf life-savers on patrol, just a few fanatical surfers on the scene. One day at Fitzroy Beach I lost my board and got caught in a rip. I tried swimming in through the rip, then across it, and finally, out and across. I was already stunned by the cold when several large sets came through. The net result was that I was drowning. Panic was now the order of the day, which I would have to say only made matters worse. After giving myself a serious talking to, I was able to get some self-control and, more importantly, to get people on the beach to release that I needed help. Another board rider came out and got me back to shore. “Thanks my friend - I needed that assist.” Drowning is not the way to go. Another time during winter we were surfing the same beach in an area set aside for the public to swim. This had the Fitzroy club members down there telling we had to clear the area. We said that they could, “bugger off!!!” being as how it was winter and there was no chance that sensible human life would be coming down to swim. Even so we got a court summons for surfing between the signs and in due course we ended up being found guilty and fined some modest amount in the New Plymouth courts. That did not seem fair to me but that was the way it was. Some weeks after this we were back down at Fitzroy and the same surf club members who’d dropped us in it were using surfboards in the very same place that we had been in and got pinged for. What to do? Using my full name I wrote a letter to the editor of The Taranaki Herald. Great detail was gone into and in a few days there it was, all printed in the local paper. A couple of nights later I got a phone call from the surf club President. He was not happy and reckoned that at the very least I was a trouble-making mongrel. He also said that he would be taking me back to court for making false statements in the press. Before hanging up on him I told him that he should, “stop talking about it and get on with it.” I never heard another thing on that subject. “All is well that ends well." The odd day taken off in the pursuit of waves, these days off nearly undid us as regards one Mr. B Titter. Returning from a day at the beach the car ran out of petrol. We knew that there was a team down at Ngamutu beach working on a barge that had been pulled up for repair. The welding plants were petrol driven so one could get enough fuel to get home from there. In my quest for a little obliging assistance the first person I walked into was the outside foreman. He went grey. The second person I saw was the Skull. To say that he was a little worked up would be an under statement. It may have been that the job was not working out to well. On the other hand, it might have been the sight of my smiling face. The question was posed - “What are you doing here?” This question was accompanied by a HOT dry wind that emanated from Mr. Titter’s wide-open mouth. This breeze was quite the reverse of the wind that came off Mt. Egmont in the winter. I am not sure but I think the outside foreman fainted at about this time. “I need a little fuel to get home because I have run out.” “No fuel and you’re sacked!!!” My Dad had to do some serious talking on my behalf at the apprenticeship board just to keep my job. Three months was added to my time and a haircut was ordered. I thought that surfing was worth the grief. My partner in crime was not so sure, but we lived to fight another day. When Paul Harris and I had a...