When did the tarnish first appear on the "golden age" of shipping in which we were accused of living, all those years ago? When did the power of the bean-counters first assert itself, bringing to an end the ordered lives we had led in the posh bits of our industry?
I remember a technical superintendent from one of the major liner companies telling me that for him, there was a precise date (although I have forgotten what it was) when he realised the game was up. He had left his office, adjacent to that of the directors, and flown to some remote part of the world, where one of their ships was in trouble and required his expertise to sort it out. The problem was far worse than he had anticipated, involving lawyers, local repairers and drydocks and it was several weeks later that he wearily returned to the company headquarters in London.
In his absence, there had been changes, but he was unprepared to discover that his department, once close to the seat of executive power, had been shifted to a rather gloomy basement. It was now the Finance Department which had been physically (and metaphorically) elevated to the same height above sea level as the directors themselves and the chap who had been the company accountant (a sort of book-keeper in chief) was now a member of the board.
In another one of the then doomed British liner companies, it was a master who suggested that the runes could be read when, instead of an interview with one of the directors at the conclusion of a voyage, along with a nice lunch, he was lucky to have a civil conversation with one of the clerks.
Little of this communicated itself to those of us at sea, well below this sort of pay grade although there was in retrospect, a significant meeting as we were just finishing cargo and preparing one evening to sail home from New Zealand. The master, notably grave, called us together and told us the glad news, just received, that the company was to be "containerised," and it was unlikely that there would be employment for many of us on the far fewer ships that would be needed in the upcoming consortium that would take on the trade. As far as I was concerned, that was as good a reason as I could think of for changing course and many of were thinking the same on the long haul homewards, before the brown envelopes started flying around.
We also couldn't have guessed that beside the inexorable rise of the bean counters there were great political and economic earthquakes soon to happen that would leave the whole shipping industry as we knew it in ruins. Canal closures, colossal over-tonnage in the wake of the Arab "oil-shock," huge increases in fuel prices and the desperate search for cost-cutting were to see a whole quarter century of maritime recession. During this grim period, those who had grown up with some security in the traditional maritime nations would join a sort of diaspora of maritime talent, seeking work where it could be found. The despised "flag of convenience" would become the norm, while the squads of manning agents spread out all over the world looking for the cheapest possible crews. And the bean counters would cement their way into the maritime management in a way that would make their position permanent.
I suppose if we had been sufficiently alert, we might have seen the way that things were going. Change was in the air, in the shape of stern warnings about excessive overtime and questions about whether it was really necessary to paint the entire ship every six months. There was the case of the letter that the Master received in Panama, outward bound in about 1963, which clearly spoiled his day and prefaced long closed-door discussions with the Chief Officer.
The outcome was significant. In our ships, our company standards decreed that after dark there was always to be a man at the wheel. This necessitated each watch constituting the OOW, two ABs and a Quartermaster, these three taking it in turn to be look-out, helmsman and stand-by. Henceforth, the OOW would be alone in the wheelhouse, with the lookout on the monkey-island and an AB standing by below, while the "iron Mike" worked around the clock. The QM would be on daywork and umpteen hours of overtime would be saved.
We watchkeepers were aghast, suggesting that this was a step backwards in navigational safety. What did they think we were aboard – a Tyneside tramp? I can recall standing at the wheel, taking horizontal sextant angles, to demonstrate the aggregated arc of blindness that the OOW would face attempting to alter-course for an oncoming ship, which might be hidden at the crucial moment. It didn't make any difference – the "Office had spoken" and a lonely night-time vigil would be our lot.
And over the next ten years or so, the cost-cutters would go to work with a will, every department aboard ship down-sizing; some even vanishing completely, as what we probably considered the "quality of life" aboard ship remorselessly leached away. Lean and mean might describe the climate which was to become the norm aboard ship in an industry from which the fat had vanished. It's what we have today, although modern mariners may not know any different. But it wasn't always like that.
Submissions wanted! Do you have an exciting, amusing or downright dangerous anecdote from your time in the maritime world? Each week, we will feature new personal experiences from across the globe. Submissions to: marinfo@baird.com.au.