Portrait of a Ship's Captain
There’s a strong breeze blowing from the west,
Bringing salt air laden with the smells of fuel oil,
Pollution and cooking across Victoria Harbour.
I can see the barges rolling heavily beside the anchored ships,
Their loads swinging wildly beneath the slewing derricks.
I’ve dragged him from the bar in the seamen’s mission,
And we're waiting for a launch back to the ship,
He’s greeting evening strollers like long-lost friends,
And banging on about me being a 'bloody farmer',
I like him, he's a good seaman, but he's hard work.
Now he’s sobering up, I can stand and watch him.
He runs a hand over his shaven, close-cropped head,
His bleary-eyes and face mottled by years of alcohol,
Make his squat features look pig-ugly and brutish,
His nose is as red as a ship's port side-light.
He’s an old Asia hand, and once-vibrant coloured
Blue and red dragon tattoos curl around his thick arms,
With fading Chinese characters on his forearms,
Dithering at the edges. I asked him what they meant once,
‘The gweilo with these tattoos is a fucking idiot,’ he grunted.
His gut, like a ship’s bulbous bow, strains at his shirt,
He drags on ‘snouts’ and in between spasms of coughing,
He screws up his face in pain and gasps for breath.
He’s ill, I’ve not known him to be this bad before,
And he doesn’t look fit enough for what lies ahead of us.
He shouts in mangled Cantonese at the launch’s cox’n,
The cox’n shouts back over the wind, waving his arms,
‘Useless bastard!’ yells the captain, snarling at him,
The launch slams too hard into the steps of the public pier,
And the two intransigents continue yelling at one another.
He’s learned Cantonese from a lifetime in Hong Kong.
His wife was once a Wanchai ‘flower of the willow world.’
As we ate pig’s tubes together in Tsim-si last night, he growled,
‘I’d trust her to splice a mooring rope better than you,
But I’d not let her near my savings or bank account.’
We climb into the launch; he still berates the hapless cox’n,
Who’s lost face and is now pretending not to hear him.
Now satisfied he’s won the argument, he picks his nose,
Takes an old pen-knife from his pocket,
And carves away at the ends of his yellowing fingers.
I didn’t know we were starting our last voyage together,
So many of the old hands I know and love are dying now.
Men like him brought so much fun and colour to my life;
I miss them, and him too - now he’s dead.
He was a fine seaman once.
Pollution and cooking across Victoria Harbour.
I can see the barges rolling heavily beside the anchored ships,
Their loads swinging wildly beneath the slewing derricks.
I’ve dragged him from the bar in the seamen’s mission,
And we're waiting for a launch back to the ship,
He’s greeting evening strollers like long-lost friends,
And banging on about me being a 'bloody farmer',
I like him, he's a good seaman, but he's hard work.
Now he’s sobering up, I can stand and watch him.
He runs a hand over his shaven, close-cropped head,
His bleary-eyes and face mottled by years of alcohol,
Make his squat features look pig-ugly and brutish,
His nose is as red as a ship's port side-light.
He’s an old Asia hand, and once-vibrant coloured
Blue and red dragon tattoos curl around his thick arms,
With fading Chinese characters on his forearms,
Dithering at the edges. I asked him what they meant once,
‘The gweilo with these tattoos is a fucking idiot,’ he grunted.
His gut, like a ship’s bulbous bow, strains at his shirt,
He drags on ‘snouts’ and in between spasms of coughing,
He screws up his face in pain and gasps for breath.
He’s ill, I’ve not known him to be this bad before,
And he doesn’t look fit enough for what lies ahead of us.
He shouts in mangled Cantonese at the launch’s cox’n,
The cox’n shouts back over the wind, waving his arms,
‘Useless bastard!’ yells the captain, snarling at him,
The launch slams too hard into the steps of the public pier,
And the two intransigents continue yelling at one another.
He’s learned Cantonese from a lifetime in Hong Kong.
His wife was once a Wanchai ‘flower of the willow world.’
As we ate pig’s tubes together in Tsim-si last night, he growled,
‘I’d trust her to splice a mooring rope better than you,
But I’d not let her near my savings or bank account.’
We climb into the launch; he still berates the hapless cox’n,
Who’s lost face and is now pretending not to hear him.
Now satisfied he’s won the argument, he picks his nose,
Takes an old pen-knife from his pocket,
And carves away at the ends of his yellowing fingers.
I didn’t know we were starting our last voyage together,
So many of the old hands I know and love are dying now.
Men like him brought so much fun and colour to my life;
I miss them, and him too - now he’s dead.
He was a fine seaman once.
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