Green Smarties

And so it was on the following evening my father and I joined the official civic reception committee standing at the end of Bournemouth Pier, as we waited for the ship’s launch to collect us. Below, slapping against the struts of the jetty, the blue-green sea rose and fell with each rising swell of the waves.

HMS SIRIUS lay at anchor offshore, its sleek grey metal shape glowing in the setting sun which by then was slipping gently over the western horizon.

My mother’s emergency operation had gone well and she was expected to make a full recovery, so my father felt less divided about his call of duty and I felt less guilty about taking her place and enjoying a party.

The launch arrived and lurched erratically as the Mayor attempted to board. He was momentarily thrown off balance by the official gold chain and heavy badge of office which hung around his neck. The rest of us followed unsteadily behind trying to find sea legs that did not exist.

Stepping aboard the launch I mistimed my footing and fell into the willing hands of a sailor who retrieved me before I disappeared over the other side.

My clothing was impractical for boarding a ship – a red mini dress, two and a half inch high heels and what I considered to be a fashionable red ‘baker boy’ chapeau bought in Paris the previous year. This hat was to create a stir amongst the all-male crew for reasons unknown to me at the time.

In the 1960s women were not part of the Royal Navy unless they were shore based Wrens, so any female allowed on board one of Her Majesty’s Ships was purely for decoration and a bit of a novelty.

As I attempted to grip the sheer steel ladder that led up the side of the frigate my only thought was that of survival and self preservation. I clung, white knuckled to the metal rungs. The sea, which seemed to have become increasingly choppy out in the bay beyond the protection of the pier, threw the launch around violently with each wave. Any idea of modesty disappeared with a desperate desire to stay alive.

Thoughts flew back to my mother who had visited a submarine the previous year. As she had been heaved aboard unceremoniously and stood shakily on the deck of that sleek minimalist vessel there had been nothing to hold onto – no rail, nothing – except the Captain.

She made a beeline for the unfortunate man as he waited to welcome the official party. He was taken aback by this strange woman who flung her arms around his neck and refused to let go. Eventually she had to be prised off him and escorted below before they both ended up in the sea. Somehow he had retained his dignity despite their tap dance with death as both grappled to stay upright on the slippery deck.

However, a frigate was decidedly more stable than a submarine, and once aboard, I was given the choice of a ‘horse’s neck’, which turned out to be navy language for brandy and ginger ale, or a ‘g and t’ which is gin and tonic in any language.