For most people today, cruising is a resort holiday. The TV series, The Love Boat, was a glamourised forerunner of what goes on in passenger ships sailing the high seas. As with air travel, cruising soon became accessible to most levels of society, from the elderly rich to the booze cruisers and everyone in-between.
The industry’s unrestricted growth has led to several incidents of ships encountering mechanical and electrical problems, and outbreaks of norovirus and other transmissible illnesses. Passengers have also experienced antisocial behaviour.
Before the growth of air travel, passenger liners were more commonly used for travel to a specific destination. The passengers included migrants, people on business, national sports teams, and those wealthy enough to holiday abroad.
Many Rhodesians, South Africans, and their parents or grandparents would be familiar with the Union Castle Line sailing between the UK and South Africa, and the Pacific and Orient Line sailing to Australia. I sailed on the former on three occasions. First at age five with my parents, and last at age nine with my mother.
The memories of my first trip started at Southampton docks. A sizeable crowd came to see the ship leave, and the excitement was palpable. Aboard the Edinburgh Castle, looking at the faces on the dockside waving and calling out, I felt privileged.
Within two hours, the reality of an ocean voyage hit home. I looked forward to dinner, but halfway through, nausea set in; my first brush with seasickness. The awful sensation stayed with me for almost half of the fourteen-day trip.
The next morning, I couldn’t eat breakfast. Mid-morning on the second day, my mother persuaded me to go up on deck. The fresh air helped a little, despite the rolling waves and swaying ship. But the cold, grey, autumn skies were no comfort.
Three days out, the ship docked at Madeira. The warmer weather and stepping onto dry land proved a temporary relief. We walked around the town and looked in the souvenir shops. Small red, green, and white knitted human figures adorned most souvenirs from hats to safety pins. They must have represented a form of traditional Portuguese dress.
Soon, back on board, the ship steamed on its way. Day five, I seemed a little better. Day six, I was raring to go. Morning tea on deck was my favourite time. The stewards came around with trays of hot Bovril for the passengers. After several days of nausea and vomiting, the salty drink was just what I needed.
I wanted to retrieve one of my books locked in a trunk in the ship’s hold. Gaining access on the voyage proved quite a process, but with a little backwards and forwards, we managed it.
The weather improved, and halfway through the voyage came the Crossing the Line ceremony. The sailors dressed in garish pirate costumes and carried plastic swords, making adult passengers walk the plank into the swimming pool, and dunking the kids in zinc bathtubs. We all got a certificate for that bit of fun.
The second week of the trip was more enjoyable with beautiful weather, flying fish, and a fruitless watch for sharks. The only downside came in the games area on the lower deck. Nets ran along the ship’s railings to prevent any stray deck coits or balls going over the side. It seemed the perfect spot for me to play soccer with my father. I kicked my new football against a net, and it fell into the ocean. Upon checking, we found it was the only unsecured net.
Arrival in Cape Town remained a little uncertain. The rumour was bad weather and high seas might prevent us from disembarking. That sounded good to me. I was enjoying life on board, and in no hurry to leave the ship.
Birds appeared, signalling the proximity of land. Ultimately, there was no delay in disembarking. I’d found my sea legs and discovered, to my surprise, dry land swayed just like the sea. From the docks, we headed straight for the railway station to catch the train for Pretoria.
On the last trip from Southampton to Cape Town, we travelled on the Pretoria Castle.
It was a gloomy autumn day in the south of England, and the sea reflected the iron-grey sky. A chilly breeze carried the seagulls, calling and swooping low overhead.
I remember being impatient for the ship to sail. As the departure time neared, people threw coloured paper streamers, connecting them to their loved ones on the dock. The gaudy scene looked celebratory, but I couldn’t help thinking it must have held sadness for many. In those days, people regarded a trip across London as long-distance travel; something they’d rarely do. So, on the dockside stood many who’d never see their loved ones again.
Within two hours, my seasickness started. By now, I realised it was the stuffiness of the claustrophobic tourist class cabins on the ship. We’d booked a cabin with a porthole, but that didn’t much help.
On this voyage, we stopped in the Canary Islands instead of Madeira.
I couldn’t swim, but gained limited access to the ship’s pool under the watchful eye of a sailor. The greatest fun was when they filled the pool for the adults. With the roll of the ship, as it filled, one moment the water lifted you to the edge of the pool, and the next, you stood on the timber bottom. When the sailor decided the water was getting too deep, he banished all the kids from the pool area.
On board was a German family with two boys a little older than me. The boys kept running to the edge of the swimming pool and spitting in the water. It was a game to see who could spit farthest. The parents said nothing, so I reported it to the sailor on duty. He said, ‘Don’t worry about it. The War is over now.’ Somehow, I don’t think he got my point. I would have complained about boys of any nationality behaving in an antisocial manner.
There was an upside to seasickness. Halfway through the voyage, the kids were getting bored with each other’s company. Suddenly, in the second week, a new kid, me, miraculously emerged. Everyone wanted to be my friend.
Docking in beautiful Cape Town was an experience. From the ship, Table Mountain and the city looked like a painting. The immigration procedures took place on board. Several customs officers stood on the dock behind a row of half a dozen tables in a huge open-sided shed, running almost the length of the ship.
There was a problem. I noticed the passengers walking to the edge of the dock and throwing their cameras into the water. They included box and concertina cameras, and others I didn’t recognise. The owners removed the film rolls and dropped the cameras over the side. What a terrible waste! Imagine the import duty that led to even the most expensive looking cameras meeting that fate.
Once again, we headed straight to the railway station; this time to catch the Bulawayo train. But that is another story.
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