Second Time Lucky

Second Time Lucky

by

Derek Paterson

Published by Derek Paterson/Pinaka

Smashwords Edition

Cover photograph Derek Paterson

Raising the Bicentennial Flag

Cover design Bo Paterson

Copyright 2014 Derek Paterson

ISBN: 978-0-473-25589-3

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Introduction

Chile is an intriguing, captivating country. I have had the good fortune to spend time in the country on two occasions, some 36 years apart and in vastly different circumstances.

As much as possible I have tried to reproduce my feelings and actions as I recorded or remembered them, without the benefit of hindsight, on that first visit in 1973.

For example, I recently read Robert Moss’ Chile’s Marxist Experiment which, while it may have a right-wing bias, certainly records historical facts, such as the inclusion of the military in Allende’s Government and of the resignation or sacking of these same military personnel.

The book covers at some length the actions of Allende, his failure to control the left (not just the Revolutionary Left Movement – MIR) and the results that had on the economy. It puts a slightly different light on the strikes by truckers, doctors and other small businessmen, puts them into a historical context.

Was I, like so many other individuals and news media (according to Moss), blind to, ignoring what was actually going on in Chile in the time before the coup of 11 September? But I do recall how people talked about the coming coup. They discussed when it would occur, not if. There was the full expectation the military would intervene.

It is also worth remembering that the vote that put Allende into power was actually less than he’d received the previous election. There was no swing to him, rather a divided opposition.

It is a remarkable fact that Allende was elected with a smaller share of the votes than the forces that made up his Popular Unity coalition had managed to attract at the two previous presidential elections. In 1958 the political groups that later backed the Popular Unity alliance managed to get 43.9 per cent of the votes. In 1964, in competition with Frei, they could claim only 38.7 per cent of the votes. And on 4 September 1970 Allende’s share of the poll dropped to 36.3 per cent. (Robert Moss, Chile’s Marxist Experiment, p. 25) In fact, while Allende got 36.3 per cent, Alessandri received 34.98% (a difference of fewer than 40,000 votes!) and Tomic 27.84%.

Returning to any country after a gap of 36 years will ensure a different experience. The circumstances of my departure and subsequent return had the potential for even more drama.

Few people knew I’d been in Chile before. I was concerned knowledge of my previous experience, of my incarceration, would pigeonhole me. I wanted to be accepted for who I was, not for some preconceived notion.

Within hours of arriving in Valparaiso that first time in 1973 I had felt completely at home. The country, the city and the people resonated, making me feel very comfortable.

By 2009 it was a very different country, on the verge of becoming a member of the OECD. It was a beacon of stability and rectitude in Latin America. Its vast mineral wealth had financed the development and provided the prospect of continued strong growth. It may have been overshadowed by the regional behemoths Brazil and Argentina but it was more stable, less corrupt and with fewer potential problems.

The second visit was an interesting experience.

Chapter 1

First sight

A faint white smudge on the horizon was the first indication Chile was close.

It was Aconcagua, the highest peak outside the Himalaya, and the first land I’d seen since leaving New Zealand, although the sudden presence of shore birds indicated the ship was nearing South America. As we approached Valparaiso, once one of the major ports on the west coast of the continent, we were greeted and entertained by the comical sight of clumsily elegant pelicans, improbably looking as if they had tucked their lunches under a wing.

I was standing on the bridge of the Navelinacore, the freighter I had worked my passage on from New Zealand, giving me 12 at times tempestuous days at sea. But it had all begun some months earlier when I’d decided to travel to South America. For many years, the Andes, the Incas and the Amazon had exerted a siren call. But more importantly, my grandfather, like his father, had been born in Salvador de Bahia, the old capital of Brazil. There was even a statue of my great-grandfather’s brother, erected for his services to medicine.

I had first learned of my family origins researching the family tree as part of my Social Anthropology course at university. My grandmother and an elderly aunt had provided details and even remembered that the two branches of the family had stayed in contact until some time in the 1930s.

Perhaps I could track down the Brazilian branch, restore contact. It was certainly worth the effort.

But it wasn’t easy, way back in 1973, to get from New Zealand to South America. They were on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean with only sporadic freighters providing a direct connection. I decided to turn that to my advantage and began perusing the shipping columns of the newspapers, seeking a vessel heading for either Peru or Chile. There seemed to be one a month at most so I began to think of travelling to North America and heading south from there.

While travelling up and down the country, chasing the various ships, I met Bill Paterson, same surname but from Canada and no relation, living with friends in Auckland. He asked if he could join me as it was more or less on his way home to Canada. We got on well together and the idea of having company appealed.

Soon after, I talked my way aboard a German-owned ship in Wellington Harbour. The officers were all German and spoke German to each other. They spoke English to their crew, who hailed mostly from the Philippines, the Azores and Ghana. The captain, the ‘Old Man,’ Captain Wilhelm Brinck, took a liking to me and my crazy ideas and offered us the chance to work our passage to Valparaiso, Chile, starting from Napier, the ship’s last port of call in New Zealand.

I had four days to tie up loose ends and get to Napier. Actually, most of the loose ends were already tied, I’d already said my goodbyes to the family, had with me a medical kit and most of the money I would need. It was really just a few friends I had to farewell and to collect Bill from Auckland.

There turned out to be rather a lot of people to say goodbye to and by the time we reported for duty early on the morning of sailing, Monday, 7 August, 1973, we’d had very little sleep.

The Old Man welcomed us effusively, admitting he hadn’t been sure we would actually turn up. He turned us over to the bosun, another hearty, beer-drinking German with surprisingly little command of English, making his job of communicating with the crew a little difficult. We followed him to our cabin where we stowed our packs. In no time we were back on deck, watching as the ropes and hawsers were winched aboard and the vessel moved efficiently away from the dock.

We were on our way.

The bosun found us again and as we headed out into the open sea, he took us all the way forward to the fo’c’sle and set us to work sorting out tins of paint and chemicals, brushes, heavy, greasy chains and other assorted, pungent items.

The ship had no sooner left the protection of the harbour when it started to lean and roll in a big swell. The holds were full but the cargo was light – frozen meat, milk products and a bit of grain, ordered, I was told, by the Chilean government – so the ship rode high, exaggerating the roll. It was worst at the bow, adding a bit of yaw to make it a very awkward, uncomfortable motion. Combine that with lack of sleep, queasy heads and stomachs and the all pervading chemical stench in the fo’c’sle and it wasn’t long before Bill and I were clutching the railing, heaving our stomachs into the sea.

Eat! You have to eat, said First Officer Peter Nahrgang with a grin. He was enjoying our discomfort yet at the same time he was sympathetic. You need food, otherwise you will tear the lining in your stomach.

We forced food down. And lost it. We went to bed early and found ourselves being tossed about in our bunks as the ship continued to roll. Even so, sleep won out, our bodies were so tired they just shut down.

It felt like we’d only just fallen asleep when there was a bang on the door and the bosun burst in. "Raus! Raus mit euch! He was brought up short, though, when I swore back at him in German. And then he laughed. So, you speak German, do you? That’s good." And, in fact, it did make life easier, especially those early morning wake up calls.

Bill decided it would be fun to pick up a bit of German and to start learning Spanish. I had rudimentary Spanish from travels in Spain but obviously needed to improve it dramatically. That evening I started drawing up lists of words in three columns – first German, English in the middle and finally the Spanish equivalent. The second morning, the bosun spied the list, taped to the back of the door, and stopped for five minutes to brush up his English (it needed pretty serious brushing) and even to learn a few Spanish words that might help him in the bars and back rooms of Valparaiso, when we arrived. It was the same every morning thereafter.

He did have one helpful suggestion, however. If you’re rolling around in your bunks, get a carton of drink from the quartermaster and shove it under the mattress.

He was right. The cartons worked to wedge us against the wall. We slept soundly after that.

The entire 12 days we were at sea, big swells continued to roll out of the north and the ship sailed along at a constant lean of 17-19 degrees from vertical. Even larger swells hit us frequently, rocking the vessel over further. An inclinometer on the bridge showed that on two occasions we rolled to 42 degrees. That’s OK, said the First Officer. The ship is designed to go to 52 degrees. Still, 42 degrees seemed a bit too close for comfort. He carried on. On the way to New Zealand we hit a big storm and went as far as 48 degrees. That’s when the forward boom down there came loose and started flailing around. We had to get out and lash it down. No damage was done.

Just the same, we were very pleased to come on deck after our first breakfast at sea to find ropes strung along the deck for support and safety. We used them all the time as the cold waters of the south Pacific washed across the deck every time the ship rolled far enough.

Meals were interesting, too. Stoves and cutting surfaces in the galley might have been on gimbals, remaining on the horizontal. Tables in the mess, however, were not, although they were fixed in place. Chairs were tethered to stop them sliding too far. Catching and returning bowls and plates, as they slid gracefully about on the tabletops, became an automatic reaction. And occasionally the ship would roll far enough that the deck-side portholes were actually underwater. On at least two occasions we saw fish swim by.

We found our sea legs after that first night – amazing the restorative powers of a bit of sleep. Breakfast stayed where it was supposed to and the bosun soon had us up ladders scraping and sanding on the superstructure. Half an hour later the Old Man came by and was appalled to see us teetering up there.

Definitely not, he said. That’s too dangerous. Yes, you have to work your passage but you’re not being paid, I’m not sure what kind of insurance cover you actually have, if any, and I won’t have you being injured. Nor can you work overtime. I’ll talk to the bosun.

And so we spent the rest of the time with both feet firmly on deck, doing minor chores. We had the run of the ship and after dinner would often wander up to the bridge, even standing a few short (supervised) tricks at the wheel. These were fun times when the Old Man and the First Officer related tales of their early days at sea.

I’ve spent my whole life at sea, said the Old Man. My first trip around Cape Horn, when I was very young, was on a sailing ship, under canvas. But this is my last voyage, I have to retire. And I suspect that made him more reflective and introspective than usual. It was our sense of adventure that had piqued his curiosity and led to our being on board.

There was a serenity to being at sea – the emptiness, the endless skies, the stunning star-scapes, the distance from land and the albatrosses that hung motionless day after day off the stern rail. All too soon we saw the first shore birds, the gulls and pelicans, and the triangular smudge of Aconcagua.

Slowly the Chilean coast came into view and by noon, Saturday 18 August 1973, the ship had arrived at Valparaiso. Like thousands of sailors and tourists before me I marvelled at the colourful city tumbling down the many hills.

Despite the fact the ship was carrying urgent cargo, we had to join seven or eight other vessels anchored in the stream and await our turn. The various officials came aboard and just a couple of minutes after the last one had departed, the money changers, the black marketeers, were clambering nonchalantly up the gangway hanging over the side. We very quickly had our escudos at a vastly better rate than the official one.

You’re free to come and go as you like, lads, the Old Man said. There’s no more work for you but while we’re in port, you’re welcome to stay on board and eat in the galley. Enjoy yourselves!

Around 19:00, Bill and I boarded a water taxi with five or six of the crew and a few minutes later were walking on Chilean soil, well, okay, concrete. The city, the hills, the buildings, the very air all seemed to be welcoming me and within half an hour, despite the struggles with the language, I felt I’d come home. Somehow, even here in the sleazy port quarter, the local people made me feel welcome.

I was well aware of the tense political situation but I wasn’t intending to spend long in Chile. The vague plan was to quickly travel through Chile and on into Argentina, perhaps get up to Brazil and visit my grandfather’s birthplace and later, when the country had settled a bit, to come back and spend time.

But reality has an unnerving habit of interfering with even the best-laid plans. The Chileans were warm, friendly and open, the food and wine were superb and the scenery spectacular.

That first evening ashore with a few of the crew, our dragging feet seemed to lead us to various bars, each challenging the other for sleaze. The lads were in their element, Bill and I goggle-eyed onlookers. After 12 dry days at sea, the crew had a great thirst and they methodically set about easing it. Except for Peter, from Ghana. He had other needs and the drinking was at times a distraction. I recall his egging on a young girl, she must have been only 16 or 17, in one bar as she did things with a banana that would never, in my relative innocence, have occurred to me.

He was fun to be with, though, as he recounted tales of doubtful veracity of his life and escapades around the world as a seaman. His career seemed chosen to allow him to have sex in as many different locations as possible. And in Valparaiso, I got caught up in his carefree, spontaneous – but who was I to judge? – activities as my Spanish, while extremely limited, was easily the best of our small group and so my services were called on as a translator. And negotiator. I had by no means led a sheltered life, having previously lived and travelled in Europe and Asia, but this was a new experience.

The next night we went out to