Newsletter
for alumni of The Abbey School, Mt. St. Benedict, Trinidad and Tobago, W.I.
Caracas, 7 September 2013 No. 618
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear
Friends,
Anybody
who can collaborate with the photos in good 500kb quality please send them to
me for inclusion in a future edition.
-----------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------
20/02/2011
The
Abbey School Journey to BG in the “Mabari”, 1958
By David
Bratt
The
picture sits in front of me now. There we are. A group of 15 young
men, some boys really, two monks and our coach in a garden in the house in
Kitty Village, Georgetown, Guyana and it is 1958.
The
memories of that trip to what is now called Guyana but known then as British
Guiana is hazy, dimly remembered through the dust of time. It was so many
years ago.
We left
Port of Spain at around five o’clock in the evening of a Sunday in late
July. I was seen off by my Uncle George and my Aunt Madge, born in BG as
was my father, and with whom I had been staying since the end of term. I
wasn’t supposed to be on that boat but someone had been unable to make the trip
and Brother Vincent immediately put me up. I was the last boy to be
chosen and my name does not appear on any of the official teams, even though I
played the final two football games.
The
official picture of the team, taken in the gardens of the John Fernandes house in
Kitty Village, Georgetown, where we were to live in ease and comfort for one
wonderful, unforgettable, month shows our party of boys and three officials,
Brother Vincent, our sports master and himself a native of BG; Father Cuthbert,
O.S.B, the senior person on the tour and our coach, Mr. Allan Joseph or TAFA
(Trinidad Amateur Football Association) as we referred to him.
From
left to right in the picture, all in Mount finery, standing are Tang,
Most, Charles, Howard, Date, Kerry, Bratt, Serrette and Henderson.
Sitting in the front row is Herrera, Guildner, Brother Vincent, Father
Cuthbert, Allan Joseph, Gransaull, Prada and Howell. Missing are: Laquis,
the Galt brothers and Viera and Philip. There were others accompanying us
who were not part of the official team. Hugh Henderson for one, and one
other boy who can be seen peeking out behind Allan Joseph on one of the few
times we all got together on the boat.
Because,
initially, the weather was perfect, the sea flat or slightly heaving as we
weighed anchor and set out, goodbyes ringing in our ears, heading out into the
Gulf of Paria, as fine a bunch of boys as you wanted, slight breeze blowing
into our faces, the excitement of our first long sea voyage, two glorious days
south on a boat ride to the Mud Land where we were to play a series of
football, cricket and athletic competitions against our brother institution,
St. Stanislaus in Georgetown.
I can’t
remember much else about the beginning. At first we simply flitted around
the top of the ship, getting in the way of the few sailors, all rough and
crude-like characters, until we realised that there was not much to see and
began to congregate at the front. The “Mabiri” was a small ship, 190 tons
according to a picture I have and seemed to be carrying a load of
concrete. It sailed very low in the water, the lower deck almost flush
with the sea and heaved disconcertingly at times. We all sat down on a
built-up central area of the middle deck and excitedly began a lime. It
seemed that no one had worked out where we were to sleep and our luggage had
disappeared into a hold and we never saw it until two days later. No one
also was able to tell us where we were to eat and body functions were never
discussed. But young boys are nothing if not adaptable and after some
discussion, we agreed that we would share what food we had, Crix being very
available, as well as Mars chocolate and oranges and we would all sleep on a
higher part of the deck, it being such a pleasant evening, what with the wind
just picking up a bit as we headed south around the tip of Cedros to our left
and gradually vanishing off into the orange and pinkness of the western sunset.
Suddenly,
it was night and the waves which had, up to that time, rolled gently under our
hull, began to kick up and the wind began to get a bit colder and the voices
quieted one by one and somehow or the other we drifted off to sleep, quite
comfortable and warm, next to each other, under the open sky, looking up at the
stars. Heavenly, if a bit uncomfortable.
Then the
nightmare began.
The
first thing I remember is suddenly being jolted awake by the ship giving a
tremendous heave and falling back into the sea. Looking around there were
a few anxious faces, some sleeping ones still and someone retching in a
corner. A fine spray of salt water was being thrown up by the bow of the
boat directly back into our faces. Angry dark clouds had appeared,
scudding by us and the sea had awakened and instead of rolling gently around,
it was now heaving and blustering ominously and, as the little bark began to
dance with us, it began to rain. What was later described as a “squall”
was upon us. Squall is joke. If that was a “squall”, I am a
newspaper. We had no shelter and within minutes we were all soaked except
for a few who had moved around to the side of the ship which had some
shelter. A few sailors appeared and discussions were held and it seemed
for a small sum, they were willing to lend us a heavy tarpaulin to place over
the boom which ran from the front of the cabin to just beyond us. We all
struggled to set it up and move some cases to the sides so that, a) we had some
protection from the broaching seas, because by now the “Mabiri” was corkscrewing
violently and shipping water over the lower deck and even occasionally onto our
higher perch, and, b) to prevent anyone from sliding overboard!
The next
eighteen hours is a mystery to me and how we survived must be known only to the
couple of boys, Randall Galt and Roger Henderson, I believe who were the only
ones not to get sea-sick. By midnight I had vomited all the Crix and
orange juice and remained rolled up in an old blanket I found somewhere with my
eyes tightly closed since the smallest movement of my head caused my world to
spin and my stomach to retch in empty spasm. Around me no one was any
better. The three officials had vanished and for all we cared could have
fallen overboard. Any one who has ever suffered the unbelievable nausea
and misery of a bad seasickness will understand what I mean. During all
this time it poured rain, cold, stinging rain and when the rain lifted briefly,
freezing spray was flung directly into our unprotected faces from the crashing
and rising of the bow of the craft.
Sometime
on the Monday afternoon, about three PM, the “squall” stopped and we
emerged from hibernation, to look around fearfully at the sea and the effects
of our vomiting on our sleeping quarters. The next few hours constitute
the best memories of the trip. After some basic cleaning up, we realised
we were famished. The captain of the ship, a short, surly character who
we saw twice, since he never left his cabin, had remarkably caught a shark with
a hook thrown off the stern and agreed to cook it up for us with some rice, for
a price of course. The executive bargained successfully with him, not
without some helpful prayers from us and we duly were apportioned a small plate
covered with greasy rice and bits and pieces of heavenly-tasting fish, washed
down with luke-warm water and eaten with battered metal spoons. It
was the best meal I had had for months.
There is
a fabulous picture of some of us at that time, just after we had eaten, crowded
together on the high deck, sitting or semi-lying down, Brother Vincent has his
shoes off and Kerry is about to take his off and we are laughing, probably at
something that Brother Vincent has just said and there is a spirit of
relaxation and comfort and camaraderie that is palpable. The boat has stopped
rocking sideways, it’s moving forward, the trip is almost over, the warm
sea-breeze is back, our stomachs are full and the future looks bright.
It was
soon over. Without warning and again as the darkness fell, the sea began
to act up, the rain commenced, the wind began to blow violently and this time
we could not stay on top, the water was washing over and through us.
Someone, I never found out who, had organised bunks for us in the crew
cabins. All I remember is stumbling down a steel ladder, holding on to
the steel walls of the narrow passageway, breathing in the foul smell of diesel
oil and stale vomit, as the ship rocked from side to side and I tried to keep
the contents of my stomach inside my mouth. Somehow I knew that the
sailor leading me into his shared quarters would not appreciate a mouthful of
the stuff onto his back. He led me into a tiny six foot by six foot cabin
and I collapsed onto the floor together with a couple of other boys. One
or two had managed to make it to a bed but soon had to relinquish it when the
owners finished their shift. Me, I slept on that cold, hard, damp,
shaking, rolling, stinking floor and only got up to rush to the sink to empty
my stomach of the rice and fish, at which time, I vaguely remember Swami Galt
peering into the cabin and steupsing. The rest of the night is a horror
of giddiness and unrelenting headache and sore throat and the roll, roll, roll
of the ship, the rumbling and shaking of the motors and the foulness and
roughness of the cabin floor on my nose.
It all
ended quite remarkably, with no fanfare.
I
suddenly awoke. The rolling motion had stopped. The engines were
silent. There was an abnormal calm. I was lying alone on the
floor. I unsteadily got up and looked out the porthole. The horizon
looked near and dark. The darkness of land. In the early dawn
light, I could just make out a large, shining clock at the top of a high,
gabled building near the edge of the harbour. It was the famous
Georgetown market clock. We had arrived.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------.
Dear Sir:
I ran across your Newsletter on the web and I am hoping that you
can help.
Harry Guildner was the best man at my wedding in Lincoln,
Nebraska in 1963 when he was a student.
Over the years we lost touch.
I tried his email from the 2008 Newsletter without success.
Do you have a recent email address or other information for him
that can assist me?
With thanks,
Anthony Bryan
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------.
A nice song
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poem of the Free GPS
The Free GPS
I have a little GPS
I've had it all my life
It’s better than the normal ones
My GPS is my wife
It gives me full instructions
Especially on how
to drive
"It's thirty miles an hour", it
says
"You're doing thirty five".
It tells me when to stop and start
And when to use the brakes
And tells me that it's never ever
Safe to overtake
It tells me when a light is red
And when it goes to green
It seems to know instinctively
Just when to intervene
It lists the vehicles just in front
And all those to the rear
And taking this into account
It specifies my gear.
I'm sure no other driver
Has so helpful a device
For when we leave and lock the car
It still gives its advice
It fills me up with counselling
Each journey's pretty fraught
So why don't I exchange it
And get a quieter sort?
Ah well, you see, it cleans the house,
Makes sure I'm properly fed,
It washes all my shirts and things
And - keeps me warm in bed!
Despite all these advantages
And my tendency to scoff,
I do wish that once in a while
I could turn the damned thing off.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ladislao Kertesz at kertesz11@yahoo.com,
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Photos:
MSBAP09MI6512, Mount Inside
13LK7152NSMGRP,
Trini comedy by Nigel Boos
60CV0008GUYANESETOUR, with a lot of
unknowns.
