Speaker’s corner

ONE weekend, years ago, I found myself aboard an Italian cruise liner in Durban en route to an island off Mozambique. I had made the mistake of reading SOS – Men Against the Sea (by Bernard Edwards), “a gripping chronicle of shipping disasters”. The final chapter was about the Greek cruise ship, Oceanos, whose engines failed. It was blown ashore by a sou’ easter to sink off the Wild Coast.

After a day at sea the captain of the ship I was on announced a strong south-easter had arisen and the ship would have to change course. Lifeboat drill that day was very well attended – all 1000 passengers wearing bright orange lifejackets and anxious expressions.

I noticed a small poster stuck to a bulkhead. It was headed: HOW TO SAVE YOURSELVES. The Italians are at least frank about it. There’s never any of this “women and children first” nonsense.

The first piece of advice on the notice was singularly unhelpful: KEEP READY.

Then it said: This simple exercise helps you to remember how to douse a boat to the water which is your first defence.

How does one douse a boat? I imagined panicking passengers repeatedly shouting to each other: “For Pete’s sake, somebody douse the boat!” Then some intelligent passenger takes over and, having restored calm, solemnly reads out instruction number one: 1. Release the gripes. Panic again. Everybody begins shouting: “The gripes! Somebody release the gripes!” The awful truth dawns – nobody knows what a gripe is, just like nobody knows what dousing a boat entails.

An enterprising passenger rushes down the crowded grand staircase to the ship’s library for a dictionary and fights his way back to the lifeboat deck. He reads loudly:

Gripe: to complain. Gripe: sudden abdominal pain. Grip: to clutch. Gripe: to come up into the wind despite the helm. Gripe: an Australian grape. He is heaved over the side. By now the ship’s bows are beginning to point skywards. The calm voice reads instruction number two:

2. Lift the brake lever lowering automatically: Lifeboats have brakes?

“Maybe they mean the anchor!” cries another above the howl of the gale. (There’s always a howling gale.) The cry goes up: “Gripe the brakes!” The man with the cool, calm voice reads on but, this time, to avoid alarm and despondency, he at first reads it quietly to himself. Just as well.

3. Strech (sic) out the frapping lines and put them under stress then loosen the fricing lines and embark in an odely (sic) way.

Eventually he decides he must tell the passengers. His voice is now pitched just a little higher: “Stretch the frapping lines – loosen the fricing lines!”

Confusion reigns. Somebody shouts, “Douse the frapping lines!” Another shouts “Frice the mainbrace!” Our hero reads on: 4. Loosen the frapping lines. Lift the brake lever and the boat will be lowered automatically to the water.

People are now pulling and pushing at the boat shouting “Frip the frace!” and “Douse the women and children!” and “Does anybody here play bridge?”

The calm voice reads out the final instruction:

5. Loose left purchase! Rove away from the ship and keep boat bow towards the sea using the floating anchor.

Then he shouts: “Everybody stay calm, don’t frap!” A soul wails: “The anchor won’t float!” The cool calm fellow cracks at last. He leaps over the side into the wild sea. Frop!

By now the crew, properly doused, fripped and frapped, is roving away like mad heading for Naples.