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My ship, HMCS Athabaskan, was in Lisbon, Portugal. It was 10 am on a Saturday morning. Cleaning stations had ended and the Officer of the Day had just opened the gangway for those wishing to go ashore. I was nursing a hangover and was contemplating going back to my bunk, but instead, strolled up onto the quarterdeck to breathe some fresh air. While standing at the guardrail watching the early shore-goers depart, Bill Hamilton came over and stood beside me. “Thinking of going ashore,” he asked?
‘I’m hung over. I was thinking of hitting my bunk till lunch,” I replied.
He said, “Sleep doesn’t cure a hangover. Activity does. Come on; let’s go ashore and do some shopping. The shopping district is just up the street. If we leave now, we’ll be back in time for lunch.”
I reluctantly said, “OK, but no drinking, just shopping.”
He said, “Ok, I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.” We both went below to change into civvies.
We’d been on a three week naval exercise with the NATO squadron and had pulled into Lisbon the day before for some rest and recreation. Lisbon is a fun city. It has all kinds of interesting attractions and most sailors take in a bus tour of the city at least once during their naval career. Once a city tour is under their belts, there’s a recreational part of town that’s very popular with sailors – both military and civilian. This is a strip of bars near the waterfront, the most popular of which is the Texas Bar. There one can find just about anything, from cheap booze and even drugs, to hookers young and old – some very young and others very very old! That’s where I had been the night before.
Bill and I strolled up town, past shops where owners were hosing down the sidewalks out front – something they most probably did at the start of every day. It wasn’t long before we came across the first souvenir shop. Within fifteen minutes, we were both back on the sidewalk walking in the direction of the ship. Shopping for family back home didn’t take long at all. As we passed a restaurant cum bar, the jovial proprietor who was standing out front gave us a big smile and a “Hello”. We returned his greeting and stopped. Bill said, “Such a pleasant man; let’s have one drink with him.”
I sensed disaster but said, “Ok, but only one.” We went inside. Bill placed the order.
“One bottle of Mateus,” he exclaimed! I rolled my eyes and slapped my forehead, but didn’t object. Mateus is a medium sweet sparkling rosé produced in Portugal, mostly for export, but still available locally. It’s very popular in Canada, but as I found out later, most Portuguese consider it to be inferior, even gut-rot. When the bottle and glasses arrived he said, “And bring over one of those baguettes and a hunk of that cheddar.” He looked at me and said, “What’s wine without bread and cheese.” The time was about 11:30 am.
At three o’clock, we stumbled back out onto the street after consuming 6 litres of Mateus, 8 baguettes and I can’t remember how many hunks of cheddar. We were completely zonked. During the course of the afternoon we’d become the local attraction of the neighbourhood. Local people dropped by for a drink, but actually only an excuse to observe the two drunken Canadian sailors making fools of themselves – singing raunchy songs, telling jokes, poking fun at the proprietor and his patrons. Several came over to interact with us, as they had relatives living in Toronto.
We managed to cross the busy harbour front road without being run over, thanks to a friendly policeman, who put up his hand to stop the traffic, while walking us to the other side. Once back onboard the ship, we parted ways; he went to his mess deck and I to mine. On my way down the ladder into mine, I dropped my bag of souvenirs. Two ceramic rooster figurines – symbols of Portugal – were now headless, much to the amusement of a few of my colleagues sitting on the settee near the bottom of the ladder. It wasn’t long before I was horizontal in my bunk, with the intention of sleeping it off.
As drunk as I was, a thread of logic passed through my brain box: “If you fall asleep now, you’ll wake up at 10 this evening with a super duper hangover. You’ve done it before and you know it to be true.” With that thought ringing in my ear, I jumped back out of my bunk and fell flat on the deck. I got up and went back ashore – this time alone.
I had been carrying the address of a Portuguese sailor in my wallet for about five years. We met in Norfolk, Virginia while on another NATO cruise. These were fun cruises as a squadron of ships from NATO countries travelled around the North Atlantic conducting exercises and port visits. My friend’s name was Jean Carlos da Silva and when the squadron visited Halifax, I invited him to my house for supper. I promised to visit him if ever my ship came to Lisbon. My mission for the late afternoon was to visit my old friend.
As I exited the dockyard, I pulled out the address from my pocket and showed it to the security guard. He indicated that my friend lived on the other side of the harbour. I managed to make him understand that I wanted to know how to get across the harbour and he pointed to a ferry terminal a couple of hundred metres along the waterfront. I made my way there, and noticed that there were several line ups at different ticket booths. I selected one line and tapped the person in front of me on the shoulder. It was a policeman, who was returning home from his day’s work. He looked at the address and indicated that I was in the correct line. We started to communicate, although neither of us could speak a word of the other’s language. I managed to get him to understand that I was going to a friend’s place that I hadn’t seen for five years. This was accomplished by means of a smattering of French, Spanish, English and pantomime; I could speak a bit of French and I knew quite a few Spanish words. I therefore managed to get my point across. He also said that he’d accompany me to the address, because travel by bus with one transfer was involved. I was grateful, but more so afterwards when I discovered that he lived in a totally different part of town than my friend Jean Carlos.
We disembarked the ferry on the other side of the River Tagus. Realizing that I was still under the influence, the policeman, whose name was Luis, took me by the arm and escorted me to the terminal across the road, where we boarded a bus. The bus departed and winded its way through the city of Cacilhas. Not long after a quick transfer, we disembarked and started searching for the address of my friend. Within fifteen minutes we were knocking on a door in an apartment building. Eventually a woman answered only to say that my friend had once lived there, but that he had retired from the Navy and returned to his native village in northern Portugal. So, that was that! I was indeed disappointed and Luis sensed the fact. He patted me on the back and said in sign language that he was taking me to his house for supper. This is when I realized how far out of his way he had gone to assist me in finding the address; the bus trip to his residence took 45 minutes, as he resided on the completely opposite side of town.
Before we got onto the bus, Luis found a phone booth and made a quick phone call to his wife to advise her that he was bringing someone home for supper. Portuguese men seem to have more courtesy in this regard than Canadian sailors, who say to their wives upon arrival, “Look who’s here for supper!” When we arrived, she and her children gave me a warm welcome. After a seafood supper we retired to the livingroom for conversation. Luis brought in one of his neighbours who spoke French and a bit of English. This helped to ease the communication gap. After an hour or so, Luis borrowed his neighbour’s car and drove me back to the ship.
The trip took us over the ’25 de Abril Bridge’ (at 2,277 metres, it is the 17th largest suspension bridge in the world) that spans the entrance to the harbour. Once at the ship, I invited Luis and his son, who came along for the ride, onboard where I bought him a drink in the bar. His son, being only 10 years old, drank a coke. They only stayed for about 15 minutes before he said that he had to depart. I escorted them back to their car and thanked them profusely. His son really appreciated the ship’s ball cap that I had given him. The whole incident really reminded me that there are some wonderful people in this world and that a difference in language does not have to pose in insurmountable problem.
I watched them drive off and returned down below decks to the bar. Canadian warships had had bars onboard since the daily rum issue was discontinued in the mid-1970s. I bumped into Jim Williams, a black shipmate, in the bar. I asked him what his plans were for the remainder of the night. He said that he was planning on going ashore but was looking for someone else to join him. I said, “Let’s go.” By this time, I was back to semi-soberness.
As we walked down the gangway, we bumped into Ron McLean running up. Then we saw three women standing on the jetty. We walked over to them and I said, “Hello ladies; where are you from?” They introduced themselves and said that they were on a bus tour of Europe in an old double-decker bus. One was Canadian, and two were Australian. They were all in their late twenties to early thirties. I asked, “What are you up to tonight?”
One said, “We’re with McLean and he just went onboard to see if he could round up a couple of friends to join us for the evening.”
I said, “He didn’t have to carry on any farther when he saw us. We’ll join you and here’s the plan. You guys are travelling around Europe, but you’ll probably never see a place like the place that we’ll show you tonight. Come along with us to the seedy part of town, where only sailors go. As women, you couldn’t go there alone; people would get the wrong idea about you, but if you’re with us, no one will harass you. What do you say?”
They said, “Ok,” almost in unison. Just as they said it, about eight woman-crazed sailors came screaming across the gangway, with McLean in front. He’d gone down to the bar to round up a couple of guys, but got a crowd instead. They simply swarmed the girls while jabbering all kinds of nonsense. The whole group was slowly walking towards the taxi stand near the gate to the dockyard.
I said to Willie, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to compete for one; the heck with that!” We picked up our pace and were soon 20 feet ahead of the group. Just as we arrived at the taxi stand, someone grabbed my arm and said, “Hold on mate! Not so fast.” Much to my surprise, it was one of the Aussie girls called Anne. She said, “Weren’t cha going to take us somewhere special.”
I said, “Oh, sorry. We thought you may have changed your minds. That’s why we took off.”
She said, “No, we’re still in. Do we need to take a taxi?” With that, she, I, Willie, McLean, the two other girls and Paul Raham (seven of us) all piled into the same taxi. We told the driver to take us to the Texas Bar. Paul was one of the group of late arriving guys.
It was between 8:30 and 9 o’clock when we arrived. Activities at the Texas Bar were in full swing with a mix of sailors from the British, American, Dutch and German ships (all of the NATO squadron), and lots of merchant sailors – mostly Greek. Songs were being sung, with each table trying to out-sing the other. Guys were exiting with women on their arms, only to return about half an hour later with big smiles on their faces. The women in our group were mesmerized. One old thing with a couple of missing front teeth walked right over to me and sat on my lap. She’d propositioned me the previous night. I, however, didn’t bite – neither the night before nor this particular night. As she departed in search of better prospects, she turned to the young ladies and gave an exaggerated curtsy, thus letting them know that she recognized gentry when she saw it. The girls all laughed. In fact they were having great fun watching the goings on.
We had a few drinks at the Texas Bar and it wasn’t long before they took their toll on my body. I was drunk again, but Anne didn’t seem to mind. After all, she was Australian and Aussie men aren’t known for their soberness, or couth for that matter. The booze added a witty touch to my normally shy character. We left the Texas after about an hour and stopped in at a few other bars on the strip. I fell asleep with my head on Anne’s shoulder at one point. Seeing this, about three British sailors approached her in succession, while trying to scoop her from me with their charm. Each time I heard her say, “I’m with him.” By this time, only Paul and I and the two Aussie girls were in the group. McLean and the Canadian girl had branched off on their own, and I don’t know when Willie disappeared. The next day he told me that he’d hooked up with a little black one right from the jungles of Africa. He said, “She even had tribal marking scars on her cheeks,” but that’s not part of this story.
The previous night I’d been in a bar up the street frequented mostly by Greek merchant sailors. I told my companions that there was something special about the place, but when queried said that they’d see what I meant once they got there; they’d just have to trust me. They agreed to go. While walking to the establishment, I became nauseous; I was about to puke my guts out. Just at the last moment I saw Jack Bragg, one of my shipmates walking by. I called his name and as he came over, I directed my vomit right at him. He jumped clear just in time, but thought it rather funny even though his feet got splattered. Anne seemed to think that that was the greatest spectacle she’d ever seen. She applauded and exclaimed, “Well done mate; just about got him!” I in turn, was impressed by her tolerance and idea of great fun.
Our two were the only women in the bar after we arrived. The place was full, however, mostly with Greek merchant sailors. The patrons were serenaded by two jovial men playing the bouzouki—a typical Greek stringed instrument with a long fretted neck and pear-shaped body. Greek sailors took to the dance floor, usual three at a time. These weren’t waltzes, jives or anything like that. No, they were Greek folk dances where men dance around the floor while connected by a bandana that each is holding in his hand. The fact that Greek sailors dance with one another sometimes awards them the reputation of being faggots, but this is far from the truth; it’s just Greek culture. At the end of each dance those on the sideline smashed dinner plates on the floor – a Greek form of applause. One old man – a sea captain I think – dropped a whole stack of plates on the floor; there were easily twenty plates in the stack. The bartender seemed to be making a fortune selling plates. Paul and I even got into the act of smashing plates, much to the delight of our fair companions.
It was time to wind down for the evening. Paul said, “Let’s find a place where we can have a cup of coffee.” I said that it was out of the question in that part of town, so we hailed at taxi. The driver took us on a long drive and deposited us in Alfama, the oldest district in Lisbon. He pointed to a café on the second floor of a nearby building. We ascended the stairway and entered the restaurant. There was a crowd inside and a man singing Fado, a type of music that traces its roots back to Alfama in the 1820s although some say it originated even earlier than that. It is characterised by mournful tunes and lyrics, often about the sea or life of the poor.
Our entry was a little noisy, but we soon quietened down after several people said, “Shhhhh.” Fado is best enjoyed when the audience is completely silent. We ordered coffee all around, to the tune of twenty dollars; the girls were aghast at the price, but Paul and I readily paid without objection. Again, the girls were impressed. We exited the restaurant after about an hour and descended the stairway to the street. There was a small well-lit park across the street. We entered the park and split up – Paul and his girl to one bench and me and mine to one on the other side of the park. The park was lit by sparkling electric lights on antique lampposts, giving the impression of gas lanterns. It was a very romantic setting as Fado music drifted out of the window across the street.
Believe it or not, I was beginning to sober up again. Anne and I sat on the bench and talked and smooched for a while. About an hour later – it was getting on to 2 am by this time – Paul and his girl came strolling over to our bench. Paul said, “Let’s go find hotel rooms.” There was no objection from the females so off we went. We knocked on the doors of a few small hotels; one night attendant actually answered at that late hour. His immediate response was, “Do you have passports with you?” None of us were carrying passports. He said, “No passports; no rooms!” He slammed the door and locked it. So, that was that. We decided to grab a taxi and take them back to their bus located in a campground on the outskirts of the city.
Their bus was of the old double-decker type. The upper section was converted into sleeping quarters with two tiers of bunks. The lower section had a galley and bench-type seats. There were 20 young women on the tour. When we arrived, Paul and his gal stayed on the lower deck and Anne and I ascended to the second deck and crawled into her bunk, alongside 18 other sleeping women, including McLean’s Canadian girl. Thankfully, none of the others stirred, because we tiptoed and whispered.
Actually, we didn’t make love. It was just too risky amongst all the other women. We did, however, get into some serious smooching and touchy feely (even stinky finger, if you get my drift). When the sun began to rise, we got up and rousted Paul and his gal. Both girls escorted us to the park entrance where very luckily the first car to come along was a vacant taxi. We hailed it, kissed the girls goodbye, and departed for the ship. I was definitely looking forward to seeing my bunk.
The taxi dropped us off at the gate to the dockyard and we were making our way towards the ship – and our bunks – when we rounded a corner of a building and saw a big modern tour bus. Someone inside yelled out, “There his is,” while pointing at me from the window. Then it hit me. I’d signed up for a bus tour to Fatima a few days earlier. It was a first come first serve sign up list; once full to a total of 25, then it was closed. Chief Petty Officer Pete Gordon was onboard the bus and was checking off names. I asked him if I could be excused, because I was rather exhausted. He said that over ten people had been turned down from getting onto the list after it was closed. He said, “Find a substitute in the next five minutes or get on this bus right now! I don’t give a damn if you’re tired. You signed up and you or your substitute are coming on the tour, like it or not”! He defeated me. I climbed onboard, found a seat near the back beside Lenny Raymond, and sat down. We departed five minutes later. It was 7 am.
We weaved our way through the early Sunday morning traffic of Lisbon and were on a two lane highway heading north in about 20 minutes. Amongst the 25 shipmates on the tour was a group of about seven who were all still drunk from the night before. They had managed to smuggle a few bottles of wine onboard and were a noisy group to say the least. Their singing prevented me from catching a few winks. After about three long hours sleepless hours we arrived at the coastal town of Nazaré
Nazaré is blessed with fine white sand and hospitable locals. The seven colourful skirts worn by Nazaré women have been worn since the days when they used to wait for their husbands to return from the day’s fishing trip. The cove is protected by high cliffs, atop of which the Sítio da Nazaré offers a splendid view, as well as a magnificent church. The bus stopped near the beach and the guide told us that we had half an hour to explore. Lenny and I disembarked and took a stroll on the beach, and visited a few souvenir shops. After re-boarding we motored up to the citadel to take in the view. My drunken colleagues had fun trying to count the seven skirts of the local girls who were there to be photographed – not molested – by tourists. They took it all in fun though. We departed on our next leg half an hour later.
The next stop was the town of Batalha. UNESCO has included the historic monastery of Batalha on the list of World Heritage sites; in fact, the monastery is the main attraction of the town. King João I ordered the monastery to be built in gratitude to the Virgin Mary for the Portuguese victory at the battle of Aljubarrota in 1385. The monastery illustrates the history of Portugal and its rich artistic heritage.
On a visit to the monastery, we started at the Founder’s Chapel where King João is buried with his wife, Queen Philippa of Lancaster. Their son Prince Henry the Navigator is also buried there in the family tomb. In the Royal Cloisters we saw arches carved with leaves, flowers, fruit and many symbols used by King Manuel I, including the cross of Christ and the armillary spheres in the typical Manueline style. The Chapter House is famous for its amazing vaulted ceiling. Without any central support, it’s one of the most daring examples in European Gothic architecture. According to legend its architect, Afonso Domingues, slept under it for three days to prove that it would not fall down. This all took us an hour, and then we were back on the bus and on our way to Fátima, more centrally located in the hills.
The Sanctuary of Fátima is a symbol of the Virgin Mary and one of the world's most important religious sites. A major tourist attraction for almost a century, pilgrims from all over the world flock here every year, especially between May and October. It was between May and October 1917, when three shepherd children, Jacinta, Francisco and Lúcia witnessed apparitions of the Virgin Mary at the site of the sanctuary. Initially regarded with suspicion by the Church, but greatly cherished by the people, the phenomenon was only officially recognised in 1930 by the Bishop of Leiria. The fame of the Sanctuary of Fátima has spread throughout the world, especially during the papacy of John Paul II, who was a devout worshipper of Our Lady of Fátima.
By the time we finished our sightseeing, it was time for lunch, which was laid on at a local restaurant as part of the tour. The meal was fish and vegetables. My colleagues replenished their wine supply at the restaurant. There was one thing about Fátima that turned me off. One of the fellows showed me a souvenir that he had purchased. It was a twelve inch tall ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary. It was nice until he turned it and showed me the back. The reverse side was the big long erect penis – disgusting. For the life of me, I couldn’t believe how the officials controlling souvenir shops could have allowed such an item to be sold.
We left Fátima at around four in the afternoon. The trip back to Lisbon took about 6 hours – the roads were clogged by local weekend tourists returning home. I still couldn’t sleep, as a few of my drunken colleagues were still in the party mood. Finally, we arrived back at the ship where, wouldn’t you know it, I ran into Jim Williams going ashore. Remember him? He’s the guy with whom I had gone ashore the night before. When I told him that I hadn’t slept since I last saw him he said, “Don’t be such a wimp. Come on, we’ll be back by eleven”. I was suckered in again. If there is one thing that I don’t like, it is being called a wimp, so off I went on another trip to the Texas Bar. This time, however, I stayed on track. I returned to the ship at about 11:30 pm and hit my bunk. For the life of me I can’t explain why, but I had a good cry. Perhaps it was the consequences of being awake for close to 40 hours. Then again, perhaps it was because I knew that I’d never see that Aussie woman again. I really liked her. When we sailed the next morning, I had a heavy heart. |
