Memories of a sea passage on the Ionia

MEMORIES OF A SEA PASSAGE ON THE “IONIA”

There was much excitement in the offices of the agents for Hellenic Mediterranean Lines on the quayside at Limassol, Cyprus on the afternoon of the 22nd July 1961 where, having made my way to the shipping agency from Episkopi, and having paid the money due, I had had my luggage labelled, and joined a group of other prospective passengers who were either sat on their cases and trunks in the hot, stuffy room, or leaning against the peeling paint and torn posters on the walls fanning themselves with whatever was available.  Today was sailing day for the scheduled departure of one of the company’s ships serving on its route linking Marseilles in France with the countries of the Eastern Mediterranean and North Africa.

 The local agent, a large florid figure in a crumpled suit, mopped sweat from his face as he shouted instructions in Greek at various uniformed officials and assistants.  The fact that disembarking passengers were becoming muddled in with those due to go aboard was not helping keep the atmosphere calm.  Items of luggage were being hoisted onto the brown shoulders of porters with careless abandon as to whether their owners were going to board the waiting ship or had just left it, which merely added to the general confusion.  At a table set in a corner of the room serious faced customs officials sipped Turkish coffee or glasses of water, ignoring the upheaval, as they carefully, and very thoroughly, checked traveller’s passports, clearly having difficulty with those belonging to the more excitable and voluble passengers listed on the manifest.

Matters seemed to reach a crescendo of noise and activity after an hour or more, then suddenly the crisis was over, the customs officials took formal leave of the agent, the agent undid the collar of his shirt and relaxed in a perspiring heap, whilst the arriving passengers were all accounted for, rounded up and separated from those waiting to board.  Two large wooden doors were opened on the seaward side of the office to reveal a short length of wooden jetty at which awaited an antiquated launch.  This sported a rough canvas covering on thin wooden poles, as protection from the heat of the sun, fixed over the few rows of wooden benches it offered upon which to sit for the journey to the ship’s anchorage out in the bay.   There followed an undignified scramble as everyone tried to be amongst the first aboard in order to secure a seat.

With much blue smoke and loud popping noises from the exhaust, the engine of the launch burst into life, lines were cast off with a great deal of shouting and gesticulation, there was one final thud against the jetty, that almost resulted in those clinging to the gunwale, or other handholds, being deposited in the rather scummy and oily water around the jetty, then the boat surged forward into the deep blue chop of the bay, sending spray splashing back over the bow, to wet we cramped and reeling passengers.   In the distance, remote and rather lordly, surrounded by barges and other launches of varying kinds, and with a thin drift of smoke emanating from her brightly coloured funnel, lay the SS Ionia. 

There can be no more impressive way to approach a ship than from a small launch, since no matter the size or age of the vessel toward which you are headed, it will tower over you and look far larger than it really is.  In this instance, as the launch got closer to her, the Ionia looked big.  I ignored the dents and bumps which decorated her hull, indicating fairly poor handling and seamanship at times and the rust which penetrated the paint on that hull in many places as I gazed at her, for with the sun shining on her, surrounded by the deep blue of the late afternoon sea and sky, her white superstructure gleamed and she looked every inch a ship with purpose and the confidence borne of many years hard, honest service.

She was a hive of activity, booms working, cargo being lifted aboard, and crew members scurrying about the decks, or hanging over the side in bosun’s chairs trying to cover up some of the more obvious rust spots. Approaching yet closer, it was possible to appreciate her lines, from the slightly raked stem to the neat counter stern.  Her tall, partially cowl topped, funnel shone with new paint, its yellow colour, with a narrow royal blue band three quarters of the way up, plus the black top section testifying to her ownership.  The superstructure was enclosed and glazed forward but partially open at the sides and the white of this reached down to bridge deck level where it extended from bow to stern.  Her hull was pale grey above the boot topping at the water line, which was a dark red.

The launch in a final flurry of spray, swung alongside the companionway which hung down the starboard side of the ship, where it heaved in the swell, whilst we passengers jumped, or were dragged by members of the ship’s crew, onto this to begin our climb up to the open sided promenade deck.  This, when reached, was bright with sunshine, yet shady, laid with a grey marbled linoleum strip over the teak decking.  Dark varnished doors gave onto the deck from the accommodation, the main rooms of which were lit by square, aluminium framed windows, whilst other areas sported large brass portholes.   Signs in French and Greek hung from the deckhead indicating the position on the deck above of the lifeboats and a few varnished wooden seats were ranged against the white painted bulkhead.  At a table set up at the head of the companionway sat the ship’s purser, who was busily engaged in checking passenger’s tickets and sending them off with stewards to their respective cabins.  Luggage had been consigned to a second launch and was being loaded aboard onto an after deck area from this by one of the cargo booms.

Having handed over my passport and ticket to the purser, as a first class passenger I followed the Chief Steward, to whom I had been passed, as he led me through a pair of varnished doors from the open promenade, into the cool and comparatively dark, entrance hall of the accommodation.  Black and white check linoleum graced the floor, there was a wealth of varnished wood panelling on the bulkheads and a palm-like house plant decorated one corner of the hall.  Descending a twin staircase to the main deck we reached, by way of a lobby, the long cream painted corridors off which were situated the first class cabins.  These were mostly arranged with two or three berths and the outer ones each had small rectangular shaped windows instead of portholes.  There was a wash basin in each cabin but showers, baths and toilets were all situated in a communal block amidships.  These ablutions were, as I later discovered, almost directly adjacent to the boiler uptake and incredibly hot and airless.  My own cabin was sparsely but adequately furnished and on the bed was a light coverlet which bore the company insignia.

Exploration of the 1^st Class accommodation revealed a large lounge on the upper deck facing forward, simply furnished with sofas, Lloyd loom chairs a couple of writing desks and linoleum flooring; there was a smaller but more attractive reading room beneath this on the promenade deck and amidships on this same deck a narrow Tudor style wood panelled bar running the width of the deckhouse. Forward, below the main deck, was a large, panelled dining saloon, which was easily the most spacious of the public rooms on the ship.  All the accommodation was spotlessly clean and provided comfortable surroundings for the voyage.  The deck areas, including the boat deck, were kept well washed and scrubbed and on the upper levels were supplied with an assortment of deckchairs.

The Tourist ‘A’ class accommodation was situated in the poop, comprising two comfortable public rooms, a saloon and a dining room, plus a variety of somewhat plain and rather airless cabins on the lower decks, berthing from 4 passengers upward.  Tourist ‘B’ in the forecastle, which was decidedly Spartan, apart from providing a big cafeteria style general saloon, mostly comprised dormitory style accommodation.

Although boarding of passengers was soon completed, loading of the cargo continued for most of the afternoon and was fascinating to observe as the holds gradually filled with a variety of sacks, boxes and other containers.  Cars and trucks for transport were amongst the last items to come aboard, being secured on deck aft.  At last the hatch covers were put into place with tarpaulins over them, the shouts and yells which had accompanied the loading died away and with a dark, velvet evening falling, all became peaceful.   Later, as I strolled on the promenade deck I heard, the ship’s departure announced at 7pm; she gave three long, reverberating blasts on her siren and then with hardly any vibration the screw began to turn as the Ionia moved quietly and placidly out into Limassol Bay, leaving the lights of the town behind to twinkle over the black waters, under a heavily star studded sky.  Dinner was served at eight o’clock, the dining room looking most attractive under soft lights, the white linen covered tables laid with silver cutlery, fresh flowers and a variety of wine glasses at each setting.  The food, comprising a total of eight assorted courses, was plentiful, wholesome and simple in Greek style with fresh salad as a side serving to the main course.  Thick, rich Turkish coffee and liqueurs served in the lounge finished off the meal.  A calm, restful night at sea followed.

Early next morning as the Ioniaglided over a glassily smooth undulating swell, the mountains of the Lebanese coast came hazily into view with the ship’s approach to Beirut.  By breakfast time she was running off the port, as a variety of small craft sailed out, their brown skinned Arab crewmen crowding their decks to wave at the Ionia and her passengers as they passed.   One of these approached far too close to the Ionia sailing almost under her bows causing the Captain to order Ionia’s engines to go astern to prevent a collision, and for her then to be stopped in the water.  As a result he appeared suddenly on the bridge wing from where he shouted abuse at those on the smaller vessel, who were clearly quite unconcerned.   From on shore, meanwhile, the distant sound of a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer drifted across the water, whilst the air was filled with the myriad scents of the hot, dry land and the city.  Ioniaslowly got underway again and moved gently over the flat calm toward the harbour entrance.  Shortly a small pilot boat appeared headed for her bow and as it bumped alongside, the pilot jumped onto the Jacob’s ladder which had been hung over the side.  With the ship still moving slowly ahead, the pilot scrambled up to the deck, then continued on up to the ship’s bridge.

Gradually the Ionia slid between the breakwater’s arms, turned and approached the jetties at the heart of the port, all of which were filled with a variety of ships, ranging from small coasting vessels, through cargo ships of various ages and sizes, to the gleaming white passenger ship Achilleus of Olympic Cruises.  Ioniacame alongside a section of quay a short distance from the latter, making a strong contrast, with her dated appearance, to the sleek modern lines of the Achilleus.  As the way fell off the ship and the heat and noise of the city surrounded her, she edged gently in toward the quay, ropes and hawsers were thrown to the waiting stevedores and she was brought carefully alongside; using the power of her own winches to pull herself in once the hawsers had been looped over the shoreside bollards.  The companion ladder rattled down the side of the ship to allow the pilot to disembark and Ionia had arrived. 

Ahead lay two hot sunny days in which to enjoy the heady pleasures of 1960’s Beirut, with it’s bazaars, souks, mosques, varied shopping, luxury hotels, lovely Corniche and exciting, slightly mysterious atmosphere.   The various nightclubs, as well as the Casino du Liban, also had their attractions in the evenings.  In due course, when they returned to the Ionia each night poorer in the pocket but satisfied, and before retiring below, passengers could enjoy the spectacle of the numerous floodlit ships in the port, which were visible from her upper decks,.

On the day of her departure from Beirut there was much activity on the quayside as, with her cargo hatches once again open, Ionia had unloaded cargo, and was now taking more on board.  Equally did she take aboard a large number of passengers into the Tourist B class section of the ship, all of whom were well laden with their personal goods and chattels. No smiling, white jacketed stewards were allotted to take them to their berths and they were left to find their own way.  Amongst them was a troupe of ladies of interesting aspect who, it was said, were performers from one of the city’s seedier nightclubs, en route to pastures new in Cairo.  The vociferous exchanges between these ladies and a number of lounging dock workers who observed their arrival on board was illuminating, needing no knowledge of the language to understand, as the girls flounced across the fore deck to disappear into the depths of the accommodation under the forecastle. 

As morning stretched into afternoon the Captain, clearly becoming impatient with the slow progress of loading the cargo, appeared on the starboard bridge wing, peaked cap askew, from where he called out orders to the other officers supervising the work.  His intervention appeared to have no effect on the speed of operations, which continued in the normally accepted way in Middle Eastern countries, very slowly.  At last, however, all was as it should be, with the hatches once more secured, the last dock worker had disappeared down onto the quayside and the ship was once more ready to sail.

Suddenly a great hubbub broke out as from one of the dockside buildings poured a large crowd, turbanned, fezzed or veiled, who stampeded toward the Ionia waving their arms, crying and wailing.  This was a signal to the horde of tourist passengers that had earlier embarked, who now came toppling out from below onto the Ionia’s decks, equally emotive as the people on the quay.  Thus, in a rather dramatic frenzy of wailing and weeping, with the Captain once more standing on the starboard wing of his bridge, his cap still askew, the Ionia departed Beirut in mid afternoon bound for Port Said. 

Out of sight of the brown, sun dried land, surrounded by her element, the Ioniabegan to feel the deep movement of the sea.  The heavy swell she encountered was still glassy smooth but built gradually until by the evening it had developed into a long sweeping motion which had the ship’s bows lifting high out of the water as each swell passed beneath them, a long slow plunge into the trough following, before the next swell lifted her again.  This wild yet oily pitching motion ensured only a thin gathering for dinner in the dining saloon and a number of passengers hurriedly left their tables after only partially eating their meals.  The somewhat under employed stewards lounging about the room, smiled at each other knowingly with each departure.   On deck the night was beautiful, the black void of the sky was imprinted with a million brilliant stars and the moon shone silvery across the swell of the sea, throwing deep shadows between the troughs.  The sound of the ship’s wake as she slowly sailed south westward varied from a gentle swish to a deep roar, as she alternately rode the crests and troughs of the waves.  I enjoyed a last round of drinks in the bar before a final night of being rocked to sleep by the ship’s motion.

On awakening in the morning a look through my cabin window revealed that Ionia was approaching the Egyptian coast in a thin morning mist.  She hove to some distance from the shore to await the pilot and once he was aboard headed into the busy harbour at Port Said.  An early convoy of ships which was to pass through the Suez Canal was mustered nearby and around the Ionia there was a buzz of activity with dozens of small boats alongside, all full of vociferous, smiling Egyptians, many offering a vast array of wares for sale, their long tunics and variety of headgear adding to the colour of the scene;  amongst the throng of these who had made their way onto the promenade deck I came across a ‘gully gully’ man demonstrating his abilities at magic tricks.  To add to the hubbub there was a constant stream of porters and workers from the port going up and down the companion ladder to the boats below.  In the distance the domed buildings of the Suez Canal control centre could be seen shimmering in a dusty heat haze.

After breakfast, there began the lengthy procedure of proving to the unsmiling emigration officials of Gamal Abdul Nasser’s regime that the visa in my passport was genuine and valid and that I really was only visiting the country as a tourist and not planning to enter it for some ulterior reason.  For this procedure all the passengers were herded into a long queue stretching from the dining saloon, across the lobby and up the stairs to the lounge.  When eventually I had been given clearance, it was then necessary to find and identify my luggage from the enormous heap on deck and commandeer a porter in exchange for a handful of coinage.  After that I negotiated the steep companion ladder down into one of the boats bumping and bouncing around the ship’s hull.  Safely into this, and with my luggage piled into the boat around me, it was time to bid farewell to the Ionia, her antiquated, yet attractive, lines diminishing and fading into the dusty haze, as the small boat carrying me headed away from her toward the shore and the awaiting wonders to be revealed in the ancient land of Egypt. 

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