A short essay
Part I: Introduction
Yes, I believe my calling sowed its seeds at a tender age.
On reflection, I believe my calling has always been the sea — the domain of King Neptune in Greek mythology. Strangely though, for a boy born in a small, backward town surrounded by mountains, where the nearest thing to water was the kitchen sink (with no running water), the journey — at times an ordeal — began to take shape.
I was a young lad in short cotton pants, the youngest of three siblings, schooled in one of the best educational institutions in Rangoon. However, I didn’t particularly excel in any subject, nor was I interested in academic pursuits. I was always yearning for food and looking forward to playtimes. In short, I was not a studious pupil in the least.
As the sun awakened from its slumber one fine morning, our entire family sat in a Land Rover Jeep, courtesy of a kind relative. We were driven a short distance from 1st Thompson Avenue in Botataung Township to the Port Health Jetty — a designated passenger landing and boarding pier in front of the Custom House. After bidding farewell to my sisters, my mother handled the brief documentation formalities.
We boarded a small ferry and cruised for about half an hour down the Rangoon River to the old anchorage. There, the majestic Bibby Line’s s/s Warwickshire — all of 9,585 deadweight tons — came into view, resting at anchor in all her glory. Peeking through the ferryboat’s porthole, the view could best be described in a single word: massive.
We boarded the ship through a watertight door in her hull, via a makeshift gangway. All this was novel for me, dressed in my Sunday best with polished brown leather shoes. Me? I was just thrilled to be out of school.
At the pre-adolescent age of 12 or 13 — an age some might call “difficult” — I was still very much childlike and playful. I followed my mother and an officer who led us through countless alleyways and compartments. Even though the ship was built in the same year I was born — 1948 — she remained a graceful lady, with elegant lines to be admired. “Seeing is believing” would be appropriate here.
Our cabin was located on the first-class passenger deck. It was a comfortable retreat, albeit cramped, and tastefully trimmed. My mother slept on the bottom bunk, and I on the drop-down top bunk, which could be tucked away during the day. The room was fully carpeted, with polished walnut woodwork, and featured an attached bath/shower and toilet. Though air-conditioning existed since the 1930s, we had only powerful fans — and two bay windows. No complaints.
Fellow passengers from our home port included a few middle-aged souls — and of course, me, the youngest and handsomest of the lot. I don't know how many passengers the ship could accommodate, but my guess would be around fifty. Most of us were bound for London. By midday, as the tide began to rise, s/s Warwickshire weighed anchor and headed out to sea with a local pilot aboard. Before sunset, the pilot disembarked onto a smaller mother ship. We then made sea speed — 15 knots — for our next port of call: Trincomalee in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka).
The Bay of Bengal was kind to us landlubbers, and the sea passage took less than four days. At Trincomalee, we anchored while coconut-based products were loaded from intermittent barges. The loading took about a week. With just about ten passengers, we — the small Burmese contingent — took the opportunity to explore this tiny port city.
The grand Koneswaram Temple on Swami Rock cliff, located in the 17th-century Fort Frederick grounds and home to a massive statue of Lord Shiva, was a marvel. My mother also took me for a seaside stroll, though “No Swimming” signs were everywhere. With not much else to see, we returned to our ship via a liberty boat.
In those days, BOAC operated passenger flights from Rangoon to London via Delhi and Beirut using Lockheed Constellation aircraft. However, baggage allowances were limited. With steamer services, there were no such restrictions — possibly the reason my mother chose this mode of travel. I presume the fares were similar enough for the Foreign Office to give the green light. As for me, the longer the journey, the better. No complaints.
Onboard, there was an abundance of places to pass time: the bar, lounge/smoking room, saloon, playroom (below my age), and a well-stocked library — which I was allergic to. When all else failed, the cabin bunk awaited.
After about ten days aboard s/s Warwickshire, I was quite at home, with my sea legs intact. With my limited English, I managed to befriend English officers and Indian crew, especially stewards and barmen. The officers’ crisp white uniforms, beer mugs in hand, struck a subconscious chord in me.
The food was most palatable, even if slightly alien at first. The enormous breakfast spreads, along with lunch and dinner menus I couldn’t read, were all prepared to one’s palate. Curries were grandly named Madras, Delhi, Calcutta, etc. — rather exotic — but the cooking style was similar, with only the meat changing. We figured that out with a chuckle.
I especially looked forward to the hors d'oeuvres before each dinner — small appetizers that were a treat. Tea time in the lounge, with assorted cakes and sandwiches, became a ritual — always enjoyed with my newfound friend, the vintage Scottish Chief Engineer, a man of white hair and endless jokes.
The approach from the Indian Ocean into the Red Sea was hot but dry — unlike the humid air back home. The volcanic rock formations at Aden were a sight to behold, where the ship anchored for a day. One passenger disembarked, and our Burmese group went ashore for a duty-free shopping spree. The Chief Steward arranged lunch boxes for us. Aden, at the time, was underdeveloped and had little to explore.
The officers had by then donned their Red Sea rig attire — very smart!
The ship’s swimming pool, one deck below ours, was christened each morning by the ship’s elderly doctor with a few laps. I joined the officers in the afternoons when ice cream was served — which I thoroughly enjoyed. The pool remained open until we departed the Red Sea. Upon entering Port Said, we faced colder weather as we reached the Mediterranean. By the time we entered the Atlantic and passed through the Bay of Biscay, the seas turned rough.
We caught a glimpse of Gibraltar, then continued on to Tilbury, the gateway to London. Over a month had passed since leaving Rangoon, and the weather had turned miserable. My optimism slowly crumbled ……..
Tilbury, our final and departing port, welcomed us with its usual wintry cold, fog, and dullness. It was to be my home port for some time.
Short History of Bibby Line
The Bibby Line was founded in 1807 by John Bibby (1775–1840), the same year Britain abolished the slave trade. The family’s business ventures trace even further back. In the 1960s, the shipping line was still owned by the fourth generation of the Bibby family — making it one of the UK’s oldest family-owned businesses.
s.s. Warwickshire (Bibby Line)
Part ll: そうですか (soo desu ka) = Is that so?
The wintry weather settled with anguish over the English countryside as the S.S. Warwickshire made fast at Tilbury Docks — a dreary, accepted fact of life for the season. Dull, overcast skies, constant drizzle, and intermittent gusting winds defined the atmosphere, while thick fog gripped London so tightly that it was hard to tell what time of day it was. Visibility was no more than three feet at best.
The only bright moment came when two officials from the Burmese Embassy in London — wrapped in thick dark overcoats matching the mood of the weather — greeted us with warm smiles. We all piled into the embassy car, feeling cold and miserable, and made our way toward London. Visibility was near zero, but their trusted elderly driver, in his baggy suit and thick Cockney accent, drove with utmost care and calm — accepting the adverse weather as just one of those things.
Our first stop was the Curzon Hotel, our temporary residence on Curzon Street. It was said to be a stone's throw from the embassy, though in reality it took a good five or six minutes of brisk walking. The hotel wasn’t modern or high-end, but it was a step above basic 'digs'. Our room heater was a coin-operated gas fire, automatically turned off whenever the room was unoccupied for safety reasons. Still, the blankets were thick enough to keep the winter chills at bay.
After a hot Burmese meal, lovingly prepared in the basement of the embassy, I returned to our cold, damp hotel room, idly fiddling my thumbs while my mother busied herself looking for a suitable residence for the family. It was something of an anti-climax after the relatively comfortable lodgings aboard the S.S. Warwickshire.
As the days slowly rolled by, I grew familiar with the hotel’s middle-aged Greek caretaker/manager. He eventually allowed me to join him in his tiny office-cum-sitting room, where I would pass most of my time watching a small black-and-white television beside a sizeable gas stove — warm, snug, and cozy. My favourite programme then was ‘The Army Game’, a comedy full of British puns that gently introduced me to British humour and culture.
About 7 to 10 days later, my mother finally found us a place in the northwest London suburb of Willesden. Specifically, it was No. 51, St. Paul’s Avenue, about a five-minute brisk walk from Willesden Green Underground Station on the Bakerloo Line. It was roughly an hour’s commute to my mother’s workplace at the embassy, with Green Park being the closest station — followed by a decent stretch of walking.
Our flat occupied the entire top floor and consisted of three bedrooms. We did, however, share the ground floor hallway with other tenants. I shared a bedroom with my mother; my two elder sisters shared another, and our helper had the small single room. The heating was entirely electric, with an artificial log-burning fireplace in the sitting room — something one either got used to or simply endured.
My first school was Pound Lane, which hosted a few hundred pupils from working-class families. It was located in the Willesden area, about a 30 to 45-minute walk from home. Taking the tram or bus cost two pence—a fare I would sometimes save from my pocket money. That school marked my introduction to the British education system.
When the new school term began in autumn, my mother transferred me to a smaller institution—Clarke’s Grammar School in the Cricklewood area—catering mainly to pupils from more affluent families. My time there lasted just one year, as the term fees began to strain our household budget. My mother’s salary as Chief of Chancery couldn’t quite stretch that far.
My next school was John Kelly Boys School, a large public educational establishment in the Neasden area. It was about a 35-minute walk through Gladstone Park. As a public school, the only fee my mother had to pay was five shillings a week for lunch. Pocket money was non-existent at that point, but after much pestering inspired by a school friend, she eventually spent £5 on a second-hand French fixed-wheel racing bike. That bike became my pride and joy.
I began supplementing my income by doing early morning paper rounds using the bike, which earned me ten shillings a week—not bad for a young lad. Looking back, it was hard work—rain or shine, the newspapers had to be delivered on time. On some especially tough mornings, I’d sometimes help myself to a pint of freshly delivered milk left outside the flat doors—uncouth, perhaps, but fuel for the early hours.
The bike also became my main mode of transport to school, cutting the commute down to just fifteen minutes each way. By then, I was fourteen, and along with my close friends William Sands and Roger Harrison, I’d spend weekends on day trips to the London docklands. We’d hum the latest Beatles or Rolling Stones songs as we travelled. Cargo ships were our fascination.
We’d catch the District Line underground to Wapping, in the East End of London, and explore the area with an A-to-Z London street map book in hand. Armed with homemade sandwiches in a paper bag and an old army canister filled with tap water, we were ready for a day of adventure.
From Ship Spotting to Shore Management: A Maritime Memoir
Our strategy back then was simple—we’d wait by the lock gates leading into the various docklands, marvelling at the ships passing by. We took visual notes of the funnel markings and later read about the different shipping companies at the local reference library. This was known as “ship watching” or “ship spotting,” and it was a joy we relished as lads.
Sometimes, we’d catch the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the galleys of passing coasters as they steamed by. That was our pastime during the summers. We would often wave enthusiastically to the bridge deck, and whenever a pilot or bridge crew member waved back, it made our day.
On occasion, my mother would take me along to visit cargo ships of the Burma Five Star Line docked in East India or Millwall docks. I believe those visits helped reinforce my calling to the sea. Back in those days, we also had a group called the Britain-Burma Association, which organized balls and galas on wintry or inclement days. It was there I saw smartly dressed cadets in their blues dancing the night away—and found it all most inspiring.
From those lazy, unforgettable, carefree days, I began to take my studies more seriously, determined to make my maritime dreams a reality. Academic qualifications were essential to join a merchant marine college, so I immersed myself in books at our local library, researching sea-going careers.
One key requirement for a navigator was good eyesight. I visited a general practitioner on Chatsworth Road, but unfortunately, he couldn’t guarantee that my vision was 100%. That was a blow.
Engineering wasn’t appealing to me either. Visits to engine rooms had shown me enough—the heat, noise, oil, and grease weren’t for me. So, I chose the next best thing: to become a radio officer. I enrolled in college for the same.
In 1966, my mother received her “marching orders” to return to Rangoon, and we followed suit. To become a radio officer, I needed certification and a government-issued license. I sat for the examinations and was awarded the PMG II License. In 1968, I officially joined the Burma Five Star Line and began my sailing career.
Those days in Rangoon, essential goods were expensive and hard to come by. So, being a sailor often meant doubling as a businessman—buying goods abroad and selling them back home helped cover household expenses. It was a good arrangement: see the world and support the family.
I sailed with the Burma Five Star Line from 1968 to 1978—a solid ten years. I married in 1972 in a simple legal ceremony before a notary judge. My lovely wife gave birth to our only son in 1974. Financially, while we weren’t rich, we managed well.
By 1975 or 1976, a sense of responsibility settled in. I had a family now. I couldn't sail forever. However, I had no shore-based skills to pivot to, and that was troubling. What was next? The future was uncertain, and the pressure to plan grew stronger. I wasn’t “thick,” but options felt limited.
Then, out of the blue, an opportunity came knocking in 1978—a chance at a shore-based management position abroad. The post would be filled through internal competitive examinations. I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. At worst, I could return to sea.
After consulting my “tower of strength”—my wife—we agreed I should give it my best shot. The role was Assistant Manager (Operations) in either Singapore, Tokyo, or London. It was a highly coveted post, with 20–30 candidates from various departments, including the star department, Operations. I was the youngest among them.
Though the salary was less than my sea earnings, the long-term career prospects were brighter. I committed fully, even though the exam subjects—particularly political science—felt like double Dutch to me.
To cut a long story short, the Minister who interviewed me proudly declared I had topped the examinations. I was given the honour of choosing any overseas post I wanted. I chose London—aware of the world-class universities and colleges there.
At that point, my academic and professional qualifications were lacking. I wanted to study Maritime Economics and commercial shipping—subjects I fell in love with and continue to value today. Though I no longer sailed, my calling remained the same—serving the maritime industry, now from a management perspective.
You could call me a late bloomer, only acquiring formal qualifications in my early 30s—but bloom I did, and rather well. Better late than never, I suppose.
Of course, my journey wasn’t all smooth sailing. My upbringing wasn’t cushioned in milk and honey. There were challenges, doubts, and struggles. This essay is but an abridged version of a youth finding his path to manhood.
Now, as a vintage retiree—partly stroked and somewhat invalid—I’ve found new purpose in reading, writing, and passing on my experience and knowledge to others, particularly within our small but proud Burmese shipping community.
After all, we carry no baggage when we cross over to the unknown. Perhaps this, sharing my story and insights, is my final calling before I kick the bucket.
In conclusion, I take this opportunity to wish all who read this a successful life’s journey—may you sail in fair weather with following seas and tailwinds, and may Godspeed be ever with you.
Bon voyage.
Thank you.
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