2004-01-01 - 10:13 p.m.

The Harbour Master wasn't too fussed that he didn't get a knighthood. After all he is the Harbour Master, which is a pretty decent distinction as it is. The Master of the Harbour. Sir Harbour Master just sounds silly. When you control these great big ships you have more power than the Queen will ever know. If your name's not down, you're not getting in. Keep that anchor up, sailor. The Harbour Master knows who's supposed to be docking and who isn't. Nothing gets past him. He knows how tall the mast should be. The Harbour Master holds the key and his word is final. You can't let just anyone into the harbour. There's a schedule, a routine. Cards must be shown, sails must be flown. Many a devious sea merchant has been thrown in the Brig for trespass, like the time when he foiled the smugglers.

Frank's been doing it for 30 years now. he left school at 14 to join the merchant navy to see the world. He got his wish but lost a finger whilst trying to retrieve a mackrel from some tangled netting. In the storm, his knife slipped and the finger was freed instead of the fish. He was lucky. Sailing could be lethal in the Caribbean monsoons. Frank saw several of his friends succumb to the final cradle of the deep. When he was trying to avoid the rum sodden advances of the raddled captain, Frank was on constantly looking out for swinging booms and flying ropes. He thinks of those days often, in his darkened cabin at the end of the day. There was the booze and buggery, but there was also the exotic landscapes and dusky maidens, huddling close to hear the sailor's tale, the song of the sea. Whatever was in the boxes you were loading, the banter and the cameraderie stayed the same. He can still taste the salt and hear the cries of young men at sea.

The Dutchmen he greets now don't seem to have the same fire in their bellies as Frank and his mates did. They look listless, underpaid. They smoke cigarettes and mutter about the weather. To them, it's a job like any other. There's no empire or adventure anymore. Frank examines their forms and silently relives his own adventures as he reads the destination and country of origin names. Each word throws up a scent of perfume or a puff from a hookah. The time he won 50 crowns from a Jamaicain trawlerman. The time Slippery Pete and himself fled a Spanish brothel when Pete told one of the ladies that he was here to catch crabs. Oh, the memories! Cockfights in Brazil, tatoos from Cuba, knife fights in Honduras. And always the tide, lapping and soothing and jostling. A friend to the end.

He got his picture in the local paper last week. There was a record high tide mark. He looked at his weathered old leathery face, rendered in black and white dots and thought he looked quite handsome for his age - rugged, yet delicate. He thought how nice it would be if one of those sturdy foreign women were by his side now, reminicing about those salty nights. Women, like ships will come and go, but the sea will always be there, roaring.

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