News and Information About the 2013 Reunion

PART 6: Leaving Wellpark

That was it. For the last ten days we had shared our ship. Now we were going to share our country and heritage. And our home would become their home. Any last barriers that there might have been, came tumbling down. The refugee’s trust was complete. Any reason to keep a small division in case the situation became more complicated, evaporated and the crew relaxed the rules. It meant the adults came into the accommodation freely to use the crew showers and toilets. Whilst they respectfully allowed the cadets to wash in private, their inquisitive toddlers often tugged the shower curtains aside. Their older brothers and sisters roamed the ship’s accommodation, knocking politely on cadet’s cabin doors before peeking their heads round the corner with big grins across their faces. ‘Will you come out to play?’ they seemed to say, not realising that some crew members were trying to get some sleep after a night on duty. Whilst they waited for a favourite cadet to emerge from his cabin, a gang of them would make themselves busy, searching out some brushes so they could sweep the alleyways. It was not long before they found their way to the Officer’s smoke room. It became an overcrowded crèche. Off duty crew kept the children entertained, introducing them to games of darts and cards. But mostly they sat in front of the TV watching videos. They craved the cans of ice-cold Fanta freely served from the bar refrigerator savouring their first tastes of the sweet, fizzy drink.

A weight seemed to have been lifted off everyone’s shoulders and now the atmosphere was totally relaxed, with an air of expectation . They spent the day sitting patiently on deck as if waiting in a train station or airport, ready to leap up as their train or plane departure was announced. They chatted excitedly amongst themselves, flashing brilliant smiles at any of the crew that might pass. News that two chartered Boeing 707 aircraft were on their way from Britain to pick them up on the 12th had circulated the ship. They could hardly believe their luck!

A BBC News Correspondent and film crew arrived on the ship that afternoon. They filmed the refugees at ‘home’ under the awnings and the children playing darts in the smoke-room. They also filmed a little ceremony up on the ship’s bridge. It was led by Captain Vo, Captain of the refugee boat who presented his French made sextant to Captain Connell, watched by the members of the Vietnamese Committee. They also filmed me, and when I asked them where it would be shown, they said it would be beamed to the UK by satellite that night and shown on the BBC Nine O’Clock News. That night my mother, in Britain, saw me and discovered I hadn’t had my hair cut for two months!

The worsening weather should have put a dampener on things. It was getting cooler and the sky more overcast. On the 12th October the authorities warned a typhoon was about to hit western Taiwan. With 346 people living below a thin plastic awning on deck there was a frantic rush to prepare for the storm ahead. The crew worked quickly to ballast the ship down so it lay much deeper and heavier in the water, a smaller profile to be blown about. The mooring ropes tying the ship to the quay were doubled up, and all of the refugees were herded into the safe, steel casing of the ships accommodation. That night as the storm neared we were packed like sardines in Wellpark’s cabins. Designed for less than 50 souls there were now almost 400 sharing the same space.

I don’t know who slept in my bunk that night. All I know is that there were already six other people in the cabin when I returned to try and get a few hours sleep. I got a taste of the life the Vietnamese had endured on the hatchlid outside as I fell asleep on the carpeted steel deck of my cabin. I was dead to the world and never heard the cabin door open three hours later when another cadet came in to wake me to start my watch. He grabbed me by both ankles and pulled me across the floor to the door. The pain caused by the friction of my bare back burning on the carpeted floor tore me from my deep sleep rapidly even though it was only 4.00am in the morning. But 12 days of working an average of 18 hours or so, was beginning to test our stamina.

Everywhere there were bodies. The ship’s alleyways were narrow and we had to step across them, men, women and children as they slept on. It was impossible to be silent. Huddled up next to them were their only worldly possessions: often only empty 5 litre fruit tins, soft drink and beer cans, that they used to collect their meals from the ship’s galley in. And in the crush it was all too easy to kick a can, or stand on a hand..

It took two days for things to return to normal. The typhoon never did hit Taiwan, but sheered away to the south blowing itself out in the empty Pacific. But it rained constantly. The cargo hatches were closed up and no grain was unloaded.

News began to filter through to us from the UK. We got snippets of headlines, and an impression of the story being told back home. It quickly became our perception that the story was being twisted, and manipulated. Perhaps it wasn't helped by our company trying to gain maximum publicity from the event. Given that we knew the truth of every little detail, we fully appreciated why you often shouldn't believe what you read in the papers. We became angry that the media changed small details.

It was Saturday 14th October when the fire alarms went off suddenly. The bemused Vietnamese had a ring side seat to see how we reacted in an emergency, just as we had done when their distress flare was seen 12 days earlier. There was small fire in the ship’s engine room. Two of Wellpark’s engineers quickly extinguished it and the Taiwanese fire brigade were returned to base before they reached the ship. It was a last thrill in the happy adventure that had been life on Wellpark for the refugees, for that night they were supposed to leave the ship at midnight.

They didn’t go. There was an unexplained delay. Some of the Vietnamese started to get nervous. Was this a delaying tactic, a trick, before bad news would be forced on them? In fact it was nothing more than a technical problem with one of the airliners. One of the two aircraft had developed a hydraulic fault in Karachi. All day long they kicked their feet, waiting for the signal to go. They had said their farewell’s in the vacant hours of waiting, touring the ship to find crew members who had helped in some way, perhaps to lend a needle and thread, supply pen and paper, or card and scissors so the children could make things. It seemed that everyone wanted to shake my hand. As a parting gift I was given a gold cross pen, a shoe bag crafted out of second hand clothes with my name embroidered on it and a cleverly made pineapple out of blood transfusion. They were little things that meant so much and I swore I would keep them forever.

Most of them wore a baggage tag tied to their clothing. It bore their name and an official stamp, the only means of formal identification as they did not have passports. And the women wore make-up. Having searched each of them as they were rescued from the sea two weeks earlier and knowing they had nothing but the scanty, dirty clothes they stood in, I never understood where they got lipstick and eye-shadow from, especially as all the crew on Wellpark were men. Had one of them got a secret?

As crew we were resigned to them going. We had a job to do carrying cargo around the world, but each of us dreaded the emptiness we knew we would feel when they had gone. The delay of the aircraft only intensified the dread of the depression that would set in afterwards. The last night was not a joyous occasion, just an interminable extension of the waiting game.

It dragged in to the next day. The planes had finally arrived in Kaohsiung that morning. The refugees , we were told, would go at 3.30 pm . Then it was put back to 8pm. In fact it was almost 10pm by the time they left. 10 buses turned up to take them. There were final ‘Goodbyes’, promises to write, promises to meet., parting handshakes and hugs. And there were tears. Just a few wanted to stay on Wellpark, the only place they knew that was safe and secure. Carefully they walked down the long, steep gangway, past the press photographers and into the coaches. We stayed to wave, but in the dark, and from position high on the ship’s deck we only managed to see a few waving hands at the windows. The faces were out of sight.

Two and a half hours later Wellpark was at sea, urgently trying to make up time and get to dry-dock in Korea. We had taken the ship out of port after midnight and filed back quietly into the ship’s accommodation. It was a miserable place. The Vietnamese had helped to tidy up before they left, but there was still a gulf of difference compared to the way the ship had been two weeks earlier. It had to be put back in shape. But the weather was grim. Outside the ship was battering into a stiff wind , occasional rain, and plumes of spray erupted over the bow to drench the main deck and accommodation. After a short sleep the ship's crew set to work cleaning every part, toilets, showers, cabins, alleyways – everything.

As recognition of the lack of sleep we had had in the last two weeks we worked only until lunchtime. we were exhausted, and desperately needed a chance to recharge our batteries. I was just about to get some sleep myself, when it struck me how unusually quiet the ship was. I took a quick look up the alleyway. Everyone who wasn’t on duty was already fast asleep. And it was only 6.00pm! Outside the wind borne spray hosed the ship from end to end. By morning there was nothing to show there had been 346 Vietnamese on Wellpark for 14 days: not one sign.

But in the minds of 49 crew of Wellpark there was a memory that would stay bright for a lifetime. And a wish that some day those memories could be relived – those happy days of the Wellpark family.