So what do, people know of our lives in the 1970s? All those of millennial and the “next generations”. Defined as X and Zs. You know who you are! Me and my kind, ‘baby boomers’. So called, because we are of the generation which were born during a significant post-World War II increase in birth rates, hence the term "baby boom."
Those who we respect and older than us are our mums and dad and Nannie’s and granddads, if we still have them. Those brilliant behaved Septuagenarians and Octogenarians. Unless they now believe in just stopping oil?
I have a son and a daughter from my first marriage now in their forties, typically called “forty-somethings" or sometimes simply as belonging to "Generation X," depending on the specific birth year within that decade.
For those who like facts and information.
* Generation X: Born roughly between 1965 and 1980.
* Millennials: Born roughly between 1981 and 1996.
* Generation Z: Born roughly between 1997 and 2012.
* Generation Alpha: Born roughly between 2013 and 2025.
* Septuagenarians: People aged 70 to 79 years old.
* Octogenarians: People aged 80 to 89 years old.
Do you know, I wonder, what the next generation will be called?
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Want to Reminisce and you are of a certain age? - Listen to Boom Radio
People say, "What is age?" It's just a number. But being of a certain age and me being a "boomer" cohort—and I suspect whatever generation you are—brings back how the time was for you personally. As a sailor from age sixteen, I enjoyed the seventies era. My readers will have their own take on a bygone age to tell, and such an oral history project would be something to put down on paper. I'd love to hear your stories!
I’ve written quite a lot about me and it has preserved my memory of my youth, my naval life and my loves. This month’s story is about my first deployment, falling in love and surviving danger so far from home.
1977-79 first deployment - How Deep Is Your Love?
The salt-laced wind whipped through my hair as I stood on the deck of HMS Hermes, the vast ocean stretching out before me like an endless sapphire sheet. The Bee Gees were probably playing somewhere on the ship, their smooth harmonies a constant soundtrack to our lives. I was 17, a raw recruit fresh out of tool control, the world a dizzying kaleidoscope of new sights and sounds. My first deployment.
My initial days were spent cooped up in the tool control cage within the hangar, watching the majestic rise and fall of the ship’s after lift carrying the aircraft to and from the hanger to the flight deck whilst the sea rose and fell each time the lift came down to hanger level. The constant motion was a brutal introduction to life on the ocean, and I confess to experiencing a touch of seasickness – the only time I succumbed to it during my 28 years of RN service.
But I was determined to climb the ranks, and I worked tirelessly to prove myself. Eventually, I graduated beyond the confines of tool control and was assigned to a specific aircraft – Sea King 272. She became my responsibility, my "baby." I meticulously maintained her, ensuring she was clean and always in peak condition for flight operations.
The deployment took us to fascinating places: Gibraltar, Norfolk, Virginia, and Mayport, Florida. It was a whirlwind of activity, and learning to navigate the bustling flight deck was a constant challenge. The sheer scale of operations and the inherent dangers demanded utmost focus and discipline.
Before deployment, however, there was the "Bell Inn" pub in Helston. A blur of noise and movement, the pub was a whirlwind of activity in 1977. Beer sloshed over the bar, laughter roared, and the air was thick with the scent of ale and sweat. I, a young junior naval air mechanic on the cusp of a four-month deployment, was caught in the maelstrom, until my eyes met hers.
Jenny, a Wren with mischievous hazel eyes and short auburn hair, was laughing, a cascade of sound that cut through the din. Something about her – the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way her smile lit up the room – captivated me. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, navigating the chaotic scene to find myself standing before her.
The next few hours were a whirlwind. We talked, we laughed, we dared to dream amidst the chaos. The impending separation loomed large, but the spark between us was undeniable. It was a love story born in the midst of a raucous night, a testament to the unpredictable nature of fate.
As I prepared to leave, the weight of absence settled heavy on my heart. But I carried her laughter, her smile, and the promise of a future together. The four months stretched ahead, an eternity, yet I clung to the hope that our love would endure the distance, just as my ship would endure the storms.
Then came Gibraltar (46 years ago last Thursday). The "Top of the Rock Race," organised by the ship's Physical Trainers, was no joke. That gruelling climb, of a challenging 2.7-mile (approximately 4.3 km) run with the blazing Mediterranean sun beating down, tested every ounce of my strength. I crossed the finish line in a respectable time and ("oops I did it again in 1979 in 27 minutes and 30 seconds), it gave a feeling a surge of pride.
The real fun began afterward, of course. Gibraltar is a haven for pubs, and the ship organised a legendary treasure hunt with brilliant clues to drink in each pub and there where over twenty clues to discover them all. We navigated the narrow streets, fuelled by laughter and increasingly potent libations.
The pub crawl was a whirlwind of camaraderie, filled with raucous singing and questionable dance moves that only became more impressive with each stop. The night was a tapestry of laughter and shared stories, as old friends reminisced and new connections were forged. As we made our way from one charming pub to the next, the atmosphere grew more electric, the tunes more spirited, and the dancing more daring.
Amidst the sea of clinking glasses and merry toasts, I found myself savouring my newly discovered and now favourite Gin drink—"The Tom Collins." There was something truly special about sipping this classic cocktail while surrounded by such vibrant company. The refreshing blend of gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and a splash of club soda was the perfect companion for an unforgettable night.
We ended up in the Rock hotel ballroom, the atmosphere thick with the scent of cheap beer and the sound of bawdy songs. That's where we witnessed the infamous "Flaming Arsehole" initiation. I'll spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say it involved a certain degree of bravery (or perhaps, stupidity) that I've never seen before or since and a sore bottom for the dancer.
It was a wild introduction to naval life, a baptism by fire that forged bonds of camaraderie that would last a lifetime.
Then came Jacksonville, Florida. After a day spent basking, I spotted a tee shirt for “Irish Radio 193”, I don’t know why I bought it, but I tied it around my waist as we strolled along the beachfront , my shipmates, eager for some "shore leave" excitement then dragged me along to a "titty bar."
As I walked around the beach area, my thoughts wandered to the films that were making waves back then. The salt breeze mixed with thoughts of iconic scenes from movies like Jaws—the thrilling suspense of a shark lurking beneath the waves felt all too real by the ocean, so I didn't go swimming. I remembered the light-hearted moments from Grease, with its catchy tunes and vibrant dance numbers, making me smile as I watched the beachgoers having fun.
Walking along the sandy shore, the sun setting in the distance, my thoughts wandered back to those films and the music I hear today or re-watching those old movies , adds a layer of nostalgia and reflection to my beachside stroll back in the late 1970s.
Later, in the evening, of that shore leave my shipmates, eager for some excitement, dragged me along to a "titty bar." The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume and the thumping rhythm of disco music – Donna Summer, KC and the Sunshine Band, the Bee Gees themselves, their infectious beats pulsating through the club. I'd never been to such a place, and the raucous atmosphere, the flashing lights, and the brazen display of female flesh were a sensory overload.
I arrived late, clutching a single rose I'd bought from a street vendor outside. Inside, the noise was deafening. A young woman was gyrating on the bar, her movements fluid and suggestive, mirroring the disco rhythms that echoed through the club. On a whim, I threw her the rose, a gesture born more of bravado than any real intention which she caught and glanced at me with evocative eyes, her gaze filled with a mix of allure, mystery, and passion, all while moving to the rhythm of the music.
Suddenly, a large man materialised beside me. "Looks like you got yourself a dance, sailor," he boomed.
The girl descended from the bar and approached me, her eyes gleaming. I felt a surge of excitement, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation. She sat on my lap, her movements a mesmerising blend of sensuality and showmanship, keeping time with the pulsating disco beat.
As the dance ended, she reached for her bra, only to find it missing. My heart sank. One of my shipmates, in a drunken haze, had stolen it as a "souvenir." Mortified, I offered her the Irish Radio T-shirt I'd impulsively purchased. She accepted with a grateful smile and kissed me on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd.
I felt a surge of anger and disgust at my colleagues' behaviour. I was alone, out of the nightclub adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces, the initial excitement of shore leave replaced by a bitter taste of disillusionment and it was dark. The disco music, once a source of excitement, now seemed to mock my predicament.
Just as I was contemplating my plight, a car pulled up beside me. "Sailor?" a gentle man's voice called out. I nodded and hesitantly, I approached the vehicle. Two men sat inside, their faces etched with concern. "Hop in," one of them said. "We'll take you back to your ship."
I hesitated, unsure of their intentions. But their genuine concern, their offer of help in a strange and potentially dangerous situation, disarmed me. I climbed into the car, a mixture of apprehension and gratitude swirling within me.
The drive back to the dockyard was quiet, the disco music fading into the background as we drove away from the city. There chatter in the car asking questions and cheerfully driving along.
Getting into a car with two gay strangers in 1979, amidst the heightened awareness of crime in the USA, was a nerve-wracking experience. The anxiety and apprehension of not knowing their intentions were palpable, with thoughts of potential danger racing through my mind. Yet, as it turned out, they were genuine Samaritans. The overwhelming relief and gratitude I felt upon realising their kindness was immense. This encounter not only renewed my faith in humanity but also highlighted the unpredictability of life and the importance of kindness, leaving me with a complex blend of relief, gratitude, and lingering unease from the initial fear.
They dropped me off at the dockyard gate, their faces etched with a genuine sense of relief.
That night in Jacksonville, I learned a few hard truths. I learned about the darker side of human nature, the importance of loyalty, and the unexpected kindness of strangers. It was a night of both disillusionment and unexpected grace, a night that would forever be etched in my memory, a poignant reminder of the complexities of life and the unpredictable nature of human experience. And as I returned to the ship, the sound of the Bee Gees drifted from the wardroom, a bittersweet reminder of a night that would forever remain a part of my past, and the memory of Jenny, waiting for my return.
Poem
The salty spray, the ship's rhythmic sway,
A young recruit, 17, on his maiden voyage.
In the 'Tool control cage', a prisoner of grey,
Watching waves, and seasick of Sea Kings, in RAF ‘blue-grey”.
At Gibraltar's Rock, a gruelling climb,
Sweat dripping down, with each weary stride.
A pub crawl's haze, a timeless hum,
The "Flaming Arsehole," a fiery bum!
In Jacksonville beach, ‘staying alive’, Disco beat,
A titty bar's gleam, a seductive haze.
A stolen bra, a bitter defeat,
A lonely sailor, left, let down by his team.
But kindness emerged, in this strange beach land,
A ride back home, ‘are you a sailor’, they said with pride,
In a car, so far from home, at seventeen!
They dropped me off, safe, and waved to me at the waterside
But, the Bell Inn's charm, has memory's hold,
Of Jenny's smile, a story untold.
A love's first bloom, a promise made,
A sailor's heart, forever swayed.