Introduction: Oh, how gloriously naïve I was.

I was fifteen—barely old enough to shave, scarcely wise enough to know what I was stepping into—when I boarded my first ship and sailed into the unknown. A boy about to become a man, armed with nothing but wide-eyed dreams and a stomach full of butterflies. I imagined moonlit beaches, nightingales crooning lullabies, and rugged sailors with crooked smiles singing sea shanties around a fire. I thought I’d be part of a brotherhood of adventure, where every wave carried a new story and every port promised romance.

Reality didn’t arrive gently—it crashed over me like a rogue wave at a synchronised swimming competition. Instead of hoisting sails and swapping tales with hearty seamen, I found myself elbow-deep in garlic and melodrama, cooking for a crew of madams. Yes, madams! Their demands were as unpredictable as a crab trying to order a salad at a five-star restaurant.

Picture this: a greenhorn seaman, barely out of boyhood, juggling pots and pans in a galley the size of a broom closet, dodging requests like, “Can we have lobster tonight? But make it flambé, darling!” If I’d had a frilly apron, I could’ve starred in my own culinary soap opera—Galley of Glamour.

I quickly learned to navigate the absurd personalities around me. One madam (crew member) insisted her/his chai be brewed with Himalayan spring water (as if I was running a wellness retreat), while another thought caviar was a suitable substitute for peanut butter. In this floating circus of culinary chaos, I discovered a hidden talent for chopping onions at lightning speed—perfect for both cooking and pretending I had something in my eye when I needed a breath of fresh air.
But here’s the twist: amid the madness, I grew. I toughened. I transformed. I realised that sometimes, the journey to manhood doesn’t come from sun-kissed shores or heroic deeds—it comes from surviving diva tantrums and sautéing your way through storms. I wasn’t just a madam’s cook lost at sea. I was a young man discovering resilience, humour, and the strange beauty of becoming.

Now, let’s rewind to the 1960s through the 1980s—a time when gay men were often cast as pariahs, seen as perverts unless a lonely sailor needed company far from home. Back then, I learned to wield a long-neck brandy cognac bottle with a manila twine loop like a makeshift handcuff—my trusty defence against admirers who mistook my steward’s uniform for an invitation. Spoiler alert: I was not an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once you escaped the watchful eye of the bosun or head cook, it was survival of the fittest. Being in the galley was no simple job—it was a high-stakes cooking challenge where the secret ingredient was sheer desperation. And if you ever found yourself battling an army of diva madams demanding five-star meals while you were still figuring out how to boil water—well, that’s a reality that still makes me chuckle (and weep) to this day.

Yet amid the chaos, I found kinship. Some of the most trustworthy and dedicated seafarers I met came from the gay community. After five unforgettable months aboard ship, I discovered that a gay shipmate could offer the best company—loyal, witty, and full of heart.

When we docked in Europe after hauling rich butter and luxurious wool from New Zealand, I’d step ashore in cities like Hamburg, Bremerhaven, Rotterdam, Dunkirk, and Antwerp. The nightlife was electric—filled with music, laughter, and mischief only sailors could conjure. Nightclubbing with my gay colleagues was an experience like no other. They played piano, strummed guitars, and filled taverns with songs that made strangers feel like family. Their humour lightened the weight of homesickness, and their performances often earned us free beer and roaring applause.

Of course, life at sea wasn’t all laughter and song. We endured long hours, brutal weather, and the ache of being far from home. But those moments of camaraderie—those bursts of outrageous stories and belly laughs—helped us survive the storms.

The narrative of the maritime training ship, along with the various outbuildings that formed its supporting infrastructure, is both compelling and eye-opening. The harsh conditions we endured, coupled with the subpar food, were shared experiences among the 35 recruits who ultimately completed the program, out of the original 100 who enrolled. These challenges formed a significant part of our journey and have been documented in detail online, revealing a tapestry of events compiled by many boys who passed through the school.

Throughout its forty-year legacy, the Vindicatrix Sea Training School became a backdrop for numerous poignant stories. A recurring theme in these accounts is the shocking revelation that the only source of "fresh" meat we received during the gruelling ten-week course often came from the unfortunate rodents and insects that occasionally found their way into the stockpot. This grim reality became a stark symbol of the unrefined nature of our culinary experiences aboard the ship.

The narratives of over one hundred boys, penned over four decades, illustrate the trials and tribulations we faced at different junctures in our lives. Each memoir, despite being written by different hands, tells a similar tale of endurance and camaraderie forged in challenging circumstances. This rich collection of experiences suggests that we may need to reconsider our approach to educating and mentoring our youth, with a focus on teaching them to live together harmoniously and to respect one another's diverse values.

I invite you to keep an eye out for my forthcoming book; it promises to unveil the profound lessons and insights drawn from these experiences, ultimately providing a fresh perspective on the challenges faced during this unique chapter of our lives.