An Ocean Voyage, a Pinched Butt, and Yugoslavian Sailors Changed My World
The time I ran away, found myself, and learned that Americans can be less than graceful--a personal story as a gift to my readers.
This story is from my memoir collection. I’ve had a very cool, adventure-filled life. As a holiday gift, let me share one of my most fun interludes with you as I travel to Europe on a Yugoslavian freight ship. Hope you find it entertaining. We’ll get back to talking about writing next week. Thanks for being here.
And now, THE 70s — EYES WIDE OPEN—
I was on an airplane to Bayonne, NJ, where I would climb aboard the Yugoslavian cargo ship, Klek — headed for Spain and points unnamed. My boss for three years was head-over-heels in love with me, unbeknownst to anyone, including me. He plunked himself down in the seat next to me on the plane (surprise!!) and proceeded to sell me on the idea of abandoning my journey and marrying him.
He failed. I kept going. And I boarded the Klek to begin an adventure that taught me more about myself than anything else had, then or since. I was 22, alone, naive, and disenchanted with pretty much everything. I was running away. It was a genius idea.
The shipyard, the Klek, and the beginning
In Chicago, before I became a nomad, a friend had hooked me up with a little old man who sat in a tiny office in the loop, booking passengers on freight ships of the Jugolinija line (one of the largest freight fleets in the world) out of Yugoslavia. The ships were trim and clean — attractively resembling something out of Indian Jones stories — and I wore the slouch hat to complete that image.
I sailed on the Klek, built in the Maj yard in Rieka, Yugoslavia long before cargo was shipped in huge containers. The commodities carried by the Klek — chemicals, foods, furniture, machinery, motor- and military vehicles, footwear, garments, grains, and other seeds, coffee, cigarettes, soap, guitars, you name it. All were packed in overstuffed bales, boxes, and barrels, or just piled in the hold. Deck-mounted cranes moved automobiles from the dock and settled them right onboard.
During the loading, I could see everything and even smell much of it — a very intoxicating experience. We carried a lot of juniper berries used in making gin, and the smell was like a pine forest on steroids. The odor of diesel fuel permeated everything, but I got used to it.
These were large vessels. I never measured the Klek, but it seemed to fit in the class of ships that carry about 28,000 pounds deadweight. That means it would be under 448 feet long, 56 feet wide, with a draft less than 24 feet, and no more than 90 feet above the waterline. Mounted on her deck were three huge cranes that swung cargo from the dock to the hold amid the amazing cacophony of men yelling, metal grinding, horns blowing, and motors rumbling.
You had to be there to understand how exotic it all felt.
A taxi left me on the dock. I had no idea where to go, no clue what to do next, and I was overwhelmed by how different my world was beginning to look. I stood stock still for a minute or so, being bumped by stevedores hustling in all directions. I dodged huge carts and little weird trucks that looked like Cushmans with tall metal and glass windscreens. Beep beep!
When I saw the Klek looming over me, her shadow seemed to arch over everything. A wooden gangplank that seemed as long as a ski slope was the most logical point to head for, so I did, gawking and swiveling my head in all directions. A couple of sailors made way for me to step up, and I climbed that hill, which seemed to take half an hour, but it really didn’t.
The steward and the purser stood at the top and greeted me, the hippie kid, with old-world courtesy like I was a duchess. A touch of the brim of their uniform hats. A smile. A handshake. “Welcome aboard,” in a lovely Croatian accent.
Another sailor took me one deck down to the passenger cabins. I had no idea what to expect but was pleased to find my room warm and homey. There was a high single bed encased in a wooden cabinet base, like we’ve all seen in movies. A washstand with a pitcher and bowl occupied a corner, and a cushy but well-used stuffed chair stood nearby. The walls were covered in heavy paneling, the floor was worn wood planks, and I saw an actual believe-it-or-not porthole in the outer wall.
This would be my home for anywhere from a month to three or four months, and I was delighted. All my anxious feelings melted away as I walked back up the steps to the main deck. For a couple of hours, I stood leaning on a railing, mesmerized by the bustle of activity and the idea of being on the sea without a responsibility in the world. The day was sunny and calm, with those fluffy white cumulus clouds piling up high and sailing across the deepest blue sky I had ever seen.
This, I think, was the moment I morphed from an awkward kid to an adult in charge of her own destiny. Or so it seemed.
There is nothing in this world quite like an ocean voyage
We were in Bayonne for two days, but I was never bored. To add to the excitement, we passengers knew only that the Klek was bound for a port in the Med, a port unnamed until we were underway. It could be anywhere, depending on the final cargo manifest, and no one could even guess how long the voyage was to be.
The old travel agent had said to plan for three months but be flexible. I was ticketed for a halfway billet to Casablanca — there were no guarantees we’d stop there, exactly.
The sailings always terminated in the line’s home port of Rijeka (Yugoslavia), but there was no telling where they would go en route. There were 18 passengers on board. Seven retired couples on dream vacations, a single guy of about 60, two Canadian hippie guys named Gordie and Jeremy, and me. We all became comfortable with each other on the first day or two while waiting to sail.
In port and on the trip, the hearty soups, homemade bread, and well-crafted meals were amazing. We spent time hanging out by the picture window in the lounge, watching the ocean go by, the seagulls swoop, and the sun move across the sky. The retired people played cards, read books, or knitted stuff.
We, the hipsters, mixed with the two dozen young crew members for impromptu guitar concerts, folk song singalongs, chess games, or happy conversations. We wandered around and up and down every part of the ship.
The day we left Bayonne was a delight, filled with a sense of OMG-this-is-really happening. We spent 17 days going up and down the East Coast, stopping in Providence, Wilmington, Baltimore, and Savannah. Then we put out to sea and cruised for 45 days watching porpoises jump, marveling at phosphorescence on the night waves, and listening to cassette tapes.
Being the only female under 65 had its perks. The captain thought I was adorable and allowed me on the bridge whenever I wanted to drop in. He showed me navigation equipment, gave impromptu lectures on being a ship’s master, and tried to recruit me for the merchant marine.
We had calm seas for the most part, a good thing since I had a morbid fear of thunder storms. Then one day, the activity onboard became more frenetic; the crew suggested we retire to our cabins. I saw huge, dark, scary clouds building up on the horizon and streaking toward us at a killer pace. Not good.
I was on the bridge when the storm broke over us in deluges of sideways rain, gusty winds, and thunder like nothing I have ever heard. I toughed it out for a half hour, but gladly took the captain’s repeated order and scuttled back to Gordie and Jeremy’s cabin so I wouldn’t be alone. Stupidly, we indulged in a little hash the Canadians had smuggled aboard. And then we napped.
A long time later, I learned this:
The Coast Guard reported yesterday that a freighter was sinking in heavy seas about 680 miles southeast of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The 34.1‐foot ship Rumba was buffeted by high winds and 30‐foot waves when eight of the 16 locomotives in the hold broke loose. A Coast Guard spokesman said the locomotives, each weighing 150 tons, were “rolling around in the hold and hitting the outer walls like battering rams.”
The ship’s 16 passengers and crew members were removed by tugboat and a Canadian Coast Guard helicopter to an oil‐drilling platform 300 miles north. The United States Coast Guard cutter Dallas reported that the ship was listing heavily.
The 16 locomotives were being shipped from Montreal to Ceuta in North Africa, where they were scheduled to arrive Dec. 28; they never arrived. This event took place about 50 miles north of us. The Klek had been alerted via radio the previous day, but I hadn’t heard the call.
There, but for fortune.
The storm long gone, I ventured onto the top deck and a little sheltered spot I had found that apparently nobody else was aware of. I often sat there after dark, watching the billions and billions of stars as bright as the moon.
Running lights were switched off on open seas, and no light pollution meant the sky was crammed with stars so dense that they provided enough light to read by. You have not lived until you’ve sat alone with Pink Floyd’s Umma Gumma album on the cassette player through headphones in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
Totally trippy.
On the 46th day, the ship drew up outside the harbor in Casablanca, Morocco, to wait for a harbor pilot. Entering a port was always exciting.
Harbor pilots are mariners with specialized knowledge of navigating enclosed waterways. No ship comes in without the pilot. They were mostly men, but once in a blue moon, there would be a woman. They’d board and temporarily become captain — their word was law as they guided the ship to the port dock. Pilots were experts in handling all kinds of ships in all weather conditions, and they knew everything about local depth, currents, hazards, water features, and traffic.
Casablanca may have been a great film, but it was a scary place
I don’t remember how many ports we called at, but a few stood out, one of which was Casablanca.
We were there for a few days, and as was typical, the purser had gathered us in the dining room and given us local instructions and cautions. He told us to be back onboard by a very specific time, but we were on our own till then if we wanted to explore.
A group of us walked down the gangplank into Africa.
The purser had said to remember that many of the people in the city had lived in tribes in the bush as recently as one generation ago. Many were Bedouins, desert nomads with little cross-cultural experience. We were warned to keep cameras out of sight since tribal people believed photographs could steal your soul.
And now I’ll tell you about an ugly American.
I’m sorry to say I often saw examples of plain old US “entitled” attitudes, which were kind of embarrassing. One joker with a loud mouth and an ignorant sense of his own worth strode out into town as though he owned the turf. He was a few yards ahead of our group, and he opened his backpack and began draping cameras and lenses around his neck.
We were exploring the suks — shopping kiosks that looked like open-fronted tents and stalls — marveling over all kinds of silver crafts, teas, spices, and textiles, along with beautiful leather and needle crafts for sale. Everyone was hawking and bargaining, laughing, and jabbering at each other. The suks were ass-to-ass filled with people.
And I saw clearly what happened next.
Camera Boy hauled out his biggest lens, put it to his eye, and aimed it right at a pretty woman in a long, black dashiki. I put my hand out to slow the guy up and remind him of the warning, but too late. Before I understood what had happened, the guy was on the ground with blood running from his temple to his chin. Lights out.
The woman’s husband had taken one look at the camera, and his face got a horrified expression. He raised a walking stick, maybe five feet long and as thick as my wrist.
He launched himself across five feet of road, the club arcing as he ran, and landed a thudding hit on Camera Boy’s head. Chaos ensued.
People screamed. Tourists jumped aside, whistles blew, and almost immediately, police officers grabbed everyone they could put hands on and hauled us all helter-skelter down to the police station a block away.
They half-dragged Camera Boy, and he was swearing his head off at top volume.
Almost like a cartoon mob scene, the small police office overflowed with panicked people, everyone nattering at one time.
The chief blew his whistle, and I thought my eardrums had ruptured, but immediate silence reigned. We were all told to sit on the floor and be quiet.
The Klek’s captain was summoned, and hours later, we were all herded back to the ship, admonished to stay put aboard for the duration. I suspect money had changed hands to settle the dispute.
We left Casablanca and spent another month or so tooling around Spanish ports, Italian ports, through Trieste (a city that was sometimes part of Italy and sometimes part of Yugoslavia), then into Rijeka. Still cargo-dependent, we weren’t concerned about time at all — that’s an interesting feeling.
And of course, there were delays for the ubiquitous smuggling deals. Sometimes, we’d sit outside a port for some hours as whispered word went ‘round the crew that a “package” was expected.
A small, darkened boat would slip quietly up against the Klek’s hull in the dead of night. Someone would scamper up a ladder or down a ladder on the side of the ship away from the port. A few minutes later, it all happened in reverse, and the next morning we’d sail off. The packages were contraband — liquor, cigarettes, and other items. A way for the crew to plan for retirement.
I disembarked in Rijeka and spent a couple of weeks with the ship’s cook’s family — he and I had become fast friends. At one point, I needed an alarm clock, and Nada, Albert’s daughter, walked me to the department store. The only department store.
Yugoslavia was a one-party socialist state governed by Tito and the League of Communists of Yugoslavia. I was a kid, not much aware of the politics, but I found the economy interesting.
If you needed a household item, there was one store, one version of the item, and one price. No choices. No shopping. I was actually shown two alarm clocks, one electric and one wind-up with huge bells parked on top. I chose the wind-up, all the while thinking about shelves and shelves stuffed with clock choices in dozens of stores at home.
The day before the Klek was scheduled to leave me in Rijeka and do another circuit around the Med, there was a major earthquake, my first. As I walked down a wide city street, I thought I imagined the tall buildings swaying, and I had a peculiar light-headed feeling. I shook it off. It came back.
Then I understood that the buildings were actually moving. Bricks were falling. People running. I joined them, sprinting down the streets to the Klek. My brain told me being on a ship was maybe a safe place.
Between the Casablanca incident and the earthquake, I was feeling less brave, so I booked a half-passage on the Klek back to Barcelona and settled back into my cabin.
On that final leg of my sea voyage, I regrouped and prepared myself to go off on my own once I got to Spain.
The first night out, the steward came banging on all the passenger cabin doors at about 3 a.m. Believe me, that will get your blood pumping. I yanked on jeans and a t-shirt and ran up the stairs barefoot.
Very close to the ship, off the starboard side, I saw Stromboli, a volcano on Sicily, erupting a shower of sparks, smoke, and flames into the black, star-studded sky.
I loved our visit to Genoa, Italy, where the crew took me after dark to the Old Town, one of the largest historic districts in Europe. It spreads from the port to the cathedral and offers narrow streets and alleys lined with ornate old buildings and street vendors who cook unbelievable delights on metal covered steel barrels filled with hot coals. Did you ever have shrimp the size of your hand? Well, I did — roasted to perfection.
While in Genoa, I walked into a church and saw the nave fenced off with velvet ropes. Inside the ropes was a large, missile-shaped WWII bomb that had fallen through the roof and never exploded. The people left it there in thanks to God for saving them. (I think I’d have voted to take it outside if anyone had asked me.)
In Barcelona, I was eager to try out my rudimentary Spanish skills. Most people learned English in school, but they were patient and gracious with my linguistic efforts. I loved the country and the people. I was mind-boggled the first time I went for a walk in a large, crowded, public park and was stopped every couple of minutes by professional beggars—-charming and sincere, but very well-dressed for “beggars. And then there were the butt pinchers. Back then, at least, it was ridiculously common for young men to dash up behind a woman tourist and pinch her backside. No gentle pinch, either. I won’t say I had bruises, but I certainly started walking faster.
When I visited the Alhambra, a 13th-century Islamic fort and palace, an old man sat down next to me on a 700-year-old stone wall.
The old man wore a loose-fitting ecru-colored coat and trousers made of cotton — along with a light-colored small sombrero — and sandals. The wrinkled, stooped hombre with knarled hands spent 15 minutes weaving thick leaves of grass into a pyramid-shaped flower about an inch wide. He gently put it in my hand when he was finished and walked away.
I still have it, half a century later.
Life after the ocean voyage
I spent a few days walking around Barcelona, laughing when I saw construction crews on scaffolds pee over the side whenever they felt like it. I was surprised by hoards of beggars following tourists around in the parks and asking for handouts, but they were all charming and polite — it was kind of an entrepreneurial side hustle in those days.
Not as interesting, and really intimidating, brazen young men spotted foreign girls like me, sidled up behind them, and played grab-ass, pinching so hard it left a bruise. They were thick as mosquitoes in a bayou and just as annoying.
In several sketchbooks, I recorded pencil renditions of everything I saw. I met people, ate great food, and had an amazing time. I remember feeling autonomous and totally cool.
The day the Klek departed to return to America, I suddenly felt a little lost and a little intimidated. I phoned my parents, not considering that it was the wee hours of morning for them, and I burst into tears when I heard their voices. This was not a high point of their day.
My dad said, dryly, “Well, it’s a little late to change your mind, isn’t it?” Hmm. Yep.
My outburst was transient — I knew that in a few days, Doug, my long-time boyfriend, would fly in to hook up with me, and we’d make our way to Greece, our ultimate destination. I pulled up my big-girl pants, gave myself a stern talking to, and jogged back to my pension hotel.
Never have I ever been so glad of a decision. Stay tuned — in the next installment, we’ll head to Greece via a not-up-scale ferry boat jam-packed with smelly people and a few goats.
May you have the best year of your life in 2025!
What a lovely piece - I felt like we were traveling together because your description was so clear. Thank you for sharing this!
I have always wanted to travel on a ship and have had the romantic notion of writing some of my novel on such a voyage. After reading your story I may just do that. Thank you and Happy New Year!