Skyring
Established Member
- Joined
- Oct 18, 2005
- Posts
- 2,257
- Qantas
- LT Silver
Hit 'em With a Hook
A soldier in Tokyo on R&R leave
Was stopped by a provost,
A provost, you please.
"There's mud on your shoulder
and blood on your sleeve,
I'll have to cancel that R&R leave."
The digger turned 'round with a murderous look.
"I've come from a place they call the Hook,
Where the whizzbangs are flying
And brave men are dying
And comforts are few for b*astards like you."
Dinky-di, dinky do
And comforts are few for b*astards like you.
"Oh provost, oh provost,
If you're half a man,
You'll take off that armband
And fly to Pusan.
Where the whizzbangs are flying
And brave men are dying
And comforts are few for b*astards like you."
Dinky-di, etc.
A comrade, back in the days when I was in uniform, taught us this song, one of many we used to sing in our cups, swearing strange oaths etc.
It almost certainly came from his father, who he said had served on The Hook, a famous battleground in Korea. A reworking of a much earlier song of a digger on leave from the trenches in France.
This old memory was running through my head as we sailed into Busan, a port city in South Korea, where our ship had to sail so as to qualify for being a "foreign" voyage under Japanese law. We had all gone through immigration clearance in Kochi before leaving and our visas had been given an exit stamp.
A new country for me, not even an airport transit.
I was woken by the sound of a racing engine just outside. The Korean pilot boat making a getaway with a show-off burst of noise, like a teenager with their first V-8.
I was sorry I'd missed the approach; I love seeing the skill of these small boat skippers curving in, holding their boat against the hull so the harbour pilot can get on or off the ship they are guiding, and gliding – or racing – off again.
At least it was a bright dawn introduction to Korea. The cabin curtain keeps the light out, and I was sleeping on my side, away from the window. With the curtain drawn and the sun up, I might as well take a look around, go get some coffee, prepare for the day.
Cabin 8134 – now that I'm gone, I can reveal the number – is on a high deck, two down from the buffet cantilevered out above, cabins on all sides, toward the rear. In a seaway we'd take a little movement but I could live with that chance – that never happened, as it turned out – for the sake of a good view out and no exterior noise. Nothing worse than having a disco or the pool deck just above, or some clanking crew space beside.
We were at a bend in the starboard corridor, where the concierge cabins ran out and a set of slightly smaller ones began. It wasn't much, maybe a metre if I'm being generous, but the space was welcome and it made finding our way home easy. Even with my taxidriver bump of direction, I'd occasionally find myself taking the "scenic route", so I needed every bit of help I could get in the long lanes of identical cabin doors.
Coffee. Dawn coffee could be hard to come by. The buffet always had tea and coffee and juice and ice on the go and while there was no doubting the caffeine in the stuff, I suspected it was pumped straight up from the bilge. Café al Bacio opened at 0530, had smiling staff who knew their coffee, and maybe some little cakey bit for sugar and fat and carbs.
Flat white hadn't been quite what I needed, cappucino was a disaster – I think they just frothed up some milk in big bubbles and forgot about the coffee – my fallback of a Bolt (a tall black with a dash) had been interpreted poorly, plain espresso was too concentrated and eventually through trial and error, a double-shotted latte was something the barista could interpret and gave a satisfying broadside hit of wakeup.
A tug appeared, we made our way up the busy harbour under an impressive bridge, and docked at the cruise terminal, not far from the centre of town.
A couple of barges appeared to resupply the ship tanks with buffet coffee and take off the used stuff. Not necessarily in that order. I could have sat on the balcony all day long. The harbour was buzzing!
We took a shuttle into a convenient spot near the central station and set off to explore.
I must confess here to a certain lack of adventurer spirit. There were all kinds of things to do. Go to a sandy beach, ride some sort of railway arrangement along a cliffside, visit a cultural village. It all sounded rather touristy and contrived, especially the small rail cabins that might as well have been labelled "Twee".
There was nothing that really sung to us, so we just looked around the local shopping arcades. Mostly tatt and trivia.
We went looking for some local food, This place sung out to us. My dear wife recalled a "Shabu shabu" experience in Narrabundah and wanted to try the real thing.
This was pretty much the highlight of the day. I'd never met this way of dining before. Basically you pay for a bucket of broth, set it boiling on a built-in heater, and dump thinly-sliced meat and bits of vegetable and noodle and whatever into the mix. The sound as you swish your meat through the boiling broth gives its name to the dish. The broth is a set price, the vegetables and noodles are all you can fit in, the meat and drinks are extra.
Sauces, desserts, and rolls are thrown in as well. It wasn't expensive and it was yummy, especially with a half-litre of the local beer. I got the feeling that this might be the sort of place you went to so that you could fix the munchies after an evening with one or two ales.
There was a jaw-dropping array of vegetables and, well, things to put in your soup. Great fun!
Later on, I ran the images through the translator. Interesting. Whatever, it was all good.
We found our way back to the shuttle bus after a fruitless search for a post office that was supposed to be somewhere nearby. One of our postcards home was Korean, but with a Japanese stamp posted from Nagasaki.
Back to the ship, an elderly persons' rest break, and then one of the concierge perks, a sailaway party on the helideck. Free fruity drinks, an unexpected vantage point and the odd ship's officer saying a few smiling words.
We had to go through the upper level of the theatre through a door normally kept firmly closed, along a little open area with a hot tub for the crew – must have been squeezy squishy fun in there after the first few dozen – and up onto the fo'csle where they would load you onto a helicopter if you needed a medical evacuation.
This was the first of two helideck sailaways. There were more than just concierge class invited. I think you got an invite if you had sufficient status with Celebrity, or were in a premium cabin, or some combination.
View attachment JM CM Pusan 12.jpg
It was interesting and there were free alcoholic drinks of various colours and flavours. Good for photography but as we left the harbour it was getting windy and we mostly left of our own accord before being asked to leave. Or blown off.
One last shot with my phone lens flecked with seaspray.
One shot of the pork spring roll, surprisingly tasty. Washed down with Samuel Adams. By now the wine sommelier was sighing and shaking his head and the beer lady was bringing them out by the six-pack.
Well, I thought it was funny.
And so to bed. Sorry, Korea, I didn't try too hard. One step up from an airport transit, I suppose. Not even a stamp in the passport. Just a sticker.
A soldier in Tokyo on R&R leave
Was stopped by a provost,
A provost, you please.
"There's mud on your shoulder
and blood on your sleeve,
I'll have to cancel that R&R leave."
The digger turned 'round with a murderous look.
"I've come from a place they call the Hook,
Where the whizzbangs are flying
And brave men are dying
And comforts are few for b*astards like you."
Dinky-di, dinky do
And comforts are few for b*astards like you.
"Oh provost, oh provost,
If you're half a man,
You'll take off that armband
And fly to Pusan.
Where the whizzbangs are flying
And brave men are dying
And comforts are few for b*astards like you."
Dinky-di, etc.
A comrade, back in the days when I was in uniform, taught us this song, one of many we used to sing in our cups, swearing strange oaths etc.
It almost certainly came from his father, who he said had served on The Hook, a famous battleground in Korea. A reworking of a much earlier song of a digger on leave from the trenches in France.
This old memory was running through my head as we sailed into Busan, a port city in South Korea, where our ship had to sail so as to qualify for being a "foreign" voyage under Japanese law. We had all gone through immigration clearance in Kochi before leaving and our visas had been given an exit stamp.
A new country for me, not even an airport transit.
I was woken by the sound of a racing engine just outside. The Korean pilot boat making a getaway with a show-off burst of noise, like a teenager with their first V-8.
I was sorry I'd missed the approach; I love seeing the skill of these small boat skippers curving in, holding their boat against the hull so the harbour pilot can get on or off the ship they are guiding, and gliding – or racing – off again.
At least it was a bright dawn introduction to Korea. The cabin curtain keeps the light out, and I was sleeping on my side, away from the window. With the curtain drawn and the sun up, I might as well take a look around, go get some coffee, prepare for the day.
Cabin 8134 – now that I'm gone, I can reveal the number – is on a high deck, two down from the buffet cantilevered out above, cabins on all sides, toward the rear. In a seaway we'd take a little movement but I could live with that chance – that never happened, as it turned out – for the sake of a good view out and no exterior noise. Nothing worse than having a disco or the pool deck just above, or some clanking crew space beside.
We were at a bend in the starboard corridor, where the concierge cabins ran out and a set of slightly smaller ones began. It wasn't much, maybe a metre if I'm being generous, but the space was welcome and it made finding our way home easy. Even with my taxidriver bump of direction, I'd occasionally find myself taking the "scenic route", so I needed every bit of help I could get in the long lanes of identical cabin doors.
Coffee. Dawn coffee could be hard to come by. The buffet always had tea and coffee and juice and ice on the go and while there was no doubting the caffeine in the stuff, I suspected it was pumped straight up from the bilge. Café al Bacio opened at 0530, had smiling staff who knew their coffee, and maybe some little cakey bit for sugar and fat and carbs.
Flat white hadn't been quite what I needed, cappucino was a disaster – I think they just frothed up some milk in big bubbles and forgot about the coffee – my fallback of a Bolt (a tall black with a dash) had been interpreted poorly, plain espresso was too concentrated and eventually through trial and error, a double-shotted latte was something the barista could interpret and gave a satisfying broadside hit of wakeup.
A tug appeared, we made our way up the busy harbour under an impressive bridge, and docked at the cruise terminal, not far from the centre of town.
A couple of barges appeared to resupply the ship tanks with buffet coffee and take off the used stuff. Not necessarily in that order. I could have sat on the balcony all day long. The harbour was buzzing!
We took a shuttle into a convenient spot near the central station and set off to explore.
I must confess here to a certain lack of adventurer spirit. There were all kinds of things to do. Go to a sandy beach, ride some sort of railway arrangement along a cliffside, visit a cultural village. It all sounded rather touristy and contrived, especially the small rail cabins that might as well have been labelled "Twee".
There was nothing that really sung to us, so we just looked around the local shopping arcades. Mostly tatt and trivia.
We went looking for some local food, This place sung out to us. My dear wife recalled a "Shabu shabu" experience in Narrabundah and wanted to try the real thing.
This was pretty much the highlight of the day. I'd never met this way of dining before. Basically you pay for a bucket of broth, set it boiling on a built-in heater, and dump thinly-sliced meat and bits of vegetable and noodle and whatever into the mix. The sound as you swish your meat through the boiling broth gives its name to the dish. The broth is a set price, the vegetables and noodles are all you can fit in, the meat and drinks are extra.
Sauces, desserts, and rolls are thrown in as well. It wasn't expensive and it was yummy, especially with a half-litre of the local beer. I got the feeling that this might be the sort of place you went to so that you could fix the munchies after an evening with one or two ales.
There was a jaw-dropping array of vegetables and, well, things to put in your soup. Great fun!
Later on, I ran the images through the translator. Interesting. Whatever, it was all good.
We found our way back to the shuttle bus after a fruitless search for a post office that was supposed to be somewhere nearby. One of our postcards home was Korean, but with a Japanese stamp posted from Nagasaki.
Back to the ship, an elderly persons' rest break, and then one of the concierge perks, a sailaway party on the helideck. Free fruity drinks, an unexpected vantage point and the odd ship's officer saying a few smiling words.
We had to go through the upper level of the theatre through a door normally kept firmly closed, along a little open area with a hot tub for the crew – must have been squeezy squishy fun in there after the first few dozen – and up onto the fo'csle where they would load you onto a helicopter if you needed a medical evacuation.
This was the first of two helideck sailaways. There were more than just concierge class invited. I think you got an invite if you had sufficient status with Celebrity, or were in a premium cabin, or some combination.
View attachment JM CM Pusan 12.jpg
It was interesting and there were free alcoholic drinks of various colours and flavours. Good for photography but as we left the harbour it was getting windy and we mostly left of our own accord before being asked to leave. Or blown off.
One last shot with my phone lens flecked with seaspray.
One shot of the pork spring roll, surprisingly tasty. Washed down with Samuel Adams. By now the wine sommelier was sighing and shaking his head and the beer lady was bringing them out by the six-pack.
Well, I thought it was funny.
And so to bed. Sorry, Korea, I didn't try too hard. One step up from an airport transit, I suppose. Not even a stamp in the passport. Just a sticker.
