The Last Grain Race

I am a big fan of Eric Newby's writing, and I was pleased to pick up a copy of this book, published in 1956, which I understand to be his first book.

It follows his adventure in 1938/39 as a youngster who signs on in Belfast as an apprentice seaman on a four-masted barque bound for Australia, then back with a cargo of grain.

Other than its obvious English language, this book contains two other languages practically unintelligible for me. Finnish, which is the language on the ship for all commands is the first - and one Newby has zero knowledge of on arrival. He learns the names for the sails and other components, and the names for the actions he is expected to carry out quickly. He assists the reader in learning these for the most part, but quickly gives up repeating the command - and with my limited capacity (and inclination, to be fair) to learn these Finnish words too, it does eliminate some of the understanding of the narrative as the story progresses. While I am not overly concerned about this, given the other language, mentioned below, is the nautical terminology, and I have little understanding of that either, if Newby had translated all of the commands throughout - I probably still wouldn't have understood much more!

So yes - the nautical terms were the other language. There is an incredibly complicated diagram at the start of the book. This labels the 31 sails (mizzen staysails omitted for clarity) and the 79 running rigging identified (buntlines, clewlines, lifts, downhalls and some sheets omitted for clarity, some halliards also omitted.) Even with all those omissions it is bizarre and complex, and it sits still on the page, as opposed to its operation in the Southern Ocean in heavy swell (or worse). So again, so much of what is going on is a blur and/or a mystery to me in this book.

The action in this story is almost all at sea. Leaving from Belfast, there is a brief stop at Tristan da Cunha (where they don't leave the ship), a reloading in Australia, and then an end to the journey in Queenstown, Ireland (which I understand to be Cobh, near Cork).

Irrespective of those complaints, Newby's writing is still very good, which at times is very funny. The reader enjoys his enthusiasm, his frustrations and his fears. Overall it probably drops a half star for these issues, but to be honest it would add another 30% to the text, and still be largely illegible if he were to change it.
3.5 stars, rounded up.

One quick quote. P157.
To set the scene - they are in Port Lincoln, South Australia, where the ship is being loaded. Newby and others of the crew had slept on shore - most of the crew busy getting laid, Newby still a shy lad - just got boozed instead.

On Sunday morning I woke at ten o'clock to hear rain drumming on the corrugated iron roof, the first they'd had for four months. I lay in bed gazing lazily at the ceiling thinking how wonderful it was to be undisturbed.After a large breakfast at which I was once again able to indulge my morbid craving for toast, I plowed through the rain to the post office with Jack. Officially it was shut, but I found a back entrance and stormed into the sorting room bellowing for letters.A man with a hatchet face and steel rimmed spectacles screeched: ‘Yes four for you and one for a joker with a name like the wind whistling in a barmaid's fanny. For Chris' sake take it away and put me out of his misery.'Taking my four letters and one for Vytautas, and thinking of how refreshingly different the Australian Civil Service seemed to our own, I sat down in a puddle on the steps of the post office and read them.