Nothing quite prepares you for the size of an ocean liner. I was 16 years old when, as a deck boy in Liverpool, I signed the Articles on the RMS Britannic.

The last of the White Star Liners, with their distinctive black and buff Titanic funnels and their blue ensign, marked it as a Royal Mail ship.

After going up the gangway with my kitbag on my shoulder, I was faced with a bewildering labyrinth of endless corridors, stairways, and shopping malls on each deck.

As in any city

I found the need to constantly ask directions and, on occasion, find the way to the crew’s quarters in the behemoth’s bows.

I sailed ten return trips to Manhattan. Such was the liner’s size that I never really got to know the ship. Onboard, there were cinemas and dance halls; shopping arcades.

City built in tiers.

The ocean greyhound had its own police force and firefighting crews. Its newspaper, play areas, and swimming pools. There was an on-board bank; the RMS Britannic was truthfully a city built in tiers.

My seagoing career was delayed six months. My chest at 15 years old was 32.5’; the minimum required being 33’. I worked hard at it, and whilst I did so I worked in a small factory.

Nora

There, my best friend, a lady named Nora, soon afterwards left to marry an American serviceman. I thought when my friend left Liverpool’s Blackwells Engineering Co that I had seen the last of my friend.

Several days into the 8-day voyage to New York I dodged the atrocious weather going to my 4am watch by using a corridor far below the ship’s waterline.

Nightdress and Curlers

At that unearthly hour, who should I bump into, in nightdress and curlers, but my friend Norah and how we hugged each other?

Such was the ocean greyhound’s size that we two had been blissfully unaware of each other, sharing the same voyage for days on end.

Yet, at 27,000 tonnes and 712 feet in length, RMS Britannic was half the size of the ill-fated RMS Titanic. The names of all White Star liners end in ic.

Most challenging venture undertaken by man

Certainly, the building of the biggest passenger ship of the time was as pioneering as many aspects of space travel today. The complexities of building a ship of that size were probably the most challenging venture undertaken by man.

Starting from scratch, it ends in a sleek waterborne great city that sweeps across the world’s most notorious oceans at the speed of a car.

RIGHT. Author Mike Walsh on the foredeck of RMS Britannic in Hell’s Kitchen, New York

Six Miles to Stop

When the brakes are applied, a superliner careers on for a league before it comes to a stop after about six land miles. Life onboard carries on as it does elsewhere.

People shop, they dance and use the swimming pools, the theatres, gyms, bars and restaurants. Some play bingo, others prefer ballroom dancing, promenading and taking the air.

A Careering City

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Fashionable ladies indulge themselves at the beauty and hairstyling salons. If any fall ill, the ship’s hospital is highly recommended. Others are happy to use the extensive library or read the ship’s daily newspaper.

The Crew

The crew go about their tasks cheerfully; there is, in fact, a community of crews; a class system of sorts. The deckhands consider the catering crew as sissies.

Not for waiters, the all-weather tasks are carried out on deck regardless of time or weather. Those who toil far below the waterline are known as grease monkeys.

The liner is twin-propeller, with gleaming shafts each the circumference of a small family car; the pistons are like gleaming, thumping lifts; their noise is deafening.

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