The First Shipment. Sea and Land Practices...

My first stage of training aboard the steamship “Antonio de Satrústegui” was progressing more than satisfactorily. The ship and its machinery had a special appeal, and the crew was made up of a team of good companions and teachers.

The stay in the Greek port of Itea was more than beneficial. There was plenty of time for strictly professional tasks, taking advantage of the stay to carry out inspections and repairs on the machinery, as well as to visit the fascinating archaeological surroundings, such as Athens and its Archaeological Museum, Delphi, the port of Piraeus, the ascent to Mount Parnassus....

During my stay in Athens, I had the privilege of being accompanied and guided by the Chief Engineer, a well-versed connoisseur of the city and a self-taught expert in Greek culture. One of the days of the visit, after a sumptuous meal at a small restaurant in the port of Piraeus, which included an exquisite roasted lamb head, I took advantage of a nearby phone booth to call Spain and update my parents on what had been my new life so far.

During the conversation with my father, I mentioned that the next port of call would be Casablanca. I noticed a special joy in his voice as he asked me to do everything possible to visit his cousin and childhood friend Luis. The civil war had separated them, and they had never seen each other again. I told him to provide me with his address so that I could gladly fulfill his wishes, which he did via telegram when we were already sailing towards the Moroccan city.

In March 1936, the agricultural workers of Extremadura, tired of waiting for the implementation of the Agrarian Reform, opted to carry it out, driven solely by desperation due to the lack of work and extreme misery for themselves and their families. Under the auspices of the FETT, dependent on UGT, they occupied thousands of estates across the vast territory.

Luis García, my father's cousin, who was a leader of UGT at that time, was one of the organizers of the occupations, including one near the capital of Badajoz, Bótoa. His activism and involvement in the aforementioned union organization and his direct participation in the mentioned occupation were more than enough reasons for the “red hunters” of the yoke and arrows to show up at his home for his capture and subsequent transfer to the walls of the San Juan cemetery, after a farcical summary trial, which was what happened to others less fortunate.

Fortunately for him, a couple of hours before the arrival of the squad at his home, he had crossed “the line” to take refuge in Portugal. He was lucky, as many others were arrested by Salazar's police and immediately handed over to the Badajoz authorities to later apply the Falangist “resources,” either at the cemetery walls or in the sands of the sadly famous bullring, often under the blessing and “forgiveness” provided by the notoriously infamous Father Lomba.

The help of a Portuguese military officer, sympathetic to the Spanish Republican cause and a great person, with the surname Seixa, was decisive for Luis and many others to save their lives by escaping through the port of Lisbon aboard the ship “Nyassa.”

The seven days of the crossing from Itea to Casablanca, thanks to a strong tailwind, passed completely normally. Don Antonio, the chief engineer, was very pleased with how well some problems had been resolved, especially those of a bearing of the main engine, which allowed us to increase revolutions and gain speed without major issues.

His joy was very noticeable in his easy and wise chatter. I believe I would not be far off in saying that with Don Antonio, I learned more from his advice and way of seeing and approaching life than from the machines themselves. He used to say that during the training period, one should not only learn the development and interpretation of the Zeuner diagram; for him, life experiences and human relationships at sea and on land were also part of the training.

The handling of the machine during the maneuver of entering Casablanca was the first of my life. Don Antonio, positioned at a safe distance, controlled each of my actions with the neck valve and the gear shift, while also instructing the stoker to maintain steam pressure as stable as possible, indicating when to light or extinguish burners in the three boilers.

At eight in the morning, the machines were ready, and the chief, who knew my father's commitment, practically pushed me out of there.

- Kid, go upstairs, take a shower, and go meet the family. On my desk, there’s a bottle of whisky, take it and bring them a gift... That was Mr. Yagüez.

After asking Domingo the “radio” for some currency against my first paycheck, I grabbed the exit pass and the bottle of whisky to rush off the ship. I passed through customs without any issues and immediately got a taxi to take me to the address listed in the telegram sent by my father.

After a blatant tourist ride, with the shameless intention of increasing the fare, the taxi driver dropped me off at cousin Luis's door. I pressed the doorbell, and the door opened instantly. What appeared there was not a woman; it was a true apparition. Upon seeing me, her face lit up with extreme and pleasant surprise, and she smiled.

- How can I help you.... ?, she asked in pleasant and musical French.

- Does Luis Garcia live here....? I replied in Spanish.

- Yes, he is my father.

After my introduction and identification, a strong hug and a kiss reaffirmed our family ties. A few seconds of silence passed as we looked at each other. Once inside the house, in a very emotional manner, she introduced me to her parents and her two brothers. Luis, the father, after giving me a strong hug, shed several tears and struggled to articulate words, finally saying:

- Son of Juanito.....

For more than two hours of emotional conversation, I kept them updated on the family situation in Spain, while they nostalgically shared their forced life in Morocco. Luis's wife, originally from Asturias and with strong republican convictions, also had to exile to Morocco, where they met and started a family.

In the room where we spent several hours chatting, there was a large picture hanging with a photograph of Luisa, which was the name of that beauty in a swimsuit, a crown on her head, a scepter in her hand, and a sash across her chest that read Miss... the rest of the inscription was not visible.

- Is that you...?

- Yes, I was Miss Morocco...

It was seven days that the phosphate loading in Casablanca lasted, and seven days that my father's family dedicated to making my stay as pleasant as possible in the Moroccan Paris, as the Moroccans proudly called that city of love and novels...

I had the opportunity to take Luisa to see the ship one day and invite her to dinner, and her arrival and stay aboard was quite an event.

- But kid...!, was the greeting from Don Ignacio, the captain.

- During the training period, everything must be practiced..., added Don Antonio.

I will not deny that the days spent in Casablanca felt too short, but as would happen on other occasions, the sea would take care of putting miles in between and leaving things where they should be. Sometimes the whims of fate create curious and improbable situations, but as real as life itself.

The person with whom I had planned the future of my life was a bit far from Casablanca, and at that time we were going through one of the crises that have accompanied us with some frequency throughout our life together. Once the steam training was finished, I passed through my homeland for a few days, and we made peace.

I took advantage of my stay in Badajoz to make the official entrance to Marisol's parents' house, where I had the chance to meet her charming and talkative maternal grandmother, who had a special intelligence and memory. My status as a sailor produced a special sympathy for her. One day she showed me a photo of her only brother who had emigrated in the 1920s to Cuba, possibly on a Transatlantic ship. She also showed me a photo of her husband alongside José Antonio Primo de Rivera. When I asked her about the story behind the photo, it was more than enough reason for her to tell me all about Ezequiel's professional and political life, which was his name.

According to Grandma Julita, her husband had been the administrator of L.S., owner of several estates, including one in Badajoz called Bótoa, which he had to visit several times, and his friendship with José Antonio stemmed from his activism in the “party” of which he was a prominent member in Ciudad Real, where he had his usual residence...

In the end, and as can be seen from what has been recounted, my choice, at least in the romantic aspect, was the “barely tolerable right.”

That’s how it was, and that’s how I tell you.