When the Ground Shifted

By the mid-1960s, Townsend Ferries were expanding their fleet. Following my promotion to Second Steward on Free Enterprise I, I was offered the opportunity to join the crew of their newest ship, Free Enterprise II, which was due to open a new route between Dover and Zeebrugge.

It was early days for the service, and passenger and vehicle numbers were modest until the route became established. At that stage, no Chief Steward had been appointed, which meant that, in practice, I assumed much of that role. I was responsible for the crew and the catering department onboard FE II — a level of responsibility that extended well beyond my official title.

The work was steady, and life felt manageable. Then, in May 1966, everything changed.

The Seamen’s Strike swept through the industry, paralysing ports and bringing shipping to a standstill. Despite the fact that we at Townsend Ferries were paid above standard rates and worked under better conditions than many others, we were still compelled to join the strike.

Weeks turned into months. With no wages coming in, we relied on what little savings we had. There seemed to be no progress and no clear end in sight. As frustration grew, a meeting was called so crews could vote on whether to return to work.

I attended that meeting — and I was afraid. Many of us were. Large men stood among the crowd, openly carrying baseball bats. The message needed no explanation. Anyone who dared raise a hand in favour of returning to work would pay for it. The vote, if it could be called that, was ruled by fear rather than choice.

British ships around the world lay idle. Goods bound for and from the country simply stopped moving. At home, the mortgage on Mayfield Road loomed heavily, and a small loan I had taken out to build a garage added further strain.

Although we were officially forbidden from seeking other work, even without that restriction there was little available. Occasionally, a neighbour allowed me to drive his taxi so he could take some time off. At other times, I joined potato-picking gangs when crops needed harvesting, working quietly and hoping not to draw attention. It was hard, physical labour, far removed from anything I had known before.

Sheila stretched every pound as far as it would go, but it was never quite enough.

As the weeks dragged on, I was forced to confront a question I could no longer avoid: was this really the life I wanted for my children? A life shaped by strikes, insecurity, and a country where opportunity seemed to be narrowing year by year?

Slowly — but unmistakably — the answer became clear.

We had to leave.

New Zealand had crossed our minds before, a distant place spoken of in hopeful tones — sunshine, space, opportunity. Now it shifted from idle conversation to something tangible. We spoke with travel agents, filled out forms, and even discussed paying our own fares if necessary. It was daunting, but compared with the uncertainty we faced, it felt like the only way forward.

Painful as it was, the strike gave me clarity. It showed me that while Britain could no longer offer the stability I wanted for my family, another life — elsewhere — just might.

And so, amid hardship and uncertainty, a new resolve took hold. We were no longer simply trying to get by.

We were preparing to take the greatest step of our lives — to leave everything we knew behind and begin again in New Zealand.