Memories of Fremantle

As I stood on the bluff and overlooked the harbor where the Swan River meets the Indian Ocean, I pulled my wool lined coat tighter around me. It is May of 1980 but where I am standing, the air is chill and blustery. The sky overhead is grey all the way out to the horizon, which is probably about fifteen miles away. There is a sense of loneliness that seems to seep into my soul as I stand here among the remains of the original Swan River Colony jail (or gaol, as it was originally spelled back when it operated).

Fremantle, Australia. A whole world away from where I was raised and flipped upside down, so that summer is winter and vice versa.

I'd only been in the Navy for less than a year and already I am as far away from home as I can get. I'd done more traveling in that year than any of my friends did during their entire eighteen while we were growing up. And I'd seen more than my fair share of a dozen cultures.

Taking a deep breath and trying to shake off the feeling of sadness that had begun to settle on me like a shroud, I walked back along the road that passed Victoria Quay. A statue of some man, whom I later learned was C. Y. O'Connor. He was responsible for imaging and building the world's largest water main. At the time, it wasn't important, so I just appreciated the sculpture and moved on, past where my ship, the USS Marvin Shields, was docked. I glanced over and smiled at the Aussie ship that sat tied up snug against the quay wall. It was more stylish than our own angular designed vessels. The bow was curved where ours was pinched to a point. The Shields was tied up on the other side to HMAS Perth, a brow set between our two ships. We had to cross over the fantail of the Perth in order to get to shore. And those guys never lacked for a humorous greeting as we did.

Continuing down the street, whose name has since faded into the recesses of my memories, I headed to a place I was told about when we first arrived. Back then it was known as the Stella Maris Seafarer's Centre. I have since found it is now part of a Catholic organization loosely associated with the Flying Angel Club, another mariner's centre also on the same street a few blocks further.

Again, this information, at the time, was little more than window dressing to me. What was important to me was the information I'd gotten. I was told it was a warm, friendly place that knew how to make a small corner of hominess for sailors. And I really needed it just then.

When I went inside, I knew it had been the right thing to do. I was immediately greeted by both patrons and staff. I was invited to a game of darts, which I lost, and a mug of hot chocolate, which I consumed gleefully. It was just the thing my bleak soul needed. Here there were pool tables and snooker tables, ping pong tables and televisions. There was a general assembly room where people conversed lightly or just sat and read books. And there was a room for quiet reflection. All this was welcome. But the most welcome thing of all was the sense of camaraderie. Here there were other men, military, merchant and others, who knew the loneliness that pervades the life of a sailor.

After some time in the company of others who were as familiar with the rigors and demands of the sea, I started to head back out to see what this marvelous country and this quaint seaside town had to offer. I was approached by a man named Seamus, a merchant marine from Dublin. He and some of the others were going to head over to the market. I was invited to join them for a shopping trip that, of course, included a stop for some libations. A pint sounded pretty good to me.

After touring this amazing market of over one hundred stalls filled with all variety of ethnic foods, antique shops and hand made clothing, we all sat at the Market Bar. Seamus told me that the performers wandering around the market were called "buskers", and that they, of course, originated in Ireland. We laughed and watched as buskers of all sorts entertained the crowd and then walked around for donations from the patrons. Seemed to me that we have lots of "buskers" in the US, but the law tends to look at them as panhandlers and nuisances. We met up with a group of people who were from Perth. But that's a story for another time.
Fremantle is a great little town located on the western shores that is filled with markets, shopping, museums and churches. There is a great deal of maritime history here, from anchors along Anchor Walk that were dredged up out of the bay to the Dutch wrecks displayed and documented in the Shipwreck Galleries of the Maritime Museum. The people are friendly. Not the fake friendly that you might find in most tourist towns, but the real deal.

It has grown quite a bit since my time there in 1980. There are more places to shop and eat, and there is a three hour self guided walking tour. From the Round House & Tunnel (located near the old gaol I mentioned earlier) to High Street Mall, from the Fremantle Railway Station to the Western Australia Maritime Museum, there is much to do and see here. One time site of the America's Cup back in 1987, this town has the quaint décor of earlier days, such as the Tarantella Nite Club that was built around 1902 as a warehouse, to the modern conveniences such as the Fremantle Railway Station, a commuter rail system I am told puts the BART in San Francisco to shame.

Though it was a maximum security prison while I was there in 1980, I hear that the Fremantle Prison, an imposing place, offers tours, including an evening tour by torchlight. As I remember the place, it would make for a fascinating experience.

If you are planning a trip to Australia anytime in the future, I would highly recommend a stop of a few days in Fremantle and Perth.