URSABLOG: Subject To Life

It’s never an easy phone call to make. I had called earlier in the day warning my client that we were expecting bad news, and now I was disturbing his lunch to confirm it. The buyers could not lift their subjects, the business they had in mind for the ship had not materialised at the eleventh hour, and the deal would not go through. I told him that I didn’t think that giving the buyers more time would help, I felt it was something more fundamental, and even though the market had risen fairly significantly since we had put the deal on subjects, this was not the problem. The problem was not something I could resolve or even have access to. He thanked me and continued his lunch. I kicked whatever was nearest – my briefcase I think – in frustration.

It had all looked so promising right up until the last minute, with all the body language reassuring and with everybody making the right noises. I thought I had done a good job, got what my client wanted, highlighted the things that bothered, and generally we had worked well together. No matter. I could not confirm the deal – however much I wanted to – and I was the bearer of bad news. Never mind. These things happened. The operation was a great success but the patient died. I started again the process of recovery after disappointment that I am – fortunately perhaps – well used to. Getting through shock, anger, rationalisation to acceptance and healing as quickly as possible, ready to start again. There is no point in crying over spilt milk.

‘Failing on subs’ is something very familiar to all shipbrokers, and is a fact of our lives. The problem in ship sale and purchase is a little more fundamental than in chartering however. In chartering, the next ship up for employment, the next shot at hope let’s say, even with the same ship, is just around the corner. In S&P the amounts of commission are usually much higher, and the next deal – even if there is something already in the pipeline faces the similar threat of failure. This I take philosophically – at least after the frustration has receded – and in fact am fond of the following quote from Samuel Beckett:

Ever tried. Ever failed.
No matter.
Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

We are going to have this printed and displayed behind my desk in the office. Apart from satisfying my literary pretensions, it also says something about the life of a competitive broker, that is that failure actually shows that you are successful, at least in what you are attempting to do. If you fear failure, by the same token you fear success. Getting clients interested in a ship, or finding buyers for their ship is part of the process. It is in the nature of competitive broking that you – or other brokers – do not succeed, and in any case the seller doesn’t have to sell after all, even if the ship is in the market for sale,if they change their and until a contract is confirmed the buyer can walk away at any time. A contract is not effective until all terms are agreed and subjects are lifted, whether it’s subject board of directors, inspection, or whatever, so subjects are rightly hated by any decent ship sale and purchase broker I know. Competitive brokers are only paid their commission on the successful conclusion of a deal however, and there are no prizes for second place. Time spent, however well spent, and perfectly enacted and even concluded negotiations mean nothing unless there is a contract in place, and it successfully completes and the ship is delivered.

The taint of failure is hard to wash off, but thankfully I had two plans to begin the process. The first was Friday evening wine at my favourite place in Piraeus with good friends (with the added bonus of taking home one case of my wine recently liberated from the clutches of Brexit). The other was a trip – subject to confirming the above-mentioned deal – to a small island in the western Cyclades. If I had confirmed the other deal I probably would not have gone, but now I was in need of a change of scene and a change of pace. I texted my friend and he confirmed the ferry tickets, the room and the car rental. We would leave the following morning at 7 o’clock on one of the slowest ferries in the Aegean. I was looking forward to it.

I woke, grabbed my things, fed my cat (after reassuring her of my prompt return) and met my friend on the quayside. We boarded and found a seat outside, and I settled into my usual routine of coffee, cigarettes and a book. The weather was fine, the sea calm, and the ferry reasonably quiet despite the three-day holiday weekend, and we both saw people we knew on board. All was set fair.

Tomorrow is Καθαρά Δευτέρα (literally Clean Monday) the rough equivalent of Ash Wednesday in the Catholic tradition, the official start of Lent. As with many feast days in Greece there is food associated, and on this day (and in fact for strict observers all through Lent) no-one eats meat, or cheese, or even fish, in fact anything that comes from animals with blood. Everything has to be clean. I love to eat all crustaceans and molluscs all year around, so this is no hardship for me. But it signifies the start of fasting and abstinence as Catholics would put it, in long preparations for the Feast of Easter. Somehow the timing – so hard on the back of failure – seemed right. The start of preparations for rebirth.

We arrived in the afternoon, and having picked up the car, and settled into the rooms, we eventually found a taverna, and ate stewed goat with ματσάτα, the local hand made pasta, with a lot of red wine, and we were at peace with ourselves, if not with our digestive systems. All the while we were talking, discussing many things about love, life, families, politics, art – wherever the conversation took us – and generally resetting our minds. My mind, of course, was in more need of a reset, and quickly, than his. For that reason – but not only that – I was very grateful for his company.

Today, we woke, and after breakfast we drove around, meeting some of his relatives by chance – his father’s family is from the island – and ended up on two isolated beaches, where he swam, in both places. I did not – it is still too early in the year for me – and lay back on the pebbles being warmed by the late winter/early spring sun. I listened to the waves rasping along the beach, and came closer to peace.

In approaching peace of mind I let my mind go free to process all the recent disappointments in my life – professionally and personally – and eventually found the place where I could start healing myself and think about the next steps. There is much – as always – to be done. But I couldn’t do anything about it on the beach, and unsurprisingly enough, didn’t want to anyway. There was no signal for my mobile anyway.

As my friend got back from swimming – a distinct shade of blue, but that could have been the reflection from the sea or the sky – I sat up and said, mostly to myself “what a beautiful world this is.” This is no great revelation of course, and I do not wish to suggest that I alone have reached enlightenment, and you must do as I do. It was a fairly commonplace observation that can happen to any of us at given times, when we are open to it.

But the feeling I had, as we walked back to the car, stopping to let the charming local carnival procession pass – men and women, boys and girls, all generations and backgrounds – with homemade costumes and trailers laden with singing and smiling children, well the feeling I had was if this is the result of failure, how would success be? Not much different, I hope.

There was one incident on the ferry, a conversation with a family we fell into – a distant relative of my friend as it happened – where I was reminded how precious life is. Whilst we still have it we should treasure it, and of the joy it can bring us, especially whist we have people around us, whoever they are. There is no deal out there which can be concluded subject to life. We have to live, and to taste success and happiness we have to taste failure, disappointment, anger and loss. We have to live with failure, and overcome it, again and again. The important part of that last sentence? We have to live.

Simon Ward