Mick Jagger's primal howl reverberated through the sultry Mediterranean night like a mating call
from hell.
I'd played this classic Stones rocker in a variety of isolated outposts during my checkered radio career and it had always proved to be a crowd pleaser. But this was the first time the control room was bobbing and weaving in time to the music.
Of course, I had never worked in a radio station quite like this one before.
The studios of the Voice of Peace were located in the hold of a battered old freighter
floating off the Israeli coast. During a storm, the control room had a tendency to slosh from side
to side with an almost hypnotic movement. On this particular evening a certain ruby-lipped
temptress was just about to take Mick and the boys "upstairs for a ride" when the phonograph
arm took off on an unexpected voyage of its own.
As the waves buffeted the boat's hull, the needle flew off the record and glanced off the
rim of the turntable with an electronic snarl.
It wasn't the first time that it happened that night... and it wouldn't be the last. No need to
panic. After several weeks I had learned to expect the unexpected as a DJ on one of the world's
last remaining pirate radio stations.
The Voice of Peace was the brainchild of Abie Nathan, a short, stocky, 41-year-old Iranian-born ex-airline pilot with a genius for self-promotion.
Fourteen months before the outbreak of the Six Day War in 1967, Abie had flown an old
Boeing biplane (dubbed the "Shalom I") from Tel Aviv, through the Egyptian air defense system,
to Port Said. On board the plane was a peace petition (with 60,000 signatures) which he hoped to present to President Nasser. Egyptian authorities arrested him for entering the country illegally,
kept him in jail for a few days and then deported him. The incident was a headline grabber
around the world and established Abie as a genuine Israeli folk hero.
It also gave him the international clout he needed for his next project. Backers in Holland
bought him a 570-ton Dutch freighter and transported it to New York harbor. With the help of
some wealthy Jewish businessmen and various charity organizations, the ship was converted into a floating radio station (John Lennon and Eric Clapton were rumoured to have contributed to the cause).
Abie's stated dream was to "foster understanding between the Arabs and the Jews
through the international medium of music". The dream became a reality in 1970 when the
newly-christened Voice of Peace sailed from New York to Israel and began broadcasting an
eclectic mix of rock and roll, jazz, folk and classical. With 50,000 watts of power, the station's
signal skipped across the water like a stone, bringing in listener mail from all over Israel, Cyprus
and as far away as Finland (the studios had no telephones).
Since the Voice of Peace was not officially licensed by the Israeli government, the ship
was forced to anchor in international waters ten miles off the coast of Tel Aviv (Station ID's
proclaimed, "From somewhere in the Mediterranean, this is the Voice of Peace..."). Technically
the station was operating illegally but that didn't stop Abie from selling air time to various businesses and corporations from a tiny office in downtown Tel Aviv (you haven't lived until you have heard a jingle for Lee's jeans sung in Hebrew).
As I sat across from him on a warm Monday afternoon in the spring of 1977, I was completely unaware of Abie's offbeat celebrity status. All I knew is that he represented an opportunity to escape from chasing chickens, picking avocadoes and working night shifts in a plastic factory. I had been working at all those jobs and more as a paid volunteer at the Shefayim kibbutz near
Tel Aviv and after three months of serious physical labor I was ready for a change.
Chrissie Hynde once said that when she left Akron, Ohio for Europe she took only a spare
pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts and her favorite Velvet Underground album. Well, my knapsack had basically the same contents with one exception: I had left my copy of White Light,
White Heat at home to make room for an aircheck tape which I had made while working at a
radio station in the Fraser Valley prior to my trip overseas. I had relayed the tape through friends
to the Voice of Peace and now I had a job offer.
After explaining the aims and objectives of the station in a brisk little speech, Abie
introduced me to program director Alex Hudson, a crisply friendly young Brit who had once
worked at Radio Caroline, the legendary pirate station which ruled the English airwaves during
the 60s from an offshore location until the government finally shut her down.
I was informed that a crew would pick me up at the harbour in two days. I would be
transported out to the ship, stay on board and work seven days a week for one month. At the end of that period a boat would pick me up and deliver me back to the mainland for a week's shore leave.
The station would supply food, lodging and the equivalent of $250 a month in wages.
Sort of like a floating kibbutz. I was not allowed to bring any alcohol on board. It seems that a
Filipino cook had gotten drunk one night and had spent the night chasing various crew members
around the deck with a meat cleaver. After that incident, alcoholic intake had
been restricted to a ship's ration of two Israeli beer a day.
The Voice of Peace broadcast in three languages - French, English and Arabic. During the time I was there I hosted a country program (my slogan was "country and western for the Middle and eastern") and the occasional jazz and classical program. I also hosted an easy listening program from midnight to 3:a.m. during my second hitch on the boat, as well as filling in for Carl Kingston, the regular evening rock DJ.
Carl, a canned music vet, had arrived on the boat fresh from England in high spirits but all that had changed after contacting an almost terminal case of seasickness (his face was so white during his infrequent trips to the galley that you could have written a letter home on it).
2:30:a.m. Spring 1977 - Somewhere in the Mediterranean...
Trumpeter Chet Baker was murmuring his way through an old Gershwin classic on the turntable when I first heard it. A soft whump! against the hull.
When you are broadcasting from a studio located in the hold of an old Dutch freighter floating in international waters off the coast of Tel Aviv, things that go whump! in the night can make you
mighty nervous.
Since I figured I might be gone for awhile, I slipped on Miles Davis' "In a Silent Way" before I left the control room and climbed up the wooden ladder to investigate.
The night air was cool on my face as I clambered up on deck. There was a small patrol boat idling just off the bow. The outline of artillery was sharply visible against the night sky. Shadowy figures were waving and shouting.
Suddenly a small object shaped like a grenade sailed across the water and bounced to a stop a few feet away from me.
Instinctively I hit the deck, covered my head with my arms and braced myself for an explosion. A minute passed. I could hear the soldiers laughing as I gingerly picked myself up and walked over to where the object lay. The "grenade" turned out to be a small bruised avocado with a note stuffed in the top. "Dear DJ", it read in crude handwritten letters, "Please play 'She Came In Through the Bathroom Window' by Joe Cocker."
Apparently the soldiers on the Israeli patrol boat were big Voice of Peace fans. But since the station was not officially licensed by the Israeli government they were forbidden to contact the ship. So in the dark of night they would pass on requests by tucking notes into bottles, vegetables or other items and toss them on deck. (Their favorite song was - what else? - Rod Stewart's 'Sailing'). Sometimes the object would bounce off our hull. The soldiers would disappear into the hold, re-emerge several minutes later with a new airworthy missile and try again.
Once they pitched a full bottle of Israeli wine from their vessel to ours. I caught it. And drank it.
All in a night's work at The Voice of Peace, one of the world's last surviving pirate radio operations.
Abie Nathan's natural chutzpah combined with a rare talent for grandstanding had made him an Israeli folk hero.
Picture the scene: It's 1967. The Israeli army has just scored a stunning victory in the Six Day War. The Arab refugee camps are seething with resentment and fear as Abie drives through the
compounds in the stifling Middle Eastern heat in a large refrigerator truck. Together with an army of volunteers, the stocky Tel Aviv restauranteur proceeds to hand out 40,000 ice cream cones to the startled Arab children.
Abie's Good Humour goodwill mission grabbed headlines around the world but his biggest publicity stunt (as mentioned in Part One of this saga last month) was flying undetected through
Egyptian radar in his battered old Boeing biplane and landing smack dab in the middle of Port Said, armed only with a Bible and a peace petition with 60,000 signatures. This incident and others gave him the clout he needed to secure financing from international backers
for a floating radio station which he promised would "spread the message of peace through the international medium of music." In order to fulfill the mandate Abie promised the backers that he would broadcast in English, French, Hebrew and Arabic. (Every evening from 6pm -7pm the station broadcast "The Peace Show", an hour of protest folk from the likes of Donovan, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan).
When I arrived on the ship in the spring of 1977 the staff had been reduced to a motley crew of three British DJs, an American (who claimed to be a famous Hollywood screenwriter) and Ibrahim, an Arabic cook who had worked in Abie's Tel Aviv restaurant kitchen. Ibrahim had no practical radio experience but his real stumbling block was his inability to read English. Since he was unable to decipher the song titles, he tended to pick selections from albums with colorful cover artwork. His 3:am-6:am shift was a grab bag of Jefferson Airplane, Partridge Family, Blue Cheer and Fleetwood Mac album tracks mixed in with selections from his own Arabic language record collection. The resulting sonic blur made the most free-form college FM rock format sound tame by comparison. Every once in awhile he asked me to translate some of the phrases in the English lyrics. ("What does earth mother' mean, Rick?")
Working on the Voice of Peace meant adjusting to extremely flexible hours.
Prior to leaving Tel Aviv I had worked out a handshake agreement with Abie that I would work seven days a week for one month followed by one week's shoreleave. I was especially looking forward to my first shoreleave since my (then) girlfriend, Debra, was living and working on the Shefayim kibbutz just outside Tel Aviv. (We had both been working as paid volunteers for several months prior to my landing a job on the Voice of Peace). Due to stormy weather the launch was unable to pick me up as scheduled. But I was not allowed to take my holiday time on the boat. I ended up working two air shifts a day every day for five and a half weeks before I finally saw dry land again. (I can sympathize with the plight of the characters in "Waterworld", believe me).
After five days of shore leave in the resort area of Eilat, I was shipped back for my second and final tour of duty. But I agreed to return only if Abie could find a job for Debra on the boat. (Just in case the launch was two weeks late again). She ended up serving meals in the vessel's tiny galley. (The only previous female crew member anyone could remember was Tara Jeffries, an English DJ who had a brief but harrowingly memorable stint on board the ship
one year earlier).
During my hitches (totalling roughly three months) the staff kept changing. The California screenwriter lasted five days. The split shifts and the claustrophobic atmosphere quickly got to him. Soon he was on the ship to shore telephone offering to pay Abie to send out a launch to pick him up. An English club DJ was sent packing back to Britain with a near terminal case of seasickness.
A pleasing voice and a gift of the gab were helpful enough but to really succeed on a long term basis required physical stamina, dedication to your art (you spent most of your waking hours
preparing and broadcasting air shifts and specials) and a strong stomach.
During one memorable week the ship was caught in choppy water, making it impossible to sleep. You simply rolled from one side of the bunk bed to another all night while the ship bobbed like a cork. Tempers soon began to fray.
Every day brought its own set of challenges. Still I wouldn't have traded those three months for the world. It was definitely one for the books.
Word has it that the Israeli government has finally shut down The Peace Ship, effectively marking the end of an era which began with the infamous Radio Caroline which briefly ruled the airwaves in Britain in the early 1960s. (During my second hitch a BBC TV crew arrived on board to film a day in the life of the Voice of peace as part of a documentary on pirate radio).
The Voice of Peace may be gone but it lives on in the memories of those of us who spent some quality time with her.
Sometimes, late at night, when the moon is shining brightly on the water and the night air is cool on my face, I can still visualize the control room rocking in time to the music during a storm or hear the sound of the waves lapping against the hull as another airborne request skitters across the deck from a passing patrol boat. I can see the outline of the ship fading in the distance as the launch slowly pulls away to transport me back to dry land again for the last time.
And I can still hear Abie's voice crackling on the ship to shore telephone, "Tell that Dennis guy he's talking too much!"
Shalom Abie. Wherever you are. And goodbye to the quirky idiosyncratic Voice of Peace, broadcasting from "somewhere in the Mediterranean".
"Honnnnnnnnkkkkyyy Tonnkk Wiiimmmmmennnn.... . . ."