Spectator competition winners: the truth behind the nation’s favourite maritime poem

Your latest challenge was to recast John Masefield’s ‘Sea Fever’ in light of the news that the poet suffered from acute sea sickness. In his book Sea Fever, Sam Jefferson relates how as an apprentice seaman aboard the Gilcruix, the unfortunate Masefield was struck down by a brutal bout of mal de mer. A diary entry recorded the full horror: ‘I was faint, clammy, helpless, weakly wishing for death or dry land.’ This was a hugely popular comp and there were lots of skilful, witty and well-made entries (though with a fair, if not unsurprising, degree of repetition). Those that nearly made the cut include Jerome Betts, Albert Black, A.H. Harker, Martin John, Walter Ancarrow, Iggy McGovern, Neil Rowson, William Casement, Jennifer Moore and Laurie Fitzpatrick. The winners, printed below, earn £35 each and the bonus fiver belongs to John Whitworth.

John Whitworth I would go down to the sea again but the waves       just makes me sick. If I go afloat in a rocking boat then I throw up       double quick. So we might nip out for a glass of stout to the       pub around the corner, But the salt-sea rave of the wildering wave and       its keening avifauna…?

No. I must bide by my own fireside in my flat in       Ponder’s End, With a Chinese Chicken Takeaway to share with       a special friend, With a pot of tea and a DVD and the radiators       humming; What we like the most is we’re warm as toast       whatever weather’s coming.

A sailor’s life is all storm and strife, his ways are       wild and whacko, The whores, the booze, the strange tattoos, the       stink of shag tobacco. Give me the kiss of suburban bliss where the       pyrocanthas grow, Where the children play at the close of day and       the cats stream to and fro.

Bill Greenwell I must down to Boots again for some Oral Salts       and Kwells, And maybe scopolamine patches, or packets of       Bonine gels, And ephedrine highs and a Sea Band, hard on       the Nei-Kuan point, And Dramamine, and ginger root, and even a       big fat joint.

I must down to the quay again, to gaze at the       crash of surf, Though my face is bluey-green, the hue of a       horribly mutant Smurf, And all I ask is a millpond, while the mermaids       linger, Or the cool of Phenergan Rectal on the ship’s       doc’s finger.

Must I down to the seas again where old wives       give three cheers With their apple-and-cracker remedies, and       water behind the ears? And all I ask is a steady bunk or a hammock       averse to swing, Or a call from the coastguard, cancelling the       whole damn thing.

George Simmers I must throw up in the sea again, in the dark and       lurching sea, And all I ask is for kindly death to end my       misery, With my wrenched guts and my loud moans and       my entrails churning And a green tinge to my haggard face, and my       lunch returning. I must throw up in the sea again, for the heads       are clogged with sick And my stomach’s giving a clear call that must       be dealt with quick. And all I ask is get out of my way, whoever you       bloody are, As I do a fast and urgent rush to puke at the       taffrail bar. I must throw up in the sea again, and empty my       suffering tummy With a fraught look in my wild eyes, and a       desperate cry for mummy. What I don’t want is a sarky quip from a       laughing fellow rover. I’ll know the owner. He’ll sack you, mate, when       this damned trip’s over.

Martin Parker I must go up on deck again and stick my head       over the side Since me on water is very bad news no matter       how calm the tide; I’ve spewed ice-cream on the Serpentine in a       decorative cartouche, Cornettos from many a gondola and bisque       from a bateau mouche.

I’ve puked my guts on body boards from Croyde       to Carbis Bay I’ve vomited under Putney Bridge on every       Boat Race Day. I’ve chundered almost instantly on the Broads in       a Norfolk wherry, While there’s precious little I’ve not chucked up       on the Dartmouth/Kingswear ferry.

And the Second Mate has just walked past with       a greasy bacon butty, So my innards are now a churning gloop and my       face the shade of putty. Now all I need is a lessening wind and to find a       sheltered place Where a man can lose his breakfast and it won’t       blow back in his face.

Your next challenge is to provide a poetic preview of the day Article 50 is triggered. Please email entries, wherever possible, of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 February.