/travel/freighter/Leaving Port
(It's Monday now, but my first shot at sitting at a desk to write was quickly bested by my moderate sea-sickness. :-/ )
At just before 0300, I went up the bridge. This was my first time up there. It's a large room, with its forward-side covered in windows. Myriad lights, buttons, wheels, dials, levers and screens are set facing two chairs. A few are recognizable from movies -- radar screens, a periscope -- or labeled clearly enough even for a landlubber to figure out what they are. Outside the side doors are two "wings" that stick out far enough to get a good vantage point. The sun is just starting to come up, but it's still chilly.
A man with an English accent was aboard. I wasn't sure where he came from, but he seemed to belong to the port, and was guiding us out to sea. They did the whole "repeat the command a bunch of times" thing you see in submarine movies -- "dead slow," the pilot would say, while he and the captain ("Master") stood out on the starboard wing. The captain would repeat it, then two fellows at the controls in the bridge would also repeat it. And so it would be done.
With the help of two tugboats, we navigated a lock just barely big enough -- the ship was touching one side -- and then out into the River Mersey. Slowly, we went along the buoy-marked path, until we were clear of the harbour area. A little red boat came into site, and the pilot climbed down a ladder, and hopped onto it and off he went.
Three days later, we're some 900 miles from our departure. I hadn't really realized that I've never been so hopelessly unable to see any land; even on the long slow-ferry to Newfoundland when I was young, I suspect there was always land in sight. Here, there is nothing, even when it's not foggy. The HF (High Frequency -- the frequency range that everything uses is one of the first things the crew mentions about a device; the tradeoff between distance and detail is critical) communications device that broadcasts dozens of details about our ship, and picks up like transmissions from ships within about 100 miles, ran blank. 21 people within 100 miles, and no way off. Leaving Port The swells got a little bigger last night, and pushed my thusfar slightly uneasy stomach into nausea territory, though no further. I went up to the bridge, to see who was there. There's always one person on watch duty -- though on some ships, it's two -- and this time it was Jani. He gave me a pretty thorough presentation of the controls, each with an automated version, a semi-manual override, and a more manual override. Though there's no wooden wheel to turn the rudder, there's still a strong preparation to be able to do things manually. It's interesting to see what 500+ years of solid reliability engineering does to a system, and to compare it to what I do in work every day. I'd put my faith in ships over computers. :-)
We had changed from the planned course a little bit, heading straight west for a while, rather than along the south-west line from the Irish coast to the St. Laurence Seaway. The Captain was hoping to avoid some bad weather or big waves. While I was up there, the swells were getting bigger, and the captain showed up, looked at some maps and forecasts, and went outside -- "sniffing the air," Jani said -- then angled us back towards our original course. We started hitting the swells at a slightly better angle (more perpendicular, I think).
Signs scattered around the boat reminded everyone to "retard one hour tonight". We shift timezones smoothly. The extra time is spread through three people's shifts, so Jani had to stay an extra 20 minutes. He changed the clock twenty minutes backwards, and said "That is now the ship's official time." Fancy.
He had a few duties to do: reporting the weather for the day back to the German meteorological folks, clickity click, copy to floppy, and then send as email; reseting a fifteen-minute "dead-man's" switch, to make sure he's still awake and...well, alive; calling the next person to come onto watch duty. Not much else, though. We chatted about a variety of things. I mentioned my increasing-but-still-moderate seasickness, and he said "That's good, it means you're normal." As the medical officer, he said he could give me something to help. "Only babies and midgets don't get seasick," he told me, since apparently both have an underdeveloped sense of balance. After his shift, we went to the medical area. He opened a book of problems, found "Seasickness", made a joke about how I didn't need the suppository version at this stage, and then dug out a packet of what I assume to be Gravol. It certainly put me to sleep that night. Other than doctors and paramedics, ships' captains and medical officers are the only people allowed to give morphine, and make certain other medical decisions.
It's 13:30 right now, Laptop Time. I thought we'd only retarded one hour, but when I went down for lunch about an hour ago (so 11:30, Rob's-head Time), he told me to come back at 11:30. I'm going to pop up to the bridge now, look at the official Ship Time, and then hopefully go for lunch, unless I'm still wrong about what time zone we're in.
New Albums from the Gallery
/travel/freighter/Conversations with Crew (and Officers, too)
The crew are very friendly and welcoming. The officers consist of one Finn and six Germands, and the crew are 13 Philipinos, as I understand the divisions. They don't seem to draw strong lines between crew and officers; though they eat in different places, the officer's lounge seems to be fairly inactive, while the crew watched football, and the officers joined in.
The Ship Master is a burly man, of appropriate stature for a captain. His English is accented by comes easily, and is easily understood. He is friendly, and invited me up to the bridge to see us exiting port at 03:00. The captain was talking about how he was trying to get internet access onto the boat, but that no satellites covered the mid-Atlantic, and no company would give you an account that would work in both Europe and North America. I guess the non-stationary market is pretty limited.
The Chief Engineer is also German. He seems somewhat quieter and more surly, and has slightly more halting English, though he was easy enough to understand. He still seemed quite friendly, though.
The electrician -- one of the Philipinos -- was particularly friendly, asking me questions and answering mine. He was very careful in his questions, making sure it was alright to ask me where I worked and such. I guess when you carry two thousand containers without knowing particularly what's in them, you gain a sense of presumed privacy. He's been on boats for about 11 years, and an electrician for longer. The money is better on boats than in the Phillipines, though he said being on the chemical tankers wasn't worth it, for the fumes and other risks.
The ship's generating capacity is around two megawatts, the bulk of which goes to the "Reefers" (refrigerated containers). It's 440V AC through that stuff, 220V AC through the cabins and such, and there's a 24V DC control system. They normally generate even when they're in dock, though if they're in drydock they can accept power from land. There are two tiers of backup systems.
The ship has many signs up for procedures, and papers about various protocols (or "protokolls") lying around, with some references to ISO-9001 practices. Thers's a flowchart about waste disposal -- plastics and toxics are always separated and dumped onshore, while dumping food waste and other (nontoxic) waste into the ocean has a requisite distance from shore.
We'll have TV for about a day, if we're lucky.
The route that the boat will take is decided almost exclusively on weather and distance. Under ideal circumstances, it's six days, but more normally seven or eight. Wind direction and speed is basically irrelevant, except inasmuch as winds make waves. We're heading north, over Ireland, and then down by Newfoundland, so that we can avoid a low pressure system. The companyy that charters the boat (MSC) provides their desired route, which the captain can override if he sees fit, but then he takes responsibility for what happens.
One person's job is to control flow of water in and out of the ballasts as the cargo is loaded, to keep the boat balanced and floating with enough freeboard.
Jani, the fourth mate, works roughly 3 hours in the morning, 3 at night, and then has some other administrative work to do throughout. It seems like sleep schedules are all pretty flexible, which makes sense. And the clocks shift roughly with time zones -- some nights we'll change, some nights we won't.
During the soccer match (Angola: 0, Mexico: 0), the crew and officers were swapping tips about where to go when they get to shore: shops and parks and pubs within walking distance. I was a bit confused, since we were packing up and leaving that night, but of course they'll be back in about three weeks, and have been here several times before.
/travel/freighter/Food, Safety
After lunch (more below) I
spent some time reading "Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood. I'm about
halfway through, and quite enjoying it, though I hope it goes somewhere, and
isn't "just a dystopian story" about genetic futzing around. I'm enjoying the
main character's involuntary construction of a mythology for his unintentional
worshippers, including a creation myth about animals (Children of Oryx) and
his worshippers (Children of Crake), and the detailed contortions he has to go
through to keep things consistent.
I've brought some videos to watch, but it turned out I didn't have the necessary software to watch them. Since we're still in port, I muddled around until I managed to get my laptop talking to my phone via Bluetooth, and my phone talking to the internet via GPRS. (Thanks, Keith.) Thus the miracle of blog postings.
Then I got the safety tour. My life jacket is just above my closet, in its own special place. Seven short blasts, then one long blast is the abandon ship signal. I should go outside, and down two decks. There are three separate small-craft setups: a primary "abandon ship" covered boat, two backup inflatable rafts, and a small motorboat for rescuing me when I fall overboard.
I also got a tour of the other facilities on the boat -- a small swimming pool, to be filled with sea-water, a sauna (which, presumably from Jani's influence, everyone pronounces in the correct, Finnish way: "sow'-na"), laundry, and such.
I then had a short nap. Which turned into a long nap, and I very nearly slept through dinner. The steward was kind enough to feed me anyway, though.
Eating the Children of Oryx
Lunch started with a fairly-tasty French onion soup, proper and home-made, with a make-do piece of toast and cheese floating on it. The table had a little ledge, so your plate wouldn't fall off. The main course was fish, with potatoes and white asparagus, in a buttery gravy. That was the first time I've eaten a whole piece of fish in five years. It was nonplussing, since I've had a few nibbles here and there.
Dinner was a bit more harsh -- "Goulash" to me is a sort of stew, but in this case it was basically just stewed meat, with new vegetables, served on a plain pasta. I neither enjoyed nor was bothered by the taste, nor the concept of what I was doing, despite careful consideration of the source of that food. There was also coldcuts and some bread and cheese and such.
On my way out, I noticed that a weekly menu is posted, so hopefully I'll be able to improve my food with tactical requests to increase pasta servings, etc.
My stomach felt a bit heavy from all the tough meat, and my teeth are slightly sore with chewing (it wasn't the most tender meat, though still quite edible).
Thus far, while I'm not bothered by it, I suspect this will serve mainly to reinvorce my vegetarianism.
We were a bit late getting loaded, and the boat needs high tide to exit the port, so we're not leaving 'til 03:00 now.
/travel/freighter/Arrival
June 16, 10:30
I'm now on board the MSC Malaga. She's docked at the 4th container terminal, at the very north of the Port of Liverpool. I'm sitting on a wheelless chair in my cabin, which is, as best as I can assess, at the aft (rear) on the starboard (right) side, with a window in each of those directions.
How I got here was not how I expected.
Departure
Last night, Thursday, I finished up my last bits of work, Clare and I made a quick pasta-and-sauce meal, and we scrambled out the door, 10 minutes later than planned. I wanted to swing by a grocery store, just to have a wee bit of food. One of my nightmare scenarios was finding out that they in fact did not have food for the passengers on this ship. It's crazy, of course, but every question unasked left a story in my head, and indeed I didn't ask many questions.
We picked up some groceries -- juice, some fruit, a bag of muesli -- and went on our way. First trying to find the P&O ferry port, for which the roads were blocked off. When we got there, the woman in the booth said they didn't take foot passengers. "I called ahead, they said you did," I replied rather belligerently. As it turns out, I had been confused about which ferry company indeed took foot passengers. She redirected us to Norse Merchant ferries, which rang a bell. We headed there, eventually finding it in the twisty maze that is the fairly old Dublin port area, only to find a big dark building. Then we drove around some more, and found a booth with some people in it, and asked where we were supposed to be. Since I looked rather desparate (having neglected to have a concrete backup plan), they made a phone call or two, but told me that the bridge was lifting.
So that was that. We drove around a bit more, found where we should have gone, and then headed to my office, which was nearby. Phil was there, and was most amused by the situation. We looked through the options -- fast ferries, ferries from Dun Laoghaire, ferries to Holyhead, ferries from Belfast, but nothing was going to get me there in time. So I ended up flying, undoing some of the precious carbon savings I am after in taking this mode of transit. I flew into Manchester, departing at 06:30, and took a fairly short trainride to Liverpool.
From there, I hopped in a taxi, and tried to explain where I wanted to go, not entirely certain myself. Despite having seen the maps, the Port of Liverpool was incredibly long; a reasonably well-kempt passenger-ferry area, and then progressively more industrial and giant-sized shipping areas, down to the container terminal. I hopped out at a police guard booth, and she directed me onwards to Dock (?) #4. Found another booth, and showed some papers. They told me that I was in the right place, and so I paid the taxi (10.70GBP..ouch), and hopped out. A rickety old van with torn seating and flooring showed up and drove me to the boat.
The van dropped me right beside the front of the boat, and I stepped out beside the giant rails that the container-loading machinery rolls along. I asked where to go next, and he said "up to that gangplank there" in a thick Liverpudlian accent. I walked over to it, and climbed up.
I fear none of this conveys the utter sense of lack of knowledge of the whole thing -- where to go, what words to use, who might know things and who might not. This boat takes up to 5 passengers, and this time I'm the only one, so even to various people involved, I was an oddity or a surprise. When I came onboard Philipino greeted me formally: "What is your purpose visiting the ship?" I explained that I was a passenger, and he warmed up immediately, checked my passport, and called the First Mate.
So, I'd arrived, dazzled but definite.
/travel/freighter/First Impressions
June 16, 11:00
Distinctly rolling
his Rs, the First Mate introduced himself as Jani. I asked if he was Finnish,
nearly certain of it, and indeed correct. I mentioned spending time in Oulu,
which put us on the right foot. He was friendly, showed me the B ("Bravo")
deck where lunch will be served in the officer's mess, at 11:30. Then up to
the E ("Echo") deck, where my cabin was.
He asked for the contract, my insurance papers, and my passport. He explained that he'd take copies of the first two, and the captain would keep my passport until we arrived.
The cabin is spacious but not huge, perhaps 20' (6m) x 12' (~3.5m). Its features are strongly reminiscent of my parents' travel trailer: clicking nobs on doors, no wheels on the chairs, little guards on all the shelves, all to keep everything in place. And the little cupboards have the same cooped-up-wood smell as the trailer always did.
Out my window, I can see the underbelly of the global economy in action; containers being stacked, raised, and loaded. Or unloaded into stacks, and then pulled off.
The scale of everything is incredible; the containers -- these are what seems so oppressive to a normal vehicle when they're on the back of a lorry, remember -- are moved around like small boxes. The machines lift them smoothly, like pieces of a machine I might have built from lego as a child. It's about 160 steps to the top of the largest device, name unknown, that sites near my window, doing the main movement of containers on and off the boat, as far as I can tell.
It's lunchtime now.
/travel/ireland/Sucks to my ass-mar!
The weather here has been crazy delicious. Hot and sunny, but not too hot. I've got a bit of a sunburn (but don't tell anyone I admitted it!) from cycling this weekend -- Clare and I did a gentle ride to some beaches north of Dublin. We bought some food and had a picnic, and then headed inland for the return journey, to avoid the worst of the seaside winds. I have some nice sharp lines from my cycling jersey.
While we were there, there was a man collapsed on the sidewalk. I was rather more paralyzed than I like; he seemed to have a friend next to him that could barely stand, presumably from drink. I ended up just watching for a minute or two until someone came along and relieved me of my moral duty.
Last weekend we went down along the coast south of Dublin, through to Bray. On our way, we saw a little boat getting ready to ferry some passengers off to a little island. We decided to go too, and caught the next one across. The island had a Martello Tower from the times when Napoleon was a threat to the then-British Ireland. There were some further fortifications, including what appeared to be a giant cannon pivot -- a bracing point against the wall, with a rail with about a six-foot radius centered at the pivot, presumably so a wheel on a canon could enable it to turn nearly 180 degrees.
A few weeks
ago I went to my very first Rugby match. One of Clare's friends Claire
(yes, she has more than one friend Claire. Keeps me on my toes. :-) )
scored us free tickets. It was pretty good -- I actually found it quite a
bit easier to follow than I do when it's on TV. It kinda made a certain
twisted sense, even. :-)
On Thursday, I'm catching a ferry to Liverpool, then hitching a ride on MSC Malaga, a 34,000 dwt ("dead-weight tonne") freighter. That's about half the size of a "superfreighter", so it's quite a big ship. My reasons are environmental, and out of interest. The journey will take 7 or 8 days. Freighters take on a few passengers -- up to 12, otherwise they have to have a doctor on board. There's a proper passenger cabin, and food is included.
I'm much looking forward to 7 days without connectivity. I'll have my laptop, and a bit of work to do, but that will only last a day or two. Reading, writing, and maybe even some 'rithmetic, will have to fill the rest. I'm considering doing an experiment in Polyphasic sleeping while I'm on-board, but that will depend a lot on having enough to do. I probably won't do that, but it's an interesting opportunity.
To go on the boat, I had to get a doctor's note saying I was in good form. In Ireland, the health-care system has user fees -- 50 euro, wehether you're going for a big checkup or to get a little note signed, so I decided to get a physical. And after complaining a bit about coughing and stuff, he started asking a bunch of questions, and I ended up getting diagnosed with asthma. I've read a lot about it, and I'm pretty unconvinced about the whole thing. I have inhalers now, and I'm not convinced they're making a difference, but I'll give them a run-through and see.
So yeah, sucks to my ass-mar.
