Remembering Karen

Karen was a tease. Drawing ever nearer, then dancing away, then disappearing altogether. The days of unrelieved anticipation were eerily reminiscent of my late, unlamented dating career.

We wondered last week which weather system would win: the strong cold front bearing down from the northwest or the tropical storm wobbling north. I'm hardwired to bet on tropical weather.

As late as the end of my watch Saturday, we were still expecting at least a little rain and some 30-knot winds from a tropical depression.

My faith in the National Weather Service led me to scoff publicly at the old mariner's rhyme:

Red sky at night, sailor delight;
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning

I scoff no more.

I got up early Sunday to see the wind and rain and was instead greeted by blue skies and a northerly breeze.

Shoulda known better. That rhyme, after all, has been around for a while. The Good Lord himself uttered something very much like it in the sixteenth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew:

When in evening, ye say, it will be fair weather: For the sky is red. And in the morning, it will be foul weather today; for the sky is red and lowering.

And, man, was it red. The sun was red. The sky was red in every direction. The air itself was red.

We headed offshore this morning, and the promised delight apparently has an expiration date, because it was pretty bumpy and windy out there. It's an early preview of coming attractions in the Gulf, I guess.

At any rate, Karen was just about a perfect storm as these things go. We got some down time to catch-up on maintenance and paperwork, no one got hurt and no one lost homes, vehicles or places of employment.

I'll take the tease any day.

This one was for New England Waterman, who was whining that I needed to update the blog. You'd think the guys who drive those big boats would have better things to do than bird-dog my writing schedule. And thanks to my colleague Shawn and quickmeme.com for the Hurricane Karen art!

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, Off to Sea I Go

Back at it on a different boat almost identical to the old boat working a new-to-me field out of Venice, La.

My only prior experience of Venice was a tuna fishing trip many years ago that featured lots of beer and very few tuna.

Working here now is just like that, minus the beer.

The boat is in good shape and the crew is about five kinds of awesome. Nothing really to say about any of that.

So let's talk about the weather.

The first weekend of the hitch brings a tropical weather system followed by a strong cold front. For a while it looked like Tropical Storm Karen might mature into a Category One hurricane before landfall.

For a while, it looked like Karen was going to track right over my boat.

Turns out Karen is both disorganized and unambitious. She's slowed-down, wobbled a bit more northward, and is sort of just falling apart. Karen may still be a minimal tropical storm when she arrives, or perhaps just an unnamed tropical depression.

Meanwhile, not much is moving in Venice. Almost everyone who works at the dock our customer uses has bailed.

The company man who rode in with us two days ago told me they wouldn't need us before Monday. We'll see.

For a busy boat, any downtime is a welcomed opportunity to do a little maintenance. Last night we worked four hours into my off-watch repacking the rudder shafts and resolving a bilge pump issue.

Today it's parts and equipment inventory and the supply requisition. Fun times.

Insomniarium

It’s 0600 on a Saturday and I’m not up early, I’m up again. Or still up. I'm not sure which.

The 3-year-old fell out of bed in soaking wet pajamas. I changed him and tucked him back in. He never woke up. I can't tell you how unjust that feels to me.

The 1-year-old has stirred just once tonight, which is down from four times a couple of nights ago. He’s probably wet, too, but I guess it will keep.

The brown dog has let me know he needs to go outside to pee or look at the stars or get some fresh air or something three times tonight. That’s about average.

Two nights ago I figured I had that beat when I just left him in the back yard (with his food and water of course), but it turns out he's scared of the dark and barks nervously ... all night long. 

Well-played, brown dog.

It’s 0600 and I’ve worn-out Wikipedia (I started-out trying to figure-out the relationship between the Norwegian, Danish Swedish languages and ended-up reading about Visigoths. How’d I get to Visigoths?)

The spousal unit gave up on me long ago, and I’m down to my last cold beer.

I hesitate to say it, but … well, I don’t want to … oh, hell: I kinda miss the boat right now.

Don’t get me wrong; I haven’t put on a pair of socks (or underwear, for that matter) in almost two weeks now. I’ve had Vanilla Porter for breakfast. I got to hear the little guy utter his first complete sentence. I baked bread. Shit is getting DONE around this house, know what I mean?

But I miss 12(ish) straight hours of downtime. The purr of those big Cats. The hiss of water along the hull. That gentle rocking motion ….

I’m sure I’ll get over it.

Just as soon as I get some sleep.

Garbled(a): The Words We Use

It's a few minutes after noon on Monday, and while my mother would like me to report that I'm having a cup of Joe(b), I'm actually on my second Vanilla Porter, because ... well, I can. What's the point in working a month straight with nary a sip of alcohol if I can't enjoy a day off?

It's merely warm here today, and I'm sitting on the patio of the local cafe surrounded by a decorative sampling of Austin's unemployed or otherwise idle.

Not quite everyone is taking a break. The fellow two tables down is conducting business. Something to do with platforms and developers and software. He appears to be speaking English, but I don't understand half of what he's saying.

It occurs to me that if he were a guest at my workplace, he might be equally in the dark.

As with many professions, seafaring has a language all its own. Some of it is traditional, some of it practical, some of it obscure, and much of it very useful.

As with all sorts of jargon, nautical terminology is used as a shorthand that permits a great deal of specificity (and efficiency) for things and actions that simply don't pertain to shoreside life.

It can be exclusionary; fluency in nautical jargon marks an insider, a member of the brotherhood. The opposite also is true. Get it wrong, and the old salts can get rather cranky(c).

The most basic convention a newbie should know is that in English all vessels (boats and ships) are feminine, even if they bear masculine names. Thus, the M/V Gary Rook or the U.S.S. John S. McCain, for instance, are both referred to as "she," as of course are M/V Lady Glenda and the U.S.S. City of Corpus Christi.

Why this is, especially in a language with largely gender-neutral nouns, is not clear. Some surmise that it dates to a time when ships were dedicated to goddesses, though I find this unpersuasive. Others say it is because sailors long considered themselves to be married to the sea, and transferred that relationship to their ships.

I would guess there is something to that: we certainly lavish a similar level of attention on our vessels as we do our significant others back on land. Or we should, anyway.

Many of us find a well-drawn vessel a thing of beauty, with curves that seem feminine. And as more than one wag has written: a ship behaves like a woman -- look after her, and she'll take care of you. Ignore her, she'll ditch you. You have to love your ship or she'll make you suffer.

While we no longer use miles and miles of cordage aboard non-towing commercial vessels, there is still a lot of rope on most boats. That rope is found in the form of dock and mooring lines, taglines, flag halyards and the odds-and-ends traditionally known as junk(d).

On my boat, when our dock lines become so worn as to be unservicable, we order rope -- usually it comes in a spool of a cable (100 fathoms(e), or 600 feet) or half-cable. It remains just "rope" until we've measured it and cut it and spliced eyes into the ends and employed it as dock line.

Rope is unemployed cordage; a line is a rope with a job.

With that said, it's not unusual in the Gulf of Mexico to hear someone speak of "throwing a rope," but I've never heard anyone say "dock rope, or "tag rope."

Sailing vessels have even more specialized lines: halyards, sheets, topping lifts, etc. They are, in every case, made of rope, though sometimes it is wire rope.

There is a a temptation to refer to the physical operation of a vessel as "driving," which is incorrect. One drives cattle, golf balls and trucks. A ship or boat is steered, conned or piloted, usually from a helm station. I personally prefer "piloting," as it connotes more than simply directing the direction of the vessel.To my ear, it includes things like coastwise navigation, radar observation and operating the radios.

Nonetheless, with a perverse pride in ignoring the proper terminology that only insiders are allowed, we sometimes speak among ourselves about "driving" the boat. We know we should say "steering," but because we know that we know, we can (with an appropriate feeling of irony) use the wrong term.

In the oilfield, I've run across some even more specialized terms. "On-tower," for instance, to describe being on watch. It's a drilling term meaning much the same thing and a carryover from the offshore rigs
we service.

One that puzzled me for a while (until a quick Google search revealed the answer) is the use of "Texas deck" to refer to the open deck aft of the wheelhouse.

I had guessed this had something to do with an innovation in crewboats or OSVs somewhere along the line, and I was prepared to be suitably proud that said innovation arose in my home state.

As it turns out, the term is a carryover from steam-powered river boats of the 1840s. Texas then was the newest -- and largest -- state in the Union, and the cabins on the deck aft of the wheelhouse were the largest cabins on the boats. Thus: Texas deck.

I have not yet discovered conclusive evidence, but I suspect that the use of the term "wheels" to refer to propellers also is a throwback to similar shorthand for the "paddlewheels" that drove the big river boats. Less happily, I admit that it could simply be an analogue to the wheels on a truck or a car.

Something I frequently hear new guys stumble over is the use of port(f) and starboard(g) for left and right, respectively. When referring to part of the boat, or when using the vessel as a reference point, port and starboard are the appropriate terms.

For instance: "... calling the vessel off my port bow," or "the third tire on the starboard side," or "I'll meet you port to port," or "today we're going to paint the starboard crash rail."

It's equally correct, though, to instruct a helmsman to "come right five degrees." But one could also say: "I'm altering my course to my starboard to cut your stern."

I've never had a problem with leeward and windward, perhaps because my nautical education began more than 30 years ago under sail, where knowing the strength, direction and effects of the wind are self-evidently important.

Surprisingly, in conversation I've encountered a few experienced captains who apparently aren't clear in their own minds that the lee side is the downwind side, and the windward side is the upwind side.

There is much more, of course. And I could have a field day(h) with the many words we use every day ashore that originated among sailors.

But I think I'll stop here for fear of seeming overbearing(i), or overwhelming(j) you, my gentle reader.

-------------------------------------
(a) "Garbling" was the practice of mixing worthless items or refuse with cargo, or the the practice of sorting-out the garbage from the good stuff. Today, of course, it means "muddled, mixed-up, distorted."
(b) Coffee, according to a U.S. Navy legend from Josephus Daniels, Secretary of the Navy under Woodrow Wilson in the early 20th century. Among his reforms of the Navy were the introduction of women into the service, and the abolishment of the officers' wine mess. From that time on, the strongest drink aboard Navy ships could only be coffee and over the years, a cup of coffee became known as "a cup of Joe".

(c) Irritable. From the Dutch krengd, an unstable sailing vessel. 

(d) Something of little meaning or worth, useless, discarded. But the original meaning was discarded, well-used cordage.
(e) Unit of measure that equals six feet. When we say we can't fathom something, we originally meant we couldn't get to the bottom of it.
(f) The left side of a vessel, so-called because that was traditionally the side along which a boat or ship made fast to the wharf or pier in order to protect the steering board.
(g) The right side, from "steering board," or steering oar. 
(h) A time of extraordinary pleasure or opportunity, originally a day for military exercises or review, but commonly used to denote a day for cleaning all parts of a vessel.
(i) Unpleasantly or arrogantly domineering, but originally to sail downwind directly at another vessel, thus stealing or diverting the wind from her sails.
(j) Overpowering in effect or strength, but originally Old English for capsize or founder.

Adventures in Boat Hopping: Prologue

Early last week, early in the afternoon after a long morning watch, and after I had managed maybe an hour of sound sleep, insistent rapping on my door woke me.

It was our training captain: "Gotta get up, man, you're going to the ____." Huh? What?!

Turned out one of the captains on another of the company's boats had a family emergency he needed to get home for, but the boat had just been called for a long run. The plan, approved by the office, was for us to swap boats, with his ride picking him up from my regular boat later in the day.

The other boat pulled into the slip and we laid alongside. I threw my bags over the rail and followed, clambering across the tires.

As I stepped into the house, the other captain rushed down from the wheelhouse, shook my hand, and said: "Let me show you a few things." Steering: switch it here and there. This is where you're going (it's in the GPS). The engineer knows the boat really well -- ask him if you have any questions. "Thanks again!" and he was gone.

Only then did it dawn on my sleep-befuddled brain that not only was I filling-in for a captain on the boat, I was filling-in for the captain presently on watch. The 100-mile run? That was going to be all mine.

The 24-hour watch. Awesome.

As it happens, it turned-out to be a pretty nice week. 

This other boat is the largest in our fleet -- on of two 172-footers -- and has been retrofitted with a Kongsberg Dynamic Positioning system. I didn't turn it on.

Staterooms are large (desks, even!) and mattresses relatively new and comfortable. More importantly, perhaps, the galley was well-stocked with Dr Pepper and the crew was both pleasant and helpful. Not to mention entertaining.

Not that the week was incident-free: we had a generator go tits-up halfway through a run and another evening had a scare with the air conditioning. 

The other watch lost our gangway right before a run, but the engineer and I went fishing when we got back and were able to recover it.

Like I said, a pretty good week. It's always interesting to learn a different boat and a different job and to meet new people. Here's hoping all my relief captain hitches go as smoothly.

It Never Gets Old, Does It?

The passenger came aboard late in the afternoon, just minutes after I had sterned-up at the crane.

"Where you headed?" I asked. He told me: the rig we work for.

"Did they tell you that you were leaving soon?" I asked. Nah, he'd been caught in some bad traffic on the West Bank and had missed the morning trip. He said he knew he might have to spend some time on the boat before we left.

The next morning I awoke to the thrumming of our engines and the hiss of water along the hull. As I stepped out on the back deck to drink my coffee, I saw the previous day's passenger standing at the railing with a serious case of bed head.

He turned from the railing, sweeping an arm over a slick sea reflecting the clouds climbing the horizon, and said: "It never gets old, does it?"

No, I agreed, it really doesn't.

I joke when I post on Facebook that all of these flat-sea-and-sunset shots are getting tedious. A friend of mine, another captain who works for us on another boat, recently posted a sunset photo with the caption: "Another boring Gulf sunset, blah, blah, blah ..."

We are not being serious.

We love the sunsets. And the sunrises. And the hugely starred sky. And the reflections of the clouds on the water. And the way we can sometimes see four different rain showers on the horizon.

It's a privilege of this work that we don't talk about a lot but surely is one of the reasons we keep showing up at our boats for one more hitch.

And it never, really, gets old.

And Ye Shall Know Them by What They Carry

Back in the day you could tell the licensed officers (at crew change and in transit, anyhow) by the briefcases they carried.

This was not merely an aspirational affectation; it was, more purely, practical.

You see, the Coast Guard requires us to carry our credentials with us when we’re working.

And until just a few years ago, an officer’s license was an eight-and-a-half by eleven certificate that could not be reduced, laminated, photocopied or otherwise altered.

Nowadays our licenses, ratings, endorsements and internationally recognized seaman’s identification document are all combined into one handy, little red book.

Not a Mao-type Little Red Book, but a passport-type little red book.

In fact, it easily could be confused for a passport, which sort of brings us full circle back to the days when mariners in this country carried a “Seaman Passport.”

The passport-style Merchant Mariner Credential doesn’t require a briefcase for transport, though a lot of the older guys still carry one out of habit.

Others, including me, carry sturdy backpacks.

It has everything I might need to quickly lay my fingers on during the course of my watch or my hitch: the aforementioned MMC and TWIC (transportation worker’s identification card), navigation and plotting tools, my laptop, wallet and keys, a few tools, extra pens, highlighters and grease pencils … that sort of thing.

Digging through my pack at the start of my watch tonight, I discovered a few extra items.

Like the I Want to be a Firefighter book I recently purchased for the 3-year-old. And a diaper, the 1-year-old’s size.

No big mystery. In the course of our recent travails (er … travels) to Chicago, we ditched the diaper bag in favor of my backpack. I guess it didn’t get completely reconverted upon our return.

It does serve as a poignant reminder of my bifurcated existence: vessel operator/licensed merchant marine officer/oilfield-boat-trash/hermit out here … and father/husband/handyguy back at the house.