Tubarao to Rotterdam Pt.1, 8th to 30th January 2009,
From the beginning of this voyage Second Officer complained that his back was in such a state that he could not fulfill his watch duties. I was once more made an acting 3rd Officer, and this time it was to be for the long-haul. I was assigned the 08.00 – 12.00 and 20.00 – 24.00 watches, and the grim AB Russell Briones was assigned as my look-out. Captain of course kept a close eye on me- but then he does this with everyone.
To begin with I had a nice quiet settling in period as we made our way north by east up the Brazilian coast, and into the Atlantic. Then as we approached the Equator the weather slowly grew more mild –much to my comfort. The sun’s declination at this time was around 20° South. This means that this was where the Earth was closest to the sun in this part of the world.. high summer. It is usual for the weather to get a little cooler and choppier around the equator for a couple of days. Faith N crossed the equator on my watch, and I felt like yet another feather could be added to my cap.
Work proceeded on deck as usual.. maintenence and renewal of everything is never ending on a ship this size. I started assisting chart corrections to make up for the loss of ou second officer.. which I found quite enjoyabe. Updated all our radio signals, sailing directions, and other admiralty encyclopediae. We thought Sameer must be going crazy after he first two weeks of never coming out of his cabin, and he certainly gained a bit of weight. Ths was amusing because befrehand he was a bit of a prima donna pretty boy and liked to show it off.
As we approached the African coast, the weather grew milder still, and I began to hope that we would avoid the searing heat of the winds offshore of the Moroccan Sahara. My wish was granted.. and the seas got a little choppier. In the morning watches, Chief Engineer and I would joke about the ship becoming the worlds largest submarine for half a minute or so at a time. As we crashed through sea created by force 6 and 7, there were times when the bow became almost fully immersed in the water. Keeping the ship on the track became a standard setting competition among the Captain and the other Officers, and I pleased to have gotten quite good at this, and in such weather and wind direction from around one point or fine on our port bow, and was keeping the ship within 0.01nm of the course-line for over an hour at a time –sometimes within 0.006 for more than 20 minutes. Still, I never seemed to be able to out-do Captain Pabla. The man is in fact a magician.
Further up the coast and the sky grew still darker and weather reports threatened us with force 8 and 9 winds. Occasionally we faced force 8. Steering became more difficult, and also we started running into substantially more vessels. One night I notice a blip on the radar which usually means a solid cloud. Like all such blips a targeted and monitored it for a while. After 15 minutes of watched it appear and reappear on the ARPA (Automated Radar Plotting Apparatus), and not getting it on our AIS (Automated Identification System), and further not getting any consistent vector pattern, I started to divide my attention on other necessary things. Then, the blip reappeared on the screen at 10 nm and Russel reported sighting the navigation lights two points off our starboard bow. We were on a collision course. Being that there was no AIS data I challenged the vessel immediately via VHF radio.. why would a vessel with no AIS be coming directly towards such a large and prominent radar target such as Faith N? Being that time was short I ordered the AB to switch to hand steering and began a course alteration 25° to starboard, as gradually as was appropriate. Such an alteration of course is the usual appropriate measure according to the Collision Regulations, as the vessel was approaching from our starboard side. Although we got a bit of a surprise the maneuver was done in more than good time. This initiated I called the Captain, and tried in vain two more times to hail the approaching vessel. Before the captain came onto the bridge I ordered another 5° to starboard which brought our CPA (Closest Point of Approach) to just over one and a half nautical miles –the way Captain likes it. As he came onto the bridge he questioned me easily about what the situation was. He maintained the course I had set the ship, and I didn’t get an ear-full from him – so that tells me I did exactly the right thing. As the vessel got closer we gradually shifted our head back towards our course line and just behind the stern of the crossing vessel. As she was abeam of us I tried a different tact on the radio… “Hola?”
“Hola, mi amigo!,Hablar Espaniol?” came the response..
“Ah, Hablar Ingles?”
“Poqueto Ingles, yes a little. Where are you headed my friend?”
Captain smiled as I gave the master of the fishing vessel both barrels for not responding in the first place.
As we came further north we passed Gibraltar and Portugal, and the sea got rough enough that all regular work on deck was halted. I began to really enjoy keeping watch from the wing, outside, as Russell began wearing his seafarers windbreaker and stopped venturing out more than a few meters from the side-door. I still wore my crisply ironed short-sleeve uniform. The ship rocked and rolled quite a bit and it was exhilarating to stand at the very edge… “The best place to keep watch from..” The Captain knew I was safe, and encouraged me as always to spend more time watching from the wings than inside the bridge –the etter view.
Then, on the evening of the 23rd just before my watch, I began getting annoyed with the movements of the ship as I tried to concentrate on writing assignments. I knew we were about to enter the Bay of Biscay, which is famous for it’s bad weather –so through this and our weather reports I was expecting a bit of rough weather. The time came and I put on my uniform and went upstairs to the bridge. Both sliding doors were closed, as usual. I checked our position etc in the chart-room and made my way onto the bridge proper. Captain seemed a little.. sedate, I thought at the time. Chief Officer was still there, as usual, and AB Eddie was hand steering. As you enter the bridge on the starboard side, you are met with by the ARPA instruments, which are often curtained so that you cannot see outside. I noticed there were a couple of other vessels around.. so nothing out of the ordinary. The wind seemed a little louder than usual.. before I got any further Chief Officer asked me to calculate the true wind-force and report the beaufort scale number. I caught a little bit of the familiar (and endearing) sadistic humour in his tone, and as I moved to see the digital anemometer I glanced at the deck.
The sea was rising vertically and in places arched over the deck. Titanic waves crashed into us and again rose vertically in malevolent and supernatural looking pillars and arches. “Sir, the beufort scale finishes at 12… which is 64 knots and above..” I was correct, of course. The wind that night rose to more than 120 knots. No one on board had ever encountered anything like it.. this time we really did become the worlds biggest submarine. For about nine hours we held our own against the hurricane, but only just.
The ship jarred again and again as waves well in excess of 20 meters pummeled the upper deck, destroying anything in it’s path. Steel folded, warped, and was shorn away. Lights and wiring were ripped out, structures and drums caved in, machinery was dismantled. Worst of all, the cargo hold ventilator mushrooms were ripped from the deck, and we began to take on water. Chief Officer stationed himself in the Ballast Control Room on the upper deck, and worked the bilge pumps to our best advantage. Some of the crew had assembled on the bridge and looked on astounded and helpless. Some of the crew cried. On the bridge the Captain was in total command, and I drolly kept our records straight, and made jokes about going swimming to the frightened assembly. Eventually I realized that this wasn’t helping matters as it would have my New Zealander brethren, and gave one of them my camera to try and raise spirits. I got back a video of about a minute of pitch black, occasionally a fuzzy light, and some background conversation in Hindi. I had more than my fair share to do on the bridge, and laid the ground for the Captain to make informed decisions.. My first act was to turn on all deck lights (some still worked). I monitored the water ingress system and communicated to the Chief Officer where we were taking in the most water. I took and plotted our position at regular intervals, managed communications, checked weather reports and warning signals passing on relevant information. Also barometer readings had to be kept by the hour, and I calculated the true wind speed and direction manually, as the ship’s digital meter only gives relative readings, and entered this and details of the sea state, compass errors, and other things into the logbook, and then I did whatever else needed to be done whilst barely managing to stay on my feet. I became a dancer on a moving cliff face, like everyone else that didn’t have the luxury to stay put and hold on to something. The other watch officers got their turn, sure enough. Even Sameer, our lame Second Officer had to turn to for duty at one point the next day.
At least two ships had to be abandoned in the bay on that watch, and two more on my morning watch. Captain stood at the radar station or stalked up and down the causeway behind the windshield, and I mean up and down, about 30° to 30° rolling and quite quickly alternating at that –calm, calculating, talking to other ship’s officer’s around us on radio, managing the damage where possible. Twice I gingerly negotiated the bridge wings with crew to secure items that threatened to damage the wheelhouse and windows, compromising command on the vessel, and I hung on to whatever was available. A steel box and it’s contents were being tossed and blown around like straw –I had to be careful no one got flattened by it as I lashed it to the monkey island stairway. Eventually the radar gear on the monkey island, around 35 meters above the upper deck, was destroyed. Our satellite phone went with it. We were nearly blind, but for our AIS. Hope we didn’t hit any fishing boats or anyone else not big enough to require AIS.
Several times for long periods of time the AB, then Russell, reported that the helm was not responding. During one of these periods, we pushed our way at only two or three knots north-by-east as close to our course heading as possible.. within a mile or so. A nearby vessel turned around and attempted to return along it’s course just astern of us, when it’s engines failed. She moved closer and closer towards us. Captain calmly informed the vessel’s master that they were drifting on a collision path with us, and they informed him just as calmly if a little perplexed, that there was nothing they could do about it. We could not alter course. Captain told the Chief Engineer not to hold back the revolutions on account of expense, and the engine room proceeded to wring as much power out of our main engine as they could. Slowly, slowly our speed increased and we put sea between us and the stricken ship. We didn’t have the freedom to look back.
There occasionally came waves MUCH bigger than the rest, and these gave us real cause to fear for our lives. Just as my watch ended at midnight, I handed the reigns over to the Third Officer and was about to report to the Chief Officer to find out what else I could do to help. I hadn’t left the bridge, when the ship pitched forward and rolled violently to starboard, and some of the crew lost their footing. All the water ingress alarms and a few others went off at once and I got a sinking feeling. The alarm was sounded and all crew were ordered to muster with life jackets and immersion suits on the bridge, the highest interior point on the ship. Our depth under keel at the time, which I also monitored, was around 3000m, and I didn’t like our chances in the lifeboats because of the strange forms the wind was blowing the sea into. As I made my way down to my cabin to collect my gear I stole the chance to smoke and looked out the port hole. The view was obscured by the salt water that had splashed on it, but up close I saw waves hammering A-deck below and noticed two of the emergency life-rafts had been washed overboard, and everything else including the embarkation ladder to the lifeboats was either missing or in a hopeless tangle with steel and electrical wiring. The deck where crew would have to muster and embark into the lifeboats was now “a dangerous place to be”. A mad thrill came over me, as I realized that the waves were higher than my porthole. I was overcome with the power and beauty of it, and realized how close to death we all were as the ship jarred again and again. I stubbed my cigarette out thoroughly and grabbed my knife, a torch, my cell-phone, and the disk I had backed up my photos, assignments, and the music I have been composing, along with my immersion-suit and lifejacket, and made my way back onto the bridge. I sat on the couch and waited, detached at times, and at other times contemplating mortality with everyone else.
Eventually the bilge pumps did their job and the danger was temporarily averted. Captain slowly brought the ship around until “windows” large enough to allow a deck party to make emergency repairs to the hold vents were made manifest. This would either be successful or we’d all drown. Bosun Manny, P.O. Fitter Rahul, myself, and two of the riding o/s got our gear on and went down to the BCR to report to the Chief Officer. My adrenaline was at a high and I felt myself wanting to get into it. I was, likely fortunately, disappointed. There were only 3 harnesses, which are necessary to attach to lifelines on deck. Only the C.O., P.O. and Bosun were “allowed” to go. I lent a hand on the steering flat until I was relieved and told to try to sleep. Water had leaked onto the steering flat, and some other bits and pieces had been shaken loose and perhaps threatened our ability to maneuver –which is not good. On returning, the Bosun told me that if there was another need to go out he would refuse.
It was impossible to sleep, and so I began composing with the synthesizer suite on my laptop. The track I’ve since entitled “Her Immanence,” and I suppose deals with my own thanatos. I also gazed out my port-hole quite a lot at the surreal, lethal and metered majesty of the worst sea in anyone’s memory, and lamented the fact that I couldn’t get any decent photos. Eventually I calmed down enough to realize that I was tired, my legs ached, I’d caught a bang or two somewhere along the nights events, and I needed to sleep. I did so as soon as I forgot that I might never wake up.
Wake I did, and as I reported for watch duty at 07.50 hrs sharp I noted our course heading had become.. improvised, and to cut a long story short we ended up anchoring in the wide mouth of Ria de Vivera, northern Spain in the Bay of Biscay, to lick our wounds.
More later, but I've included some of the damage photos we emailed to the company here. Oh yeah, Im now the official ship's photgrapher.
