Fireball

02:00 Monday, March 7, 2011

I snap into consciousness and check the radar, all clear, flittering dash lights making tracers at the edge of eyesight. I find the bearing line to our waypoint, which sways from port to starboard as we corkscrew into swells, but we're on course. Geovan's still there, staring straight ahead, drumming on his thighs with his hands like he's got some inner concert going to keep him awake. As synapses reconcile, an odd glow beyond the bow, a pale orange iridescence defining the sky. I scan the bridge and look astern but only blackness--and then a body materializes, leaning against the chart table and it gives me a start. A lithe and childlike form shuffling papers, it's Raimundo.

I shift my weight to reconfigure my place, receive a bolt of pain through the lower back. Conversation among the others, they swap out and Geovan heads below. Raimundo speaks a few words and starts his miming again, but I'm not in the mood and he gets the point. We ride in silence as the bow dips and rises, light visible at the zenith of swells--but not ordinary light, not running lights on a vessel, it's way too bright. It's fire. It disappears as we descend, remains invisible through heaving and pitching, but the sky is a luminous orb above the horizon, the coloration undeniable, no visual hoax.

It's not unusual to see flame at offshore installations. Gas is a byproduct of drilling and rigs vent and burn gas as they go about their business. One of the creepiest things I saw in the Gulf of Mexico, aside from the Macondo well disaster, came in thick fog during the middle of the night somewhere south of Port Fourchon, a flame reflecting in water droplets, turning the atmosphere a lambent orange, nothing visible aside from luminescence. You could walk a few paces onto the deck and lose sight of everything, even your boots, envelop yourself in the cadmium glow. There was obviously a platform burning gas, although we never saw it, navigating solely by radar.

In time the blaze is unmistakable, a fiery ball upon the horizon like a lollipop. The single side band is above the chart table, Raimundo retrieves and dials. I'm lost to all of it, even the numbers. We're approaching SS 68, "West Taurus" it says on the AIS, and I know sessenta e oito but it doesn't sound the same. I ask Raimundo about it when he's done, and it seems there's a substitute for sixty pronounced like "mayo" so that 62 can be "mayo-dois" instead of "sessenta e dois". So the West Taurus is in SS 68, "essa-essa, mayo-oito", and it's sporting an incredible ball of flame, a staggering sight, a truly remarkable vision. I feel as if I should comment somehow, and I speak to Raimundo in English, but it garners no response. He has no idea what I'm saying.

For an hour the fireball grows, steadily devouring the sky, transforming the celestial sphere into a spectral radiance. Again a series of dots on the radar, fishing boats, and soon I see them through the window. They're lit like jack-o'-lanterns by the nefarious flame, trailing to the southwest, tethered to a platform leg and then together, four of them stretch a quarter mile or more, all bouncing crazily in the fierce, churning sea. Raimundo's switched to VHF 12 and he's talking to the platform, his face bathed in orange light, his chin stubble glistening. "Bombordo, Cap-i-tan," he speaks and disappears below. I pull back the throttles and come to a drift well clear, calculating the bizarre scene before me, bombordo is port, and this is insane, they wants us on the windward side. The wind and sea come from the east, and with the fishing boats trailing southwest, there must be a southern current. The mighty fireball shoots westward and looks like it's too close to those boats. It's got to be hot.

I let the boat drift and note our course over ground off the gps, 232, check it by the compass, and find the port-side crane of the platform. I would have to bow-up indeed, to put the bow into the swells instead of the stern, which is the safer way to do things on a crew boat. But the platform's starboard crane is too close to the flame, we would cook ourselves going in. Already it's intense, from nearly a quarter-mile, I open the bridge hatch and I'm blasted by radiant heat. Raimundo reappears with Geovan in tow, and I think I understand their schedule--the AB's, the able-bodied seaman or deckhands--they're working four-hour blocks of watch: Raimundo's got the 2 to 6, Charles the 6 to 10, and Geovan the 10 to 2, all am and pm. But that's only eight hours per day, so they're on standby for another 4-hour block, pitching in for offshore ops or for docking, whenever we need two people on deck at a time.

I've swapped to the stern controls, we're inching forward into the seas. An engineer appears, I don't know him yet, he tells me the C9 is ready, the "see-novi", easy enough to make out, it's the tunnel thruster on the bow, a green light beside the toggle confirms his declaration. These conditions are ridiculous. The seas are at least 10 feet, our wind gauge broken, but it's got to be driving 25 knots, gusting more. No one would ever off-load a crew boat like this in the Gulf. A crew boat isn't made for this. It's got a little, pointy bow, unlike the broad, often bulbous creations on steel ships made for sea. The guys are all standing there, acting like this is normal. I've got the bow at 40 degrees but I've got to come right to 52, the reciprocal course of our drift. That way the elements will take us directly into the platform, and I can pull straight away if necessary, avoid getting sideways in the swells. We fall to starboard just a touch and I'm there, heading 50 degrees. Now I can back straight to the platform crane, letting the wind and seas carry the boat into position, keeping the rudder amidships and using the two outboard engines to bump forward and check our speed of drift. When the bow begins to fall, I sit on the thruster, but the swells are too big. I lose it and we're sideways, another wave and we're dangerously close to the platform. I jam all four engines into gear and pull away, shouting an expletive.

I sense the guys looking at me while I reset the boat, get the bow pointed northeast again and bounce forward. Again I take in the scene, the West Taurus and it's violent, inimical flame. I look at all three crew members, my crew members, Raimundo, Geovan, an engineer. Raimundo speaks, "Você okay, Cap-i-tan?" He's asking me if I'm okay, fucking great. This time the bow's holding. "What do they want?" I practically shout, pointing to the deck. Raimundo and Geovan bolt to the cargo, tapping on a square container, medium sized and midship. They snap chin-straps, we surge aft-ward. I bump forward a couple times real easy, look over my shoulder to check the compass, we're holding at 55. The crane cable is coming down, a 'stinger' at the end, the hooking device, but the crane operator better hurry. "Cable down! Cable down!" I'm yelling. I pick up the VHF and yell again, "Cable down!"

When the stinger reaches deck, Raimundo gets a hand on it, but we pitch and heave and his tiny frame is slung like a rag doll. Let go! He lets go in time before he hits anything, but that did not look good. "I can't believe we're doing this," I catch myself saying aloud. I pull forward again before the sea pushes us into the platform, the bow holding at 50. I touch the thruster to port, we begin to drift back. This time, Raimundo holds the D-ring of the lift and Geovan goes for the stinger. He's got it! They connect. And for a moment, we're in no man's land, on the windward side of the platform, unable to escape. If I pulled out now, it would rip the aluminum side-rails right off the boat. It's up to the crane operator, he's got to pick the lift and finally does, engines forward, I pull away.

That's it for 68, our next destination westward, we'll surf the swells, an easy ride. When dusk arrives to establish serenity, Diniz appears to assume the watch. I retreat to the crew quarters and into the galley, realize I haven't eaten since I got on the boat--or since I threw up. I scan the pantry for crackers and procure a sleeve.

sleep

18:00 Sunday March 6, 2011

Exhausted at 18:00, again delirious and nodding off, I can't wait to climb into my bunk, to relax vertical even if I can't fall asleep with the boat rolling and pitching and pounding. I've been on watch for six hours, and I was told all the Brazilian captains work six-hour rotations, someone on the 12 o'clock to 6 o'clock, am and pm, and someone on the 6 o'clock to 12 o'clock, am and pm. I haven't discussed any of it with Diniz, but after last night it looks like I'm working roughly 12 to 6, and it's 18:00, 6 pm, so where is he? I need bed. Raimundo's already swapped out and Charles is riding shotgun, another friendly type but I'm too far gone to speak.

We're pulling 18 knots in a side sea, haven't lost any time, the ocean swells arriving from starboard. Awhile back, I hooked up the engines, put the throttles to the dash just to see, but an engineer showed up and asked me to pull them back, not to exceed 1450 rpm. I'm used to driving crew boats in the Gulf of Mexico at full throttle, terribly inefficient, practically doubling fuel consumption with very little increase in speed, but that's how things are done in the Gulf. Shocking at first, one gets used to anything. I've been subjected to fuel audits on an Apache contract running out of the Calcasieu River, La., near Texas, a guy shows up with sounding sticks, sprinkles them with Ajax to sound the tanks, says the company has a "fuel problem", and basically accuses us, in a nice-enough way, of selling diesel to shrimp boats. I've heard it was done by crews back in the day. It would work like this: a boat under contract charges it's fuel to the company they're hauling cargo for, and the boats report fuel consumption to dispatchers once during the day. A crew boat burns so much diesel, 3,000 gallons or more in 24 hours, that no one is going to notice a few hundred gallons here or there. A boat could stop somewhere offshore, pump two or three hundred gallons to a shrimp boat for $2 or $3 per gallon in cash, save the shrimper a few hundred dollars, and divide the cash among the crew, add that amount of fuel to the daily consumption report, and no one's going to know. A crew could do that a few times per hitch and go home with an extra thousand bucks or more in their pockets, but I can't imagine it's done much anymore, too much traffic. Plus, captains are paid pretty well these days, so surely less will risk their job selling diesel. I've never worked with a captain who would do such a thing.

At 18:18, I've had enough, I bolt downstairs and bang on the cabin door, Diniz's cabin--our cabin! He opens and speaks but I head straight back to the bridge, contemplating fuel to keep my mind on something. Apache had a fuel problem alright, but it was due to the inefficient use of their fleet. Dispatchers would load our boat with a single lift, another boat with a single lift, and send both boats to the same field 115 miles offshore, to platforms within a few miles of each other. It's like working for the military, from what I've been told, astonishingly inefficient. But the companies are making so much money per well that boat fuel is easily written off as an operating expense, a drop in a pan. Every crew boat captain in the Gulf has stories of running a newspaper to an offshore installation, burning hundreds of gallons, thousand dollars of diesel to deliver a Sunday edition of the Times-Picayune.

And fuel itself can become a game in the Gulf. The first captain I trained with in Louisiana took great pride in his ability to 'make' fuel or oil during a contract job. When a boat goes under contract, the fuel and oil tanks are sounded and recorded, and when the boat is released from charter, the chartering company is responsible to return the fuel and oil to the prior levels. Captains will offer to sound the tanks for the auditor and then not dip the stick all the way into the tank. By playing with numbers, an inch or two on the stick, it's simple enough to shave thousands of gallons of fuel, and a barrel or two of oil, and charge it to the contract company, save your boss a few thousand dollars. I have seen that done.

At 18:24, Diniz finally appears, speaking Portuguese and his broken English but I can't take it. I head below, climb and collapse into my bunk, grasping for sleep, wishing I could just sleep, I pop a meclazine, a sea-sick pill, and eventually lose consciousness.


I wake at 22:03. I've been on the boat for 24 hours. We're pitching, beating our way forward, if anything, it's gotten worse. I have a vague need to piss, but no way I'm getting up. I try to judge speed and engine revolutions, beyond half-throttle but reduced, no way to run the engines hooked up in this shit. At least the Brazilians don't mind slowing down. I've worked with captains in the Gulf who would pound crew boats into swells and pump water off to lighten the boat, to pick up a couple of knots, maybe 22 to 24, impossible here anyway. I sense minutes tick from the clock, from my life, 60 days on this boat--no way, an insufferable amount of time. If I can just make one paycheck, I'll be fine.

I'm conscious when my alarm sounds at 23:45, remain immobile until 23:53, I've got to make a move, throw on a hat, lace boots, grab a water bottle, stop at the head and lean my back against the bulkhead, one hand on the rail, the boat's all over the place. I spray the toilet area and try to wipe it up with a paper towel. I arrive on the bridge blind, the gradual glow of instruments registering, I see Diniz sliding out so I take the helm. He mumbles something to Geovan riding look-out, I say "goodnight", boa noite. Once in the chair, I do feel better, but I'm faced with six hours before I can return to my bunk, and already the lower-back void is conveying vague pain. We're heading to SS 68 with an ETA of 03:45.

A couple days back, during my perfunctory orientation at headquarters, I heard a group of American big-boat captains discuss the 6-hour watch schedule in Brazil. They're all used to working 12-hour watches in the Gulf or other parts of the world, and they find the 6-hour watch strange, the captain-turned-office guy called it "ridiculous", a "do-nothing" watch. I'm not even sure what he means by "do-nothing", I mean we're running the boat, right? But I was the only captain in attendance headed to a crew boat, and therein lies the significance, the polarity of being. The big work-boats are just not doing much. They obviously spend the majority of their time standing by offshore, bobbing to and fro in the swells, but they're on DP, at least in 'auto-along' mode. A boat is not supposed to stay on DP when standing by for more than 30 minutes. They also have to move out of the 500 meter safety zone--away from the platform where a loss of engine power or serious shift in the elements could result in an accident. But they can use partial DP by setting the 'auto-along', which will check the fore and aft movement of the vessel with reduced engine power and keep the boat heading into a swell and out of the trough, where it will roll severely, and that's got to make a huge difference to the captain on watch. All boats will naturally drift into the trough if left alone, they're all designed that way. If we're stuck standing by, I've got to manually engage engines to pivot the boat back and forth to keep it from rolling. It gets tiring after hours, and many captains will just let it go and deal with the roll, which is fair enough as long as no one is trying to cook or do anything aside from sit and brace themselves. One thing at least is sure about the watch schedule on a crew boat: no one could pull 12 straight hours of this shit. Even the hardened, veteran crew boat captains are doing sixes in Brazil.

I glance at Geovan who looks to be the youngest crew member, a blockish head and body lit by the glow of instruments. We've been introduced, rode out together last night, but I try to get further. He's from Fortaleza, which I've actually heard of and read about. It's up north and on the coast, a reportedly beautiful spot with surfing and sand dunes. I ask him if he's married and he is, children, he says "seven". He looks like a kid to me. "You've got seven kids?" I ask. Você tem sete filhos? "Não!" he bursts out laughing. He has one kid, a seven-year-old daughter. We let the laughter fade. It turns out he's 27.

Geovan breaks the silence, speaks directly in Portuguese, not even attempting English, and I'm drawn to it, my opportunity to learn. I frequently ask him to repeat, repetir, por favor, and so many of the words are that way, just like English but with different endings and pronunciation. If I hear it enough, my brain has occasion to forge a connection, to bridge a gap, to assimilate as knowledge the bits of interaction. He's describing his family, his town or life and he's lost me, but then there's still some miming--but continuing to speak, he strums an air guitar or some stringed instrument--he says not a guitar. But he's a musician, I understand. The effort tires me and I begin to drift, wafting recognition, I check the radar and nothing on a 16-mile scan, a lone ship on the AIS, a growing CPA, closest point of approach. My eyelids close, I bid them open, they seal again. I let Geovan know I'm nodding off, make sure he understands, that he's aware, then I succumb to sleep, I let go.

Raimundo

15:00 Sunday, March 6, 2011

With boots on the dash in a gap between engine control monitors and a bank of shaft tachometers, my head rests on the pale blue vinyl of the pilot chair, metal springs underneath absorbing shock. At 15:05, the vessel yaws in a following sea, motoring roughly 247 degrees at 18 knots. I've got Raimundo riding look-out. He's tuned the single side band to 4125, and it crackles and spits and blends into silence as we ride without tunes or conversation. Faced with an uncomfortable void in the lower back area, I shift from hip to hip, and so does Raimundo, looking at me from time to time like he wants to speak, his head angles and bobs on a long and thin neck, and either he struggles to find English or doesn't want to bother me, hidden behind my sunglasses, I wonder what he sees.

I glance at our ETA, 16:15, and check our speed, watch tenths of miles tick from the 'distance to waypoint', but there's nothing on the radar for 12 miles, a sea that must brim with life beneath the surface void. Then I see vessels on the horizon, what look to be derrick towers poking skyward. Raimundo's practically squirming in his chair, so I break the silence, ask him where he's from,"De onde você é?"

It's as if his tiny body deflates from the relief of a pressure. He twitches, nearly spastic, "Isla Grande." Grande comes out like grungy with the swapped consonant sounds. He says it twice, the second more animated, as if his enunciation should express the grandiosity of the place. It's an easy translation, Big Island, imagine that. He's waving his arms to portray big, then a pinch with the thumb and forefinger, small. "Grande, pequeno". He's teaching me. "Big and small." I announce in English. "Yes! Cap-i-tan." It's an emphatic response like he's surprised I can speak.

"Rio aquí, Cap-i-tan." He holds up a left fist and pats it with his right hand, then points at the binnacle, South, drops the word bus, it's 'boose', and then points to the clock and holds up fingers like we're playing charades, until he finds the English word time and he's out with it excitedly. It's two or three hours by bus from Rio, which he pronounces 'Hee-o'. I venture, "Duas horas, três horas," and again he's excited by my response. I try a few more things back and forth, but he keeps miming and speaking to me in broken Portuguese. I guess he thinks I won't understand his Portuguese, which I won't, but I need to hear it if I'm going to learn.

We ride again in silence until Raimundo picks up the SSB, call's our destination. I can pick "uma hora fora," one hour out, but I'm lost to the rest. He's thumbing the stack of paperwork and obviously explaining what we have for delivery. I've got SS 77 on the radar, and on the AIS, it's the Victoria. The target is ovated on screen, an odd clump to one side, and as we draw closer, the dot mutates and multiplies into individual targets, a series of buoys or other vessels at the rig, nothing on the AIS.

Raimundo wishes to speak, and I solicit response with a lone word, familia. "Minha familia, Cap-i-tan," and he lightens up with pleasure. He's got three kids, a 27-year old daughter, a son early twenties, jovem e forte, young and strong--I get that from another round of charades--unlike himself he says, old and weak. His son is a surfer, lots of them on the island, and he also has a 7-year-old girl, I think granddaughter at first, but no, a daughter, Vilma. His granddaughter is a baby--bebê, the same word in every language--his older daughter's, a one-year-old named Chloe.

"Irmao muito bom, cap-i-tan, muito bom…" Children are the best and more I can't follow. He launches into another round of enacting. He has a kayak, it's the same word, he takes Vilma and she loves it. He says he should be home with the kids, especially Vilma, she's so young, impressionable, to play with them, to sleep. I've been told each of the crew works 28's, four weeks on the boat followed by four weeks of vacation. I inquire to Raimundo and he confirms. I remind him he's making money for his family, dinheiro, with a 'g' sound, the rubbing fingers, an international sign. "Yes, cap-i-tan, obrigado!" It's thank you.

On radar targets now visible, the Victoria, a square, semi-submersible drilling platform, chained to the ocean floor but staying in place under engine power with dynamic positioning. We're in 5,000 feet of water. It's a similar outfit to the Deepwater Horizon, the one that blew up last summer in the Gulf, although I never saw that one directly. The southwestward trail of dots are fishing vessels, four of them, fairly small boats maybe 25 to 30 feet long, I can't believe they're out this far, nearly 200 miles from land. They're all tied together and tethered to a platform leg because it must be too rough to fish. They're bobbing up and down like corks in the 6 to 8 foot swells. I would expect that's miserable.

Raimundo's on the VHF now, boreste, cap-i-tan, he points to starboard. I think it's my second lesson of port and starboard, bombardo and boreste. Atop the platform, a helicopter landing pad is usually the identifier of what's considered the bow of the square structure. They want us on the leeward side, which is nice, but the fishing boats are in the way. I top the boat around and get the stern into the swells, back toward the line of fishing boats. It doesn't look like they're going to move.

"What the hell are they doing there?" I speak but no one's here to understand. They obviously want me to go in there and offload, with those fishing boats in the way. Our horn is atop the wheelhouse at the bow, so I spin the boat around again and sound a long blast. That wakes a few people up. Gradually they appear on deck, surprisingly spry, several smoking, they crank engines and man lines, and eventually move out of the way. They probably expect a DP vessel, I make eye contact and wave, but I'm not about to take this conventional boat in there with those fishing vessels, they've got the whole sea, we've got to be right here.

Once the fishing boats disperse, Raimundo has woken Geovan, and they make an easy click, a rectangular tool-basket, stern into the swells, a simple matter, and we're out of there standing by for our next destination, it's NS 28, another 55 miles but northwest this time, bearing 311 degrees, we're gonna roll.

FSV

12:00 Sunday, March 6, 2011

I lay in a thin bunk, my back pressed against the aft bulkhead to compensate for the pitch and roll of the vessel. Despite severe exhaustion, I hardly sleep, only rest with eyes closed and in the absence of conventional slumber experience a new type of dream, conscious visions in which I participate, steering the malleable into reverie and wrestling with the dark. With ear plugs intact, sound carries through skin and viscera and resonates in bone, the rumbling engines, hydraulic circulations, sonic friction on the hull, the gurgling and churning impediment to the vessel's advance. I prepare to rise, but I've got to climb out of the top bunk and it's a miserable proposition.

You might think a slow-rolling boat would aid sleep, but a crew boat underway makes sudden jarring movements that negate any benefit of a rocking-cradle motion. It has to do with the design of the hull and the speed at which it is navigated--the whole intention of the boat. The fast supply vessel, the FSV, aka crew boat, is an aluminum boat built primarily to 'hot shot' cargo to offshore installations. The larger, steel-hulled OSV's (offshore supply vessels), aka 'workboats', have greater deck space and internal tanks with transferable fluids such as water or barite, a mud used in drilling. The OSV's are designed to stay at sea for weeks at a time, even months, mostly standing-by but always acting as a warehouse for the platform, which itself has limited deck space. When an installation needs something quickly from shore, they call a crew boat, which is built for haste and not for a good ride. While crew boats are constructed larger each year and some reach nearly 200 feet in length, this boat is 165, they're designed with a planing hull, or at least semi-planing, meaning they are capable of creating dynamic lift. An increase in speed will decrease the draft and bring the vessel slightly out of the water. It takes an astonishing amount of energy to pull that off on a boat this size. Six thousand horses at full throttle, guzzling collectively 300 gallons of diesel in an hour. But you can forget about all that in heavy seas.

I sense fluctuations in RPMs and then I've no doubt, we're slowing down. When the engines are out of gear, it's my opportunity to move, to throw on a hat and make for the head, to brush my teeth while I can. It's remarkably calm for some reason and I could even shower, but pass on the opportunity to take a sweep around the boat. It's obviously nicer than the one I left yesterday, although I immediately recognize there's only one shower for the 9 dudes aboard, a second toilet upstairs. There's a nice table in the galley but no windows, below deck, level with the engines. Above on the main deck, they've removed most of the benches commonly found on a crew boat. I've already been told we won't be carrying passengers and wouldn't expect it--another anomaly of the moniker 'crew boat', that one carries primarily cargo. When I received my first offers from workboat companies along the Gulf of Mexico, I had my choice between crew boats and workboats at basically the same pay. I went with the crew boat thinking it would be an easier transition, simpler carrying passengers and "some" cargo, they told me. That wasn't true, but now I don't know why it would matter anyway. I'd been on small cruise ships prior, having fun for a living.

One of the benches is outside on deck, underneath the bridge overhang and next to the house. I hadn't noticed it last night when boarding. It's intensely bright, a mid-day sun casting rays, and we're in the lee of a huge drill-ship, thus the calm. It says 'Dynamic Producer' on the bow and flies a Vanuatuan flag at the stern. It's either a drill ship or an FSPO, a floating production, storage and offloading unit. I don't know enough about it at first glance, only seen one like it in the Gulf, but I know it's tethered to the sea bed with chain but stays in place under engine power using dynamic positioning (DP), a computer controlled propulsion system utilizing position reference systems such as (differential) GPS, wind and motion sensors, and gyro compass. The engines will counter the forces affecting the vessel and keep it in place. All workboats (the OSVs) have DP now, and lots of crew boats do as well, but not this one.

I climb to the bridge and exchange "bon dias" and get the thumbs up sign from Captain Diniz and two of the crew who are all huddled over the chart table consulting a stack of paperwork. We've only got three lifts on deck toward the stern: two square, enclosed containers (what we call grocery boxes in the Gulf) and a long and open rectangular basket with tools. I check the GPS and we're nearly 200 miles from shore. There's no one at the stern controls and we're slowly drifting away, so I gesture first then take a seat. Absorbed in paper work, they pay me no mind. This boat's a quad screw with electronic throttles and two, tunnel bow-thrusters, a huge improvement over that old triple, the pneumatic dinosaur from yesterday. Maybe I'm lucky after all. I spin the wheel and the rudder to port and engage two engines, the starboard outboard in forward, and the port inboard in reverse. The boat squirms for a moment then walks against the current. Walking a boat is moving sideways. If you've only got conventional wheels as opposed to z-drives that spin 360, or some similarly fancy set-up, you'll move slightly forward in a walk with two engines because the boat is designed to move forward and the propeller that's pushing will prevail over the reverse. To compensate, you can pop the forward-turning engine in and out of gear, checking the momentum of the boat. You can also incorporate the other two engines for subtle adjustments, the port outboard and the starboard inboard, which can pivot the boat while in a walk. There's also the bow thruster.

"Dormiu bem, Cap-i-tan?" It's one of the ABs (able-bodied seaman, a professional deckhand), a thin and wiry man with greying hair and friendly face. It takes a moment to click, did I sleep well? I find myself saying yes, thank you, even though I didn't. After a moment of reconsideration, I raise my hand with palm down, rotating back and forth. "Oh, mais ou menus, Cap-i-tan." More or less, I've learned a new phrase. "Nao muito bem." Then an earful I can't understand. I get an exchange of names from the ABs. The thin older man is Raimundo, the 'R' pronounced 'H', (Hai-moon-do). He's friendly and animated, apparently a jokester. The other guy, younger, also short, is Charles, which is easy enough, but pronounced with an 'sh', (Sharles). He's reserved but also friendly. I tell them to call me Christopher. I've already started with 'Chris' to a few locals, but the Brazilians seem to latch on quicker to the full name.

Transmissions from VHF 72, all in Portuguese, Diniz answers the call and I can tell they're ready for us without translation. I see the ship's huge knuckle-crane unfurling. I pivot the boat out of a walk and place the rudder amidships, back straight with the two outboards. "OK, cap-i-tan," Raimundo speaks, and then he and Charles fasten chin-straps on their hardhats and head to the aft deck. They're two huge fenders, "Yokohamas", between us and the ship, but on the lee side we're in little danger. It's a simple matter of pivoting with the outboards and backing slightly to keep the boat in place. Normally I would communicate with the crane operator, find out what lift is going up, check in for sake of safety, but there's the language thing, and it doesn't really matter now. I ease back as the crane cable descends toward a grocery box and the ABs close in, Charles catching the stinger of the crane cable and Raimundo holding up the D-ring of the sling on the cargo box. They connect, hustle away and the box shoots skyward. Piece of cake.

I keep hearing "Gina" on the radio at the beginning and ending of transmissions. I inquire about it and realize it's their pronunciation of 'Dyna', as in Dynamic Producer, the ship. The 'd' becomes a 'g' sound in Portuguese when followed by certain vowels. I guess I knew that already. I find the language expressive, animated and highly inflected. It reminds me of listening to a Greek family I worked for in a restaurant many years ago, although the Greeks were more fiery than what I've detected from the Brazilians. Although I know the similarities exist, Portuguese doesn't sound to me much like Spanish, maybe a bit like French, somewhat German, maybe there's another characteristic from a northern european tongue. It's hard to peg.

We stand around for a few minutes awaiting further orders, and apparently that's it for this location. A final transmission and we're ready to go. "Essa Essa, sete-sete," Diniz says, 'SS 77'. It's a block number, I presume. I've noticed a printed list of waypoints by the helm, so I find SS 77 and punch it in. Simple enough. It's 68 nautical miles away, bearing 250, and I'm a bit surprised. In the Gulf, 68 miles would be a fairly long run by itself from the dock, an unlikely distance for a crew boat to hop around offshore. I pivot the bow and pick up the engines.

"Etta, etta," I hear, they're looking at me. Then it clicks, ETA, they want an ETA. It's currently 12:41. Out of the lee, I see swells 6 to 8 feet, but they'll push this time and we should make 20 knots and arrive in three and a half hours. It should be a good ride. Apparently content, Diniz heads below, Charles follows, and I'm left with Raimundo in the look-out chair. Surfing with seas astern and a NE wind aiding our advance, with the autopilot steering the course, with cerulean crystals and salty white caps spread before us, with movement to free thought from physical confinement, I find relaxation in the moment and nestle into undulations, the dips between swells, puddles of abandon.

mar aberto

16:55 Saturday, March 5, 2011

Late afternoon, I'm back on the bridge, scrolling and clicking my way through computer files and programs, ignoring a headache in an attempt to learn what I can of the job ahead, the particulars and paperwork that all the captains in the company complain about. I scribble notes and acquire lists of daily, weekly, monthly procedures, posing questions to Richard who stays occupied giving orders. I'm very leery of the power-vacuum that will exist when he leaves in five days. A cargo-transfer program provides a template of the deck where I can click and drag to create boxes, digital representations of what we carry, inside which one clicks to register a weight and material code. I'll have to print, stamp and sign documents for nearly anything we do--multiple forms for each person and activity on board, safety meetings, "hazard hunts", declarations of security--then scan them all for transfer to company archives. In this industry, safety is a piece of paper with a signature, and all veterans preach and follow what's known as CYA, cover your ass.

Never the computer type, my mind wanders with my eyes to the panorama of Guanabara Bay, where from the Brasco dock I see the entire spread of central Rio on the opposite bank, the foreground of spectacular mountains covered in lush green or bared by gravity in sheer cliffs and overhangs, angular crests jutting chaotically into a pale blue sky. There's Pão de Açúcar, sugar loaf, where James Bond fought Jaws in 'Moonraker'. There's Corcovado, the hunchback, atop which the great statue of Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer, stands perpetual watch over the city and bay and is visible for 10 miles or more.

I'm overcome by a sudden curiosity and the realization I haven't looked at a proper chart of the area, as if extraneous particulars are somehow more important than navigating the waters. Although I suppose extraneous particulars are the job, and driving the boat is the easy part. The charts are rolled, rubber-banded and racked overhead. I pull 1511, Barra de Rio de Janeiro, and our position is easy enough to find, a few hundred meters from the mammoth Rio-Niteroi Bridge that dissects Baía de Guanabara, an immense body of water that extends maybe 20 miles inland toward a row of jagged peaks where it's fed by multiple rivers. I 'walk-off' the bridge on the chart and its more than five miles long. I locate the legendary beaches, Copacabana and Ipanema, just out of sight and beyond the bay, behind Pão de Açúcar. There's a domestic airport on the waterfront, what looks to be re-claimed land adjacent to the city center. Planes approach from the bay and take off into the face of mountains seaward. It's an unusual spot for an airport, yet impressive. A shroud of smog trails into a southwestern valley and, eventually, begins to fuse with the descending sun to dye the sky a sooty orange.

"You look tired, you should get some rest." I am again in need of a good night's rest. Richard directs me to the master's cabin, about 12 cubic feet of deck space next to two bunks. He's cleared his shit from the top bunk and piled it onto his bed. The tiny closet consists of one full shelf and a hanging bar--as if someone on a boat like this would hang clothes. The mattress looks reasonable, but there's nowhere to put my bag. I'll have to sleep with it or leave it on the deck. None of this deal is quite what I had in mind, but at least life is interesting again. I return to the bridge for my briefcase, and Alan, the port captain, says he needs a word with me. Alan's a young, handsome guy with an angular, stubbled chin and good English, and I've been told he's leaving for the US soon to work in some capacity with American operations. He leads me to the small deck space aft of the bridge where the lift rafts rest in their cradles. He wears a dour expression, as if he's something serious to say. We're observing the back deck until he starts, "The company needs a favor, Christopher."

He speaks deliberately and pauses. "There is a Brazilian captain on one of our boats. He is alone as captain, no American on board… maybe for some time." Again he pauses, as if he's gonna let me put things together, and I've got the idea by the time he speaks again, "The boat must go to sea tonight, but the captain says he will quit." Alan's looking at me as if he asked a question. "Ok," I manage to get out. I wanna say, "You're kidding, right?" Or, "Do I have a choice in the matter?" But he's quite serious, and instead of a question, I let out a laugh, a bit of a chuckle, and I can tell I've perplexed him. I've been here about six hours. At least I didn't unpack.

On the bridge, Richard, with lips pursed in disappointment, has obviously been informed of my impending exit and knows his relief is about to walk off the boat. "He'll try to get you back here soon," Richard informs. "I was looking forward to working with you, teaching the job… and to going home next week. We'll try to get you back here by Tuesday," which I immediately recognize as a bad idea--returning to this boat to take over without training. I retrieve my bag, get a "best of luck", a handshake, and a quick summary of the chart. "You'll be leaving from Docas here, and its easy to get out of the bay. Follow the wharf and keep to the right, this island to port. There's a red and green here, then a straight shot to the sea buoy." He's right, it looks easy enough: a flashing white marking the entrance to the bay, an island in the middle but big enough to be obvious on radar. Otherwise, plenty of water everywhere, as in no shallows, even outside the channel.

In moments, I'm a passenger in a water taxi crossing beneath the endless bridge, a swirling breeze and a sour stink of foul water, and somewhere in the bay, as adrenaline replaces exhaustion, as we approach the lights of Rio de Janeiro, somewhere betwixt and between bewilderment and dread, I experience a great thrill, a surge of life, and when it arrives it sends a sensation across my skin, a prickling down my spine, and for a moment I transcend wind and water, confusion and clarity, past and future.

Nearing the city, there's thumping music coming from one of the wharf's by a cruise ship terminal. The Carnival rages, I've nearly forgotten. The young guy running the boat looks at me with a smile and a thumbs up. He's speaking and I have to lean in. "Heavy!" I think he says in English. We hug the docks around a bend and continue further inland passing container ships and tankers and tugs. In my residual conviction, I've another revelation: that if this captain is running the boat by himself, a boat that operates 24 hours a day for days at a time, he's got to be exhausted for one--but he must also be letting deckhands and ABs drive the boat while he sleeps, waking up to maneuver at the rigs and platforms and docks. If that's the case, then I'm showing up to help--not to run the show. I get another sentiment, that of relief.

I arrive at the new boat nonetheless in a haze, climb over a stern tire and onto the deck, meet a couple of hands in orange jumpsuits and ask for the captain. He's on the bridge in a white jumpsuit, an older man with disheveled white hair and thick black glasses. I introduce myself, say "nice to meet you" as well as I can. I ask his name, it's Diniz, he has to write it down. He paces quietly from the chart table to the helm and back, stops and speaks, "I am old man." He nods as if affirming to himself he has spoken correctly, and continues, "Today here, tomorrow don know."

He starts pacing again and carries on in Portuguese. Even with his gesturing hands, I've no idea. I've learned how to ask for help, so I reverse it, tell him I can help. He stops and stares with either skepticism or curiosity. I begin this time in English but immediately realize it's pointless. Reverting to sign language, I point to him, then put my hands together, place them by an ear and tilt my head, "You sleep", then stand at the helm and pretend I'm driving, "I drive." I catch myself miming with fists at chest level, rotating up and down like I'm driving a car. There's no wheel on the boat, just a toggle for the rudders, and I feel like an idiot--but he gets the point and nods. I quickly reverse it, point to him, "Then you drive, I sleep," my head tilting to the imaginary pillow. There's quiet again, then pacing and mumbling. He stands at the stern controls and points at the throttles. "Maneuver?" he says in English. He wants to know if I can handle the boat at the rigs. "No problemo," I nod with a smile.

Apparently it's enough. "Ok," he says finally. I'm smiling, and he smiles back, shakes my hand. I've talked him out of quitting. He turns his attention to the deck, and I realize for the first time that the we're taking on fuel. Obviously nothing I can do to help bunker, I negotiate an empty bunk to put my bag, and it's in a cabin with Diniz who has to move his shit into a pile on the lower bed. I try to figure out what time we're leaving, but he doesn't understand me or maybe doesn't know. I tell him I'm going to rest, easy enough, try to add that he should get me when it's time to go. Having arrived self-sufficient, I unpack a bed sheet, pillow and sleeping bag from a compression sack I bought for camping. Then I lay in the bunk physically still, my mind all over the place. I try to breathe deeply and relax, not think. When I hear the engines light off, I head to the bridge.

Diniz is at the helm, and he takes the boat off the dock and toward the open sea. When I'm pretty sure of our whereabouts, I tell him to sleep, and he heads for the stairs without hesitation. He's about to leave me alone, so I tap on the empty look-out chair. I've got to have a look-out, someone to answer the radio, right? There's supposed to be two people on the bridge anyway, and I think it especially important for one to speak the native language. Diniz calls "Geovan" and an AB arrives directly. Nearing the sea buoy at the narrow mouth of the bay, the boat begins to pitch slowly into a rolling swell. I can tell right away, already knew, it's not going to be calm. There's almost no traffic beyond the bay, a scattering of islands on a six-mile scan and an obvious ship anchorage in one spot, but otherwise no one coming or going. Our destination is nearly due south and 180 nautical miles away and with the approach and exit to the bay aligned basically north-south, we're already on course. I set the auto-pilot to 177 degrees, bring the engines up slowly to 1400 rpm's and recline as much as possible in the chair. At our current 16 knots, we're 11 hours form Bacia da Santos.

Content in silence, I'm used to the crew wanting music on the FM radio, but Geovan hasn't turned it on and I'm not going to either. We exchange a few basics, and I try a few things I've learned, ask him where he's from, but when he tells me it doesn't mean much. He tells me in a friendly tone he doesn't speak English and I can understand that, and I say I don't speak Portuguese. Soon there's nothing on the radar. We ride silently in the dark, scant illuminations from the electronic displays and panels, from the radars. The boat's pitching and heaving into a building swell, and I'm not feeling well. I've come from extended vacation, and I've not been to sea in some time. I close my eyes for relief and listen to the rumbling engines, the groan of the flexing superstructure, the creaking and crackling of the wood paneling in the interior. There's water spraying on the windows, a whizzing sound form the rotating radars overhead. I hear the wind surge and subside.

As hours pass, I'm at times alert, scanning the radar and checking instruments, at times I'm delirious and out-of-body. We ride for three hours without a single blip on the radar aside from ceaseless sea clutter, not a single vessel registering on the AIS. It's a stark contrast to the Gulf of Mexico. And then a sudden, piercing sound. Geovan flips on the lights and we begin to search for the source. It's not the emergency panel, not a fire alarm, just ear-splitting terror. We dash about the bridge. It's not the collision compartment or a bilge alarm--it's an incredible, tortuous sound, a demon incarnate, careening through my skull, and I'm gonna be sick. I race to the head and empty my stomach. With relief from the worst of the wail and a few humbling moments of acute introspection, I hear the sound still blaring above as I take a final heave and flush the toilet, clean up a few stray scraps and splash water on my face. Climbing back to the bridge with a post-vomit boost, timing my steps to the roll of the vessel, I re-enter the shrieking armageddon. Now Geovan and one of the engineers are searching for the source back and forth across the bridge, but from my vantage on the stairwell, I spot a panel, knee level port side--I dive for it. And silence, sweet silence!

It's a running light. A fucking running light. The red, port-side identification light is out, and we're 30 miles from the nearest traffic. I wedge myself back into the pilot chair and ride until first light illumes the eastern ambit. I throw up one more time before Diniz appears to assume the watch. My first trip offshore in Brazil.

embarque

09:15 Saturday, March 5, 2011

I spend my last morning of liberty like I would any other, a long walk into the hills and around the residential neighborhoods I find tucked in among the granite balds and verdant cliffs above Rio de Janeiro. After riding south from Macaé last night, I made it to Rio during the Carnival, but staying in Niteroi on the north bank of Guanabara Bay, the festivities I uncover consist of crowded bars and a few spots where people gather to drink in the streets. Without a trip to the Sambódromo and a look at the parades, it strikes me as uninteresting and not the kind of thing for a solo traveler regardless. Instead of a rush to scrape at the marrow of my remaining free will, I'm oddly calm and reserved to my fate. Let my sentence begin.

Upon leaving Macaé, I signed a $723 Real hotel bill, nearly $500 US for three nights in the hotel and a couple of dinners. Its all on the company of course, but I'm still shocked by what things cost--I've picked up a small can of shaving cream at the pharmacy for nearly $8 US. Apparently the dollar won't go as far as I thought, but as soon as I board a boat, it won't matter anyway.

At noon, I catch a ride to the Brasco dock, work my way through security and get a look at my "new" boat, although its not so new and I already know what it looks like. Its a 165-foot long fast supply vessel built in the mid 90's by Breaux Brothers in Louisiana, very similar to what I've run in the Gulf of Mexico, but a bit older. I've been alerted their swinging an engine today (replacing one of the main engines), and the typical chaos exists as it would for any boat the world over. There are a dozen hands about in royal blue or bright orange coveralls with patches of soot, beady hard hats crowded around a gaping hole in the deck, crane cables leading to chain-hoists in the engine room below, deck-boards stacked at the rails.

I sign my name on a clipboard and drop my bags on a bench inside the passenger area, one of the hands speaking to me. Without a clue, I say, "Americano… captain", its three syllables, cap-i-tan. I'm left alone and wander to the bridge, more orange jumpsuits and indistinguishable conversation. I'm looking for the American captain who's supposed to train me for week in the ways of Brazilian operations when eventually someone speaks up and offers a handshake, and its Richard, who with black hair and olive skin blends in with the others. He's rattling off orders in Portuguese, signing and stamping documents as he starts to give me a run-down. He says he's leaving in five days, at which point the show will be mine, and I'm dumb-struck at the proposition. He asks if I speak Spanish, which would help, but I don't. When I let it drop that I speak Chinese instead, he becomes very interested, "That's fantastic!", and wants to know my story, which I share interrupted by radio transmissions. He snaps quick responses into a handheld, continues thumbing through folders in a file cabinet, depositing papers as we speak. There's no doubt he's running the show. "How do you say, 'Good afternoon' in Mandarin," he wants to know.

A native of Honduras, Richard's English is slightly accented, although by all means fluent. He's had a distinct advantage learning Portuguese, which is by all accounts similar to Spanish, although it sounds rather different. Discussing everything but the job, he shows shows me a picture of a man and girl on some waterfront. "I miss my daughter," he says, "She's 11 now, lives with her mother." It occurs to me the fat guy in the picture is him. He must notice how I'm examining the photo. "Yes, that's me," he laughs, "Before I came to Brazil." He's dropped 30 pounds or more. "I think its good for me here," he continues. "Much better than the Gulf of Mexico. I can learn another language and culture. I would like to learn two more, to know at least five languages, I think."

I attempt to steer the conversation back to work matters, feeling anxious already and doubtful at my prospects of learning enough in five days to pull this off. There's the new computer program, the safety management system, the paperwork and file cabinet, the language, yes the language! I inquire about that, and Richard replies, "None of them really speak any English, but you will learn Portuguese quickly." He looks at me sincerely, maybe sizing me up. "In a month or two you will speak Portuguese."

"Not likely," is all I can say. I get an encouraging pat and a run down of mechanical matters. The boat's a triple-screw, three main engines and propellers, with a drop-down bow-thruster, retractable from the hull. "We've got a chain fall holding up the thruster and you better check it before you get underway, in case these guys forget." I make a note in my pad. At the aft steering controls, I'm examining the pneumatic throttles, the old-school type that will hiss when disengaged. Used to electronic systems on modern boats, I haven't seen anything like it in years. "How about the delay?" I inquire, the amount of time it'll take the engine to engage after the throttle is activated. "About 10 seconds on the port outboard," Richard tells me. Ten seconds, great, a potentially dangerous amount of lag.

A crew member appears in civilian clothes and approaches Richard, murmuring, and as if on a personal matter, hands over a small package containing a vial of cologne which is passed about for a sniff. I've already noticed the occasional scent of perfume wafting from Brazilian dudes. The man disappears. "He's the cook," Richard says. "He wants to go into town. I've been thinking of firing him, although he gives me this," holding up the vial with a smirk. "Too much fried food." There's a fuel barge approaching the boat, two deckhands with lines at the ready as if their going to tie up. "We're not getting fuel now," Richard says, and then barks something into the radio, then back to me, "How do you say 'lunchtime' in Chinese?"

The living space below deck is almost unrecognizable compared to similar boats in the Gulf. There's standing room only in the galley, an additional cabin and pantry where a dining area with table and benches should be. The effect is claustrophobic, and the reason is the increased number of crew to accommodate international and Brazilian regulations, a total of nine people aboard: two licensed captains, two licensed engineers, an oiler, three ABs (deckhands), and a cook. I'm encouraged by the presence of engineers, however. In US waters, licensed engineers are not required on a boat this size, and I ran similar boats with only four people aboard, two captains and two deckhands, spending my share of time changing filters, servicing engines and dealing with problems. Here I won't have to do anything in the engine room. Richard says they won't even want me back there.

Lunch consists of beans and rice, a pot of stew, a pizza and some fried stuff, people standing elbow to elbow and eating or crouching on the steps leading aft to the machinery space. I find it uncomfortable in the least. I meet the Port Captain Alan, both of us standing with a plate and fork in hand. He says we'll attempt sea trials in the morning if all goes well. The boat needs to be offshore as soon as possible, of course. "Of course," I agree. I've already been warned of the demanding schedule, the constant running to Bacia de Campos where a pocket of fossil fuel slumbers beneath the seabed, awaiting extraction. As workers file in and out, I'm left alone for a moment in the galley, standing there with a plate of slop, wondering what the hell I'm doing, two months on this boat, a real piece of shit. Its all unbelievable.

clínica médica

I wake up for the first time in Brazil from a shallow sleep with a limpid awareness of exhaustion that keeps me motionless in the comfortable hotel bed and gradually honing in to the slight sounds of surroundings. There's construction across the street, the patter of rain on the window sill. I fill coffee in the lobby, more like espresso, and recognize a company driver on a couch with a newspaper. With a friendly greeting, he hands me a clear plastic cup with a red screw-top and tells me through gestures I should fill the cup with urine before we go to the clinic, the day's first errand related to my work visa. He says we'll leave at 9 o'clock. He's a moment too late of course for an immediate deposit, so I pocket the cup and find breakfast in the rear of the establishment, passing through a gym and into a courtyard with a narrow-lane pool, winsome droplets atop the surface, the placid blessing of rain on water. Breakfast is a beautiful spread of sub-tropical fruits and local unknowns, at least to me.

Its after 9:30 when we leave, and I'm encouraged by the delay, the prospect that operations will be less-rigid than back home; that in Brazil, events will proceed on "local time", such as it was running boats in Mexico and Central America. But then we're swerving and weaving our way about town again, and there's nothing relaxed about it. Most drivers collapse their side-view mirrors in order to brush by vehicles and pedestrians and obstructions; they're imagining, I suppose, that they're Emerson Fittipaldi, the Brazilian icon and two-time winner of the Indy 500. We're back in the industrial complex when I see the sign for the "clínica médico", where I'm dropped off again without a clear understanding of impending proceedings.

I enter a waiting room crowded, obviously, with prospective employees of the surrounding companies. Mostly men, a couple of women, each holding a clear plastic cup with a red lid, inside which sloshes an insipid liquid, the former contents of their bladders, presumably, or from someone else's for that matter. It seems an improper way to conduct drug screening, but certainly more convenient for the applicant. Obviously dehydrated from the previous day, I've currently no hope to perform when sampling time arrives. I sign in at the desk, produce my passport and visa and the name of my company, and a rather pretty woman in a white lab coat hands me a slip of paper. I retreat to the waiting area to down water.

There's a small TV mounted on the wall and I try to follow news. I recognize President Dilma Vana Rousseff, who at the beginning of the year became the first woman (and first economist) to assume Brazil's highest office. As Minister of Energy under former President Lula, she must have played a role in Brazil's rise to the stature of energy superpower. She also has an interesting story. As a socialist during her youth, she joined a Marxist urban guerilla group that fought against the military government after a 1964 coup. Rousseff could apparently handle a weapon and incite impassioned resistance, and she was eventually jailed in the early 70's and reportedly tortured. It was near that point, almost 40 years ago, when Brazil first began production of ethanol, surely a development far from the forefront of Rousseff's concerns at the time.

I hear my name and head for a tiny exam room where a technician draws blood, a huge tray of coagulating vials on the counter-top. Never fond of needles, its a lovely way to start the process. I produce my slip of paper and receive a check. I'm drinking more water, thinking I've had a couple of liters since breakfast, when I hear my name from behind. There's a radiation placard on the door, behind which I'm guided through a chest x-ray and receive another check. By this time I'm examining my slip of paper, which has quite a few unchecked columns, one of which reads "ECG". I can almost feel my blood pressure rising, and I'm sure that will be taken as well. I'm just hoping there's no stool sample involved--I had to do that once to get a green card in Taiwan, where interestingly, another formerly-imprisoned women had also risen to power (as vice president), Annette Lu, who also did time for participation in an opposition political party.

Water finally working its way through my system, I find the head and fill the cup, tighten the lid, and in moments I'm asked for my deposit, shuffled to a scale, an eye chart, and then to a dentist on the second floor, where I'm forced to apologize for coffee breath. "I didn't know this was coming," I try to explain. After seclusion in a padded hearing booth, I lay shirtless on an examination table, where a technician brushes gel onto my chest and connects sensors. While I'm exposed to a graphic representation of my nervous heart beat, I try to think about other things, like politics, and the potentially tough road ahead for President Rousseff in replacing Lula, who became known as "the world's most popular politician" and was referred to as such by the current US president.

Finally someone reads my blood pressure, surprisingly normal, and my slip of paper is fully checked. Afterwards, I'm treated to an awesome lunch by the water, a buffet spread that's surprisingly expensive at 36 reals--close to 25 bucks US--for lunch. In the afternoon, I'm taken to a photo lab and then to the federal police for finger printing, to register as a foreigner with a work-visa. I wind up back at headquarters where I finally meet an American in the company and receive a brief orientation on aspects of the "safety management system". I'm told I'll be headed to one of the older boats in the fleet, a fast supply vessel that hot-shots equipment to offshore installations. A Brazilian guy speaks up, says the boat runs non-stop on a very demanding contract, that there's a mountain of additional paperwork required on the job, that they're having a lot of technical and mechanical issues on board, trouble with the engines, the steering pump. At least he's not sugar-coating. "So what's the down-side?" I ask, and at least they get my joke. Finally, I'm taken back to the hotel and told to be ready in the morning, wondering not for the first time or last, what the hell I've gotten myself into.