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.

the oil rush

Arriving in a foreign country with no understanding of the language is an intrinsically confusing circumstance, and even the most seasoned traveler must experience an aggravated intensity, an underlying anxiety that will overcome the exhaustion of a 10-hour flight to imprint that very moment upon his or her brain for the remainder of its functional span. So it helps when there's a guy with a sign waiting to pick you up, even if the two of you have only gestures for conversation. I'm taken to a compact car and try to stop the guy from handling my bags, try to tell him I'll take care of it. I may have traded in the backpack for a duffle and briefcase, but self-sufficiency dies hard. I even eye the queue for city buses, imagine myself with a map and a plan, but alas, I've only to breathe for the next few hours and look out the window as I'm driven north out of Rio de Janeiro.

The driver, whose name is difficult to pronounce, pops in a cd, and probably because he knows I'm American, I'm tortured by pop music: Madonna, Cindi Lauper, Michael Jackson, and something I can't believe I recognize as Fine Young Cannibals. My introduction to the wonders of Brazilian music will have to wait. I'm also treated to the type of driving you only get outside the first world. It's bedlam, mayhem, balls-to-the-wall acceleration and lane-changing in perfect anarchy. In the city, barefoot vendors sit or pace beside concrete dividers in the median, and we're on a freeway. They've got snacks or drinks or whatever, and when traffic backs up, they make rounds. It hardly looks safe. On a two-lane highway outside of town, we pass cars and trucks on the shoulder to the right. Sometimes we shift to the left, driving in the opposing lane with oncoming traffic bearing down--we're never going to make that--but without fail, the cars or trucks slide to the shoulder and scream past without slowing down, occasionally sounding a horn.

As traffic subsides, the countryside turns beautiful, and granitic knobs and domes protrude from the earth. It looks like a climber's paradise, and a view from a rock face would surely inspire; an expanse of lush green bellow, valleys dotted with people on horseback. I read the sign "área de proteçao ambiental" and development disappears from beside the road.

In an hour, we emerge into an expanded highway system adorned by an enormous, maybe five-story sculpture, the entrance to Macaé, the petroleum capital of Brazil. While the country has established itself as a world leader in the production of bio-fuel, that supply only feeds about 40 percent of the country's demand. The rest comes the old-fashioned way, by drilling for fossil fuels. Although the deep-water drilling taking place off the Brazilian coast isn't considered old-fashioned within the industry. Its considered the future, and all the multi-national oil giants and their accompanying support network, companies like Halliburton, Schlumberger, Baker-Hughes, are all scrambling to get a foothold in what's currently the world's greatest market--especially since the failure of the Macondo well slowed deep-water development in the Gulf of Mexico. Its an oil-rush to Brazil, and business is booming.

Of course, offshore operations need boats to run the show, and those boats steam south in staggering numbers, with more support vessels arriving every day into Guanabara Bay, from the Gulf of Mexico or other parts of the world, from American companies or European, the Pacific Islands. My new employer, an American company with international subsidiaries, is of course sending boats, too. Some change registry to Brazil and are thus crewed entirely by Brazilians, but others remain American-flagged vessels, subject to annual inspections by the US Coast Guard, and therefore require an American master on board. That's where I come in. I'll be the only American on board with a crew of eight.

I'm taken to company headquarters and shuffled around. I stand around awkwardly in a busy office, sipping espresso from a disposable plastic shot-cup. I smile slightly upon eye contact, nearly delirious from the day's events. I'm waiting for the translator, someone who speaks English to show up, but it never really happens. I see two Americans pass at the end of a hallway.

Given a brief run-down on the next few days in more broken English, I´m finally taken to a hotel, a nice place on a peninsula, a block from the water in two directions. After dinner and two beers, I've been awake 40 hours, but I´m still too wired for sleep. It's pouring rain, so I dig into my bag for a jacket and hit the streets for a walk, craving exhaustion. I'm immediately hot and within two blocks sweating, my jacket sticking on the inside; I take it off and walk in the rain along a beachfront sidewalk, mostly deserted, a few stragglers with umbrellas, a thunderous surf pounding the shore.