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.