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.