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.