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.