When I boarded the ship, I was very determined to follow a regular routine. I felt that it would be healthy to do so, given the long stretches of daytime that needed to be filled. On the Oceano, breakfast was served between 7:00 and 7:30 every morning, so I made it a goal to wake up early enough to enjoy it every day. The first few days were nice – I was able to rise with plenty of time to spare. As we crossed the Atlantic, however, the earth began to conspire against me. At least once every other day, we would enter a new time zone. Pretty soon, it became more and more difficult to wake up at 7:00 since 7:00 kept moving forward by an hour.
It was such a frustrating experience. Here you are, thinking to yourself, “Ok buddy, just get up this once and you’ll get acclimated.” But then the time changes and now 7:00 is an hour earlier than it used to be. You lie awake in bed, unable to fall asleep till 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning and by the time your alarm rings, you only feel like putting it on snooze till 10:00. Pretty soon, I was happy if I woke up by noon, for any later and I would have missed lunch too.
When we reached GMT, I felt that it was the perfect opportunity to set my internal clock to what would be my new time zone. I diligently set my alarm for 7:00 and swore to get up, no matter how difficult the task. Indeed, I was proud that the next morning I dragged myself out of bed and down to the Officer’s Mess. When I arrived, I was puzzled that the plates were put away and found the kitchen strangely quiet. To my horror, I realized that I had neglected to change the time zone on my alarm clock. By now, it was well after 8:00AM and the cooking staff had retired for the morning.
I went back to my cabin in a gloomy state. In a dream-like stupor, I rummaged around my luggage for awhile and found a beaten up granola bar. It was a gold mine. I feasted on it and savored the taste for a whole three bites. It was the best breakfast of the entire voyage.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Voyage: A Stubby Note
The experiment has failed. Enough was enough. After two weeks of natural growth, I shaved off my facial hair. Please note, I did not say, “I shaved off my beard,” or “goatee” or any form of hair growth that we would recognize. The only thing I succeeded at in those two weeks was to grow long stubble. It wasn’t very uniform nor dense at all. In essence, it was ugly.
The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.
Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.
My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.
The plan was to go from California to England without shaving and to see what would happen. Somewhere slightly east of the Azores, I noticed each of the crew shaving off their beards, one after another. I took a good look at myself in the mirror and realized in horror what everyone else was seeing. I looked like a prickly pear, a badly mowed lawn, a porcupine in puberty. The crew must have been internally laughing at me. And so I shaved, eliminating from my face what was not meant to be.
Satisfied with my work, I went to dinner. I walked into the Officer’s Mess and to my bemusement, the third mate broke out in laughter. With food in his mouth, he said in broken English, “You got sick of your face?” He tried to hide his amusement at my change in appearance.
My attempt at preventing the crew from laughing at me had failed. I could only take consolation in no longer being a walking cactus.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Voyage: On Smells
During my fifth day at sea, I began to miss something that I had taken for granted – odors. Let me explain. I am not talking about the smell of athletes foot or the stink of rotten trash. Rather, the Earth itself gives off a smell that is noticeable only when it is missing. Here on the ocean, there are no trees giving off fresh oxygen, no moist soil giving off the smell of a fresh garden, no animals giving off odor to either attract mates or to keep away predators. Here on the ocean, there is a characteristic lack of any smell.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
In addition, the water we drink is distilled sea water. It has gone through the most stringent of a filtering system that takes out any and all contaminants that may exist in it. In effect, it is tasteless, without any of the common minerals and nutrients that we associate with tap water. As the days went by, I began to have a longing for mealtime, and I realized that it was not only because of the nourishment, but because the mess hall smelled different. To be precisely, the mess hall had a smell, a familiar smell that broke the monotony from the lack of it.
Imagine my surprise then, when, on a round of the deck of the ship, I came across the Filipino crew roasting a suckling pig on spit. Now, I knew that Saturdays were barbeque days, but I had no idea that meant a whole pig. It looked very happy and content, but probably not very comfortable since its rib cage was cut open and all of its innards removed. The smell of salted meat permeated the entire stern. The entire crew was there, relaxing and having a party. Pretty soon, one of them hands me a beer and we sat there shooting the breeze.
Apparently the pig is something of a tradition. It usually happens on ocean crossings, and apparently is common enough that stores at ports sell whole pigs. In fact, one of the crew mentioned that he had never been on a ship that did not have this tradition. I took a look off the stern and spotted another freighter off in the distance going in the other direction. I could imagine that, on the stern of the other vessel, a group of Filipino drinking beer, roasting a pig and giving a toast to the universal seaman’s barbeque.
Two hours later, I was sitting on the wing of the Bridge overlooking the water. The sun was setting behind us, the speakers were blasting techno music, and the alcohol flowed freely. All of the people on board the vessel were there, officers, engineers, cadets and able-bodied men. The chief engineer grilled the sausages and the captain made his special pesto sauce. We milled around, laughing, sharing stories, and having a great time. There was even a whale sighting off the starboard side. For a moment, you drowned out the constant rumbling of the motor and could forget that you were on a vessel going full speed across the Atlantic.
The barbeque was a welcomed distraction from the daily routine. Today, we were people enjoying good food, good beer and good company. Tomorrow, we would be back to being seafaring voyagers and void of any smells.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Voyage: On Adaptation
As the first few days went by, I began to notice many little things around me that were not the same as on land. Many little nuances are taken for granted and when they are missing from the environment, it can take quite awhile to adapt.
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
For instance, during the first day on board, I got thirsty, and realized that I had no idea where to get water. Yes, I could have gone to the pantry and purchased soda, mineral water or beer, but I wanted plain and tap water. At that point, I remembered the jug of water at breakfast and regretted not drinking more. For the next few meals, I adapted myself by drinking like a camel, stocking up on it and trying not to expend much energy during the day. At our first stop in Miami, I made it a point to go and purchase a gallon of drinking water. Even then, I rationed it strictly, for it had to last my whole two weeks at sea. Then, two days into the voyage, I found the water fountain. It tasted delicious. That was the happiest day of my life, even though I still felt like a camel. Stupid as one, that is.
Given now, that I had a steady supply of water, I no longer prevented myself from activities that caused sweating. I started looking for places to do simple exercises. There was a pool, but it was small and looked like it could last for 1½ strokes, so did not look like a feasible place to get any real exercising done. There are three staircases that go the tower structure. Two of them are outside with a sheer drop to the ocean waters below. One is indoors, but the landings are so close to one another that you would get dizzy just turning around so many corners.
Then I found it. It was a hatch at the bow that led into one of the store rooms. It was just the right height to be able to step up and down. And so, every afternoon, I would go to the bow and do a few minutes of step aerobics. It turned out to be a satisfactory workout, although I would constantly glance over my shoulders for fear of being spotted. As I went up and down, the ship would rock to and fro and I found myself wishing for a DVD series on step aerobics. It was the only time in my life to have that wish. Really.
A couple of days later, as I was talking to the 2nd mate about my “discovery”, he said, “why don’t you use the weight room?” I was surprised, for I thought I did a thorough tour of the ship when I came on board. I did not see a weight room. He led me to a door labeled “Void Space” and inside was a large assortment of free weights and a bench press. Of course, I thought to myself. I should have guessed that “Void Space” meant “Weight Room”.
But this posed a new problem. The water on board is distilled seawater, with no minerals or electrolytes. As I sweated, salt was flushed out of my system and not being replenished. Thus I began generously sprinkling salt over my meals. It is ironic that I was essentially adding salt to a meal cooked with distilled salt water. Such is the paradox of life.
So there you have it. It took several days to go from rationing water to eating salt. This adaptation took several days to mature but was kept up for the entire journey. Not all adaptations take that long, however. An adaptation which took less than a minute was learning how to shower. Very quickly, I learned that I had to wedge myself firmly in the corner of the shower stall to prevent from falling over!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Voyage: Getting to Know the Ital Oceano
So here I was, flying to Savannah to board my freighter. I was nervous, for no one I knew had ever traveled by freighter before. As we landed, we passed over the port itself. From above, the ships looked like miniature game pieces from Axes and Allies and the containers themselves looked like the blue, orange, red and white roads from the Settlers of Catan. My heart raced, both for the excitement of the upcoming journey, but also for nervousness as to whether this was the right decision.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
After landing, I called the port, as instructed by the travel agency. The operations manager was very friendly, but confused. “Now, wait a minute, why do you want to go on board?” she asked, with a southern drawl.
“Um…I am the passenger on the ship?” I replied hesitantly.
“Oh.” There was a long pause. “So you’re a paying passenger?”
“Yes I am.”
“Oh, Ok.” Another pause. “Does the captain know your coming?”
“Um…I hope so?” Through the rest of the conversation, she gave me directions on how to enter the port and where to go. When we hung up, I had an uneasy feeling that I would be an unwelcomed guest.
Thus you can imagine my apprehension while boarding the vessel. The 212 meter long ship dwarfed the taxi I was in. I made my way cautiously up the gangplank and was greeted by two Filipino crew members who welcomed me aboard with smiles and laughter. They probably noticed my discomfort as they took down my ticket and passport information, but the more they joked, the more uncomfortable I became. It seemed as if they were merely putting up with me.
A big non-smiling Caucasian walked into the ship’s office wearing white overalls and took a look at me. In thickly accented English, he said “Are you the passenger?” After answering in the affirmative and showing him my papers, he said, “Well, I was not expecting you, but perhaps the captain knows you are arriving. Come with me. I will show you to your cabin.” With that he turned around and took off.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “The port agent was right. They don’t know that I’m coming on board.” My fears of being a parasite were coming to fruition. He led me to a very small elevator and we went to the 7th floor. While in that small space, I learned that he, Petar, was the second officer and a Montenegrin. We arrived at a door marked “Owner” and he said, “This is the officer’s deck. This is your cabin.”
I took a cursory glance. Everything in the room was white, giving it a clean but sterile look. It was of the size of a comfortable single with its own shower. There was a bed, desk, bookshelf, closet, couch and table. Everything was tightly bolted down to the floor or the wall. In effect, it looked like a prison cell.
He continued with his instructions. “Dinner is at 5:30 on Deck A. We set sail at midnight.” I looked at my watch. It was 3:00, nine hours before undocking. As he turned to leave, I realized I had no idea if I was supposed to stay in my room for that entire time. “Excuse me but, is there any place on board that I should not go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Go anywhere you’d like. The bridge is right there.” He points up the staircase. “Just don’t go on deck. You need a hard hat and safety training.” With that, he left.
I began to unpack and took stock of what would be my room for the next two week. There was a window over the bed and I was pleased that I had an unobstructed view of the shipyard. I found a mini-fridge under the desk. There were electrical outlets to plug in my laptop. I was pleasantly surprised that the walls were magnetic. It made it easier to attach my map of the world with some souvenir magnets.
I started to wander down the staircase, opening any door that did not look like a personal room or say “Restricted”. Quickly, I located the laundry room, recreation room, a ping pong table, a pool and the mess hall. I ran into the 2nd engineer, a German raised in Lithuania who offered a tour of the engine room. We descended below deck and entered a cavernous chamber painted green-and-white. On the way down, we pass a spare piston that was taller than a human. Then we saw the engine, all 50 feet of it with 8 of those pistons. We continued descending for three stories to reach the base and saw the 2.5 foot shaft attached to the propeller outside the hull. It makes a mean whirling sound that makes migraines seem tame. After the tour, I told the 2nd engineer how impressed I was by the engine. He shrugged his shoulders and said through his thick Russian accent, “This small motor. Last one was three times larger for a ship three times bigger.” All I could think of was “wow.”
I returned upstairs to visit the bridge. Outside of it was an ominous red lightbulb and a large “Restricted” sign. But Petar said I could go, so hesitantly I opened the door, half expecting to be chewed out by someone, but found it quite deserted. The view was amazing. Below us were rows and columns of containers all neatly stacked one on top of another like Legos. Two giant cranes towered above. A steady stream of trucks drove alongside the ship with containers and the cranes would grab one and place it neatly on the ship. I looked up and saw the lone operator controlling the crane and moving containers at a rate of more than one per minute. The crane, I realized, was the ultimate power tool. What an adrenaline rush it must be to operate a 15 story tall piece of machinery?
At dinner, I met the captain. He is Romanian, but spoke perfect English. He too welcomed me on board and after a quick conversation, invited me to the bridge for the launch. At midnight, I made my way up to the darkened bridge where I met the River Pilot, who was responsible for guiding us out into the ocean. He sat at the front of the bridge and beckoned for me to join him. For the next two hours, we talked about hiking, fishing, Europe, traveling, and all the subjects we could think of. Every once and awhile, he would give coordinates to the navigator as we maneuvered around the sand bars.
As we entered the open ocean, I stared out into the black horizon. The bright orange halo from the street lights became fainter as more and more stars became visible in the darken sky. But no matter how black the sky became, the sea was a darker, purer shade of black. Out here, there were no landmarks, no gas stations or 7-11s to take a left at. We were completely dependent on our electronic gadgets, gyroscopic compass, radar, GPS, etc., for navigational support. I felt sympathy and respect for the renaissance sailors who could navigate in these conditions with only magnetic compass and a sextant.
That night, as I lied in bed, all I could think of was what an amazing day it had been. I could feel the bare excitement of the open ocean. I was in a world that only seamen see and experience. The next 15 days were to contain some very unique moments that could only be experienced on a vessel. I would find out that Petar was a very gentle and kind person after you got to know him. But that first night threw away all doubt about traveling by freighter. I knew that I did belong, and was looking forward to the journey across the Atlantic.
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