Chasing Ships

By Mingta Yuen

Anticipation of adventure pushes a young man to head to sea to work on ships. This narrative describes the process of pursuing a seagoing position, chronologizing over three decades of his career and of running the latitudes and longitudes around the world. Sailing on a large spectrum of vessels, including freighters, tankers, bulk carriers, and cruise ships, the book describes the changes experienced within the industry, ranging from navigation, to propulsion, to pollution laws, and to communications. Accounts of shipboard life for men and women while at sea or in port further enhances the narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662467608

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Chasing Ships

Mingta Yuen

Copyright © 2022 Mingta Yuen

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6759-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6760-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Conclusion

Glossary

Bodies of Water That I Have Sailed On

About the Author

To Susan Dabritz, my love, my life, and my loss

The sea is selective, slow at recognition of effort and aptitude but fast in sinking the unfit.

—Felix Riesenberg

Introduction

I have been meaning to write this book for over forty years now. I kept notes over the years but realized only now that there was no way I could've written this forty years ago because there would not have been much to write about. Now with thirty-four years of maritime experience and a cargo net full of notes to sort through, I may have too many stories to tell.

There are many nautical terms in this story that you may not understand. I have included a glossary aft (toward the back) of the book that you can use to learn the meanings of those terms. Most of the terms used are shortened in writing, as they are standard terminology in the industry and among seafarers. An example of this would be the term classification society, which we simply abbreviate and call class. This is known as a synecdoche and is used throughout the book.

The term seafarer is synonymous with sailor, seaman, and mariner. It also encompasses all ranks in all departments and is not gender specific despite the man in seaman. You can say, She is a seaman. I have tried to make this educational and informative for a would-be sailor, and perhaps an experienced mariner may learn something too, but I doubt that. He/she, most likely, has experienced all that I shall write, and then he/she will have yet several more sea stories for me. I have also tried to depict the humor and sometimes the sadness of my experiences—the difficult times and the good times.

I recall an old-timer saying to me, I'm old-school. We never do it that way. I have learned that in today's shipping industry, there is no room for being adamantly old-school. You have to continuously be able to adapt to the constantly changing ways of doing things on ships. Some traditions and doing things the old way remain firmly in place and still work well, but so many of them are a thing of the past. Remember, the sea is selective.

Chapter 1

Why Go to Sea?

The bright glare of the orange sodium lights lit up the darkness of the pier, which was now silent due to the completion of all loading operations of this massive ship. The cargo was 155,000 t (tons) of iron ore bound for Rotterdam, Netherlands. On the bridge, all the navigation equipment were humming away quietly, being interrupted only by the muted voices of the captain and the pilot engaging in light conversation. Occasionally, Port Hedland's VTC (vessel traffic control) would call us to request our status.

In the darkness of the bridge, the 3/M (third mate) was standing by the EOT (engine order telegraph) with the bell book, a pencil, and a flashlight in his hands. The 2/M (second mate), with his dimmed chart light, was going over the charts required for the voyage one last time. The helmsman was standing by the wheel, patiently awaiting steering commands. Down below, the engineers were in the ECR (engine control room), monitoring the status of the main engine and the generators. Every crew member was on standby for departure, even the chief cook in case the pilot wanted something to eat.

Outside, the tugboats were in position to assist us on leaving the dock. Finally, when all the longshoremen were in place on the pier, the captain picked up his radio and gave the C/M (chief mate) the order to single up. Once we were singled up, he gave the order to let go all lines. The seamen then slackened the remaining lines, and the longshoremen on the pier took them off their bollards.

Meanwhile, the pilot ordered his tugboats, four in all, to gently press the ship against the pier as the lines were slowly reeled in onto the winches. On hearing the radio crackle back, Last line, the pilot ordered the tugs, All stop. On hearing, All lines on deck, he then ordered the rudder, Hard right, and the main engine, Dead slow ahead.

The tugs maintained their positions, gently nudging their bows up against the inch-and-a-quarter thick vast steel hull. The ship vibrated momentarily as the main engine rumbled to life. Ever so slowly, the ship's bow came away from the dock. With the assistance of the tugs pulling and pushing, we began a slow turn to bring the ship about in the basin in order to point her toward the open sea.

Once in this position, the wheel was ordered, Midships, and the main engine, Slow ahead. As we got near the breakwater, we thanked the tugs for their assistance, and their remaining lines still attached to the ship were released. After passing the breakwater, the ship navigated the channel between the flashing red-and-green lights of the channel buoys. In the meantime, the C/M had come onto the bridge from the deck and informed the captain that all the hatches were battened down and that the ship was secured for sea.

On passing the sea buoy, the 2/M called, Departure at 0236. He also informed the engineers down below, who, in turn, began switching engineering to sea mode. The pilot then bade us farewell, wished us safe passage, and said, I'll see you back in three months' time. He then proceeded to the main deck, then climbed down the pilot ladder and into the awaiting pilot boat, which had followed us out. Once the pilot was away, the captain ordered engines, Full ahead, and set the ship's course for 284°T (true). The 2/M informed VTC of our commencement of sea passage, and they, too, wished us farewell and a safe trip.

An immediate calm came about the ship. We were all alone once again, and after all, we had just gone through an exhausting three full days, around the clock, of loading cargo, spares, and stores. It would take us forty days at 12 kn (knots) via the Cape of Good Hope to get to Europe from Australia. After three or four days to unload, take on more supplies, and refuel the ship, there's another forty or so days to get back if all went as planned.

Once the engineers confirmed full ahead, the captain made an entry into the ship's log, handed the watch over to the 2/M, and said, Call me if in doubt. Good night. With that, he left the bridge. The C/M, too, left the bridge for a short nap after ordering the second to give him a wake-up call in an hour so that he could return to relieve the watch at 0400. The third stowed his bell book in its little drawer, switched off the chart light, and retired for what was the remainder of his night until he turned to at 0800. All was dark on the bridge. Another voyage had just begun.

*****

Quite simply put, I wanted to go to sea. It is a thought that has crossed every man's mind at some point in his life. Some women have thought about it too. There is something about the prospect of rough and calm seas, the lure of a foreign port, the isolation of rounding a cape, and so many more that make many a person secretly envy those who do go to sea on ships. To deny this would be an untruth.

There are many seagoing terms that have infiltrated language on land, such as learning the ropes, the whole nine yards, three sheets in the wind, chockablock, keep a good lookout, down the hatch, and so many more. The calling of the sea is a base instinct and can happen to anyone at any time and at any age. I have met seafarers who started at the age of fifty-five, my current age as I begin to write this. For me, however, that calling came very early on.

For one, it may happen after a loved one has passed away; and for another, it may be just to try something different. It may have something to do with our evolving from the oceans, or it may just be our sense of adventure, or it may simply be in our blood. I know it was—and still is—in mine. At the same time, however, I'm not sure if I want to be buried at sea, nor have I ever had the urge to be married at sea. For the sea can be a savage, vast, desolate, unforgiving place, and after all, I am a creature of dry land.

The thought of wanting to go to sea, actually doing it, and rising through the ranks is the first of a series of many steep rungs you will need to climb in order to accomplish that task. I use the words steep rungs rather than long, hard, or arduous steps because for some, going to sea and all that it encompasses is easier than for others, but it has never been that easy for any seafarer. Each rung must be ascended, and sometimes, you must descend a few rungs and then climb up again.

After making a firm decision to go to sea, you can join the navy or become a merchant mariner. (I opted for the merchant marine. I was more familiar with it because of my father.) You now have to decide which department you would like to work in, such as deck, engine, or steward. You must also decide where you want to sail. Your choices are inland, such as the Great Lakes, rivers, as in Europe, coastal, or deep-sea. For me, deep-sea was the only option. Why deep-sea, you ask. Quite simply put, I wanted to see what was beyond that long, curved line called the horizon.

Now once you've made those decisions, you will have to find out how to get on a ship. It all sounds very simple, but it's not. There will be no ad in the paper saying, Ship sailing on the next high tide. Seamen wanted. Here in the good old US of A, you will need to join the SIU (Seafarers International Union) or the SUP (Sailors' Union of the Pacific) and become an unlicensed crew member. Both the SIU and the SUP will get you on your first ship. Or you can opt to join one of the maritime academies after high school. This option enables you to skip the unlicensed ranks, and you will earn a US federal license as officer after passing the required exams.

If you start with the SIU or the SUP and work your way up to become a ship's officer, you'll be known as a hawsepiper. The hawsepipe is one of two openings in a ship's hull from where the ship's anchors and chains are lowered. The term hawsepiper means you have climbed your way up the chain and through the hawsepipe. For many of us, though, we do not make it to the very top of the ladder, because at some point, we will all swallow the anchor, meaning that we will retire from a seagoing life or perhaps win the lottery. Even dying at sea or on land means that as a seafarer, you've swallowed the anchor.

When you finally do catch your first ship, it will be one of the happiest days of your life. It certainly was one of mine. You are finally going to sea. It is something most people can only dream about. By this time, you will have completed several courses that have taught you the absolute basics about what you can expect on a ship and what you are expected to do in an emergency after you locate the station bill.

The station bill is located in several areas about the ship and dictates what your duties are in an emergency. It also reminds you of the signal you will hear for the general alarm, which is seven or more short blasts on the ship's whistle followed by one prolonged blast. You will also hear this alarm from various public address speakers and the ear-shattering red alarm bells about the ship.

There are simple duties for some, such as, Report to fire station 1. Bring water. The amount of water is not specified. Perhaps it is just enough water for yourself, or perhaps you can be kind enough to bring more for others. It also does not tell you where to get it from, but if you can locate the C/O (chief officer), he might find the time to tell you these things. For the 3/O (third officer), there are simple instructions too: Report to bridge. Assist master. A more complex duty is, Report to lifeboat 1. Prepare boat for lowering.

You will have learned how to do all this if you are an AB (able seaman) in your LB class, but you still need to go look at the system on the ship you have just joined, because I guarantee you, the system is different from the one you practiced on in class. Don't be alarmed, though, because the system will be similar. It is very important to familiarize yourself with your duties in an emergency immediately. Don't wait till tomorrow, because by then, it may be too late.

You will be participating in weekly drills throughout your entire contract at sea. One thing for certain is that when you get on board for the first time, no one expects you to know anything, but everyone expects you to do everything. Furthermore, you will be expected to know where things are located. You will be lost, so get to know your new home as quickly as possible.

You are also the greenhorn—the talk of the ship and the brunt of all jokes. You'll be watched continuously until you prove yourself to be a worthy and reliable shipmate. Don't try to fit in. You'll look clumsy. Don't talk too much, but listen carefully. Humbly go about your job, do what's required, and do it properly. Within a short period, you'll earn the respect of all on board. Congratulations to you, for you are standing on the first rung of that very steep ladder we talked about earlier on. No matter how you got on board, I've told you it wasn't that easy. Just ask any other seaman.

It takes a certain type of person to go to sea, but not everyone is cut out for it. Many have tried, but seasickness, homesickness, the-love-of-one's-life-sickness, and the psychological and physiological effects of the environment all make it difficult to make this a full-time career. But some are quite good at adapting and also get very good at it. It takes someone who has a sense of adventure and a sound curiosity and the ability to endure the harshness of the elements in mind, body, and spirit; to expect the unexpected, and above all, to be alone and to be away from normal society.

There will be many times when you will miss the comforts and securities that life offers on land, such as your family, your loved ones, the holidays, and normal daily life. When a sailor returns from a rotation at sea, it is almost surreal walking around a grocery store, watching people go about their daily lives, buying a piece of fruit, seeing a man in a suit and tie with a briefcase getting into a taxi, taking a train, going to the bank, or just strolling in the park. In a sense, we are like fish out of water when we come back ashore.

However, there are many things we enjoy at sea. First, it is the camaraderie—the sense of a team wherein each member plays a vital and necessary part for collective survival in the vastness of the oceans. There are no bills to pay on board. There are no shopping errands. Food and utilities are free for consumption. And what's more, there is no commuting to go to work. Furthermore, the pay is good, much better than on land, and you will have longer periods of vacation.

Most of all, I believe we enjoy the solitude. All we have to do on the ship is cook the food, make the potable water, create the electricity, keep the engines running, navigate her safely from one port to another, load and unload her cargo, and keep the ship clean and pretty for ourselves and that of the owner's investment. Actually, if you think about it, that's quite a lot we have to do. In exchange, we earn our monthly coin and time off between rotations, during which we recuperate, not to mention all the sea stories and experiences we will be able to relay when we get back home.

It is a daunting task to keep a ship running smoothly, to say the least. The only differences between us and a spaceship is that we have a replenishable air supply and gravity. The ship's complement works as a team to keep the aforementioned going, but we must also be prepared for survival in the event of a disaster. This requires constant training.

Speaking of spaceships, they had this experiment whereby they interviewed thousands of candidates and finally selected a few of them to live together in cramped, tight quarters on top of Hawaii's Mauna Loa volcano to simulate isolation. The terrain up there is apparently similar to that of Mars. They wanted people who could handle being alone yet be confined with a few others to work together in a small space. For several months, they were observed to see how they would interact with one another if, in fact, we do conduct a voyage to Mars.

I think they should have first approached the mariners' unions to begin their search for potential candidates, because we are able to be cooped up together for long periods. On second thought, in some ways, this could've ended up being an absolute disaster; and quite possibly, the results would've made them abandon our trip to Mars. The bickering of sailors among one another can be quite a nuisance.

Anyway, why we would want to go to Mars is beyond me when there is so much yet to be explored and discovered here on this planet. Heck, to date, we can't even find the missing Malaysian airliner MH370, yet we strive to find a molecule of water on the distant red planet for billions of dollars. This is not to say I am against exploration of the universe. In fact, I find it fascinating. But why not get to know our planet first and clean it up before going elsewhere?

My father was from Shanghai, China. He had two degrees, one in marine engineering and one in naval architecture. But due to circumstances, he found himself working on ships. His ship was en route to Shanghai when China officially became communist on the first of October 1949. The company ordered the ship not to return to China, as the ship would have become property of the state. The ship turned away, and my father was never to see his parents again.

My father and the other Chinese nationals on board became men without a country. He eventually received Hong Kong citizenship, which had its own complications for travel, being a British colony. With time, he became a C/E (chief engineer), who is the highest-ranking member in the engine department; and by the time I came into this world in 1961, he was already a port engineer based on land.

On my mother's side—we are from the northwestern part of Germany—her relatives, with the exception of my grandparents, were also seafaring but mainly in the deck department as ship's captains and ABs. I do have one living ex-seagoing relative left in Germany, who is a retired R/O (radio officer).

In 1959, my father was attending to a ship in dry dock in the port of Emden, Germany, where I was born, and he was staying at the Heerens Hotel, which was owned by my mother's parents, and that was how they met. That hotel still exists today, and I lived in it as a child. Much later, after it was sold to the present owners, I was a guest for a few nights.

My father's job as a port engineer is like a doctor for the ships owned by the company. Port engineers, also known as engine superintendents, generally tend to machinery and engine surveys, of which there are many. When ashore, they follow the progress of the ships via their noon reports. They monitor their fuel, lube oil, and water consumptions as well as the rate at which they are consuming spare parts and stores. They read engine reports and plan for the never-ending surveys a ship must pass in order to be in compliance with class, hence seaworthy.

They are also the ones who primarily attend dry-dock on behalf of the owners, and for that, they must plan ahead. Basically, they get called upon to attend to a ship when there is trouble or something that the ship's crew is not capable of handling. On the deck side, the owner's representative is called the port captain or deck superintendent. He handles cargo surveys, hull surveys, on- and off-hire surveys when a ship enters into a contract, such as bareboat charter, time charter, or voyage charter. As a port engineer or port captain, there's still a lot of travel involved since the ships do not always arrive at the port he is stationed in. Quite often, the port engineer has to fly to the ports the ships arrive in.

Large shipping companies have various offices all over the globe, so the port engineers have a radius within which they work. Sometimes, smaller shipping companies hire independent port engineers or surveyors to act on their behalf depending on whether they have an in-house port engineer available. Depending on the type of ship or the problem at hand, the port engineer and his field of expertise will be assigned to wherever he or she is needed; and if that is long-term, it can involve moving to a different country. Generally, a port engineer is assigned to one or more ships that he will watch over throughout its life with the company.

Because of my father's job, we, as a family, traveled a lot and lived in many European and Asian countries. My brother was born in Toulon, France, in '64, making us a family of four. Obviously, we lived in countries that had ports and harbors; and thus, we were never far from the ocean ever in our lives. The farthest away I've been from the ocean was when I visited Old Faithful in Yellowstone. I must admit that it was a peculiar feeling to be so far away. During our time in Europe, my mother told me we attended several ship launchings, but I was too young to remember them.

In 1966, we left Europe, as my father was transferred back to Hong Kong. During this period, my father was away a lot in Taiwan, busy finalizing the last stages of building a ship. She was called the Silver Clipper and was a break-bulk carrier. I do still have a memento given to my father when she was launched. It is a small wooden box on which is stamped, "In Commemoration of Launching MV Silver Clipper, June 12, 1967. Presented by Silver Lines Inc. Agents Valles Steamship Co. Ltd." Her status is listed as dead. Dead means scrapped or demolished. For me, it is a sad feeling when any ship is scrapped even if I've never sailed on her. She was once a home to many a seafarer.

Then again, in early 1969, we moved to Singapore for the first time. Growing up, my father used to always take me and my brother on board ships when we were on school breaks, even on weekends, when one of the company's ships passed through either to refuel, take on stores and provisions, or load or unload cargo or spare parts. Sometimes, they were in one of the many dry docks in Singapore for repair. We tagged along while he was inspecting or overhauling the ship's ME (main engine), DG (diesel generator), or other piece of machinery together with the on board staff.

After a while, my brother and I always slipped away and found ourselves free to explore the ship. We climbed, investigated, opened doors, turned handles, twisted knobs, and pushed buttons. To this day, I still can't believe my father let us do that. How dangerous it was to let us climb up and down ships' cargo and radar masts and to venture deep into the engine room, cargo tanks, cargo holds, and even the ballast tanks all by ourselves!

It was also fun to enter the FPT (forepeak tank) and crawl all the way up into the bulbous bow. When we came out, we were covered in mud. We could easily have been injured or even killed. My father never had much to say to us, except, Study hard, work hard, and don't play.

But it was all play for me and my brother. The boat rides to and from the ship on a launch, water taxi or a bumboat, as they are called in Asia, and then climbing up the side of the ship's hull on a Jacob's ladder if it was at anchor or up the gangway if alongside the dock were all so exciting. Then we would step onto the main deck and meet the various crew members as we made our way to the captain's or the chief engineer's office.

But it was in this way that we became fascinated and intricately familiar with ships—the layout of the decks; the purpose of each piece of equipment and machinery; the lifeboats, their contents, and their davits; the derricks, cranes, and booms; the contents of the allotted designated spaces on a ship; the firefighting equipment and how it was used when we watched the crew perform drills; and the dos and don'ts while on board, such as entering cargo holds and tanks.

Never enter a cargo hold or tank without informing someone. Palletized cargo may move and crush you. Bulk cargo, such as grain, coal, or ore, could bury you, and tanks can kill you because of poisonous gases. My brother and I entered anyway. Basically everything about a ship became ingrained, commonsensical, or should I say, second nature. What was a totally unfamiliar territory for a person on land became a known second world to me. I became fascinated with the sheer size of ships and how they could float. Ships would become a free ticket for me to go and see far-off, strange, and exciting places all over the world. I think that at the age of eight or nine, I had made the firm decision that I wanted to go to sea.

Sometimes, we were on board all day and even all night while my father was busy helping or advising the engineers on how to fix or overhaul machinery or plan and time for surveys by class or port authorities. At the time, however, I did not know all the details of my father's job or precisely what he was doing. My brother and I didn't care, because we were having fun exploring. My father always made arrangements for us to go and sleep on the couch in either, again, the captain's or chief's office if we were there overnight. Of course, my mother always worried and scolded my father for that.

I remember once when I was about nine or ten years old, I was watching my father fill a tray with water to make ice cubes. I looked up at him and asked, "Why did the Titanic sink? I mean, I knew about her hitting an iceberg and all that stuff, but she was supposed to be unsinkable. He just handed me an ice cube tray and said, Go fill this." As I did so, I watched each compartment fill with water; and when it was full, the water poured over into the next compartment, and the tray naturally became heavier.

All of a sudden, I realized why my father handed me the ice tray without replying to my question. A light went on in my head, because now I knew how and why the Titanic sank. Her compartments were not watertight. As I've said, my father never did have much to say to us.

As a child in school, I recollect my favorite school outing. It was a day trip. In 1969, I was educated at a British army school in Singapore. How my parents got me in there, I do not know, for we weren't British, nor were we military. But there were a few other non-British expatriate kids there. The British aircraft carrier HMS (Her Majesty's Ship) Hermes had pulled into Singapore a few days earlier. The school arranged the outing, and we all visited the ship. That ship later went to the Falkland Islands for the Falklands War of 1982.

I remember being very excited at the time, and I also remember the vast expanse of the flight deck and all the uniformed sailors on board. Much later on in life, I met some other British sailors in a bar, and I told them I had been on the Hermes. They responded with, Oh, you mean the Herpes.

My father worked for Island Navigation Corporation, which was part of the C. Y. Tung Group. Mr. Tung was a Chinese shipping magnate who founded Orient Overseas Lines, which today is OOCL (Orient Overseas Container Line). You will always see one of those gray-hulled vessels at any one of the large container terminals all over the world. They have a large red OOCL painted on the ship's sides and a yellow funnel identification, which is a red lotus flower emblem. But back then, they mainly handled tankers and cargo ships, which my father tended to.

C. Y.'s largest ship was the ULCC (ultra large crude carrier) Seawise Giant. Seawise was a neat pun on Mr. Tung's initials. Although Seawise Giant was not quite the largest tanker ever built, ranking fifth in the world, she was the longest at 1,504 ft. I passed by her in 1989 as I was sailing into Singapore on another ship where the Giant was berthed and was undergoing repair for major damages incurred during the Iran-Iraq War. I again saw her later as the Norwegian flagged Jahre Viking.

Mr. Tung was a firm believer in education and purchased aging passenger ships to convert into floating schools. He was also one of the founders, with his ships, who started the world-renowned Semester at Sea program. This was why he purchased the liner Queen Elizabeth, and she is my biggest claim to fame as one of the old liners on which I've actually set foot.

Mr. Tung purchased her in order to convert her into a floating university. This was in 1971. She was passing through Singapore and was laid up at a berth to load some equipment in preparation for the massive conversion that would take place in Hong Kong. She was an empty ship, meaning no passengers were on board. My mother and I boarded her on July 7 for a tour at the invite of my father, who also boarded her for work-related reasons. She was having a lot of boiler problems. Of her twelve boilers, only three were functioning.

She had already been renamed Elizabeth. The names of ships change with each new owner. Home ports change sometimes, but class rarely ever does. Unfortunately, the Queen burned down in January of 1972 while undergoing that conversion in the shipyard. She would have been named Seawise University.

The private tour with one of the ship's officers was incredible. The interior of the ship was deathly silent since no air-conditioning was necessary for the nonexistent guests, but you could almost hear the whisper of small talk of previous passengers. I imagined the sound of swishing evening gowns, and every time a crystal chandelier moved due to the ever so subtle roll alongside the berth, you thought you heard the clinking of flute champagne glasses back in her day when passengers were socializing and being served the finest of the finest of champagnes. There was the smell of expensive cigars that were smoked by gentlemen wearing vests, bow ties, and monocles.

Everywhere, the ship's decor exuded opulence. On the Queen, everything was still the original wooden decor and paneling. I recall standing inside one of the large letter rooms, where numerous passengers would sit at any one of the many personal small writing desks, each with their own little writing lamp, to write a letter home. She was, after all, a Royal Mail Ship, hence her title RMS Queen Elizabeth.

The overhead ceiling was so far above me and the room so large that I couldn't fathom where there would be room for anything else on the ship, but there was so much more room and grandeur. Climbing the grand staircase with my mother, we kept on hearing footsteps behind us. Each time we turned around, nobody would be there. We were told the wooden steps creaked and readjusted themselves after we had gone a few steps, and the sounds were much more pronounced since nothing was running. We were quite alone on that ship, as there was only a skeleton crew on board for the transit to Hong Kong.

Many years later, I had the opportunity to visit Queen Elizabeth II in Southampton, England. Later, when the Queen Mary 2 pulled into Honolulu on her maiden world cruise in 2007, my young friend Ben Lyons, who was working there as C/O on board, invited me and my family to have lunch. What a splendid ship she was. Young Ben had many stories to tell us, including one about Homer Simpson being on board the Queen Mary 2. At this point, if you are of the curious sort, you will google Homer Simpson and the Queen Mary 2 to find out what he was talking about.

After the Elizabeth burned down and was declared a total loss, Mr. Tung then purchased the SS Atlantic from American Export Lines. SS stands for steamship. This ship was to continue his project as a replacement for the Queen. The Atlantic was past her days as a luxury liner sailing together with the other elegant American Export Line ships, the SS Constitution and the SS Independence. Later, after that conversion, the Atlantic became the SS Universe Campus, which was an at-sea college for students reading theology.

She also passed through Singapore fully operational, and again, my mother and I boarded her for a tour, during which my father attended to business. I remember my mother bought me an orange pocket Bible from the ship's store. This is the only item that I have from that ship.

Later, in 1974, Mr. Tung bought both the Constitution and the Independence and renamed them the Oceanic Constitution and the Oceanic Independence. In 1980, he sold them to American Hawaii Cruises, where they reverted to their original names, Constitution and Independence.

Now here is the strangest thing. Little did I know about all this back in the '70s, but about twenty-five years later, in 1998, I would set foot on the SS Independence as an AB and then again as a 3/O. I would also meet a Chinese engineer working on board who was on board the Queen when she caught fire in Hong Kong. His name was Tung too but of no relation to C. Y. Tung. Also, it was on this ship that I would meet an even younger Ben (the C/O of the Queen Mary 2) when he was a cadet still in training. I was the quartermaster at the time, and he gave me wheel commands so that he could practice his ship-handling skills in order to become an officer.

The first ship I sailed on was not one that I worked on. This was in 1976. She was a twin-screw small passenger/cattle carrier named Kota Singapura of 9,020 GT and carried only 230 passengers. She had a crew of 200 men and women. Her run was from Singapore to Fremantle, Australia, and back. The return voyage included us passengers and several sheep and cows in her holds.

I was fourteen at the time, and my friend's parents did this voyage every summer to visit their home in Australia again. I was invited to tag along. It was either this ship or the SS Canberra for the crossing. We all managed to secure a berth on the Singapura. The ship had various slot machines around the passenger areas, and I won the jackpot with three aces of spades in a row. The jackpot was around twenty-seven Australian dollars. That was a big disappointment because I thought I would be rich.

Of course, one of the first things I wanted to see was the bridge. When I finally got there, it was as I expected. An officer was on watch, and an AB was at the helm. What I did not expect was a large number of rabbits too. Apparently, the captain, who was an Englishman, kept them as pets. Although a large box had been built for them to sleep in, they were free to hop around on the bridge. The funniest part was that every time the ship rolled, all the bunny turds rolled from one end of the bridge and then back to the other. It wasn't that funny stepping on them.

Keeping animals as pets on board by crew members is a thing of the past. This is due to regulations with regard to disease control and sanitation. In the past, monkeys were also kept on the flying bridge, and some mariners today still refer to that deck as the monkey bridge or monkey island.

It was during this voyage that I became a member of the Ancient Order of the Deep, better known as a shellback. You become a shellback during the line-crossing ceremony, the line being the equator at 0°N or 0°S, whatever your fancy is and at any longitude. The ceremony was a tumultuous affair, and much fun was had by all. I very much doubt what occurred then happens on any passenger ship these days. In fact, I know it does not.

There were many young ladies in bikinis who attended King Neptune's pool party. I recall one passenger in a white bikini who had the front part of her bikini bottom opened by a crew member, who then placed a raw egg in her crotch. He then crushed it flat with a slap of his hand. The yolk and egg white oozed out everywhere. We were all thrown into the ship's pool, which had spaghetti and other food floating on top of the water. It was disgusting.

On regular ships, crew members who cross the line for the first time are put through a mild form of hazing. They are stripped to their underwear, their heads are shaved, and they would most likely be doused in some form of engine oil or grease. After going through the ritual, they will receive their certificate accordingly.

The ship had a daily contest of who could accurately guess or get closest to guessing the ship's tote. The ship's tote is the distance run by the ship from noon to noon each day. We could never get it right or nearly right, because we didn't factor in the time changes. So my friend and I befriended the ship's 2/O (second officer) who was the navigational officer, and one day, he gave us the answer just in time for us to put our chit into the box, along with our five-Australian-dollar entry fee, at the purser's office. I don't remember how much we won, but it all went back to the one-armed bandits.

This ship is also the only ship that I have seen with a working taffrail log in use. This instrument is attached to the rail on the stern of the ship. This, in turn, is attached via a long line to a small propeller that mimics an actual one. It spins through the water as it is pulled along.

The number of rpms over a single watch of four hours was then compared to the actual rpms turned by the ME. The difference between the two and some additional calculations gave you the slip of the ship, which, in basic terms, meant efficiency of the ship running through water. The next time I was to see one these instruments again was on the CS (cable Ship) Long Lines. She was built in '63 and was specifically designed to lay communication cables on the ocean floors. The taffrail log was in a box in the stern locker and had never been used. In 2002, the ship was off to the scrap yard; and with the permission of the C/O, I took the instrument home with me, another relic of the past.

I don't remember much about the two-week stay in Perth, except that it was fun. We spent two weeks there, as we had to await the ship's return after sailing back to Singapore as soon as we disembarked. There wasn't much in the form of entertainment at night unlike today's cruise ships except a three-man band. There was much drinking and dancing among the couples on board and also much dancing and drinking among the ship's officers and the single ladies who were making the voyage.

One night, as the night wore on, I noticed fewer and fewer of the ship's officers and their dancing partners. They must have simultaneously called it a night and had gone to bed. The captain and his partner, too, were one of the first couples who disappeared, perhaps to view the full moon from his large stateroom windows.

Chapter 2

A Change in the Weather

This chapter is a little technical. I believe that my generation of seafarers have witnessed major changes in the maritime industry, much like that generation of seafarers that sailed during the transition of sail to steam. That change, however, was the method of propulsion. Reefer ships came next, then the advent of radar, and following this, the next great change was the containerization of break-bulk cargo.

By the time I started sailing in 1979, TEU (twenty-foot equivalent unit) containers, the ones you see on the roads, were already the norm. What I have witnessed are the changes in the methods of navigation, automation, and communications, which have been propelled by modern electronic technology. Safety training and pollution regulations have also changed for the better.

On my first rotation as the ship's most junior deck officer, I was still using a sextant, a wristwatch, a nautical almanac, and a set of LHA (local hour angle) tables to generate the ship's position during my watch. I shall brag here a little by saying that I've become quite good at it. It is a skill that you fine-tune with time, and I enjoyed it tremendously. You don't just learn how to use a sextant and then shoot a celestial object and expect your position to be accurate. In fact, in the beginning, it is very disappointing. It takes a lot of practice. Any sight taken is called an LOP (line of position).

Close to noon, we would all get together on the bridgewing with our sextants; and near noon, ship's time, we would shoot the sun. This is known as a sun sight, but at noon, it is called LAN (local apparent noon). Rarely is the sun at its highest at precisely noon, ship's time. In fact, it is within twenty minutes before or after noon. You will then proceed to do some calculations and plot your LAN on the chart. The captain and the C/O always have a chuckle at your expense as they stand over your shoulder and watch you plot your first professional LAN sight. It is probably the most important sight that you take with your sextant.

In celestial navigation, there are five horizons. The visible horizon is the one we use for our sights. It is the most inaccurate one and introduces the most error and, thus, must be corrected in calculations. You can also shoot Polaris, known by sailors as the North Star, at night if you are north of the equator and provided you have a clear horizon at night. There are stars, planets, and the moon you can also take sights from. Both the North Star and the meridian transit sights give you a very accurate estimation of latitude.

Obtaining your longitude is far more complicated, and in fact, we are not trained in how to obtain that. It involves distances between celestial objects and the moon, which will give you GMT (Greenwich Mean Time), and from there, you can calculate your longitude. There is an excellent book aptly titled Longitude by Dava Sobel where you can read about this.

About five years into my career as an officer, the sextant began to become an instrument of the past. Satellite navigation became the norm, although GPS (Global Positioning System) was not yet operational, at least not for commercial shipping and the general public. The sextant became neglected and, sadly, spent more and more time in its wooden storage box. Talk about being at the tail end of things.

There was only a five-year relationship between me and the old girl. However, you'll still find a sextant on most ships, but no one uses them anymore, let alone is capable of producing a somewhat useful position. They still teach you how to use one at the academies, but you'll find them most likely covered with dust in some corner of the bridge. The last time I took sun sights—or any sight, for that matter—was in 2002 on a research ship. It was not required for me to do so, and I did it just for the fun. My running fixes were a little off, which can be expected for a skill no longer constantly practiced.

The saddest sextant I have ever seen was a little gray plastic Davis sextant that yachtsmen may have on their boats. It was warped and cracked. I found it way in the back of a cupboard on a large bulk carrier I was on. It is not considered to be a professional one like the German Cassens & Plath or the Japanese Tamaya ones that we carry on board. They are quite expensive. The Chinese make good sextants too that are a little cheaper.

I don't know how the Davis got on board. One deep-sea captain I met much later on in my career had his own yacht to sail on when he was off the ships. He had a Davis sextant and took good care of it. He used it quite often on his yacht. If taken care of, they can be just as accurate as the professional ones we use on ships.

We do not call charts maps. They are called charts. When in deep sea, we use blank large sheets of paper with designated latitude lines for the area we are in, and they are called Mercator charts. You will plot your own lines of longitude. If you don't have a commercially produced one, you can make one on an entirely blank sheet of paper.

A chart depicting an ocean is far too small-scale for an accurate position plot. If you were to place a pencil dot on a small-scale chart, the dot would cover several tens of square miles. We keep those charts on board for general reference only; hence, they are called general charts. As you get closer to your destination, you will switch to larger- and larger-scaled charts and, eventually, end up using a harbor chart on arrival.

Also, charts are not rolled up like you see in the movies. They are folded and neatly placed in chart drawers, of which there are many under the chart table. The uppermost drawer under the chart table will contain the charts, in sequence, for the intended voyage. This is part of the 2/O's duties, for he plans the entire voyage. The other drawers will hold the portfolios of charts in other regions of the world. There can be hundreds of charts on any given ship.

Electronic ship navigation has become the norm with accuracies down to centimeters, if not millimeters, when using modern-day DP (dynamic positioning). Even the pioneering forms of electronic radio navigation, which I used as a deck officer, have become defunct, such as RDF (radio direction finder). Decca and LORAN, originally called LORAN-B, which then became LORAN-C and, finally, LORAN-A, were all based on LF (low frequency) radio signals.

The omega navigation system was based on VLF (very low frequency) radio signals and was replaced by the US GPS of today's satellite navigation. The Russians have GLONASS (global navigation satellite system), and the Europeans are working on their system called Galileo.

I clearly remember our electronic navigation professor back in college saying to us cadets, There's something new coming out which the navy is working on. It's called GPS. This was back in 1985. GPS became fully operational for public use in 1995.

The radars have changed from how I remember them too. They were bulky large machines on the bridge. They gave off strange, crackling noises every now and then and a loud, continuous hum when in operation. They were also nice and warm to stand next to if you were on the bridge of a ship that was very cold due to air-conditioning.

They would show only green masses of land if you were near land and small blips, which were ships or a large bird on a floating piece of wood. For a brief moment, I once saw a blip on the screen, but then it never returned. Was it a submarine briefly surfacing and then going down again? A whale? Perhaps a mermaid? Who knows? There are lots of mysterious things out there.

To calculate another ship's relative and true motions, we used special tools, such as a grease pencil and a tongue depressor. I won't go into details, because you old-timers know what I mean and because it is beyond the scope of this book to give you a course in radar. If I remember correctly, there were only a few switches on those radars—an on/off switch with a time delay for the CRT (cathode-ray tube) to warm up, a range switch that you dialed in the range of your choice, an STC (sensitivity time control) switch that adjusted the gain for the receiver's antenna, and an FTC (frequency time control) switch, with which you could drown out unwanted clutter due to rain, snow, or other precipitation.

I recall how as a cadet, I could never remember which switch did what. I'm referring to the STC and FTC switches. Then one day, out of the blue, the radar instructor said, It's easy to remember which switch does what. The FTC switch is for weather, so fuck the clouds. It was easy to remember after that.

Today's radar does all the work for you and auto adjusts for gain. They automatically alter between relative and true motions at the flip of a command key. They give you warning signals and predict the new outcome if you plan for a move to avoid close contact with a passing or oncoming ship.

Autopilots on ships have changed drastically too. On my first ship in '79, I was the autopilot. On my trick at the wheel, I was given a set course to steer; and every now and then, I would be checked upon to see whether I was maintaining the correct heading or not. On larger ships, there is a real autopilot; and in the US, it is named the Iron Mike. I'm not sure anyone still uses that terminology. The course to steer would be dialed in and then reset when there was a necessary course change due to traffic, wind, or current.

Today's form of autopilot is a computer screen that integrates the radar, which, as discussed, displays land and other ships' positions but also integrates your engines with regard to speed. You will find your position, your HDG (heading), and your CMG (course made good) all overlaid on the electronic chart you are currently using. It does not only that but also tells you exactly what other types of ships are out there, their names, what their destinations and cargoes are, their call signs, what courses they are steering, and what their current statuses are. You can even text them from your keyboard. This is known as AIS (automatic identification system).

With the flip of a computer command, you can turn off the transponder, which removes all information of your ship on other ships' screens but not your position. Most naval ships turn theirs off for obvious reasons, but we can still see them on the scope unless they are cloaked. The Flying Dutchman has such a cloaked system, and as such, she is quite hard to detect. The entire system put together is known as ECDIS (electronic chart display and information system), and currently, every five years, we must take a refresher course as well as one for radar.

Engine rooms have also received their share of modernization. No longer are the steam boiler burners lit by sewing on a set of balls, as one engineer put it, and sticking a caveman-like torch into the furnace and looking to make sure you got it in the right place before you get your hair and eyebrows burned off. I did that once deep inside the ER (engine room) on my training ship, Empire State V. Today, they are lit by electronic ignition switches. In fact, steam propulsion has, by and large, been replaced by the more efficient, modern marine diesel engine for commercial shipping.

Note that I say commercial shipping. The nuclear-powered navy ships use nuclear power. What does that mean? Nuclear power converts water to steam for propulsion, so in effect, nuclear powered still means steam driven. So ultimately, it is a nuclear-powered steam engine. It's just not economically feasible or efficient for commercial ships to have nuclear power, although it has been tried before.

The Savannah was the first ship to try this out. She was a combination passenger and cargo carrier. In the end, she proved to be uneconomical. I understand that she is undergoing conversion to become a museum ship. The Germans also have a decommissioned nuclear ship, the Otto Hahn. She carried passengers and ore cargoes. She is also a museum ship, and you can visit her in Hamburg, Germany.

Lately, I've been witnessing the conventional engine shaft propeller configuration slowly giving way to diesel engine-podded electric motor-propeller propulsion systems. This configuration reduces engineering space, which, in turn, allows for more cargo. It is mainly modern cruise ships that are using this configuration, creating more space for passengers.

Earlier on, I wrote that engine speeds can be regulated via the computers on the bridge and those in the ECR. Once you have planned a voyage with a defined ETA (estimated time of arrival), the computer will calculate the set speed required. Obviously, the speed required must be within your engines' capabilities, which will be set by default by the builders of the ship. You always want your set speed to equal your SMG (speed made good) in order to make good your ETA.

As the ship is underway, her SMG fluctuates due to external forces, such as wind and current, to name a few. They will either increase or decrease your SMG. When the speed required does not match your SMG, your bridge computers will send signals to the ECR, which will, in turn, send signals to the engines to either increase or decrease engine rpms (revolutions per minute) in order to maintain the desired ETA.

In effect, the bridge becomes a governor of the engine's governor, and this is all caused by the signals received from a satellite by your GPS. Yet the satellites themselves, too, are affected by Einstein's theory of relativity. Men and women at Schriever Air Force Base maintain the correct times, altitudes, and SMGs of those satellites.

Because of automation capabilities, there are ships today that operate with unmanned ERs during the night, and the alarms go off not only in the duty engineers' cabin but also on the bridge. So now we are also burdened with learning about the automation, which involves more training and hours spent in classes during our vacations. We already have more tasks on board ship than we used to, and still, when shit hits the fan, guess who's in trouble? There has even been talk about fully automated ships running with only two officers on board. The conversation goes on to predict future ships hauling cargo and operating underwater, much like submarines.

Rules, regulations, and conventions have been created due to terrible, unfortunate maritime accidents. SOLAS (Safety of Life at Sea) was created by the sinking of the Titanic. The sinking of the Herald of Free Enterprise introduced the ISM (International Safety Management) Code, which we must also be in strict compliance. MARPOL 73/78 (International Convention for the Prevention of Pollution from Ships) regulations were brought about because of large oil spills that occurred from the tankers Torrey Canyon in 1967 and the Amoco Cadiz in 1978. The regulations have become and are becoming even more stringent over the years and will continue to do so.

Security on ships has changed. There is very tight control of who is permitted to come on board or even on the pier. There is even a silent alarm switch—another button—that we can depress on the bridge that will automatically alert shoreside personnel in the event of a pirate takeover, much like banks have in the event of a robbery.

Security around wharves, piers, docks, and harbors in general has changed too. Gone are the days when one could simply walk up to the side of a ship while she was loading or unloading her cargo, like when I was young. There were times when I could just ask a crew member for a tour of the ship. But perhaps the times still do exist somewhere, in some port, where you can bring a lady of the night on board for a meaningful discussion.

A change for the worse, at least for us who work on ships, has been the reduction in crewing requirements. Where once there was a crew of forty-five to sixty men on a merchant ship, there are now only twenty-six of us if we are lucky. By lucky, I mean that the more hands we have, the less work for our already overstrained workloads