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Docklands 8 - Sailing Time
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1772 Reads
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I love sailing time. After these past couple days of hubbub, the angst, the expecteds & unexpecteds, the sheer absurdities, this ship now briefly at rest from it all is, to me, nothing short of beautiful.
Itâs now 0100 hours on Wednesday, this morning past. The petcoke loading ceased aboard the M/V FUNDAMENTAL TEMPER at precisely 2340 hours yesterday. The draft surveyor has carefully calculated the amount of cargo loaded, the hatches are closed, the behemoth LAXT conveyor loader, the praying mantis, is massively silent.
Itâs as if, despite the intense industrial cacophony of just a little over an hour ago, that it all never happened. Now the yellow hue of deck lights and soft hum of machinery deep within the ship provide such a pleasant lull, accompanied by the gentle lapping of waves against the piles of the dock. On deck, thereâs not a soul in sight. Itâs rest time. Itâs sailing time ...
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BANG-BANG-BANG, as I pound the Captainâs door. Frankly, Iâm quite worried, what with his flagrant congress with known felons when I last left him?
âSenor Ochoa?! Please come in!â
Iâm impressed. âCaptain, you look quite well! What . .how? Where are your friends?â
âThey left after you. Theyâre my friends, remember . .â
âOf course, Captain. Itâs just that my office receives weekly faxed circulars describing the potential threats to waterfront security and I recognized three of those gentlemens. . .â
âTheyâre my friends . . .â
I take the hint. âOK! Well, hereâs your foreign clearance to your next port in Japan . . .and has the Chief Engineer given you the departure conditions yet?â Hey, Iâve done my duty I figure.
And so we conduct the final port formalities, exchanging paperwork and pleasantries. I loan Captain Go my cell phone to call his wife back in Korea. Unlike his initial conversation with the âFar East Tradingâ chaps in Arcadia, this call is simple, sober and brief. It is, afterall, sailing time. It is, afterall, his wife.
A brief âhuaannhâ comes over the shipâs intercom announcing that the pilot is now aboard. This is my cue for departure.
âWell, Captain, Iâm glad itâs all worked out and your AB seaman is recovering . . ,â as I just canât help myself. Sure enough the good Captainâs sunny sailing disposition is momentarily disrupted.
âSurgery! Shouldâve surgery,!â the spittle foaming on his lips. Thank God Captain Christensen of the LA Harbor Pilots walks in, thus restoring the peace.
We all exchange a couple further brief pleasantries as I descend the ladders in my final debark. The ILWU line-handlers, arriving last minute in their tricked-out, high-end, mega-wheeled SUVâs, who, in having the best gig in the harbor bar-none, take their positions fore & aft. The FUNDAMENTAL TEMPER emits a deep bass profoundo from its whistle, the decks swarm with the crew, lines begin to flop and single-up, as the attending tugs toot into position.
I back away slightly on the dock and aptly observe these finalities. Most vessel agents just take off at this point, their job done, back to the office to email off the sailing message. For me, in the midst of this hellish personal resurrection of my checkered career in vessel agency, I must stay put until the last line is cast off, while always marveling, as this giant vessel slowly, initially imperceptibly, slips silently into the dark and back to sea.
Just before she disappears altogether, Captain Go, standing on the bridge-wing with Pilot Christensen, notices me standing on the dock, and snaps off a smart salute.
This job may be vastly underpaid, unappreciated, etc, but every once in awhile, Iâm vitally reminded, to my very core, that thereâs simply nothing like it. There is simply nothing comparable to working the Docklands.
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| Posted by: Hector_Ochoa on Wednesday, February 11, 2004 - 08:48 PM
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