Time Out (very, very long)

I started tapping this thing out on my laptop a month or so ago. The intent
wasn't to maintain a trip log. It just turned out that way. This was
supposed to give me something to look at while I figured things out. By
adding a paragraph or two (or three) every evening over the days and weeks,
the damned thing, like Topsy, just growed. Before I do some housekeeping
chores on my hard drive and purge this thing forever, I am going to post it
on a couple of newsgroups with the full realization that it may not be
totally appropriate for either.



--------------------------------------------------





A week before Christmas, my wife died.



A month earlier, tests showed us the reason for her weight loss, lack of
appetite and anemia. By then, the damned stuff had spread through her body.
It was too late to do anything other than hold onto each other and wait.



Then it was over.



Through the numbness a couple of things became apparent:



1. The remainder of my life didn't look particularly appetizing, but I was
stuck with it;



2. If anything was to be salvaged, it would require a well thought out
analysis of changes, like them or not, that would have to be made in my
life.



3. Our home was not the place for constructive thinking. I felt her in
every piece of furniture in the house.



This wallowing in self-pity stunk. I needed a "time out" where I could sit
on a rock and think things over without stumbling over baggage tied to
familiar items and people and places.



I have no idea where the idea of a freighter came from. There may have been
some logical thinking behind it, but more likely it was churned out as a
combination of impulse and desperation. A 500-foot container ship would be
sailing out of Barbour's Cut in about a week headed for South America. The
ship had an empty cabin and would do a circuit of the Caribbean - - down the
west coast stopping at cargo ports on the way to Colombia and Venezuela
before returning to Houston via Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic



This setup sounded ideal. It offered solitude, meals and a place to sleep
with no social involvement. According to the information from the agent, it
was a German vessel with . . . "meals reflecting the tastes of the officers.
.. ." I would have access to the officers' mess, an exercise room and a
laundry machine. There were no elevators and getting from the mess and main
deck to the cabin meant climbing five decks. I had always thought of German
cooking as the "missionary position" of international cuisine. But, what it
lacked in imagination it would make up for in calories. I could use a few.
Between the time the food ran out and the time the hospice people showed up
and gave me a chance to make a run for groceries I managed to drop fifteen
pounds. Exercise seemed to have been neglected also.



This may be the easiest trip I have ever packed for. In one bag, I stowed
three pairs of khaki pants, half a dozen short sleeved shirts, underwear, a
couple of pairs of running shoes, sweatshirt, windbreaker, hat and shaving
kit.



Baggage weight and volume began to add up with the "tub toys". In a larger
bag I added a laptop computer with a new 240 to 120 voltage converter, a
pillow from her side of the bed, half a gallon of Jack Daniels (green) and a
collapsible canvas tailgating chair. In my experience on ships, there was
never a comfortable place to sit where I wanted. Then came the little stuff
that fell into the ". . .what the heck, it doesn't take up much room. . ."
category: a handheld GPS, digital camera, some blank CDs, extra AA
batteries, a leatherman tool, a roll of electrical tape, small flashlight,
several pairs of cheap reading glasses from the drugstore and a book..



On the day the ship was scheduled to sail, I gave the agent a call and was
told to meet him at the Seafarers Center on Barbour's Cut Boulevard. The
Seafarers Center looked like a charity-financed USO for merchant seaman. It
had a pool table, TV set and small commissary which sold candy bars, shaving
articles and underwear. Its main function seemed to be transporting sailors
from their ship to and from the local Wal-Mart. For a price, they let me to
park my vehicle behind their building and gave me a ride to the ship.



At the ship, one of the crew helped haul my bags up to my cabin, collected
my passport and contract and disappeared, mentioning over his shoulder that
I had missed evening meal but that cheese, bread and cold cuts were
available in a refrigerator in the pantry of the officer's mess.



By cruise ship standards, the room was very large. I would estimate 20 by
13 feet. A quarter of it was walled off into a bedroom and bathroom leaving
an L-shaped sitting room and office with a sofa, desk, table, a couple of
chairs and a credenza with a TV set and a small refrigerator. Sole
function of the TV seemed to be to play DVDs (not included). The bunk,
built into the wall, was comfortably large - - 54 by 74 inches with a firm
mattress, a fitted lower sheet, floppy, down pillow with pillowcase and a
European-style comforter for bedding (no upper sheet). A hand towel and
bath towel were folded on the bed along with two bars of soap and a small
box of laundry detergent. Once a week, my room would be cleaned and I
would get new linen. A hand printed note taped to the base of the lamp on
the desk announced meal times: Breakfast 7:30 a.m., Lunch 11:30; Evening
meal 5:30.



The ship spent the next ten hours unloading and loading containers, and
pulled away from the dock around five in the morning.



The ship, the Lykes Commodore, is owned by the Rudolf Schepers Corporation.
It is registered in Antigua and Barbados. It carries 19 officers and crew.
The corporate ownership is German, but the officers were eastern European:
Russian, Polish, German and Ukrainian with a Croatian captain. With the
exception of a cadet from a maritime academy, the crew is all Filipino.



First stop on the circuit: the container yard at the cargo docks of
Altamira, Mexico. No reason to leave the ship, there was no place to go.
That evening, I fired up the laptop and started to catch up on some notes.
When the battery became low, I plugged in the voltage converter which
immediately popped a fuse. I stuck in the spare fuse and burned out that
one too. Apparently my machine drew more than the 50 watts that the
converter is rated for. Until I can pick up a replacement, I am out of the
computer business.



Vera Cruz, Mexico: we picked up the pilot and entered the harbor around
nine in the morning. We passed a Holland America cruise ship tied up next
to the main part of the city. After we docked and the customs people
cleared us, I got the captain's signature on a shore pass and caught a port
bus to the main gate. The docks are huge. The distance from the ship to the
main gate was something on the order of four miles. From the main gate into
town was only five or six blocks. After a few inquiries I located an
electronics supply store and picked up another voltage converter rated for
350 watts. The remaining purchases during my shore leave were a cold beer on
a clean table under an umbrella by the cruise ship dock (beer is another one
of the many things that Mexicans do really well) and a cheeseburger with
fries at a Burger King on the way back to the gate. Outstanding. My
compliments to the chef.



We pulled away from the dock around five in the afternoon. Next stop: Costa
Rica. It will be about a three-day run. It takes a day and a half just
steaming north to get around the Yucatan and line up for a run through the
passage between Mexico and Cuba.



This morning's first discovery was that the blade in my razor was getting
pretty dull. The folks who produce these things have found ways to make
them better, sharper and longer-lasting, but eventually they start getting
your attention. (I wonder if she used this one on her legs)? Second
discovery was that the spare blades I tossed into the kit don't fit the
razor. It's tempting to see if I can rig up some sort of handle for the
blades using an extra toothbrush, a piece of coat hanger and some tape. A
more logical solution is to put up with a less-than-splendid shave for a few
days and score some new stuff when we hit port.



We've been out for five or six days now I think. It's easy to lose track of
time. I have started to figure out the ship. I'll pass on the exercise
room. Equipment is limited to a weight bench and a set of weights.
Pressing a weight bar without a spotter on a rolling, pitching vessel
probably isn't a good idea. The chiseled, god-like physique will have to
wait until I get back to the club.



The food definitely falls into the "expect the unexpected" category. The
combinations are unusual and imaginative. Breakfast several days ago was a
couple of fried eggs served on a piece of liverwurst. This morning it was
eggs scrambled with onions and tomatoes and served with a spring roll.
Today's lunch was chicken soup, pork liver and cauliflower. This evening,
we enjoyed spare ribs, spaghetti and zucchini. Overall, the food is pretty
good - - just not something I'm accustomed to. Several days ago, we had
little steaks with roasted potatoes and gravy. They were absolutely
excellent. The meat was tender, flavorful and cooked to perfection. I
noticed the Russians looking at their steaks with a distinct lack of
enthusiasm. I think they are accustomed to well-done and chewy.



The ship operates on a caste system. The Filipino crew and the cadet eat in
the crew mess which is a self-service buffet arrangement with a large pot of
rice available at every meal. The officers eat in the officer's mess with
assigned seating according to rank. They are served by a steward. A
separate table in the officer's mess is reserved for passenger(s). Never
the twain shall meet.



The days are passing without anything remarkable to give them individual
identities. The crew is constantly working on the ship. Every morning they
hose down the decks and railings to wash off accumulated soot from the
stacks and a layer of salt crystals from spray. By afternoon, the crud has
started to build up again. Holding onto the outside railings when moving
around the ship (highly recommended) generally results in a layer of salt,
grease and unidentified mung on the hands.



There isn't a heckuva lot of people space on deck. Most outside area is
taken up by 9 ½ x 8 x 40 foot containers. When I manage to find a place
out of the wind and spray, the ocean is fascinating. The foam from the bow
and the wake is like a kaleidoscope, only better. At our last port, we had
a porpoise escort as we entered the harbor. Further out, in blue water, we
run into an occasional school of flying fish. The little boogers pop up out
of the water and coast along in slow motion just above the surface for 20 or
30 feet. I found one on deck one morning. They're about ten inches long.
Very large tail and huge pectoral fins that look like bird's wings which
give them a "wingspan" of about ten inches. One of the crew says they are
good to eat. Looks like it would take quite a few to make a meal.



When things are calm or we have a following sea, the bow next to the anchor
winches is a great place to settle. There is surprisingly little wind and
very little engine noise or vibration. Bringing the canvas chair was a
stroke of genius. Having said that . . . . . the damned ship knows when I
have dozed off. In the midst of all that tranquility it occasionally
manages to catch a swell JUST RIGHT and throws up a wall of spray that
douses me and everything else.



If everything goes as planned, we will dock at Puerto Limon, Costa Rica
today around mid-day. Things may not be going as planned. The officer on
watch explained that we will enter the harbor from the east. Currently the
swells are coming from the east. The port has no breakwater that amounts to
anything. Large swells could give the ship a problem. Trying to load and
unload the ship while it is being bounced around by swells at the dock is
unsafe. The captain might decide to delay entry into the harbor or even
just take the ship to the general anchorage and park it until things quiet
down. We'll see. About 60 miles out from Puerto Limon I turned on an FM
radio and scanned for stations. It picked up a rock and roll station. They
were playing a song in German that translates as "Ninety Nine Red
Balloons" - - - the lyrics are particularly scary. I wonder what's
happening in the world.



Puerto Limon is pleasant. The dock is small and the town was just a short
stroll from the gangplank. In a shop three blocks into the town I found a
razor with matching spare blades and, a block beyond that, a Chinese
restaurant with outside tables in the shade. This provides an opportunity
to do a quality check on the local beer - Imperial. A couple from the
cruise ship ask to share my table. They are from Ft. Worth and are going to
do a canoe tour later in the day to see wildlife. She has beautiful eyes.
We rank Imperial beer as "pretty darned good". Costa Ricans appear to know
how to make beer. A one-hour chat seemed like ten minutes.



Back at the ship: The German chief engineer had been doing some taste
testing of his own. Normally he is morose. Now he has become downright
sociable. He filled me in on a few details regarding his home in
Wilhelmshaven, his car, his impending retirement in 13 months, his dream
(owning a Harley Davidson motorcycle) and he makes passing mention of the
gefahrlich harbor that we are just leaving (we had broken three mooring
lines from the swells), the increasing incidence of submarine earthquakes
and the damned busted winch on the aft port side which he would repair if
the replacement had made it to our next port of call. The sun went down;
the town disappeared over the horizon; clocks are set ahead one hour and we're
headed for Panama.



The harbor outside of Colon is filled with ships waiting their turn for
passage through The Canal. We get to the container dock around 9:30 in the
morning; cleared customs and began unloading. I collected a shore pass,
caught a bus to the gate and hired a taxi. The driver gave me a quickie
tour of Colon, the new shopping mall by the cruise ship dock, the duty free
zone, schools, hospitals and the downtown area. When he found that I had
never seen The Canal before, he insisted on driving up to the operation. We
watched a tanker inch its way through the Gatun locks. Impressive. Not a
lot of wiggle-room. Then we headed for the Colon Yacht Club and found a
table by the docks where we could admire a lot of floating money. The
driver's name was Antonio Kelly. He's a good-looking, wiry little black guy
with salt and pepper hair, a chipped front tooth, twinkley eyes and a gift
of bull****. He's 53 years old and has seven kids. The youngest, a
seventeen-year-old daughter will start college next year. The oldest, a
33-year-old son is a professor of History in a local university. Antonio's
mother is in Alabama and his sister is in Chicago. When I suggested that we
sample the local beer, Atlas, he agreed. Panamanian beer ain't too shabby.



The Commodore pulled away from the dock around 5 pm.



The ship did a lot of rocking and rolling last night. It felt like swells
were coming at us from two different directions. Instead of a rhythmic and
predictable pitch and roll, the hull would occasionally break out in a
little chicken dance; usually just as I had one foot in the air. Shaving
this morning without filleting a lip requires a certain amount of bracing.
Left shoulder and left hip against the door, crotch against the wash basin
and right knee against the toilet.



Sunrise is at 6:24. It's worth getting up for. There is a bench and a
crude, white wooden table outside the officer's mess on the poopdeck that is
shielded from the wind by a stack of containers. The air is fresh. Good
place to have a mug of coffee and map out my hectic day's routine.



We picked up the pilot and passed the fort at the entrance to the harbor in
Cartagena. Didn't I see that fort in a movie? Cartagena looks enormous.
Its skyline is filled with high-rise buildings. It's dark by the time we
moor and clear customs. The crewman at the head of the gangplank asks if I
want to go ashore. Why not? I collect a shore pass, walk a mile or so to
the main gate, look out at a steady stream of heavy traffic then chicken
out. Wandering around by myself in a strange city this size after dark
doesn't seem particularly bright. Whatever is out there will have to do
without me. Tail between legs . . . . back to the ship; Jack Daniels and my
bunk. I wonder what Colombian beer would have been like.



Just before sunup, we pulled out of the harbor into a real honey of a gale.
Best way to move around the cabin seemed to be on hands and knees. The ship
had to fight for every mile heading north along the Colombian coast until it
could head east to Venezuela. That seemed to have put a crimp in our
schedule. The weather doesn't settle down until we passed between Aruba and
the coast of South America. Several days after leaving Colombia we make
it to the harbor of Puerto Cabello, Venezuela. The water was smooth as
glass.



I'm having less and less desire to leave the boat and visit town. When the
bosun advised that I leave all jewelery (my watch and wedding band) and most
of my money on the ship and not go into town by myself, I sorta lost
interest in seeing what was outside the fences of the port.



We've had a change of captains at this port. Apparently the Croatian was a
relief captain. The regular captain (Polish) had allowed his US visa to
expire and the US immigration authorities had seen no reason to expedite his
renewal. So the ship had a replacement Master while its regular captain
went on vacation and waited for bureaucracy to do its thing.



The ship left Puerta Cabello around five in the morning. About an hour
later we had another spectacular sunrise. There was a broken layer of low
clouds - - - fluffy, gray flat-bottomed things that mark the altitude where
the air temperature has dropped to the dew point; then, through holes in
this, strip-tease glimpses of high, wispy cirrus clouds that were catching
the long-wavelength colors from the sun just over the horizon - - -
fantastic colors: red to orange to pink - - - so vivid they almost looked
fake.



It's Tuesday. On Tuesday, the laundry machine is reserved for the exclusive
use of the Captain, the Chief Engineer and the passenger. I flaunt the
privilege and run a load through. This is spooky. Something has just
happened that never happened befo the socks all match. Maybe because it's
a German-made washing machine. (Alles ist in ordnung!) Grease spots on the
khaki pants look permanent. A lot of this stuff will get left behind when
I leave the ship - - - probably will be recycled to the crew (if there is
anyone down there with a 36-inch waist. Maybe the Bosun. He's build like a
barrel.)



One member of the ships crew stands out . . . . a tall, thin, bearded German
kid. He's well over six feet tall. When the ship docks or leaves, he is on
deck handling the mooring lines - - - hard, heavy grunt work. He couldn't
possibly look more different from the Filipinos who make up the rest of the
crew.



He is a student from the German Maritime Academy at Rostock and is
fulfilling one of the Academy requirements of service aboard ship as a deck
cadet. He says the normal course of study takes about four and a half
years - - - nine semesters. He is close to the end. A few more courses,
another tour as a deck cadet, a written paper and a battery of exams is all
that is left. When finished, he will have his papers and be qualified to
serve as Third Officer on a commercial vessel. I'm curious about his
curriculum. I'm guessing that he will have had a heavy dose of math,
physics, engineering, meteorology, and business courses . . . . but what
else? Psych? History? I'll swab him for information if the opportunity
comes up.



He is lamenting the difficulty of seeing Houston. Neither he nor anyone he
knows has ever seen the city. It is so remote from the port that a cab ride
would cost about seventy bucks one way and they have no idea where to go
once they got into town. Most of the seamen coming from the ships know
about and have visited the Wal-Mart in LaPorte. That's the limit of their
Texas experience. Too bad: the current dollar to euro exchange rate would
make everything here seem dirt cheap to them.



The second officer on watch on the bridge this afternoon is a Ukrainian from
Odessa. When we hit Houston, he'll leave the ship and fly home for a
three-month vacation. He has a four and a half year old son that he is
dying to see again. He phones his wife every time they get to port. She
tells him that his son is asking where papa is. When his vacation is up, he
will sign another contract with the Schepers line for one of their other
ships which will be making the Brazil run.



He likes the Schepers company and seems proud that they build all new
vessels. This one, the Commodore, is their oldest at 10 years old. He
doesn't particularly like being on a new ship fresh from the shipyard. Too
much work. Lots of cabinetry and trim has to be fitted, thousands of
stencils cut and labels painted on everything. A ship from one to five
years old is perfect.



We exchanged views on the food on this ship. I've gotten used to it and am
starting to like it even if some of the combinations are weird as hell. He
thinks it's too "German". I pointed out that the Poles and Ukrainians
outnumber everyone else on this ship (except the Filipinos who have their
own food) and asked why they didn't pressure the cook for something THEY are
accustomed to. He says it takes too much work. The prep work, particularly
separating eggs (did I hear that right?) would eat up too much time.



He asks what kind car I drive? Jeep Grand Cherokee. He flares his cheeks
and blows - - a peculiarly European mannerism - - and tells me that my SUV
is the vehicle of choice with the Mafiosi in his country. ". . . can carry
lots guns . . . What kind mileage it get?" About 14 miles per gallon.
"What that in kilometers per liter?" We fiddle around with the conversion
factor for awhile and decided that dividing by two gives a close enough
approximation. Doesn't matter. Americans are rich and gasoline is cheap in
US.



. . . and shoes and ships and sealing wax . . . .



Five thirty a.m.: Shower, shave and get down to the lower deck to grab a
mug of coffee and take my place on the bench on the starboard side. Now:
let the show begin. I have become a sunrise junkie. They are always
breathtaking. I've started playing an imaginary audio background in my head
as an accompaniment. Yesterday I tried Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds".
This morning I used Panis Angelicus. Doesn't matter what I use, it's all
good. It's impossible to screw up a sunrise.



This afternoon we will dock in San Juan. The captain tells me, ". . . this
is your country . . .", and provides additional commentary on the amount of
taxes I pay to support this "American protectorate". I try to assure him
that it is worth every penny. This is where we get our baseball players.
(dubious look) .



The captain is hospitable. His bridge is always open except when a pilot is
aboard. He was proud to explain and demonstrate all of the high-tech
navigational and communication goodies at his command. Some of this
whiz-bang stuff really is impressive. He also encourages his officers to
talk to the passenger. "It's a free lesson in American English which has
become the world-wide standard." He has no difficulty understanding
Americans unless they are from New York or are "black people from New
Orleans".



I learned more from a two-hour chat with this captain than I had learned in
the entire past several weeks. From my days in New Orleans, I had thought
that Lykes was a shipping company. Maybe they were, but they no longer own
their own ships. They charter them from other companies who own ships. In
this case, the Rudolf Schepers company. As charterer, they have the right
to re-name the ship which Lykes has done. When they chartered the ship,
they changed the name from Katrin S. to Lykes Commodore. They also have the
right to have their name and/or logo painted on the vessel's smokestack.
They didn't exercise this right and Schepers' logo (an S in a red diamond)
is still on the stack.



The folks who hold the charter also call the shots on how much of a priority
to put on keeping to a schedule. For some types of ships - - principally
bulk carriers (iron ore, coal, grain) it doesn't really matter when the ship
arrives (within reason). For container ships headed into certain ports (he
mentioned Singapore specifically) the schedule has to be met at all costs.
If the weather is bad and plowing through it at full speed may damage the
vessel or lose containers overboard - - so be it. Everything is insured.
The Commodore maintains a fairly loose schedule. We are already at least
ten hours behind for our arrival at Houston. We may fall even farther
behind in the next day or so.



Our early afternoon in San Juan didn't happen. We picked up a harbor pilot
around five in the afternoon and tied up at the dock around six. This is a
US port with US immigration people. For the first time on the trip, I saw
the captain decked out in dress whites with shoulder boards showing his
rank. He cleaned up real good. By the time the migras finish with us, it
is seven p.m. and dark outside. Shore leave will expire at midnight. It
appears that this container yard is to hell and gone from anything . . . . .
so back to my cabin.



**** happens. The ship cast off its mooring lines around four this morning;
got nudged away from the docks by the tugs; attempted to start the engines .
.. . . and nothing happened. The main engine is gone. We're tied up here
until repairs can be made. This is complicated. It could require
coordination and approval from Lloyd's German affiliate as well as a bunch
of other stuff. We could be here awhile. The Captain won't allow anyone
off the ship until he knows how long the repairs will take. I foresee a lot
of naps.



Good sign . . . I think: the Chief Engineer just appeared on deck. He
looks like he has been rode hard and put up wet, but he has a bottle of beer
in his hand. To me, the only logical interpretation of that bottle of beer
is that either the problem has been solved or the situation is hopeless.



The Chief appears to have solved the problem. We have propulsion. We
picked up a pilot around five in the afternoon, cast off and steamed by the
fort at the entrance to the harbor. The Chief was very subdued at evening
mess. Since his job is not only to fix things but also to keep them from
being broke in the first place, it would have been interesting to be a fly
on the wall when he reported to the captain. I wonder if there is any way
of checking to see if a large piece of his ass is missing.



The morning watch on the bridge is assigned to the Third Officer. He is an
amiable, Polish kid who has held his officer's papers for five years. He is
about to become a father around the end of May. Bringing this up in
conversation is like turning on a 500-watt halogen bulb. Radiant ear-to-ear
smile. He will take vacation at the end of April and be home for the
occasion. No . . . . he doesn't know what it will be; and No . . . . he
doesn't want to know. Let it be a surprise. Boy or Girl, he will love it
with all his heart. What he would really like would be twins. His wife is
an only child. He knows the child's grandparents will spoil the hell out of
the kid while he is at sea. With TWO kids, there would not be the danger of
the child growing up thinking of itself as the center of the universe (my
words, not his).



I ask him if he is going to do a Time Capsule. "Vot iss time capzool?" On
the day the child is born, go out and buy many different newspapers and
magazines. Put them in a box with a sheet of postage stamps, several
denominations of paper currency, some newly minted coins, photographs and a
letter written to the child on the day of it's birth describing the day and
anything else he can think of. Seal the box up tightly and stick it in the
attic for twenty or thirty years. When he thinks the kid is old enough to
appreciate it, pass it along on a birthday. He will have absolutely no idea
how quickly twenty or thirty years can pass.



He got quiet and thought about it. "Is good idea . . . I may do this thing".



.. . . and cabbages and kings.



Today's sunrise got overshadowed by docking operations at a container port
on the south coast of the Dominican Republic. This placed is called Puerto
Caucedo. We eased up to the dock just before sunrise. I collected a shore
pass from the captain. The ship's agent gave me a lift to a town on the
other side of the harbor. The place is called BocaChica and is strictly a
tourist town. The main street is lined with dozens of shops selling
virtually identical T-shirts, swim suits, postcards and suntan lotion:
everything necessary to nurture and sustain the human condition. The beach
is clean, well-maintained and crowded with tourists in swimsuits; mostly
German. I found a table under a shady tree and ordered a plate of
spaghetti with bacon and onions (excellent) and a Presidente beer (even
excellenter). And a second Presidente. Shore purchases today were a pair
of cotton cargo shorts and day-old (damn near current) copies of the Miami
Herald and USA Today. I'll have to read this stuff slowly, because it has
to last four days. After we pull away from the dock, no more land until we
reach Houston.



According to my little GPS, we are paralleling the west end of the southern
coast of Haiti. We will pass between Cuba and Jamaica. The crew and the
younger officers are fascinated by this little gadget. The map display can
be panned in and out to a wide range of scales. A cursor shows our position
with respect to coastlines and cities. It will also calculate distance,
direction and travel times to any point selected. As we were traversing the
Mona Passage, I was demonstrating this thing to the Third Officer. He was
initially concerned that MY calculated distance to the next port was about a
hundred nautical miles less than the distance indicated on his onboard nav
gear. I had to point out that MY shorter straight line distance would take
the ship over the mountains of Honduras and Nicaragua. Given the ship's
cargo load and hull design, he doubted if the captain would approve such a
course.



I'm starting to develop a fondness for this Filipino crew. As a group,
these little heathens have a lot going for them. They have a sense of humor
and a proper appreciation for grab-ass. Their food is rice-based, just like
Cajuns, and is pretty tasty if you don't get too analytical about some of
the animal parts floating around in the soup. They have sophisticated
palates (just like mine) and don't get all quivery at the idea of tossing a
couple of jalapenos into the pot. I gotta say though that those little
bitty dried fish that they use as a general-purpose condiment would be
classified as carrion in most parts of the known world.



I was shooting the bull with a deckhand named Jesse who seems typical of the
species. He's 43 and has been working on ships all his life. He doesn't
particularly like the job and the separation from his family, but doesn't
have any other options. His dream job would be working in a hotel in
America. His youngest daughter is just starting nursing school in Manila.
When she gets her RN, she will try for a job in a hospital in the US.



This seems to be the pattern for globalization Filipino style: while the
rest of the world is exporting their jobs to countries with large, educated
pools of affordable talent, the Philippines are scattering their brightest
and best all over the world . . . the men in ships and the women in
hospitals.



Right now, we're headed pretty much northwest. If I read the displays on
some of the gear on the bridge correctly, we should have a course change
around five in the morning. It will put us on a more northerly course in
the direction of and about two days out from Houston. Perfect timing.
Sunrise is around seven in the morning. The course change will put the
sunrise in front and slightly to the right of the starboard side.



The last three weeks have made me a convert from film to digital. I have an
SLR and a set of lenses that she gave me before a trip to Kenya a couple of
years ago. Assuming (correctly) that there would not be a great deal of
interest to record on this voyage, I left the stuff at home BUT brought a
little two-megapixel Kodak. I also brought a laptop with Adobe Photoshop
Elements. During the day, I would pop off a couple dozen shots of items on
the boat, the crew and the officers. In the evening I would delete the duds,
tweak the keepers and load the JPEGs into a file and empty the camera for
another round. Basically, it is unlimited free shots. I could blow off a
couple of dozen shots trying to catch dolphins doing a ballet in low evening
light off the port quarter. It cost nothing. Of course the results were
also zilch, but it was fun to try. Several nights ago, I pulled out a
number of shots, organized them into some sort of logical order and used
Photoshop to create a slide show and added background music (Golden Vanity:
Peter Paul and Mary). It wasn't all that scruffy. I burned it into a VCD.
Actually, I burned it into about a dozen VCD's with very minor variations
trying to get it "just right". Anyone want a copy? When I tried it out on
the machine in the officer's mess, the steward asked if he could make a
copy. I gave him the disc and that afternoon apparently it was played in
the crew mess. By that evening, half the crew had made copies. Flattering
as hell. Damn, I'm good!! My ego won't let me believe that this is the
triumph of technology over minimal creativity.



-------------------------------------------------------



We're passing the breakwater outside of Galveston Bay. I've never seen it
from this angle before. Our drives to Galveston usually included driving on
top of the seawall to it's east end, watching the cargo ships in the
channel, then following the shoreline of the bay north to Gilhooley's in San
Leon for a dose of barbecued oysters and second-hand smoke.



In a few hours the ship will tie up at the container dock at Barbour's Cut
(Enshalla). I'll catch a ride to the Seafarer's Center and find out of my
jeep still has tires.



Was this trip a success? Who knows? I spent more time remembering than
planning. A couple of thoughts came out of all that sitting and staring at
salt water:



1. I won't make any sudden moves: I'm not going to sell the house, enter a
monastery in Patagonia or enlist in the Foreign Legion. I'll sit tight,
take things as they come for awhile and see what happens.



2. Friendships are going to become a priority item. As a married couple,
we were specialized. I could design and build things, plan trips, solve
logistical problems, change light bulbs and open jars. She had the people
skills. Our social life rocked along for almost 35 years based on her
personal magnetism and ability to make and keep friends. It is inevitable
that some of them will drift away. Socially, "one" is an awkward number.
It's a little late to be learning new tricks, but it seems pretty clear that
I have to learn to interact more effectively with people. If I don't, I'll
probably become increasingly reclusive and eventually loose the ability to
hold a fork or a conversation.



Will I do another freighter cruise? I don't think so. The isolation of the
past three weeks gave me an opportunity to take inventory. This God-awful
empty feeling of loss didn't go away. Maybe it won't. I hope it does. The
vessel was about the right size. At night in my bunk, I enjoyed feeling the
pitch and roll of the vessel. Drinking a mug of coffee at first light at
that grubby little table on the starboard side never got old but a few more
amenities would have been nice. If I ever get used to the idea of traveling
alone, another cruise on one of the smaller Windstar or Windjammer ships may
be in order.



The fact of the matter is, for the last few days, I've been bored as hell.
The Lykes Commodore does one thing very well. It hauls square metal boxes
from place to place. The ship is manned with the minimum number of hands
that will enable it to move freight and safely maintain and operate the
vessel. They don't have spare manpower for babysitting or extra deck or
cabin space for passenger entertainment. By the time this little excursion
has ended, I will have spent over 500 hours on the ship and less than 10
hours ashore. That is a lot of time spent watching other people work. I
understand that freighter travel has a very large following. I also
understand that there are people who will pay to be tied up and beaten. It's
all a matter of personal preference.



So . . . . I'm looking forward to brewing my own pot of coffee; to tieing
into a plate of enchiladas at Sylvia's; a bowl of pho at Pho Danh II and
easing back into a house that may be empty but has memories that I will
probably learn to live with.



I can't wait to open the front door and yell ". . . Darling, I'm home!!!".

Bubba wrote, among other facinating and interesting things:



"I have no idea where the idea of a freighter came from. There may have
been
some logical thinking behind it, but more likely it was churned out as
a
combination of impulse and desperation."

This is the closet to what I've observed in retrospect while on the
backwards journey through grief, I've ever seen.
I believe when we lose someone we love to death, the mind goes (well,
mine, anyway.) into some damming territory and part of it /without
notice goes into survival mode. This trick the mind plays is trying
desperately to protect us from what we will ultimately face. Perhaps
when we are ready to face it, we do.
Just my 2 cents.
Good story Bubba, thanks.
coventry jo

http://www.freewebs.com/coventry_jo/

Thanx for the wonderful glimpse into life on a freighter.

Howie

Bubba wrote:
I started tapping this thing out on my laptop a month or so ago. The intent
wasn't to maintain a trip log. It just turned out that way. This was
supposed to give me something to look at while I figured things out. By
adding a paragraph or two (or three) every evening over the days and weeks,
the damned thing, like Topsy, just growed. Before I do some housekeeping
chores on my hard drive and purge this thing forever, I am going to post it
on a couple of newsgroups with the full realization that it may not be
totally appropriate for either.



--------------------------------------------------

Was this trip a success? Who knows? I spent more time remembering than
planning. A couple of thoughts came out of all that sitting and staring
at
salt water:

Simply magnificent. May God give you comfort and strength as you begin the
next phase of your life.

Thanks so much for sharing your journeys - both physical and emotional.
Beautifully written. I savored every word.

Lee

Bubba

Thank you for sharing your journey.

May you again find joy in your life.

Florence

What a story! Thank you for sharing such a personal part of your life
with us. I for one, feel very honored that this event was shared with
the world (or at least RTC).

Steve Hayes

Bubba, you should write a book.I thoroughly enjoyed your personal recollection
of this very different type of cruise. I won't even call it a review. It felt
more like you were sharing several pages out of your journal. You certainly
have a way with words.

I also want to tell you that I am sorry for your recent loss. I liked your
honesty regarding your feelings about the whole experience, before and after
your beloved wife died.

Let me tell you something, Bubba. I know it's too soon to think about your
future where relationships are concerned....but with an upbeat attitude and
sense of humor like yours, I see absolutely no problem with you connecting
socially. That also means finding another soulmate one day. You sound like too
much of a gem to be passed up.

Best wishes for a new year which will bring many different experiences than
you've been used to the past 35 years or so. Some of it will be sad and
lonely...but with your outlook, I also predict some wonderful days ahead for
you.

Bless you, Bubba. And, thanks once again for sharing your trip with us.

~Lindsay

P.S. When you spoke of the Filipinos and their little "fishies", it reminded me
of my daughter when she was the mandated Biologist aboard a fishing vessel for
close to a month. The crew was a mixture of Vietnamese, Filipino and Korean.
LOTS of little fishies and strange looking raw sea creatures floating around in
the soup. Let's just say that she became very fond of RICE.

I left Lindsay's responseto you intact, below, as I agree with all she
said. I also read and enjoyed your journal, even though it was
written at a time of great emotional grief.

Several members of one of the newsgroups you posted to have lost
members of their families recently, and your words echo so true.

My thoughts are with you.


(Linsifer) wrote:

Bubba, you should write a book.I thoroughly enjoyed your personal recollection
of this very different type of cruise. I won't even call it a review. It felt
more like you were sharing several pages out of your journal. You certainly
have a way with words.

I also want to tell you that I am sorry for your recent loss. I liked your
honesty regarding your feelings about the whole experience, before and after
your beloved wife died.

Let me tell you something, Bubba. I know it's too soon to think about your
future where relationships are concerned....but with an upbeat attitude and
sense of humor like yours, I see absolutely no problem with you connecting
socially. That also means finding another soulmate one day. You sound like too
much of a gem to be passed up.

Best wishes for a new year which will bring many different experiences than
you've been used to the past 35 years or so. Some of it will be sad and
lonely...but with your outlook, I also predict some wonderful days ahead for
you.

Bless you, Bubba. And, thanks once again for sharing your trip with us.

~Lindsay

P.S. When you spoke of the Filipinos and their little "fishies", it reminded me
of my daughter when she was the mandated Biologist aboard a fishing vessel for
close to a month. The crew was a mixture of Vietnamese, Filipino and Korean.
LOTS of little fishies and strange looking raw sea creatures floating around in
the soup. Let's just say that she became very fond of RICE.


__ /7__/7__/7__
\::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

http://www.cupcaked.com/reviews
(...and leave off the "potatoes" to e-mail)

I left Lindsay's responseto you intact, below, as I agree with all she
said. I also read and enjoyed your journal, even though it was
written at a time of great emotional grief.

Several members of one of the newsgroups you posted to have lost
members of their families recently, and your words echo so true.

My thoughts are with you.


(Linsifer) wrote:

Bubba, you should write a book.I thoroughly enjoyed your personal recollection
of this very different type of cruise. I won't even call it a review. It felt
more like you were sharing several pages out of your journal. You certainly
have a way with words.

I also want to tell you that I am sorry for your recent loss. I liked your
honesty regarding your feelings about the whole experience, before and after
your beloved wife died.

Let me tell you something, Bubba. I know it's too soon to think about your
future where relationships are concerned....but with an upbeat attitude and
sense of humor like yours, I see absolutely no problem with you connecting
socially. That also means finding another soulmate one day. You sound like too
much of a gem to be passed up.

Best wishes for a new year which will bring many different experiences than
you've been used to the past 35 years or so. Some of it will be sad and
lonely...but with your outlook, I also predict some wonderful days ahead for
you.

Bless you, Bubba. And, thanks once again for sharing your trip with us.

~Lindsay

P.S. When you spoke of the Filipinos and their little "fishies", it reminded me
of my daughter when she was the mandated Biologist aboard a fishing vessel for
close to a month. The crew was a mixture of Vietnamese, Filipino and Korean.
LOTS of little fishies and strange looking raw sea creatures floating around in
the soup. Let's just say that she became very fond of RICE.


__ /7__/7__/7__
\::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

http://www.cupcaked.com/reviews
(...and leave off the "potatoes" to e-mail)