New Toy

"Tis better to give than receive"
Wrong!
I like love getting new stuff.
And this week on the boat our prayers were answered in the form of a new ARPA radar. w00t!
(Automatic Radar Plotting Aid, for those of you not familiar with maritime acronym speak)

Well that just about sums it up

It's pretty nice.

Now I just have to find an ARPA radar class to take during my time off so I can be fully compliant with the ever growing laundry list of regulations that has been implemented by the USCG (United States Coast Guard. Aren't acronyms fun?) in recent years.

In addition to that, I just sent in my application to the USCG in order to take a test so I can upgrade my current license.
So between schooling and tests and dealing with the NMC (National Maritime Center. Acronyms everywhere!) It should be a fun couple of months.

I may just go home and shoot myself in the foot. That might be a least painful option I have at this point.

Be sure to watch this space. This should all go about as smooth as a Corpus Christi crew change.

Off work is hard work

It has been a whole month since I last posted. I realize this has been quite upsetting to some of you that follow this blog religiously. But I have been on my time off. A whole 3 weeks straight of glorious time off. During which I was so busy doing nothing that I couldn't bother to post anything on this here blog thingy.
Actually that isn't true at all. We mariners like to embellish the truth every now and then. They aren't called "sea stories" for nothing.

I was actually quite busy during my time off. First of all, my wife decided it would be a good idea to enter The Great Chili Cook-Off. The chili was Great (as you could probably surmise from the event name). The weather, however, wasn't. A full summary of The Great Chili Rain-Out can be found HERE. It's a good read. You'll laugh, cry, want to eat chili, etc.
*** If you happen to be in the area, the chili cook off has been rescheduled for this Saturday, October 13th.

But what kept me really busy this time home was my hobby(?).
I like to make t-shirts. Print t-shirts actually. I'm not one to go out and shear a sheep, spin the wool into yarn, and then knit a t-shirt. At least not yet.
I screen print t-shirts as a hobby. Sometimes my wife likes to tell people I screen print t-shirts as a hobby. Which then leads to, "Can he make me a shirt that says...."
It's fun. Most of the time. Sometimes my hobby takes on a life of its own. This time home happened to be one of those moments.

Last year, I designed and printed up some t-shirts for my son's second grade class. It didn't go as smooth as I would have hoped. There was a lot of indecision. Color choices were a major sticking point. Shirt numbers were all wrong. I was literally printing shirts right up until the time I had to go back to work. As a hobby, it was pretty stressful.
This year, the second grade teachers once again asked if I would be willing to print them some shirts. To be honest, I was kind of flattered that they wanted me to do the shirts again. For one, my son is now in third grade. And secondly, I was thinking I must have done something right last year for them to ask me again. But I was quite hesitant to do the shirts again due to the issues of last year. I've finally gotten my blood pressure down and I didn't feel the need to raise it again.
*** This is the part where I praise the second grade teachers for being so helpful and organized this year. It was truly a pleasure to print the shirts for them.
So I set up a meeting to discuss the particulars of the project with them. And after a very quick discussion concerning shirt colors, sizes, and quantities I was off and running once again. Around 140 (or so) shirts for the second grade. No problem.
Did I mention my wife likes to tell people about my hobby?
After my meeting with the second grade teachers, I went to have lunch with my wife at the preschool where she teaches. Somehow they had found out that I printed t-shirts. And they asked if would I be willing to come up with a design and print some shirts for them as well. So in less than an hour, I had gone from, not really sure I wanted to print any shirts at all, to having to order over 250 shirts for the two different schools. The UPS guy was going to be pissed.

This is what a stack of 140 kids t-shirts looks like.

Sidebar: Our UPS guy is a magician. Or the fastest guy on the planet.
I can be sitting at our computer desk and watch the UPS guy approach the front door bringing his parcels of wonderful goodness. He puts the packages down on the stoop and rings the doorbell. In the time it takes for me to go the 10 feet from the computer desk to the front door, the UPS guy has traversed the 75 feet down the driveway, is back in his truck, and is already driving away. It's magic! Or he is Usain Bolt's brother. Either way, he's quick. Crazy quick. And he's crazy strong too. I've ordered multiple cases of ammunition and he hand carries them all the way up the driveway to the front door. That stuff is HEAVY. I'm almost tempted to just order random, heavy, awkward things for him to deliver just so I can see "What Brown can do for me". 

Okay, sorry, back to the printing of the shirts...

My hobby is a little one man operation. No fancy equipment. No machines. Nothing. Just me, an exacto knife, some silk screens, and a lot of ink. One shirt at a time. And I let the ink air dry.

Not a single place to sit

So the shirts took over the house. They were everywhere. On the couch. On the dinner table. In the bedroom. All over the living room. Not a seat or flat surface was to be found anywhere. Which proved to be an issue when you have two small children. One t-shirt was lost when a child "leaped before she looked" onto the couch where a still wet shirt was drying. Occupational hazard, I guess.

All things considered, it went really smoothly. I got all of the shirts printed for both schools and I was pretty happy with the results. I even had time to do a design or two for myself.
It's a pretty cool hobby. Especially when I get a chance to see 250 different kids wandering around in school wearing a t-shirt that I printed. Who knows, maybe next year there will be 250 more.

A pin wheel of colors

Blue on Tangerine. Order #2

All printed up and ready to go

Here are some pictures of the shirts I have done. Maybe I could sell them if I could figure out how to set up a store or something like that. Until then, if you see a shirt that you like and can wait a few weeks for me to get it made and delivered send me an e-mail. Maybe I'll become the next internet millionaire. Or maybe not. My kids still need some place to sit.

Front

Back

For the kids

You can write in who you want to be with a washable marker.

It's a lot funnier if you know what the code flags are.

That's just good advice

Patriot Day

September 11, 2001.
A date none of us should ever forget.
I know I won't.

 In memory of those who were lost: 

FDNY Fireboat Three Forty Three

I've been a volunteer firefighter for well over a decade. Personally, I didn't know anyone that was killed on 9/11. But I did lose 343 Brother Firefighters.

However, this post focuses not on those who were lost, but on those who survived. There are many tales of survival, heroism, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things on that tragic date.




This is a tale that many people have never even heard about. This video is about one of those extraordinary things.


BOATLIFT, An Untold Tale of 9/11 Resilience

Never Forget

Switching Gears

So this is a maritime blog (for the most part). But I would be remiss if I didn't switch things up a bit every now and then. So I give you one of the greatest movies EVER... 

I'll never wear a life jacket again

This year marks the 37^th Anniversary and the Blu-ray release of the movie Jaws. 

My wife and I are big fans of the film. BIG FANS.

Last weekend, we were in Connecticut for my brother-in-laws wedding. A summary of which can be located here. I happened to be wearing (no, not to the wedding) my “Quint's Shark Fishing” t-shirt that my wife bought for me.

 Yeah, my wife is that awesome!

 

Which led to a discussion about the shirt, Jaws, and the name “Quint”. For some ungodly reason, some people were trying to convince me that the name of Robert Shaw's character in Jaws was “Quinn”. Now let's completely disregard the fact that I was wearing a t-shirt with “Quint's Shark Fishing” on it. Let's just focus on the fact that I'm a fan of the film. Trying to convince me he was named “Quinn" wasn't going to happen. I know the name. I've seen the movie once or twice. Perhaps more than that. I'm more sure of the man's name than I'm sure the U.S national debt happens to be a lot of money. I wasn't going to budge. The character is named “Quint” not “Quinn”. 

Alas, they were having none of it. They were convinced they were right. I was positive they were wrong. I know my Jaws. 

And this is where it got weird.

I walked away.

Let me repeat that.

I walked away.

Normally, I would have argued with them until the end of time. I was right. I knew I was right. I knew they were wrong. For the-love-of-all-things-being-holy I was wearing a t-shirt that proved them to be wrong. It was in print. Right in front of their faces. And yet they insisted he was named “Quinn”.

Quint

So, I walked away.

I related this tale to my wife. She was stunned. Both in the stupidity of said argument AND that I walked away. I was prepared to have to perform CPR on her. She was speechless. To say the least.

I was kind of proud of myself. 

“Never argue with an idiot. They just bring you down to their level and beat you with experience.”

I think living in the South is making me soft.

At the very least, it is helping to lower my blood pressure.

P.S.- So much for getting away from the “maritime” theme. You don't get much more marine related than Jaws.

 

P.P.S- If you haven't read the book In Harm's Way. Get on it. It is the tale of the U.S.S. Indianapolis, the ship that delivered the bomb that ended World War II and was sunk by a Japanese submarine.

It is the ship that Quint (not Quinn. Idiots.) talks about in one of the more memorable scenes in the movie.

Work hard, play harder

If you crew change in New Orleans, instead of my favorite place to crew change EVER, you are treated with being able to grab a bite to eat just across the street from the Louis Armstrong International Airport at the local Denny's establishment. Not only can you have a stack of pancakes or a handful of bacon (some say I have an obsession with bacon), but if you are over 21 years of age, this particular Denny's also has a fully stocked bar. Now after a 2-week forced sobriety, commonly referred in maritime circles as “sea-tox”, one might be tempted to indulge in a cold beer or a cocktail or two, or three, or four, etc. You can imagine how tempting it would be after pulling a 6 week hitch, as one of our crew members had just done. Well, no one wants to drink alone. And what kind of shipmates would we be to let that happen? Bottoms Up!

"You take one down, pass it around..."

And so began our night/morning in the bar at Denny's waiting for our early morning flights. Now I'm not much of a drinker. A six pack in my house can last for months. Others seem to take drinking as a challenge akin to some sort of Olympic sport. It seems as though the Olympic spirit had inspired two of our crew and the gauntlet was laid down. The rest of us pulled up a chair, and as any good Olympic spectator would have, we just watched, cheered, and egged the contestants on. It really started to get serious when both of the contenders had exhausted their supplies of petty cash and resorted to paying with plastic. I lost count of the number of beers that were consumed early on. They then moved on to shots. Not your typical size shots. Big Shots. Wine glass sized shots. Any football fan can tell you that a wide receiver, going across the middle of the field to catch a pass, with a massive safety lining him up in the cross hairs, isn't going to end well for the receiver. A similar type train wreck was unfolding before us. It wasn't going to end well. Yet there was no way any of us were going to look away. As the rest of us snacked on breakfast burritos and scrambled eggs, the two alcohol athletes were locked in a game of one-upmanship.

Eventually, it was time to walk across the street and meet up with our departing flights. Our two contestants were perfectly content on having “just one more”. And so we bid them a fair adieu. 

 

As the sun began to light the morning sky our compatriots were still nowhere to be found. A quick text message was sent to one of them in order to hasten their departure from the bar.

In response we received, “Help Me”.

If there was ever an understated call to arms, this was it.

I may be a sick bastard, but that simple little statement made me smile, just a little bit. It still does.

It was one of those “you reap what you sow” kind of moments.

So off went part of the crew to try to round up our lost sheep. 

 

How the two of them made it across the busy street by themselves is a mystery to all of us. I was impressed they even found the airport. I was not witness to them trying to get through airport security. But imagine trying to get two highly intoxicated people to take of their shoes, and put them back on again, and not have them topple over as they go through the scanner had to be quite an experience. My first sight of our intrepid adventurers was of them stumbling down the corridor towards our boarding gate. No extra points were awarded for being able to maintain a straight line. Upon them reaching us, one of them was coherent enough to ask where his gate was. I kindly pointed him to the right, so as to go towards gate #5, as we were all the way down at gate #15. He put his ticket away and then continued his wavering walk to the left. He may have been coherent enough to know that he was actually in the airport, but not so much to know which direction was left or right. Hey, I tried. Eventually, a nice ticket agent was able to steer him in the right direction. I think she may have used a cattle prod on him. If I had one, I would have as well. 

 

Our second not-so-ship-shape shipmate was being guided down the corridor by the Chief. His eyes were bloodshot and glazed over. But he was smiling. Perhaps just happy that his "Help Me” message had been answered. He had seen better days. He was then unceremoniously dumped into one of the most uncomfortable seats on the planet (as all of the chairs in the New Orleans airport are) and told, in no uncertain terms, “Sit! I'm going to get you some water!”. And sit he did. Kind of. It was kind of a bobbing and weaving type of sitting. Sometimes almost falling. At one point he decided to lean over to try to get something out of his backpack. I expect a “thank you” note any day now for catching him and preventing him from smashing his face into the ground and breaking his nose and knocking out all of his front teeth. It is possible he may have had one too many.

Getting onto the plane was a similar guiding/catching/steering type of exercise. It was like dealing with a 1 year old. But heavier. He was in no shape to carry any of his bags. He couldn't read his boarding pass if his life depended on it. The chance of him finding his seat on his own were between zero and not-a-chance-in-hell. At least I wasn't the one who had to help him put his seat belt on.

And all of this was accomplished with our help. 

In contrast, our first contestant was forced to fend for himself, as he was flying with a different airline. How he was even allowed on board the plane will forever remain one of the great unsolved mysteries. We weren't there to witness it and he was in absolutely no shape to ever be able to recall it. So I guess we will never know.

We had hoped that a 2 hour plane ride would have given our intoxicated friend a little bit of time to sober up. He did manage to remove his seat belt by himself. Aside from that, it wasn't looking much better. So the Chief bought him a coffee. Which he inexplicably decided to remove the lid off of. Which led to some anxiety for us as he stumbled around with a full, scalding hot cup of coffee just destined to burn him into an instant case of sobriety. After another case of guiding/steering onto plane #2, he was able to manipulate the seat belt enough to not require any help. We were making progress. Upon our arrival, more than 6 hours after leaving the bar, he had finally managed to regain some of his faculties. 

My babysitting duties expired as soon as we arrived at our destination. Last I heard, they both survived to tell the tale (what they remember of it). 

 

Sometimes I think us mariners should be forced to come with some sort of warning.

“Warning: Drunk as a sailor”

Or has that already been done?

Them's the Rulez

There are certain rules that everyone should know.

“Never get involved in a land war in Asia” being one of them.

Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!

Being a Merchant Mariner there are a whole different list of rules to know.

Back when I was in school, Captain Murphy had a list that was called the “Rules of Tankers”. Included were “You are responsible for your own entertainment” and the “Goes into, goes out of” rule.

People who work on tugboats have a separate list of rules. This is by no means an “Official” list. Just a general listing of things that have been spoken and passed down over the years. 

Enjoy.

Just don't break them.

Top Ten Rules of Tugboats

1. Tugboating is a contact sport.

2. The weather forecast will be wrong.

3. Keep your name out of the newspaper.

4. Crew change WILL get screwed up. No exceptions.

5. Never underestimate the stupidity of people who work in any type of office.

6. They aren’t always pretty. Just don’t break anything.

7. Don't mess with the grub.

8. It’s not the lines’ fault.

9. You're only as good as your last job.

10. Everyone has a top ten list, honestly, 9 rules is more than enough.

Lost and Found

“I'm screwed. I'm totally screwed.” Which pretty much sums up how my day was going.

Have you ever gotten that really bad feeling that your world is about to come to a screeching halt?

Can you imagine how a taxi driver would feel if he lost his car keys? How about a cop misplacing his sidearm? Ever lost something that was so important that words cannot describe the pit of despair that has formed in your stomach?

For a United States Merchant Mariner if you ever want to feel completely powerless and fear that you may lose your job in the blink of an eye, lose your TWIC card.

I know. I know. I can already hear people saying, “What is a TWIC card?”

Briefly, a TWIC card is a Transportation Worker Identification Credential. A fancy way of saying “an expensive ID badge”. That's all it is. It is suppose to be an all-encompassing, biometric, totally fool proof, forgery proof, accepted everywhere ID card. Which sounds great on paper. Instead, no one knows what it is. It can't be used with a card scanner. Not everyone accepts it. And the agency that issues it has employees that even have no idea what it is. The bigger problem that I have with it is: I already had one. It was called a Z-Card. A Merchant Mariners Document, if you will. It had a magnetic strip (that was useless as well). A picture of my handsome mug. All the personal info that was fit to print. And, it too, was also unbeknownst to everyone else on the planet as to what it was.

Seems as though the TWIC card was a perfect solution to a problem that didn't exist.

However, as useless and as redundant as the TWIC card is, don't lose it. Even though you have a little orange passport looking book with all of your merchant mariner info in it that is a perfectly acceptable substitute, that makes no difference to the gate keeper at a terminal who is just barely able to keep the ketchup off their uniform during their midnight feeding. The TWIC card is the end all-be all of security. Useless, expensive, redundant, it may be, but you gotta have it or there is no going to work for you.

So started my Friday afternoon.

We had just returned from a “back-to-school” shopping trip, and I was emptying my pockets of the amassed collection of assorted receipts and random pocket lint. I took out my wallet to replace the previously used credit cards and noticed that my TWIC card was missing from its usually storage area. Not that odd considering I use it as my ID to get on the plane to go to and from work (I paid good money to get this stupid thing, I'm going to use it every opportunity I get. Even if no one knows what it is). Chances are I just left it in my other shorts or in my luggage.

Well, it wasn't. Not in the luggage, or in the laundry, nor by the computer desk, not by the bedside table, not in the kitchen. It was no where to be found. OK, this is starting to be bad. If it's not in the house it must have fallen out of my pocket in the car. A quick look around the inside of the car revealed no results. No problem. Sleep on it and we'll start anew in the morning on our quest to find that pesky piece of plastic.

My house has never been cleaner. I looked everywhere for that card. Not a stone, or book, or pair of kids pajamas, or piece of paper was left unturned. It wasn't in the house, that much I was sure of.

On to the car. Again. More thoroughly this time. It had to be there. It better be there. I only have so many options. Now my car is the cleanest it has ever been. So now I have a clean house and a clean car, but no TWIC card.

Plan B (or whatever letter we are up to at this point). If I can't find this card, what do I have to do to get a new one so I can go back to work? Quick hint: If you are near panic, don't try to look up information on a government website, it will just make the situation worse.

Turns out, that if you lose your TWIC card, the TSA will gladly issue you a new one. Great. This sounds simple enough. They already have your information, background checks, picture, etc. It should be easy just to make a new one and send you on your way.

Feel free to insert maniacal laughter at this point.

Not so much boys and girls.

First off, it's $60 to get issued a new card (after paying $150 to get the original). You can imagine my surprise when I found out the replacement card is NOT made out of platinum with gold leaf inlay. $60 for a replacement card?!

OK. Calm down. You need this card one way or the other. What else is involved?

The TSA will gladly take your money and your receipt is considered to be your temporary TWIC card until the new one is issued. The temporary one is good for one week and is accepted at terminals where you have been before and the security knows who you are. Well this isn't getting any better. A temporary card that is good for one week and is only accepted at terminals that I have been to before does me absolutely ZERO good. First off, a card good for 1 week only gets me half way through my work schedule. Secondly, we go to new terminals all the time. We hardly ever see the same people twice. Obviously, this is not a viable solution. So now I realize that I have to find this stupid card. But, as most things government related, it gets worse. Turns out, when you get issued a replacement card you have to go to the location where you got your original card issued from. For me, that would be in the port of NY/NJ. Trouble is, I live over 600 miles from there. So I pay $60, to get a receipt, that is good for a week, that is only accepted by people I know, so that in 2 weeks time I can travel 1200 miles to pick up a replacement for the same card that I just had? Did I mention that it takes 2 weeks for them to issue a new card? The receipt is good for a week, but it takes 2 weeks to get a replacement. Silly math. Fit to be tied, is the only description that I can come up with to describe my emotions at this point. Failure is not an option.

600 miles? Be back in 2 hours.

At this point, my wife had joined in the search for the elusive card. She was in the process of cleaning out her car in the hopes that it my have ended up there. I had completely given up. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was screwed. As I slumped into the driver's seat of her car, an exasperated look on my face, any hope of reuniting with my TWIC card long since gone, I related my situation to her. “I'm screwed. I'm totally screwed.”

“Buck up little camper!” (or something to that affect) she said, “Help me finish cleaning my car out. I still haven't looked everywhere yet.”

Sullenly, I agreed. If I have to drive 1200 miles to get my replacement card it might as well be in a clean car. I started with the center console. Nope, not there. Then I looked down between the console and the driver's seat. And there, snuggled in the upholstery, was a white plastic ID badge with a bar code on the back. The Almighty TWIC card has been found!!! It took all of 15 seconds. Heart attack avoided.

The next day, my wife went out and bought me one of those ID holders that you wear around your neck. I will never lose that stupid card again!

But, if I do, I'll be sure to check between the seats of her car first.