The BIG LIE

At one time or another we have all lied. Whether they were just “little white lies”, a “wee bit of fibbery”, a “tiny bit of misdirection”, or as we in the maritime industry know them to be, “sea stories”. At one time or another we have all been on the wrong side of “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”.

Sadly, I have been living a lie for a number of years.

Of course, I feel as though I must explain.

As a whole, the general population knows jack-all about the maritime industry. With their information about boats gleaned from such reliable sources as Hollywood and television, it is easy to see why people just don’t understand what we do out here on the water at all. However, I too have been complicit in spreading disinformation to the masses about my job and the maritime world as a whole, all in the name of taking the path of least resistance.

Now the maritime industry runs counterclockwise to the rest of the world. In your house you have floors, walls, ceilings, a bathroom, bedroom, and a kitchen. But not out in the maritime fleet. Out there you have decks, bulkheads, overheads, heads, bunk rooms, and a galley. Left is port, right is starboard. You don’t go backwards, you go astern or aft. And if having different names for things on boats separate from the same things on land wait until you try to pronounce some things on boats the way they are spelled. Try telling a mariner that you are going to the “forecastle” just the way it is spelled and see if they don’t roll their eyes at you. (By the way: It’s pronounced “fohk-suh l”). Of course it doesn’t stop there.

Pilot Boat. Not steered by a Pilot.

In the regular world, a Pilot is the person who flies a plane. On ships, a Pilot is a seasoned mariner who has extensive knowledge of a local waterway and is hired by the vessel to provide their expertise in navigating a certain port or waterway. Easy, right? Not so much. There are different kinds of pilots. You have Bar Pilots, Federal Pilots, State Pilots, Docking Pilots, Harbor Pilots, River Pilots...etc. And it gets worse. If you work on a push boat, generally on the Inland Waterways/Mississippi River/Western Rivers, the person who steers the boat on the opposite watch as the Captain is called a Pilot. Same name, completely different job from a Pilot. Confused yet? Just wait.

River Push Boat. a.k.a Square boat. Steered by a Pilot.

Now I mention the Pilot on push boats to highlight just how frustrating titles in the maritime world can be.

The “Pilot” on push boats is usually called the “Mate” on harbor and ocean going tugs. Exact same job, completely different name. Sometimes on an ocean going tugs you also have a Second Mate. Then the Mate becomes a Chief Mate. Exact same job as the Mate, but slightly fancier title. Of course, even our own regulatory agency, the U.S. Coast Guard, has to get in to the act and confuse people even more. To them, the “Mate” sometimes isn’t called the Mate; they like to refer to them as the “Relief Captain”. Now, whether you call the guy the Mate, Pilot, Relief Captain, Chief Mate, or whatever other name you want to come up with, the fact remains, somebody has to work opposite of the Captain and steer the boat while the Captain is off watch.

Which is where the BIG LIE comes into play.

Where I currently live it isn’t really a hot bed location for maritime professionals to reside. Concurrently, the local population isn’t really up on their knowledge of the maritime industry. (To my local friends: Don’t feel as though I’m picking on you. When I lived in the northeast people didn’t know bupkis about the maritime industry either.) Naturally, when I meet new people and I (or more likely, my wife) tells them what I do for a living, I get the standard questions and answers.

“So you work on tugboats? So you push the big ships around?”

“You work in New York? New York is so cool! Where do you stay at night?”

“Where do you eat?”

“You drive the boat? So you’re the Captain?”

And there it is! That last question gets me to the BIG LIE.

I’ve been sailing as Mate (Chief Mate/Relief Captain…whatever) for more than a decade. I steer the boat when the Captain is off watch. To the inexperienced, the Captain drives the boat. “Hooper drives the boat, Chief”. (Jaws quote, I love that movie.) To try to tell someone who knows nothing about the Merchant Marine that, “Yes. I drive the boat. But, no. I’m not the Captain”, just leads to confusion. To them, it is usually cut and dry. The Captain drives the boat. End of story. Never mind the fact that at some point the Captain has to sleep. When they ask, “What do you do at night?” it’s usually a pretty good sign that they don’t realize that we work 24/7/365. We work, live, eat, sleep, everything aboard the boat. To try to explain to them exactly what we do so that they have a full grasp of my work life…well, no one has that kind of time. So, in order to avoid a lengthy discussion detailing exactly what I do, sometimes I take the easy way out.

“Yes. I’m the Captain.”

The BIG LIE.

Except now I don’t have to lie anymore.

After many long years.

And many different companies.

And after working for many great Captains.

I can finally say, without lying to anyone…

“YES! I’m the Captain!”

And to be honest, it feels pretty damn good!!!

Because my wife is AWESOME! and a huge nerd. She got me this shirt.

Eight is Enough, Nine is..

Just going to step outside for a sec

It’s summertime here in the Gulf (and everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere). So in addition to it being hot as Hades, it also means that school is out. And not just for the little youngsters in grade school. The Maritime Academies, the pipeline for fresh, young talent trying to muscle their way into the Maritime industry, are also out for the summer. That means that it’s “Cadet Season”. That time of year where the Academies send their best and brightest talent (and some real dipshits, too) out into the United States Merchant Marine fleet to get some real life maritime experience and rack up some of the required “Sea Days” that they need in order to test for their U.S. Coast Guard licenses.
Now normally our boat runs with a crew of 7. Proportionally, we have 7 staterooms. It’s a nice feature that everyone on the crew has their own room. Until the cadet shows up. Eight people in seven staterooms makes for at least one unhappy crew member.

But wait, there’s more!

My relief is currently out having surgery. That means unless someone new shows up to replace me, I’m stuck on the boat. Thankfully, someone new has shown up. However, in order to get familiarized with the inner workings of this fine vessel he has to show up a couple of days before we get off the boat so that we can show him all of the nuances of the boat before he gets turned loose all by himself. Our crew of eight, just grew to nine. We still only have seven rooms.

So now we have two unhappy crew members who were used to living in the lap of luxury in their private staterooms with roommates. It also adds two crew members to an already cramped boat. Mealtimes have to be done in shifts. Hallways are cramped. Somehow the grub manages to disappear at an exponential rate. Plus, having only two heads (bathrooms, for the non-nautical) makes for having to plan showers, shaves, and answering the call of nature into a well-timed experience. Especially when one head happens to be giving the Engineer fits and is not working properly.

Thankfully, “New Guy” (the cadet) and “New-New Guy” (my new relief) both seem to be stand up guys. It also means I get to go home with my regular crew at the regular time. So being a bit cramped isn’t really that bad. Plus, I’m one of the people that doesn’t have to share my room. Which is nice.

“New Guy” seems to be going for some sort of record on how long he can stay on the boat before he loses his mind. I fear he may be getting perilously close. The schools and the U.S. Coast Guard require 120 days of Sea Time in order to sit for your license. I’m not sure if he is trying to do it all at once or not. Truth be told, I’m ready to go home after a mere 14 days. 120 days on a tugboat is pure torture. He was going to break it up in 60 on/14 off/60 on. But we are well past the 60 days at this point. Good thing he is young. Us older guys would be sent to the funny farm weeks ago.

They always seem to leave this little activity out of the Maritime School brochures

*Note to the schools- 60 days on a tug is a long time (On a ship it’s a piece of cake. Size matters. So I’ve heard). If you want to turn off young people from joining the Merchant Marine, this is definitely the way to do it. I guess being young and not knowing any better has its perks.

My relief, the spot being taken by “New-New Guy”, happens to be his first steering job. He has risen through the ranks and gotten cleared by numerous Captains in order to get where he is now. Based on what I saw during our brief time on the boat together, he should do just fine.



I wish him the best of luck. 

A Break Because I Was Broken

If you noticed the lack of blog posts recently, #1. Thanks for reading #2. You’re right.

It wasn’t by choice. It was by orders of my doctor. Okay, my doctor didn’t specifically say, “You can’t write blog posts.” But since I was bedridden for 6 weeks and just the act of moving was a painful experience, I decided that banging on a keyboard wasn’t in my best interest.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but in case I haven’t, I’m a moron.

I have a particular set of skills. Skills that get me into trouble. Skills that generally lead me to the hospital waiting room. Or surgery. Or both. At a minimum, skills that get my insurance company in a tizzy and me shelling out a co-pay.

My specialty is sprained ankles. Four times that diagnosis has been made for me (Officially. I won’t count the numerous times that crutches weren’t required.) Thankfully, I like to keep it even. Twice on each leg. I’m an equal opportunity injurer (Is that a word?).

However, my back seems to think that it needs to catch up with my ankles on the “take me to the hospital” scale. Which is what led to me being incapacitated for the better part of two months.

Way back (get it?) in the day, in 2001, I hurt my back. Badly. I believe I did it trying to move Jet-ski’s around. But it was one of those times that you pull a muscle in your back, it hurts, it’s sore, but eventually it goes away. This time it didn’t go away. It got worse. Much worse. Probably going back to work after the injury didn’t help. By the time I got home from my hitch on the boat, I was in excruciating pain.

In an effort to relieve the pain, I went to a Chiropractor. Some of my friends swear by them.

I swear at them. Witch doctors!

I’m not saying that all Chiropractors are bad. I just had a REALLY bad experience with my first one. After the fact, I learned that it would have never made a difference what the Chiropractor did; he was never going to be able to fix me. I found that out after going to a second Chiropractor. One MUCH better than the first. One that actually made me not hate them as a group as much. However, I still call them Witch Doctors. The second one at least took some x-rays, ran some tests, and poked and prodded me before trying any sort of adjustment. It was also when I learned that my medical history was somewhat incomplete.

“When did you break you ribs?” Chiropractor #2 asked.

“Uuhhmm. Never.”  I replied, somewhat confused.

“Ahahaha. Yeah. No. You broke your ribs.”

I’m a danger to myself even when I don’t know it. I think I remember when I did that on a boat. I just didn’t know it at the time. Hurt like hell to breathe for a couple days. Apparently, that is what broken ribs feel like.

Only a matter of time.

Broken ribs notwithstanding, turns out I crushed the disc between L4 and L5 in my lower back. I knew something was really wrong when the doctor kept asking me to stand up straight as she tried to take an x-ray. My reply was, “I am standing up straight.”

Whereas, I got another, “Yeah. No.”

 “Well this is the best you’re gonna get. Take the picture so I can sit down before I pass out.”

I spent Christmas that year lying on the floor at a friend’s house as they, and my wife, ate Christmas dinner in the other room. The highlight of my day being when I threw up in their driveway just as we pulled in.

A few weeks later, I had surgery to remove the cartilage that was pressing on the nerve and causing the excruciating pain down my left leg.

Fast forward 13 years and I did it again.

Same problem. Same pain. Same issues. However, no throwing up in the driveway this time.

I skipped the Chiropractor this time and went straight to the back expert. When you’re an old pro at this sort of thing you can skip the middle man.

It was like déjà vu all over again.

“Stand up straight when we take the x-ray.”

“I am. Trust me, this is all you’re gonna get. Can I sit down now?”

Just standing at the counter to get signed in at the doctor’s office was torture. Initially, I said the pain this time wasn’t as bad as the first time. I was wrong. Way wrong.

Can you spot the problem?

X-rays, MRIs, minor outpatient surgery to try pain relieving shots, and a multitude of doctors’ appointments later, I was back (did it again) in surgery.

Two and half weeks after surgery, I was back (I can’t help it) at work. Which is a REALLY short amount of recovery time. Too short. But that is another blog post. Hopefully, sooner rather than later.

So my back is back.

I’m back to work.

The recovery is going slow but smooth. I still have trouble knowing where my limits are.  But my newly repaired back is more than willing to let me know when I cross those limits. 

Fingers crossed I can make it another 13 years before I do something stupid again. At least as far as my back is concerned.

Although I wouldn’t put any money down on it.

This is where I profess my undying love for my wife and all the support she has given me over the years. At one point during this back injury adventure she was forced to sleep on a bench upstairs (I say bench, but it is really a twin sized 12-inch memory foam mattress reading bench that I built to fit under the upstairs window). Every time I found a comfortable spot where the pain was somewhat tolerable, one of us would move, and the ‘happy spot of little pain’ would be gone. Since I was in no shape to go upstairs (I did it once. Stayed there for 2 days) she volunteered to abandon our comfy bed for the (equally comfy) bench seat/bed. After surgery, she dragged a mattress downstairs and put it in the corner to sleep back in our room. The first night it took me 45 minutes to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. Turns out, even though I love our memory foam mattress because it cradles and conforms to your body, after back surgery, sleeping on a memory foam mattress is like sleeping in quicksand. Because it cradles and conforms to your body, when your back muscles have been ripped apart and twisting and moving are impossibility, you yearn for a bed made out of a sheet of plywood. She figured at least she could be closer so that when nature calls, at least she could be within earshot so that she could be my leaning post as I shuffled around. 

My family puts up with enough just based on my work schedule alone. They really were my rock during this whole ordeal.

Dangerous Job

A few years ago, back when the TV show ‘Deadliest Catch’ was the go-to reference for everything nautical, my wife and one of her friends were discussing how dangerous the maritime industry seemed to be. Of course, all information about the maritime world was obtained from watching Alaskan fishermen battle with Mother Nature in their quest to line their pockets in the shortest amount of time humanly possible. 

Dangerous and cold

Dangerous? No doubt. 

In way of comparison, tugboating seemed, and for the most part is, pretty tame.

Granted, mistakes still happen. We are, in fact, all human. Humans make mistakes. And machinery and Mother Nature could care less one way or another.

As it were, during the particular time that my wife was insisting that tugboating is relatively safe compared to Alaskan crab fishing, three incidents happened in less than two weeks that glaringly reinforced to me that my profession is, in fact, a dangerous job.

To start with, one of the companies that I had previously worked for had a tug sink off of Cape Hatteras. This particular tug had a classmate of mine serving as the Chief Engineer, who fortunately happened to be on his time off. Three men died.

Later in the week, a tug that I had served aboard as a deckhand not too long before, was maneuvering with a barge. The tow wire connecting the two swung across the stern of the tug striking the deckhand and throwing him over the side into the water. As far as I know, they never found the body.

The third incident, in less than ten days, happened even closer to home. The company I worked for at the time had two tugs. We were working in New York harbor and our sister tug was moving barges up in the Hudson River. They were shifting a couple of barges off of a dock when one of the crew members slipped on the deck and fell into a gap between the two barges. He had a portable radio with him and called back to the tug to relay what had happened. Seconds later, the barges came together with him being trapped between them.

In less than two weeks, 5 good men were lost in incidents on boats and for companies that I was all too familiar with. It was going to be a tough sell trying to explain to outsiders that my job was not a dangerous one.

Personally, I’ve been very lucky. I’ve sprained my ankle (twice) at work. Gotten a sliver of metal in my eye while installing new radar. Sidebar:  I do not recommend driving yourself to the hospital with a metal shaving in your eye. It causes your eyes to water and makes you want to close your eyes as well. Two conditions that make driving down the highway at 65 miles per hour a very sketchy endeavor. I’ve also been on boats that have had minor fires aboard. Although, in retrospect, there is no such thing as a MINOR fire aboard a boat. I’ve had to put on SCBA in order to go down into the engine room to shut down a generator that had filled the entire boat with smoke. Had to extinguish a stack fire after a shipyard worker left some wood cribbing next to the hot exhaust pipes. Little stuff. Stuff that (hopefully) your years of training and experience help to mitigate before the situation becomes unmanageable. Little stuff after which, life just continues on the way it was before.

The other day, we were gathered on the upper deck of the boat, mustered at our lifeboat station conducting a Man Overboard / Abandon Ship drill. All of us were looking very motley as we donned our Survival Suits (‘Gumby Suits’ as they are known throughout the industry) and inspected the accompanying safety gear. 

Easy to see why they are called "Gumby Suits"

Unknown to us, 1200 miles away, off the coast of Long Island, New York, the exact emergency, the one that we were at that very moment training for, had just taken place.

 

The Tug Sea Bear was heading back to New York harbor from a dredging job that it had been working on out in Long Island. Something happened. I don’t know the exact details and perhaps never will. However, for some reason, the boat started taking on water. Undoubtedly, the Captain ordered his crew to don their survival suits. As the situation worsened, it surely became clear that the tug couldn’t be saved. At which point the ‘Abandon Ship’ order was given.

In the warm weather and the calm waters of the Mississippi River near New Orleans, our ongoing drill was nonchalant and relaxed. In New York, the water wasn’t calm. And it wasn’t warm.

At some point, the four man crew of the Sea Bear was forced into the stormy, 30-something degree water of the Atlantic Ocean. Three of the four men were wearing their life saving Survival Suits. A thick layer of orange neoprene designed to insulate your body against the bone chilling cold water. Without one, your chances of surviving being in the cold North Atlantic waters are almost zero. The Captain wasn’t wearing one.

Why wasn’t he wearing one? I have no idea. It wasn’t like he was new to the industry. He was a seasoned mariner. I happen to know this first hand.

The Captain was Don Maloney.

I was his Mate at that two boat company in New York.

I still have his phone number saved in my cell phone to this day. We had kept in touch after that small two tugboat company went by the wayside. I would have sailed with him any day of the week. He was a great Captain, a fine man, and to this day I can still hear his greeting to me…

“Hey, Scotty-boy.”

I’ve been contemplating for two days on how to end this blog post with something refined and eloquent. How to say, “Fair winds and following seas…” in my own special way without it seeming like the standard canned response to someone’s loss.

Two days I’ve thought about how to say that I’ll miss Captain Don Maloney.

The only thing I’ve been able to come up with is…

FUCK!!!