So, after about a week at home, I'm finally able to have a morning to myself with no major obligations. And thank God, too, because it's been a hell of a week.
Homecoming was nice- Wednesday was a busy day. Passed the 75lb weight loss mark, but my doctor's visit on Wed wasn't a hit out of the park. I lost some muscle mass, and I've been feeling cold a lot, and kind of weak in general. Agreed to up my calorie count to 2500 for a month and see what it does and how I feel after, and the doc drew blood. I hit the couch early with Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife. As is my wont, the Mrs. plunked a solid 1 pint glass of Caiperinha in front of me. Rocket fuel of a booze, as in, one is enough. But we had dinner right after, and, ass that I am, I asked for another.
Pleasantly fueled by a full belly and warmed by the green glow of lime, cane sugar and Brazilian white lightning, the wife and I caught up on gossip and The Boy came and went and all was very Nuclear Family. After my son went to bed, I was feeling mellow and relaxed, and for some stupid reason, emptied the dregs out of a bottle of Irish Whisky- not much, as counted pours go- maybe a 2 second splash. Return to the couch.
...and then I'm in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, and there's blood and barf. I call out to my wife, who comes in...
...and then I'm standing in the shower, and my wife is washing my hair. How the hell did this happen? Feeling not at all drunk, but dizzy nonetheless, and suddenly hot from adrenaline, I ask my wife what's going on, and she asks me if I'm finished being a drunken sick asshole now, and in a fit of genius, I say the wittiest thing I can think of. "What?"
So, while I'm shakily toweling off, my wife is on the phone with a friend who is a medical professional. She talks to me, and determines that I'm alert and have my marbles in a general sense, and we talk about what's going on. I realize that I've blacked out, and yet, with the equivalent of 5 drinks in me, a couple of hours lay time and a full meal which is now on it's way to somewhere north of Boston, I'm nowhere near drunk. Aside from being somewhat shaky and confused, I feel OK. Which is good, because apparently I was verbally abusive and a complete prick while my wife was cleaning me up. I'm shocked at what she says I said- nothing too terrible, to be fair to myself, but, you know, not really me at all. At any rate, I stave off a 911 call by agreeing to go to my doctor's office the next morning.
... where I get chewed out for drinking while I was feeling 'off.' Turns out, I'm anemic as hell, have a mild fever, and a nasty infection in my gut. All of which is very treatable with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of not drinking while I'm home this time. All to the good, but you know how we are as men. If I have a stomach cramp, I require 24 hour care, but give me an arm falling off, or maybe leprosy and plague, and I'll tell you I'm fine. I should have looked into why I felt like I had the vapors for the last few weeks. At any rate, I'm OK.
On the upside, my blood pressure went from 185/105 in August to 120/75. But I don't need a 'jumbo' blood pressure cuff. The adult large cuff works fine for me now. Kind of bummed about that.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
demand less!
I am home. Expect not too much for 2 weeks.
On top of everything else, I have to renew my Coast Guard credentials and captain's license. Boo!
On top of everything else, I have to renew my Coast Guard credentials and captain's license. Boo!
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I got steam heat
OK, sorry for the obscure show tunes reference, first off.
Today's post was inspired by Borepatch's great mention of the ongoing saga of the S.S. UNITED STATES
Modern ships are powered with giant slow-speed diesel engines, ranging in size from that of a small house to that of, well, a larger house.
The era of sail may be over, but there are still sailing ships being built. So it goes with steam- the heyday of steam ships ended in the 1970's, but you will still find plenty of ships from that era working. While far less efficient than steam power in terms of fuel consumption per horsepower (burning 2+ times as much fuel per hour when compared to equivalent modern diesel engines) steam power still holds several advantages- a longer service interval for major maintenance, and instant throttle change variability and availability, as well.
Ships' diesel engines don't have transmissions- they're just too big for that sort of thing, and the transmission to handle that much power would be half the size of the engine itself. So, to go in reverse, the engine needs to be stopped and restarted in the opposite direction. A massive reserve of compressed air must be held in readiness for this purpose, but, even so, there is a limit to how often an engine can be shifted in a short time- I've never done anything but simulator time on a diesel plant, but the simulator I trained on was modeled for training on a top of the line ship, and had only 6-7 shifts available in a 15 minute period. This makes port entry a determined process- once started, it's not so easy to stop!
At sea speed, modern diesels must be throttled down gently- in the range of 1rpm at a time, literally, when shifting from sea speed to full ahead (full ahead is actually not quite 100% of the usual throttle range- it's the full speed available when throttling may be necessary. As I said, diesels don't like to change speed. Such a large engine must be cooled and warmed slowly to avoid thermal stress to the engine, so going from sea speed to a speed where the engine cools to a point where it can be throttled more rapidly is critical.
A steam plant requires changing the number of burners active, and opening and closing valves. There is infinite number of throttle changes and shifts available. No worrying about running out of air. To go forward, open one valve. Faster? Open the same valve more. Stop? Close the valve. Stop fast? Close the valve, and open the reverse valve. Reverse? Open the reverse valve. Faster reverse? Open the reverse valve more. That's it. 2 valves, and there are your throttle controls.
One is labeled 'ahead' and the other 'astern.' Pretty simple.
The steam revolution didn't stop at the turn of the last century. The last two generations of steamship were turbine powered- no giant cylinders turning a shaft like you saw in 'Titanic'. JUst two turbines in the engine room. For a single turbine array, there is a small, high-pressure turbine that takes steam direct from the boiler system, and then a larger low-pressure turbine that takes the now partially-spent steam from the high pressure turbine and gets some more oomph from it before returning the steam to the condensers and ultimately back to the boilers.
Silver one is the high-pressure turbine, and the larger one is the low-pressure turbine. This was the powerplant on a 700-foot tanker.
The boiler array is far larger than the turbines, requiring it's own room. The boilers feeding the above turbines were the size of a house- 3 stories tall and 60 feet wide, maybe 30 feet deep, and there were two of them.
I started out in the engine room of a steam ship. I planned on staying there. One long weekend spent hanging halfway out of one of these boilers during a breakdown in the Caribbean was enough to send me out on deck forever. Burns, heat, heatstroke, repeat for 3 days.
Connecting the turbines to the shaft is the bull gear, a transmission that takes power from both of the turbines, which are spinning at differing rates. Beyond the bulkhead in this last photo is the propeller and rudder.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
pick-me-up
Just some sumpthin sumpthin to get us all through the week. As always, direct from Brazil.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
please help! Your support needed
Please visit this site and support the author! After a rapid increase in violence, Capt. Peter Boucher has submitted the first complaint to the International Court of Justice ('The Hague') on behalf of the 300+ seafarers abandoned by employers and governments and held for ransom by pirates in Somalia.
http://nauticallog.blogspot.com/2012/01/complaint.html
It was great to hear that President Teleprompter authorized the use of force to retrieve apair of aid workers yesterday; notably, a pretty blond woman and her companion who were being held in Somalia when word was received that her health was declining rapidly. Of course, the 300+ seafarers who are for the most part, ah, the wrong shade of brown, can go pound sand. As you will read, there has been a drastic surge in violence against hostages now that the Somalians have realized that shipowners and nations have little to no interest in paying for the release of human beings, although cargo and pirate-controlled ships still gets ransomed nicely.
Personally, what do I take away from this? The most safe course of action that you can carry out as a professional mariner is to be blond with blue eyes, or at the least sleeping with someone who fits that description.
http://nauticallog.blogspot.com/2012/01/complaint.html
It was great to hear that President Teleprompter authorized the use of force to retrieve apair of aid workers yesterday; notably, a pretty blond woman and her companion who were being held in Somalia when word was received that her health was declining rapidly. Of course, the 300+ seafarers who are for the most part, ah, the wrong shade of brown, can go pound sand. As you will read, there has been a drastic surge in violence against hostages now that the Somalians have realized that shipowners and nations have little to no interest in paying for the release of human beings, although cargo and pirate-controlled ships still gets ransomed nicely.
Personally, what do I take away from this? The most safe course of action that you can carry out as a professional mariner is to be blond with blue eyes, or at the least sleeping with someone who fits that description.
Ladies
I joke, but in all seriousness, I am also fairly disgusted that politics and appearances, and quite possibly boobs are the determining factor in who gets rescued and who gets left to go have their hands chopped off left to die at the hands of inhuman vermin who deserve a bullet to the brainpan and a piece of ham stuffed in their mouth before burial in the name of Habeus Corpus.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Done
Finished reading Kevin Glennon's "Vikings,Vampires and Mailmen." Kevin was kind enough to send me to sea with an advance copy. I'll be posting a review soon, and, in the meanwhile, feel free to click on the "United States Vampire Service" logo.
I finished the book because I came off watch with a stick up my ass, and couldn't sleep, so I needed some cooling off time. We carried a cargo parcel a grand total of 5 miles, with about an hour between when the cargo surveyor (the guy who measures and takes the temperature of the cargo, to calculate volume officially for the refiner, as opposed to me, who calculates volume for the carrier (us) and for the official paperwork at the discharge port) left us, and the receiver's surveyor came aboard.
At any rate, in the hour between surveyor's reports, the cargo cooled a tenth of a degree, which meant that the volume changed about 1/8 inch in all of our tanks. The second surveyor, who smelled powerfully of foot and unwashed ass, kicked up a slight shitstorm over the volume difference. As I explained hemidemisemipatiently that the cargo was sold by weight, and not volume, (which he should have known), there would be no issue, as the volume could be calculated using a correction factor for temperature's effect on density.
At any rate, dealing with a man who smelled like hot spicy crotch did little for my patience, but I didn't let the fact that he was sitting in a chair upholstered with fabric throw me off too much. We have Febreeze on board for just that reason. Eastern European and a smaller proportion of East Indian engineers have the same deep abiding hatred of regular baths. It unsettles the humours, apparently.
After signing off of yet another surveyor's report, and opening all portholes, vents and kicking on the fans, I turned in. I quickly realized that the smell from the pre-discharge conference had wafted into my room. Goddamned common heating intakes. Faced with the vague funk of rotten onions, I read my book, and suddenly it was 2 hours later and the book was finished. Thank God I was most of the way done before I started, as I had to sleep prior to waking up for the midwatch.
A few hours later, I was awoken by the smell of the cargo surveyor, who apparently didn't take advantage of his free time by attending to personal hygiene. I asked my tankerman how long the surveyor had been aboard before I came out of the bunkroom. 30 seconds to a minute, apparently. Christ, that guy really left an impression. We then spent the world's longest hour ever going over paperwork. I set the land speed record for killing trees by trying to get the man out the door in 10 minutes or less, but it was not to be.
After the Hour of Power was over, the man was gone, and we were ready to sail. I remarked to the deckhand on watch that since the entire house smelled like an unwashed hamster cage, we needed to invite a dog in to shit on the floor to improve the smell.
But now it's 3am, almost, and we're at a lay berth with 12 hours to go before the next cargo starts. I shortened my lifespan with a rigorous fogging of the air with alternating batches of disinfectant and deodorizer, and the prospect of a few hours of peace before it all begins again.
I finished the book because I came off watch with a stick up my ass, and couldn't sleep, so I needed some cooling off time. We carried a cargo parcel a grand total of 5 miles, with about an hour between when the cargo surveyor (the guy who measures and takes the temperature of the cargo, to calculate volume officially for the refiner, as opposed to me, who calculates volume for the carrier (us) and for the official paperwork at the discharge port) left us, and the receiver's surveyor came aboard.
At any rate, in the hour between surveyor's reports, the cargo cooled a tenth of a degree, which meant that the volume changed about 1/8 inch in all of our tanks. The second surveyor, who smelled powerfully of foot and unwashed ass, kicked up a slight shitstorm over the volume difference. As I explained hemidemisemipatiently that the cargo was sold by weight, and not volume, (which he should have known), there would be no issue, as the volume could be calculated using a correction factor for temperature's effect on density.
At any rate, dealing with a man who smelled like hot spicy crotch did little for my patience, but I didn't let the fact that he was sitting in a chair upholstered with fabric throw me off too much. We have Febreeze on board for just that reason. Eastern European and a smaller proportion of East Indian engineers have the same deep abiding hatred of regular baths. It unsettles the humours, apparently.
After signing off of yet another surveyor's report, and opening all portholes, vents and kicking on the fans, I turned in. I quickly realized that the smell from the pre-discharge conference had wafted into my room. Goddamned common heating intakes. Faced with the vague funk of rotten onions, I read my book, and suddenly it was 2 hours later and the book was finished. Thank God I was most of the way done before I started, as I had to sleep prior to waking up for the midwatch.
A few hours later, I was awoken by the smell of the cargo surveyor, who apparently didn't take advantage of his free time by attending to personal hygiene. I asked my tankerman how long the surveyor had been aboard before I came out of the bunkroom. 30 seconds to a minute, apparently. Christ, that guy really left an impression. We then spent the world's longest hour ever going over paperwork. I set the land speed record for killing trees by trying to get the man out the door in 10 minutes or less, but it was not to be.
After the Hour of Power was over, the man was gone, and we were ready to sail. I remarked to the deckhand on watch that since the entire house smelled like an unwashed hamster cage, we needed to invite a dog in to shit on the floor to improve the smell.
But now it's 3am, almost, and we're at a lay berth with 12 hours to go before the next cargo starts. I shortened my lifespan with a rigorous fogging of the air with alternating batches of disinfectant and deodorizer, and the prospect of a few hours of peace before it all begins again.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Lazy effer
It's Sunday, which means that when I'm not busy, I'm tidying my space.
With no prospect of going to mass today, as is the cast about 95% of Sundays while I'm at work, I have my little survival ritual. As things worked out, I rolled out of bed to take the watch at 0800, and finished up a cargo discharge in Howland Hook, NY. This left us with an hour's ride over to Brooklyn soon after. While underway, I sorted papers and vacuumed my galley and head.
I'm going to confess here that I have a weird bathroom here at HAWSEPIPER's afloat global HQ and gas'n' guzzle. Oh, shit, by 'head' earlier, I meant bathroom. Not, you know, head head or head. Anyways, my head/laundry has a turd burner.
A turd burner is an electric toilet. By electric toilet, I mean it bakes your biscuits until there is nothing left but sterile powder. It's like a crematorium for last night's steak. Anyhow, once every 2 weeks it's time to clean out the ash pan in the incinerator. This is why we have 2 vacuums. One for the deck and carpets, and one for the ghosts of dinner past. By royal acclaim, the captain on board has dooty duty. This is a distasteful but dramatic way to reinforce the concept that there is no job that is below anyone on a boat- the captain cleans the easy-bake poop oven, so the tankerman can handle periodically washing the fucking windows without any bitchery.
Anyhow, I managed to preddy up the place, although I'll leave it to my # 2 man (heh) to soogie the bulkheads later... soogie (soojee) means wipe down with a cleaning rag, btb. More mariner-speak for you there.
At any rate, we've moored at our new dock in Brooklyn- my employers found asuitable dock to rent located just 2 blocks from our NY HQ dock, so presumably I won't be spending so much lay time in frigging Port Elizabeth NJ, at the back of the ass end of nowhere at a container terminal. I'm hanging out with shore access today... however, it being butt-ass cold and me being lazy, I'm not going ashore between now and 1800 when our next cargo is fixed for. Instead I'm going to murder my inbox and hopefully have time to play a little Duke Nukem Forever.
With no prospect of going to mass today, as is the cast about 95% of Sundays while I'm at work, I have my little survival ritual. As things worked out, I rolled out of bed to take the watch at 0800, and finished up a cargo discharge in Howland Hook, NY. This left us with an hour's ride over to Brooklyn soon after. While underway, I sorted papers and vacuumed my galley and head.
I'm going to confess here that I have a weird bathroom here at HAWSEPIPER's afloat global HQ and gas'n' guzzle. Oh, shit, by 'head' earlier, I meant bathroom. Not, you know, head head or head. Anyways, my head/laundry has a turd burner.
A turd burner is an electric toilet. By electric toilet, I mean it bakes your biscuits until there is nothing left but sterile powder. It's like a crematorium for last night's steak. Anyhow, once every 2 weeks it's time to clean out the ash pan in the incinerator. This is why we have 2 vacuums. One for the deck and carpets, and one for the ghosts of dinner past. By royal acclaim, the captain on board has dooty duty. This is a distasteful but dramatic way to reinforce the concept that there is no job that is below anyone on a boat- the captain cleans the easy-bake poop oven, so the tankerman can handle periodically washing the fucking windows without any bitchery.
Anyhow, I managed to preddy up the place, although I'll leave it to my # 2 man (heh) to soogie the bulkheads later... soogie (soojee) means wipe down with a cleaning rag, btb. More mariner-speak for you there.
At any rate, we've moored at our new dock in Brooklyn- my employers found asuitable dock to rent located just 2 blocks from our NY HQ dock, so presumably I won't be spending so much lay time in frigging Port Elizabeth NJ, at the back of the ass end of nowhere at a container terminal. I'm hanging out with shore access today... however, it being butt-ass cold and me being lazy, I'm not going ashore between now and 1800 when our next cargo is fixed for. Instead I'm going to murder my inbox and hopefully have time to play a little Duke Nukem Forever.
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