Monday, March 18, 2019

Home stretch

Well, entering week 6 here on board the HQ, and I'm feeling it. Partner B is flying in tomorrow night, and in theory, I should be out of here on Wednesday... but I'm staying another week, as my employer opened up the purse a bit for those working over rather than going home, and I have a major thing going on back home, more on that when it's finalized, but it requires 2 1/2 buttloads of money.


 Yesterday was Irish Christmas, St. Patrick's Day, and I unfortunately was at work and had no shore access in a timely manner, so I was unable to get ashore for the ingredients to make a good dinner to celebrate.  As a low-key person, I believe in comporting myself on St. Patrick's Day with dignity and restraint.

I wore it all day yesterday.

 Obviously, honoring that in the breech is not so easy. My jaunty hat helped lift my spirits, though. There was enough of a breeze that working on deck was a challenge, but I made it, and amazingly, the hat did too.


 

Friday, March 15, 2019

Rio Carnival (semi NSFW) revisit

Damn, the time is really dragging on here.

      So, rather than feel ensaddened by the monotony, here are some pictures from Rio De Janeiro's Carnival celebration to enhappy us and enhelp the days to go by. Click to embiggnify.







Sunday, March 10, 2019

I hate it when mommy and daddy fight

There's been quite a fuss kicked up among American mariners over what's going on with the MATSONIA.






A couple of weeks ago, a sistership to the ill-fated El Faro, Matson Navigation‘s 760’, 1,727-TEU Matsonia, developed a crack in her hull while docked in Oakland, Calif., after arriving from Hawaii on her regular run. These things happen of course and the vessel’s crew, the Coast Guard and port response teams quickly contained the resulting oil spill. Except for news reports on the incident in trade publications and websites, the incident was largely ignored, but what it portends has far-reaching implications.
After the El Faro sank in 2015, taking with it 33 souls to the bottom, some discussion followed as to why a 40-year-old ship with a history of structural and mechanical problems was still in service (the industry considers 20 years to be the expected service life of a vessel of this size and type). But the National Transportation Safety Board glossed over the political implications in the tragedy, so they remain today. That’s why the Matsonia’s hull crack is significant.
The Matsonia is 46 years old

Read the whole thing here



 Now, if that picture above looks familiar to you because you're a mariner, it should. She's a sister to the El Faro, the antique ship that sank and killed 33 mariners a couple of years ago. 

 
    
 There's a lot of sentiment along the lines of 'Hey, lay off Matson, they're the last all-American shipowner." Which is not actually true, but it may be true that they're the last all-American UNION-employing shipowner.  So there's a layer of complexity to add to the conferva soup of sewage that forms the opinion pool here.  

 There's no shortage of historical record to parse to see where there is a long tradition of sending unseaworthy rotten ships to sea until they sink. It happens all the time all over the world, and in fact this was a motivator for the speculation market that formed in Lloyd's Coffee House in London in the days of British sail, eventually becoming the largest and most famous insurer in the world. 

     I've had a chance to correspond with Max Hardberger, the author of the article above, on a couple of occasions. He helped me run down an out-of-print copy of one of his early books, and I reviewed his last book here, a few years ago. I had inquired after asking to join Vessex, his maritime repo company that specializes in repossessing ships illegally seized in third world ports. It never panned out, me being somewhat allergic to spending time in a foreign jail, which pretty much is guaranteed should an extraction go south. The author is one of the few Americans I know of who sought foreign licensure and worked as master on foreign-flag ships. 
           Old ships sink. Plenty of old ships don't make it to the beaches of India for scrapping. The Caribbean is just rotten with smaller sunken ships, ancient rickety European coastal freighters that survived the ocean crossing to spend their last few years working in places like Haiti, Dominica and Honduras, and even visiting Miami and the US Gulf if they're not too bad. 
    However, a 150' 70-year old shitbox supplying Haiti with bundles of rags and cardboard is a far cry from a 760-foot container ship that runs between L.A. and Hawaii.  Now, Matson IS replacing their ships, slowly, as they can, which is a good thing. And ABS and Uncle Sugar's Coast Toasties both say their floating relics are safe enough... which, to be fair, they also said of the El Faro and the Marine Electric, the last two Jones Act ships to sink, so take that with a grain of salt, I suppose.  Today, just like in the days of the Coffin Ships mariners must still walk on a ship with the knowledge that they are still the final arbiter as to whether or not a ship is safe enough to be worth working on.   

 Now, here's where I stand: The fact that we've spent a century plus and untold billions on maritime safety doesn't abrogate from us as individual mariners the need to be willing to make the hard call of walking off a ship that makes us afraid. But here's the sand in this can of Vaseline: The brass balls it takes to do so, coupled with institutional discouragement from doing so, makes saying something, or worse, doing something, akin to a subversive act. It absolutely can be a career-ending one.
     For all the talk of safety between employer and crew, and it doesn't matter whether you're talking about a foul European investment bank providing slave wages on an unseaworthy bulker run by third world crews, or a goddamn brand new Aegis cruiser, the more expensive a safety issue is, the harder it is for a shipowner to listen to concerns about it.  
 Huh, that should be an iron law. 
    Think I'm exaggerating?  Look at Captain John Loftus, one of the seniormost captains in the Jones Act Trade. 

 Look at the B-255 hearings, where after an explosion and two fatalities, there were allegations that one of the largest Jones Act employers discouraged safety reporting. 

He felt his job was threatened by Bouchard vice president Kevin Donohue after reporting problems with the barge to Bouchard.
Jackson claimed Donohue told him that reporting the problems had been “a mistake,” implying he could lose his job



         ... Unfortunately, there are multiple roadblocks to even discussing this subject among mariners. 
  It was interesting to me, on Facebook when the whole discussion of the MATSONIA's age and condition started, the largest bloc of comments were along the lines of 'shut up.'   Not exactly constructive. There are so few Jones Act ships, that many American mariners are more afraid of losing jobs than losing lives. Granted, it's easy to be a hardo online, but for my part, I wouldn't want to be in the shoes of the men who send rotten hulls to sea and then have to look in the mirror  after some poor bastards eat it... and granted, also, that most of the loudest voices are never and will never be in that position. However, whether one has a dog in this fight or not, it seems reasonable to question just what the end-game is here. There's a certain amount of fatalism in play. In speaking with my co-workers, many migrated to my current employer because they were forced out of other companies, one of the two companies discussed here,  in most cases, because of miserable working conditions, and the safety culture is ALWAYS discussed in that. The fatalism in question is that there is no expectation of improvement in the future. There's a perception, I find, that there's a lot of back room handshaking among the right people at the right table at the Propeller Club or the AWO between the folks who handle oversight and the folks having their equipment overseen. From the standpoint of looking at progress, this is not a particularly outlandish thought.  The B-255 was not that company's first barge to blow the fuck up and kill people. 
 I can't help but be angry that it happened at all. The fatalism strikes me, too. I write and speak off-the-cuff, irreverently, certainly, and to a point that is the tone I try to set here- a little sarcastic, a little acerbic, and only semi-organized. I can do that because Paul B the blogger and Paul B the employee are two different people, but both have a decent job that maybe doesn't pay as much as it might, but does have awesome shoreside support with no BS and no shortcuts. As such, they give me a safe place to make almost enough money to get by, and I like to make them look good in return, and even though I often enough run my mouth way too much here, where the metal meets the meat, on board, I don't do that. There's mutual support.  I don't see the companies noted above having that sort of relationship with their help, and it shows.

 


Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Screw Change Day

Well, today is crew change day, but not for me. I'm only at the official halfway point of my tour. B and our trainee left this morning, and his relief is on another launch working his way over here, so for now it's gloriously quiet and peaceful. Just the whir of the fans, hum of the generator, and the assorted deck machinery and compressors and such kicking on and off. Soothing.

         I actually really like our trainee. I felt terrible for being such a snowflake, but living with a middle-aged stranger who is literally never more than 8 feet from you, 24/7 for 2 weeks is just too much. Waking, sleeping, cooking, taking a leak... 8 feet or less. We all did our best to maintain good humor and there was some laughter in there, thankfully, but overall it was awful. I've been eating motrin every single watch for the insane headaches. The HQ is just not set up to support an extra body.

    But for now, the peace. This week I have a fill in mate coming, and he's a great guy who I know pretty well. Experienced, friendly, soft-spoken and a giant of a guy, and we've worked together before, so we know each other's likes and dislikes. Should be a good week. Next week I have another good guy coming in too.

Friday, March 1, 2019

a needed breather

Well, I certainly feel better. After a week that had me wanting to stick my head in the oven, the last few days turned things around. We got a day off, which was an absolute blessing. I got a long, long walk in, 8 miles, and in the middle I stopped for a Cobb salad at a little hole in the wall. I took time to sit on a bench and look out at the skyline, and came back to the HQ and played FarCry 5 for a few hours. It was exactly what I needed. So when we  went back to work yesterday, I felt like I had taken about 20lbs off, weight that I could feel in the back of my neck. So we just wrapped up a medium-sized bunker job and are anchored about 2 miles off the Statue of Liberty, and it appears we'll be here for the weekend. Which is good, becuase a generator shit the bed on the way out here.

 It never ends, lol. Come daylight tomorrow I'll look at it.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019

staying indoors

We've had a breezy few days here at HAWSEPIPER's Afloat Global HQ/ Glorified Gas Station.


         It blew a hard gale (45kt, gusts into the 50's and 60's) over the area waters for a day, then settled into a plan gale (35+kt) for another day, before settling into the usual cold and breezy/gray and shitty weather that is the norm for winter in the US northeast.  At the height of the gale, a incompetent cargo sampler made a mess on my deck, dripping a little oil over a lot of deck, and then walking around through it and going on tour like fucking Billy from Family Circus.

motherf*cker

        footprints over 3,000 sq feet of deck. In a screaming gale, in pounding rain. Boy howdy, I cussed that guy out good while I was scrubbing on my hands and knees to prevent a slick.  Shit happens, and I'm not going to jail or getting my ass sent ashore for getting in the news by putting a sheen in the water, but had I not been bird-dogging the guy at 3am, when sane people are asleep, or at least indoors, I'm confident that he would have ignored the mess. At any rate, the nonskid on deck chafed through my foul weather gear and the tips of my boots. I guess I'm not used to working on my knees. I'd make a terrible hooker.  It all ended happily, however. No oil in the water, filled up a couple of barrels with oily waste, and I got my exercise for the day.

 It was a hell of a week and weekend. Haven't had much good luck on board recently. I'm more hopeful for this week.

Saturday, February 23, 2019

Chinese Water Annoyance

Sigh. Another God-damned day.

          My trainee had a restless night. I don't know if he's colicky or has gas or what, but he kept me up all frigging night.  Maybe he's teething, I don't know. If they let us have whisky on here, I'd hit him upside the head with the bottle and have a big gulp and go back to bed.
 Alas, if wishes were horses, etc.

       OK, it's hard enough being forced to have a man older than me pretty much hanging onto my pocket like we was in prison, following me around, asking me questions while I'm juggling numbers in my head, talking on the radio and filling out paperwork at the same time. It leaves me exhausted. Then I go to bed, and he's there too, in my spare bunk, getting up a half-dozen times to see what my partner is doing, when the hydraulics kick on, when nature calls, whatever. When he gets up, I wake up.
    The poor guy is earnest and trying to learn as much as he can as fast as he can. How the hell can I complain about someone who wants to be there and wants to work?   I feel like a whiner. Oh well, I'll own it. I like the guy well enough. But Jesus, I'm going to hang myself if I don't get some fucking sleep and an hour by myself soon. A little bit of false advertising by the lying liars at HR doesn't help. The man was supposed to be already trained. He is not.

Little things become big things. The slow drip of water on the forehead becomes a hammer over time. Curiosity becomes pestering. Distraction becomes danger.
   This is not a good look for me, I realize that. I don't like men who show weakness in public. This blog is my pressure-relief valve. It's keeping me, and him, alive. I guess that's a good thing. Doesn't feel like it.