tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25279137912942582012024-03-15T16:25:23.733-07:00HAWSEPIPER: The Longest ClimbTHOUGHTS AND COMMENTS FROM AN AMERICAN Merchant MarinerPaul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.comBlogger1786125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-67808707962865873012024-03-15T16:24:00.000-07:002024-03-15T16:24:47.643-07:00Good evening?<p> Crew change went pretty easy this time. For the first time since we started loading the absolute cold dogshit oil that one customer started giving us this past fall, on our second cargo since I got back, we loaded a blistering hot, thin, high-quality fuel oil from another customer, one of the oil majors, and the stuff was so wholesome that it scoured a full inch of old, crusty resudue off of the 18 inches or so of unpumpable filth that is glued to the bottom of our tanks. </p><p><br /></p><p> I wish we could load that stuff 17 more times. Sadly, tomorrow morning we're back to load a big parcel of nastiness again. </p><p> But that's for tomorrow. Tonight we're free and at anchor, Glory Be and long may the bunker gods squat down and grunt to shit light on the heads of we the damned. </p><p><br /></p><p> I slept this morning. Some delays last night caused by an awkwardly-placed support beam on the large container ship we were pumping off to caused the ship's crew to not be able to connect our main fueling hose before we reached 0530, my watch change where Big E takes over. As I am still much too calm and stable after having a week at home, the newly arrived has to work night watch. After a week of night watch I will be sufficiently unhappy to take over as the day man, the guy who is the face of the HQ when it comes to interacting with the office drones, engineers, bosses, etc. Heaven forfend that I give the wrong idea and say hello with a smile when outsiders interact with us. They need to know exactly how much we hate life while dealing with this oil on board which acts like gelled lukewarm diarheaa. . </p><p> So yeah, back to normal. I'm still armored by the "If you don't give a fuck why should I' mentality as we complete cargoes poorly given the nature of the cargo. I guess that's what makes today's discharge so special to us. I was still asleep when Big E finished the job, but where this was the first time where we actually pumped off all the oil we were given in... 4 months I think? Big E was in tearing high spirits. </p><p> One thing about E and I, we've discovered that we tend to absorb the other's emotional state. E had cautioned me several times back in January that after talking to me he wanted to put his head in the oven, back when we were finishing each job with the HQ sitting an inch deeper than it was the job before. I apologized profusely for it and last month made a point to not look at the HQ through shit-colored glasses, which actually put both of us in a better place, as he did the same. So today I let myself bask in his inner glow and we celebrated after I drank a quart of energy drink by pulling a couple of our mooring lines out of service and dragging some replacement lines in. 300 feet of hawser is heavy and our to-go-ashore storage for old running rigging is a long walk from some of the lines. The weather being downright pretty helped- long-t-shirt weather and sunny, which is ideal. Just cool enough to prevent a sweat at the workload involved. </p><p> Really, the old mooring lines are just a couple of hundred pounds each, so we grab and end and pull it until it's a strain, then go grab another part of the same line 100 feet further down and pull that until the whole line is close enough that it can be faked down (stowed neatly where it will feed out neatly when moved) out of the way in its' temporary home. So we put 3 lines out of service, and put 3 new lines in. The new lines are heavier than the old, as the old lines generally wear out at the eyes, the terminal ends, and when they break, which happens as they age, we resplice new eyes, which costs 15-20 feet of line, shortening it... so if we resplice a line twice at each end... 60-80 feet is lost. </p><p><br /></p><p> Anyhow, tonight is quite lovely. The sunset was really nice. I missed my wife something fierce. She's one of the only non-sailors I know who is a true sunrise/sunset aficionado. I may demand cash on the barrel in exchange for my work, but part of my pay is all the sunrises and sunsets I can stand. 'S always been that way, too. I LOVED watching the sunrise when I was 8-9 and loading 5 gallon buckets of bait on the lobsterboat- the old timer who taught me to fish poured out the barrels into buckets so we could tote them in manageable lots. Child labor is the best labor. Later I learned in high school to roll Irish barrels (42 gallon barrels by partially tipping them about 20 degrees an-end and steering while I rolled. At age 18, I would just hug and lug the barrels. As an actual adult after my first pulled back muscles that caused me to miss fishing for 4 days, I went back to rolling them. </p><p> I've still got the core strength from all that. It's just that my joints don't like it no more. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is flabby and aches. </p><p><br /></p><p> Anyhow, tonight I crack open the books and fire up my desk to get paperwork up to date and then I should have time to made a decent stir-fry for night lunch. I'll be working all night tomorrow, but there's a possibility that the evening of the 17th, the highest of high holy days of those born in Boston, Irish Christmas itself, the feast of St. Patrick, we might have a break between jobs. As I'm on nights, I will be able to catch the Irish music on the Boston radio stations online I hope. The corned beef will be defrosting starting tomorrow. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-52900204621561659482024-03-11T10:44:00.000-07:002024-03-11T10:44:54.368-07:00Much much too fast<p> I'm sitting at my kitchen table, putting together travel arrangements to go back to NY tomorrow for work. It was a fine, FAST 6 days at home, but all in all it was a good run ashore. It's sunny and warm, around 80 with light breezes outside, my wife has some kind of focaccia bread and cheese and tomato thing in the oven cooking and the whole house smells like garlic and olive oil. Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife has been cooking up a storm, and being half Italian, the girl can COOK. </p><p><br /></p><p> I made a few mistakes, attributable to enthusiasm. I drank too much on my first night home, and got up early the next morning and did a bunch of heavy labor, and by 8 am I had sweated through a couple of shirts and was dehydrated. And hung over. Because I am an idiot, that's why. At any rate, I spent the rest of the day more or less on the couch nauseous, but by that evening I was good to go again and my wife had taken a couple of days off so we got to spend about 4 days joined at the hip, which was exactly what I needed given that I've been home for a total of 3 weeks I think since October and only had 6 days at home this time... I won't be doing any overtime this trip and will have a more normal run ashore in April, and time enough to be social. </p><p><br /></p><p> This time other than one night out with my wife and another with my wife and son (who is home from sea too), we spent most of the time cooped up in the house, which I think we all needed. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm not going back to work relaxed, I didn't have enough time for that... but I am going back to work feeling better than I did, and that's all to the good. February was a good month aboard HAWSEPIPER's Afloat Global HQ/ Center for involuntary celibacy, but I was still reeling from January, which sucked massive camel wang. I was telling my wife over the weekend about how badly January at work fucked me all up emotionally by making me doubt my career choices, this being my 42nd year of working on the water coming up (I started at age 8 for the princely sum of $10 a day baiting lobster pots), but thankfully February had enough days where things went OK enough for me to get back on an even keel, and hopefully March will continue that trend. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWZgRLe1PmQ8989wZzeBPNYnJwMMYBbWnFh6sO-NdYhmldN55IMyDTAe_iOObKF38FdfOc23TygX-nJSIvhrXAHrkifNXFPUpLtcUK9_Wp2kdYzpTpnAt1WUmrwDPjVPSlGTJOX4lIF412GMFJqyzdt7rpP69DEpf1EYtncnbOW9xEPCvwB1G8l7JoA16/s4000/20240124_184122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIWZgRLe1PmQ8989wZzeBPNYnJwMMYBbWnFh6sO-NdYhmldN55IMyDTAe_iOObKF38FdfOc23TygX-nJSIvhrXAHrkifNXFPUpLtcUK9_Wp2kdYzpTpnAt1WUmrwDPjVPSlGTJOX4lIF412GMFJqyzdt7rpP69DEpf1EYtncnbOW9xEPCvwB1G8l7JoA16/s320/20240124_184122.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Anyhow, lunch is ready, gotta go. One last day before crew change. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-72905606967770927672024-03-03T20:03:00.000-08:002024-03-03T20:03:36.302-08:003 watches and a wake-up to go. <p> Wow, OK, thank you very much to the good people who left a comment on my last post. Tonight's another quiet night aboard (thank you God), and I was able to go for a walk ashore this afternoon, too. Good day. I go home in a few days, though just for a week. </p><p> All of New York decided to go for a walk around Brooklyn Bridge Park, which shares an entrance with the container terminal/lay berth piers where the HQ is docked while we wait for a berth to open up at the tank farm where our next job will start. This meant that on my walk, the sidewalks were so congested that it wasn't possible to stay in step for more than 15 seconds at a time (not exaggerating) and I spent much of my walk winding my way around people. The smell of weed and foreigners (B.O.) lay thick enough that it wasn't possible to forget about it... and the side streets were little better, so my walk wasn't all that enjoyable, but all the same, it's still better than walking in circles around deck ad nauseum, so there's that. </p><p> The past 5 weeks have been pretty good overall. We're still dealing with solidified oil in our tanks that will not pump off, and more building with every job, and it now takes compressed air being blasted into the pipelines to clear a path for oil to flow within our pipelines... the problems of ow temperatures and oil that is stupid to use in cold locales, oil with very high pour points (the temperature below which the oil stops flowing) haven't been addressed, but I have finally stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb, as my spirit animal Dr. Strangelove recommended. The office folks don't care. Should I? </p><p> It's been hard, detaching my ego, sense of pride, the desire to do things well and correctly and my work ethic, too, from how I do my job. If nobody gives a fuck that the oil we're carrying is a nightmare, that the receivers hate it and hate us because of it, and every job leaves less and less room in our tanks as residues build, why should I? So long as I can keep it out of the water and go home with 10 fingers and 10 toes, I'm still doing the job to the best of my ability. Agonizing over the fact that no matter what I do I can't do my job correctly enough to have the satisfaction of a cargo completed is exhausting, so I try not to dwell on it, and I have stopped apologizing to the <strike>victims </strike>receivers. Ships that are regular visitors to NY are already avoiding the supplier of the problem oil, so I figure that this problem solves itself. </p><p> And it has been slower. Thank God for that. With time in between jobs, since everything takes longer than it should, and since part of the time we have to return oil to the supplier because we literally can't get our pumps to pump it (which means returning the oil by loading MORE of it, heated higher, then pumping it off and reloading it, which leaves an inch or three of new cold oil bottoms on top of the oil that was already there), and try to get it to the next ship before it turns solid again. </p><p> So, yeah, the pace is more reasonable than it has been. it's like things were up until COVID. We have free time every week, sometimes just a half-day, sometimes more, but I have been at this company for 15 years, and for the first 12 years THIS was the pace. Optimum for sustainability in terms of our equipment, mental health and well-being too. Going non-stop is hard on the metal and hard on the meat. Actually its made me realize how much I hate my job now compared to just 3 years ago, because this past month I actually enjoyed the work a couple of times. Splicing a damaged mooring line the other night, it was cold and quiet and the ocean was calm enough to reflect the Manhattan skyline in the distance. Really pretty moment. Shit like that is worth it's weight in gold. </p><p> I'm still trying to figure out what happened, in that I've been working on the water for, wow, 42 years. I started at age 8, and I've always loved it, and then I didn't, and then I was trying to avoid thinking about it because I hated it so much that I stopped looking out at the ocean, stopped taking enjoyment of the little things that made shoreside work so unpalatable in comparison... I'm hopeful that I have again found a place to hang my hat in terms of justifying being a mariner. Time will tell I guess. This past month has shown me that there's still a lot of good things attached to my work for me. I hope it keeps going. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3ysr_Eo6w7-dEG7xJPnQmzEMp_TOdaI4UoEnboNmIwKAYt3i3fqnv02PuuxRdhuQzhMcb3q8Acy-i9s_GBc3noN9MX0T89wyeS06NvoE8NyBuXzhiJNZbBF5I7zUJoFJihgjtBkm48KYiNT1CpQCU2TDsP3yldPVnxJ80HwEkviOTQ4h4U9HmEhdXohS/s4032/20191127_000710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="4032" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl3ysr_Eo6w7-dEG7xJPnQmzEMp_TOdaI4UoEnboNmIwKAYt3i3fqnv02PuuxRdhuQzhMcb3q8Acy-i9s_GBc3noN9MX0T89wyeS06NvoE8NyBuXzhiJNZbBF5I7zUJoFJihgjtBkm48KYiNT1CpQCU2TDsP3yldPVnxJ80HwEkviOTQ4h4U9HmEhdXohS/w400-h195/20191127_000710.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-3315677144780228312024-02-27T23:08:00.000-08:002024-02-27T23:08:33.389-08:00dear diary<p> More and more I am thinking that this blog has run its' course. It's certainly been a number of years. I am at a point career-wise where things are on autopilot and I just work to keep my credentials current. I have the connections. credentials and the pull at my company to switch to being tug crew if I want and make more money... but I don't' want it. In less than 3 months I'll be 50. I haven't grown MORE tolerant of being in close proximity to coworkers over time, so being hotboxed with 4-5 other grown men in a rolly-assed tugboat for weeks at a time sounds like punishment at this point. I'm good where I am. </p><p>Instead of a story, I offer you these fine things: </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzf8R6rvt-cZL-kqDdUnIUw25W6JSlJyP4Jnl1mVF6DyoXq-hA4qYKs_RSLeYECSb9FsLO0J0MidiXg3nv5fsXKf34n1EKj2pWhfwZi2CNVhSraHZmz8LELTo7WNf2hiJhhPcxigLNUInlcgkAsLdquA9RLqdbUa9-xqotWLaYnw8YaJlw1ocrBJJui-a/s640/894d36b761ba4ed9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="519" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzf8R6rvt-cZL-kqDdUnIUw25W6JSlJyP4Jnl1mVF6DyoXq-hA4qYKs_RSLeYECSb9FsLO0J0MidiXg3nv5fsXKf34n1EKj2pWhfwZi2CNVhSraHZmz8LELTo7WNf2hiJhhPcxigLNUInlcgkAsLdquA9RLqdbUa9-xqotWLaYnw8YaJlw1ocrBJJui-a/w325-h400/894d36b761ba4ed9.jpeg" width="325" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkEdKBFK-9-UcnoFGhwsxysozasvhQ8idOwvRO5CsAQGO3EbfVHUZe5b9BP2ossPspWq0NNBVOQFVCGnr__3NKTVf_iwaMfX7zKbTzDXLOTzxywfTdGM7PMSoSLjvUCJI94cvPzC3JxECV2g8hAepFm6OocMcWKXmMr27Ve4oeW9HmQiFlbqR4EEml9bE/s768/151STORMERMEME290124.jpg-768x576-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkEdKBFK-9-UcnoFGhwsxysozasvhQ8idOwvRO5CsAQGO3EbfVHUZe5b9BP2ossPspWq0NNBVOQFVCGnr__3NKTVf_iwaMfX7zKbTzDXLOTzxywfTdGM7PMSoSLjvUCJI94cvPzC3JxECV2g8hAepFm6OocMcWKXmMr27Ve4oeW9HmQiFlbqR4EEml9bE/s320/151STORMERMEME290124.jpg-768x576-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-29665229692672823682024-02-19T11:13:00.000-08:002024-02-19T11:13:58.502-08:00That's better<p> Thank God for small favors we have returned to a sane pace here on the HQ. </p><p> It's actually been on the slow side. I hate even writing that lest it come to an end, but we've been working at an age-appropriate rate lately. It's been great. I feel a lot better, even moreso than I did 2 weeks ago when I said I was feeling good. Not that I'm running around shining sunshine out my ass or anything but I am not living with regret for my career choices at every meal, which was unpleasant. </p><p><br /></p><p> So, construction in Brazil continues but slowly. Outside contractor REALLY tried to fuck us on the pool. Guys wanted 130,000 local bucks, about 30 grand for the pool, start to finish. Our architect/builder, who married into the family a few years ago, said absolutely not to take the deal. He agreed to dig the hole with his excavator for gas money, about $100, as he could use the fill elsewhere, and offered less than half of what the bidders were suggesting, until someone took it, who turned out to be a franchise pool builder with a good rep. The demolition, with the exception of some excavating, is about done. The main house is about ready to be closed up again, as right now there aren't any windows and it's just bare cement walls, a roof and window holes ready for windows to be installed.</p><p> Since I don't plan on owning a car in Brazil, I am putting a big pergola over the side yard where the driveway used to be. </p><p> I decided to have columns sunk to support a 2nd floor if we ever go that route. I already have a big walled yard, and won't be able to expand OUT without buying the 3-house compound next door that belongs to one of Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife's cousins. I ain't giving up my backyard to add to the big house. </p><p> My wife and I will be staying in a detached master bedroom with en-suite shithouse in the side yard. It'll have a decent sitting room attached, and the outdoor covered kitchen we'll be using to host get-togethers outside that. There's a cabana/pool bathroom/laundry room on the other side of the pool so the fam doesn't have to track shit on my floors in the big house or mine. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm one of those people who doesn't like anyone in my bedroom, pretty much ever. I pretty much even trained my kid not to go in there without there being a pressing emergency. So my little bedroom area will be locked up tighter than a bulls ass during blackfly season when I'm not in it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3EqVokswIoxARdoZXhy-jljOd11pES_WAJJZpSfWOHIRmB-vPRhRhD9xQRGn2BSXhwcSWUH3FQuAJTMLWv96u5V21-b3nikdf-CHAVjWfSXemMT6oVlLQjm46Ddw2vHUDXD7JwLN64sMmV1YTPHpvNwGFdk60dH3vwou31Wp8z3El7LTRtx3MCivX-XX/s1022/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1022" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK3EqVokswIoxARdoZXhy-jljOd11pES_WAJJZpSfWOHIRmB-vPRhRhD9xQRGn2BSXhwcSWUH3FQuAJTMLWv96u5V21-b3nikdf-CHAVjWfSXemMT6oVlLQjm46Ddw2vHUDXD7JwLN64sMmV1YTPHpvNwGFdk60dH3vwou31Wp8z3El7LTRtx3MCivX-XX/s320/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My part of the house on the left. The gray wall in the background is an error</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU4WCJ8Tp71RbBn4OIhYL73RihyenbBEXJ6XpgxsvPAkoVstClXJd8PWQYTxsGZkzfJr4PiiScgwqPRs1GBPNYNHbHUAskNaowgePKoYxV3Mf2dVMkIUkQQKEWPzSlymei7Skrci2emRRRxs1Rxu1vpkgOTuEAfwpcZTWz9PF2IpRqjPY9-BRhM7gbSjT/s1022/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1022" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuU4WCJ8Tp71RbBn4OIhYL73RihyenbBEXJ6XpgxsvPAkoVstClXJd8PWQYTxsGZkzfJr4PiiScgwqPRs1GBPNYNHbHUAskNaowgePKoYxV3Mf2dVMkIUkQQKEWPzSlymei7Skrci2emRRRxs1Rxu1vpkgOTuEAfwpcZTWz9PF2IpRqjPY9-BRhM7gbSjT/s320/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">outdoor kitchen with wood-fired oven, gas oven, gas range and bar</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6o9TPZhC3UmOYx3gkUdExP2xywH7A0Mged2qXO6FEPYwTE8PfEE5CTni234bIWZWnvAm4NHk-yVU9Wm08DVYV9BQ_Bnc79VTrfjxQx6O9D6SZque5SMPbLLP2Ojx6lsmE_-CRF5B1oJbn8cFBWRE7sVZCsKDkitaeR_mp6qE8hEXVmtwyZdzjjdXwQAH3/s1022/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="1022" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6o9TPZhC3UmOYx3gkUdExP2xywH7A0Mged2qXO6FEPYwTE8PfEE5CTni234bIWZWnvAm4NHk-yVU9Wm08DVYV9BQ_Bnc79VTrfjxQx6O9D6SZque5SMPbLLP2Ojx6lsmE_-CRF5B1oJbn8cFBWRE7sVZCsKDkitaeR_mp6qE8hEXVmtwyZdzjjdXwQAH3/s320/%C3%81REA%20GOURMET%2003.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">pool cabana/head//laundry on left, fountain on the right is now 7 feet up. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /> I don't have renderings of the main house or the side yard and such. My wife might. I pretty much only care about the parts where I can hang my hat. the main house is more or less where the ladies are. I want to stay close to the bar. <div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-515975572182168272024-02-08T08:53:00.000-08:002024-02-08T08:53:23.207-08:00I crack myself up<p> The other day a 3rd party tugboat was charioteering us for a job, and one of the deckhands was pretty green and had some attitude. </p><p> Welp, here I go again. </p><p><br /></p><p> This kid, he was a worker, and seemed pretty quick to pick things up... but the attitude... naw. 18-19, black kid, urban accent, you know, generic. Hell, good for him, kid's working hard and making good money out of the box. We need 50 more like him... but we were approaching a PCTC, a car carrier, those retarded-looking but VERY useful ugly ass mofos. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwOIQY-Yt4zQ7mKLycfssIv5vi_IGHMRvhkiTLN41aW_p8Jlt3YEASZmJ0FlyBlp8OfZq2RHBNyAyW45MGeX9Fvy9BJ9zAx5GRnTXT2pgp5JOjXZmD2dOxNYdCOrFH3wooEblH1px46VaZNexvuHJ_M7aj2bR9BSLdbEU9BpKdFpGESHsxPVJ43xzbtU7/s724/df4ceff1e64fa8f8ae5b8da0979659e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="724" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwOIQY-Yt4zQ7mKLycfssIv5vi_IGHMRvhkiTLN41aW_p8Jlt3YEASZmJ0FlyBlp8OfZq2RHBNyAyW45MGeX9Fvy9BJ9zAx5GRnTXT2pgp5JOjXZmD2dOxNYdCOrFH3wooEblH1px46VaZNexvuHJ_M7aj2bR9BSLdbEU9BpKdFpGESHsxPVJ43xzbtU7/s320/df4ceff1e64fa8f8ae5b8da0979659e1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>These things are awkward AF to deal with. Good ships, apparently, to work on and to sail on, surprisingly enough. They're floating parking lots with multiple decks inside that you drive stuff onto and park... but to make more room, some of the decks are mounted on hydraulics, so you can lift or lower a whole deck if you've got compact cars, say, and can make room for more rather than leaving an air gap between the roof of the car and the next deck above. </p><p><br /></p><p> At any rate, these things are awkward to tie to for us. That main deck, 100 or so feet in the air? We don't tie up to there. Instead, the ships have Panama Chocks- mooring bitts mounted INTO the hull in recesses, to which bunker barges (or Panama Canal railroad engines to drag you through) can moor. </p><p> In the ship above, down low towards the stern, you'll see a ling rectangular recessed area under the Y and the K. That's the Accommodation Ladder, the ship's gangway, more or less. Also in the recessed area is a Crucifix Bitt, a cross-shaped bitt ideal for bunker barges to moor with. But under the N there's another recess, about 8 feet on a side, and that's the bunker station, an area with pipe connections for heavy fuel, diesel fuel, and various grades of lube oils for the engine and generators. </p><p> So for me, I like to have the HQ lie head-to-tail with the ship, where my bow is at his stern. Our mooring fenders, three each side, each able to withstand multiple tons of crushing force, I try to land at least two of them and a portable fender (small rubberized solid fenders, about 3' across, weighing about 100lbs, and slightly compressible that I hang wherever two men can muscle it. In PCTC's my forward fender usually ends up not being able to contact the side of the ship (the flat, also called the parallel midbody), and so we end up resting on a portable fender and two of our fixed fenders. The issue there is that it's possible to wedge part of my barge under the non-flat parts of the ship's bow and stern if we don't land exactly flat to the ship. This causes much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and possibly a hole in the ship, or more often, it simply flattens things like our light masts used for flood lighting and such. Either way it's a nightmare, and so everyone is vigilant for the least sign that we're getting 'out of shape' and might not be square to the ship's side and therefore able to touch up safely. </p><p><br /></p><p> Anyways, that's a long setup for a 5 second joke for sure. So we're coming alongside this ship somewhere around 2am, and I'm talking and walking around with a walkie-talkie, talking to the deckhands and the tug operator. The experienced deckhand is calling out distances and relative motion to the tug operator, the new kid is handling lines and we're all trying to work together to be sure the tug operator knows what is happening, since much of his view is obscured by my barge's houses and the deck itself. This is where an experienced team of tug operator and lookout are absolutely worth their weight in gold. Imagine having a kid 30 years younger than you, who can't even drive a boat, telling you what you need to do in terms of throttle and movement, giving advice or simply asking you to make us move one way or another... there's a lot of trust involved. </p><p> So the new kid is my hands, pretty much, and the deckhand is the tug operator's eyes AND hands on deck. I have to split my time and attention between what the tug is doing, what the people are doing, and what I need to be able to do in terms of mooring safely and being able to do my job. It sounds harder than it is. It's not a difficult thing at all, but important of course. </p><p> At any rate, I have a habit, maybe good or maybe bad, of not wanting to get involved with the mooring lines while I'm still trying to figure out the best way to tie us up and get us into position. And so when we get the all-important first line made fast to the ship, the tug now has good control of the whole operation. He can clutch the throttles in and out of gear to come into the first line and keep the barge snug against the ship, using the force of his engines to push the barge ahead, and the now-tight first line will cause us to spring ahead and alongside the ship. </p><p> I try not to be rude to the deckhands, but I'm rushing, we're all rushing. And so, thoughtlessly because these guys are strangers, once we have the first line made fast to the ship but not made fast to one of our bitts or cleats, I think I just said. "Here, take this and make it fast. After we're snug alongside he'll tell you to let it go again, just let the line pay out when the mate tells you and I'll call out distances to the Spot I want. ' and I think I said this abruptly and I sort of thrust the bight of line in my hand into his. </p><p> So yeah, the kid was nonplussed. I guess what I said and did could be interpreted as rude, to a landsman. I didn't cuss or say anything bad, and I don't think I had a snotty tone of voice or anything, but it rubbed him the wrong way, which rubbed me the wrong way, you know? It's marine work. No place for your precious fee-fees to get hurt. It's true, though, I didn't say please or thank you. I often do. </p><p> Either way, I could tell that the kid's feeling real soggy and hard to light. As we work our way through the other 5 mooring lines I used for that job, I'm now annoyed he's annoyed, and so I'm still not saying please or thank you. I'm not antagonizing, either, though. When the last line was secure, I said "OK, all fast. You guys did great. Thank you both," which is both recognition and a dismissal, and we wandered off. The experienced deckhand gave me a friendly pro-forma 'no worries, thank you too,: and the men went back on their tugboat. As the tugboat is casting off (they have 4 lines made up to the barge, so it takes a few minutes) I ask about their next job, as the same tug is due back in 6-8 hours to take us off the ship when we finish pumping, and they tell me they've got a quick job and will be back in a few hours to wait for me to finish. I said, "OK, good enough. See you in a couple of hours. Go. Go Make Daddy Proud." The experienced deckhand laughed at that, but the new kid, boy howdy he didn't like that. But what the hell, if you can't take a joke, you have no business working on the water, I figure. </p><p> Eh, the kid will learn. He doesn't seem a bad sort. Maybe he was King Shit back home, but here he's just another dancing bear at our Retard Circus. Joking is a pressure relief valve, and jokes that don't single out anyone are the best kind. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-316142646952702982024-02-05T00:20:00.000-08:002024-02-05T00:44:05.757-08:00Centered<p> Well, damn, I feel a lot better. </p><p><br /></p><p> I've been trying to articulate why it is that I've had constipation of the soul for the past few weeks after a particularly trying tour on the HQ over the holidays... and I still can't quite explain it, except that I note that I feel fine now. Back to what I laughingly call normal. </p><p> My job was making me look bad and making me feel incompetent, <i>through no fault of my own</i> and my ego wasn't having it. I'm a pretty fart smeller, I can make things better even when the job isn't going to go right. I can make it go <i>less wrong. </i></p><p><i> </i>Oh the hubris. We had bad oil. Nobody gives a shit in the office. Why the fuck should I? Sure I look like an incompetent, along with all the other retards in this circus who have to hump this difficult to pump oil to <strike>suckers </strike> the charterer's customers. </p><p> Anyhow, couple of days off meant that I had a couple of days to cook, clean, and lose myself in some tankerman Arts N' Crafts projects- organize some storage lockers, stack boxes of supplies, test the coolant's specific gravity in the gens and cargo pumps, have a suck at the bottom of the hydraulic tank sumps and look for metal filings, water or other contaminants... I even got to lube all the zerks on board early this month. Wintertime is hell on the machinery. Plus, with the new year, there's dumb shit that we sometimes don't give much thought to, like swapping out the batteries on the life ring emergency lights, and the water-activated lights on our gumby suits, the survival suits we have to wear if we want to survive going in the water. I'd be a bit put out if I got woken up from a dead sleep and told that we had to ditch, only to find that the Here I am light on my Jolly Green (the suit is red, the bag it comes in is green, signaling that the suit is size Fatass) isn't working. </p><p> So, yeah, the HQ's stocked up and later today we've got a small batch of cargo fixed for a car carrier who's coming in late tonight. </p><p><br /></p><p> To go back to what I was bitching about earlier, I was pretty stressed in Jan. Shit going wrong in Brazil at our house under construction, work/life balance getting a bit fucked, etc etc. We all have things bothering us. Sometimes I feel like I have too low of a bar set where I start to get stressed. Still, I had a particularly relaxing time home that soothed the burn and coming back to work has been startlingly enough, a return to normalcy for values of normal, anyhow. </p><p> </p><p> While I was home we spent some time in Miami- I had to get a Brazilian CPF, their equivalent of a social security number, and so having knocked that out at the consul, and anticipating that it might be a classic Brazilian Government interaction (turning a 5 minute process into a 2 day affair), I reserved a hotel room, so we had the rest of the day to ourselves, and so among other things, we wandered around the market around pier 5 and had a blast, day drinking and playing tourist. Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife and I sucked down a bunch of mojitos and ate local seafood, and after, the feeling of decompression was palpable to me, as my stress levels ratcheted down. My wife got hit on by a Cuban bartender, but only once, and was feeling a little down as a result. But she ate an ice cream cone and attracted a bit of an audience in the process, to which I later pointed out, her being oblivious, and she turned as red as her blouse. Anyhow, ego restored. I'm kind of used to it. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjex6oErIdzcqMEB5LXNlhTx_DRRH7cXJB_X4hUA8TwniJQ3pfch-85ACd_4pSy3JwazkudQEfV-XgwxCN7LV8d28KlU7cp2-3kTjaaPedKzbR_b8qNLqTrr5jglu3zyTEyHKJW0c3OxAi0_pKK5kZVL7Rf3zr4oEfqSGYsvNz92MeRPPBrw257tzjm6tgT/s4000/20240123_141503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjex6oErIdzcqMEB5LXNlhTx_DRRH7cXJB_X4hUA8TwniJQ3pfch-85ACd_4pSy3JwazkudQEfV-XgwxCN7LV8d28KlU7cp2-3kTjaaPedKzbR_b8qNLqTrr5jglu3zyTEyHKJW0c3OxAi0_pKK5kZVL7Rf3zr4oEfqSGYsvNz92MeRPPBrw257tzjm6tgT/s320/20240123_141503.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcPqYecssFqy0WbEreMIr0Fz-_OoQg6GhaZfzinD9PYAfBm5Bz-JgQOefPS0MSzbjxOKdULrVmSTi7AFR3hyphenhyphenn6T3HxnX7v6l2mi6XJJqSDzAsSh7bQk6HdOSwXsP-AjJpHfHRm1gkOLkm1SxeLF02Hbe0sYHVs__feJ1Yv6ky1lOa9Lc7DFjVFbSuC8yF/s4000/20240123_132644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcPqYecssFqy0WbEreMIr0Fz-_OoQg6GhaZfzinD9PYAfBm5Bz-JgQOefPS0MSzbjxOKdULrVmSTi7AFR3hyphenhyphenn6T3HxnX7v6l2mi6XJJqSDzAsSh7bQk6HdOSwXsP-AjJpHfHRm1gkOLkm1SxeLF02Hbe0sYHVs__feJ1Yv6ky1lOa9Lc7DFjVFbSuC8yF/s320/20240123_132644.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> I was already a lot better by the time I came back to work, and now my liver is resting comfortably too, as it got a bit of a workout at home. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Unfortunately, it's not all sunshine and roses outside of my little sphere of influence. Blog buddy BCE learned recently that his Mrs. has breast cancer. This is at the tail end of a nightmare year where he had to leave home to try to gain custody of his grandchild out of state against a startlingly corrupt DCS system which meant heroic efforts that affected his mental health and damn near bankrupted him. Guys' a machine, and a good egg to boot, another reformed Masshole like me, too, and his wife getting cancer of the cans is a real fuck you from above, IMO. Now, BCE has reason to be stressed. I feel like a cunt crying that my job is hard lately, waah. I mean, couple of months, I turn 50. We're not kids anymore, Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife and I. The trials of old age are coming, of course they are. I hope i can keep my shit together as well as some of the people I have met when they come. I wonder at it, at me. I hope I conduct myself as well as the people I've met who have real stress to deal with. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-48860475678468609802024-02-01T20:43:00.000-08:002024-02-01T20:43:20.481-08:00Better than expected. <p> I had psyched myself up to come back to work. I had to. I was dreading more of the poop sandwich that was my last tour on the HQ. While I was home the workload stayed steady here, daily alternating between being busy and it still sucked and being really busy and sucking even more. No breakdowns at least, so with the trash oil we're moving from A to B, it was just a matter of embracing the suck that is doing your daily best while everyone hates you because of things that aren't in your control. </p><p> So that is what my partners E and B were up to while I was recovering at home from the last time I was at work. B especially, he got it with both barrels, having spent 331 days of 2023 on board the HQ. Guy wanted to make buckets of money, but the last 4 weeks were hell, and he rode that ride to hell. </p><p><br /></p><p> I came in, B went home. And 4 hours before crew change, for the first time in I think 6 weeks, we went to a lay berth with no cargo orders on the books. </p><p> The last two days have been one of busy days and quiet nights. It's been glorious. I'm on nights. Oh, I'm pitching in, doing chores and updating the books, puttering around the silent decks here on the HQ between dusk and dawn... it's peaceful, and productive. Food for my soul. I really do enjoy being able to work and do worthwhile things with no need to deal with people at all. I enjoy being alone. Truly. And when I do want to be social, I can chat with E, whose a friend, and who is running the show during the day, when engineers are running around with parts and tools, the port captain and port engineer are here punching out things on our punch lists for mechanical and administrative things, and I'm basically left to do fire watch and help as much or as little as I want. </p><p> This is my second watch on board, and it's quiet again tonight. I've got a little list of things I want to do, and somewhere around 0430 Big E will get up and we'll chat about the plan for the day and what got done, what needs to get done, and etc. And tomorrow's Friday, when Dispatch hands out clusterfucks and hate mail, and we'll find out what awfulness they have planned for us. </p><p><br /></p><p> E says we had 2 cargoes a week ago that weren't utter trash, and pumped fairly well. Not from the supplier we've been saddled with lately, but one of the Oil Majors, who we sometimes work for on Spot basis, maybe 2-3 times a month. I hope we get some time away from the bad oil people. But even if we don't, two days free to get maintenance done, supplies received and stowed, and daily being able to stock up on greenstuff for the inevitable return to nonstop work... well, we'll be as ready as we can be now. </p><p> So I dunno. February can still turn into a shit sandwich here on board. But perhaps it won't be a soggy one. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-71721725049220877852024-01-28T11:20:00.000-08:002024-01-28T11:20:05.080-08:00How...timely<p> This morning I was puttering around my garage and yard, doing little projects, when I got one of those weird mood swings we all get and started really seeing things through shit-colored glasses. </p><p> Today was bleach day, one of those twice yearly tasks I do to keep mildew and green slime from building up on vertical structures in FL, like fences and walls and such. Basically I spent 30 minutes bombing sections of my fences that were getting green with algae, and killing the mildew that pops up anywhere moisture might linger on my house, using a 1gal spray pump. It's oddly satisfying and makes everything look shiny and newish, and usually one of those low-effort/high reward tasks. </p><p> So it was a bit of a bummer that suddenly I'm feeling like someone shat in my cornflakes. Sun is shining, it's like 70 degrees, gorgeous day. But a random thought popped in... in 2 days or so I have to be back in fuckin' New York for work... and that was enough to make me feel like really knocking the hats off of strangers, if you get the reference. </p><p> Also, Big Brother Bob (nobody calls him that) gifted me a bottle of Proper 12 whisky, which I am sucking down now like a 2 dollar ho on dollar day. That is some TASY sippin' whisky. </p><p><br /></p><p> But yeah, this morning went from suck to blow after my mood turned. 2-3 years ago I built a surprisingly charming looking 6x8 foot L-shaped step to get in and out of my jacuzzi, which looked like a million bucks for something made out of scrap wood rejects from my Home Depot Pine Pile. And naturally while finishing up my bleaching I discovered the thing is rotting out FAST. Already in a shitty mood, this was a bummer, but with a couple of 2x4 cutoff pieces, a framing square and some 3" screws, I put in some supports that should buy me 6 months before the whole thing collapses on itself. </p><p> But yeah, the mood was cemented in, and suddenly I felt 50 lbs heavier and 10 years older. I still knocked out the tasks I set out to do, but I wasn't the middle-aged honey-do-punch-list machine I was at 0900. </p><p> I swear sometimes I'm fuckin' psychic. That's why I have my other alter ego. In my wife's city in Brazil, I'm Don Paolo, aging fatass foreign playboy married to the city's famous beauty queen of 25 years ago. But at home I'm also Nostradumbass, the predictor of stupid things to come in the future.</p><p> Nostradumbass, as always, was making himself known this morning. Bullshittery was afoot. </p><p> I'm not right at the moment. Something essential and satisfying is missing from my emotional armor after the last trip I took to work. </p><p> That's weird to say. I'm carrying some baggage, not because anyone died or we almost sunk, but because things were tense and we were having a series of bad days, and this concurrent with a series of hard jobs and unsatisfyingly concluded cargo ops... I'm having spiritual ennui, I swear, I hate myself for not laughing it off. That being said, I came home feeling off. Thank fuck, I didn't come home with itchy feet like in the old days, where I'd get the spiritual guidance from God or my guardian angel or my subconscious and blow up my life to get rid of the feeling. So no itchy feet, gracias a dios. Still, I am in an emotionally unarmored position as I heal up from whatever the fuck that was the last month. </p><p> And big E, my awesome partner at work, the 3rd point of the trilateral commission that makes up the best afloat management team I've ever worked with, has a family thing. </p><p> So, yeah, big E's Mrs. is having some day surgery, as things happen, and E asked me to work extra for a week, while I'm recovering from a 10-week marathon that for some reason fucked me up disproportionately. </p><p> The positive? I'm getting a week of overtime to work on my own HQ. Score! I get OT money and don't have to parse out all the weird shit that comes from figuring out other people's ways of running a boat. The negative: Things are fucked. We're still getting sour oil that is playing merry hell with our systems and making us look like assholes, but the folks supplying the oil are paying just fine, so things continue. </p><p> But I do feel quite a bit better. And fatter too, but with 35 days coming up for work, I'll have time to put down the fork and do the necessary. Still, I have 2 days to enjoy before that's an issue. </p><p>Gott focus on the positive. </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-84260877049690915282024-01-21T10:17:00.000-08:002024-01-21T10:17:33.581-08:00Small steps<p> Damn, I think I'm OK now. It took 4 days for me to get over whatever mental and physical baggage I brought with me after the last trip. </p><p><br /></p><p> I've been sleeping 9 hours a night and sleeping really well. That's not like me at all. But I think it's helping. </p><p><br /></p><p> I gained about 20lbs in the 10 weeks I was gone. I credit that from increased stress, decreased sleep, decreased free time, poor weather, and the chase for dopamine where I can find it, which until this past week was only to be found in food. I couldn't even sit down after my watch and read a book without getting a call from a cargo surveyor or the office, and with the quality of sleep being so poor and short at work, that doesn't change that I rarely sleep deeply at work. Part of my mind is always aware of the load on the generators (the noise changes and the ventilation changes pitch just slightly too), the throttle settings on the cargo pumps, and the load on the hydraulics. I'm aware of those things for about 80% of my sleep cycle- not aware enough to be awake, but I can tell you how many times I hear the air compressor kicking on, which causes the turbo on the generator to become audible, and it's about 80% of the number of times it happens. So yeah, 6 hours of that isn't refreshing after a couple of weeks, but it's enough to keep you going. This is the real impact of the problems we've been having lately- hearing the cargo pumps wind up because they've lost suction, or can't get suction at all, and hearing the cargo pumps bog down at high throttle when E or B is trying to blow a snot rocket plug out of the underdeck pipelines or the cargo hoses at 120psi... It's not possible to sleep lightly through that, because it means we have problems that will be my problem when it's my turn to get up. </p><p><br /></p><p> Well, enough whining, I'm not at work. It was chilly here for South FL today. 60 degrees, lol. And the house in Brazil has the first signs of renovations starting to show up- the well was dug to 200 feet and capped with the pump and plumbing set, the window frames are square, the stone wall around the perimeter is starting to go up (at 10 feet it should allow me to sun my giant white ass at leisure should I want to. I mean my mother-in-law will be there but she's blind, so Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife can go full National G if she wants to), and the architect has the plumbing and electrical mapped out for the builder. </p><p><br /></p><p> Have you ever seen those 3rd world header tanks on the roof that people use to store and up the water pressure in their house? </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNimAYmNm3p9TGsfyG2zzhUmKKN0VOUe501FDE4UcUf5HVJ5XVdpyoUHZOxxAbLc6Xo0cuMrfbg-4zDZ8kfqccAxYgnWXTGThAYcbMonBK2dclWNt5eVUUOiKDDD5he_hslkROqPSe1Iaw6T1KHtZ5HDT0XUJuYIjURmbbcnVBI4ZroGdvutIpOF5dc64m/s800/marilia-sao-paulo-brazil-may-view-water-supply-tank-top-roof-house-248016296-913266238%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNimAYmNm3p9TGsfyG2zzhUmKKN0VOUe501FDE4UcUf5HVJ5XVdpyoUHZOxxAbLc6Xo0cuMrfbg-4zDZ8kfqccAxYgnWXTGThAYcbMonBK2dclWNt5eVUUOiKDDD5he_hslkROqPSe1Iaw6T1KHtZ5HDT0XUJuYIjURmbbcnVBI4ZroGdvutIpOF5dc64m/s320/marilia-sao-paulo-brazil-may-view-water-supply-tank-top-roof-house-248016296-913266238%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> These things are everywhere in Brazil- in some areas running water is switched on and off across neighborhoods, or flow only at a few gallons per hour, and people are expected to use their header tank contents to keep the taps running in their house. The neighborhood where we're building is in the "Old City" of the city where we are, and got 24/7 running water a few years ago. Even so, between the well and the city water, we're in good shape for the arid area where we are- think Oklahoma with big rolling hills and ridges. </p><p> Personally I hate the look of these ghetto tanks and they're resorts for vermin, so I had the builder pour a 5,000 gal concrete header tank in the roof of the house. Don Paolo wants to be the posessor of a freshly washed ass on the reg, after all. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> We had 2 of these that looked like dogshit, real jury-rigged looking, </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-73385569083033840582024-01-20T08:56:00.000-08:002024-01-20T08:56:13.628-08:00a little less so now...<p> I'm a couple of days into my time off now, and like pee left too long in the toilet bowl, I'm starting to mellow, if you define mellow as the unpleasant nature of something becoming less so by exposure over time. </p><p> I'm feeling better, and if not particularly motivated yet to hit the honey-do list, I'm catching up on errands, doing taxes and keeping a low profile. Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife has been an angel, very supportive and sympathetic but always relentlessly positive. </p><p><br /></p><p> It's an unusual feeling for me, to feel this blah for so long. Normally, coming home I have to restrain myself I'm so damn excited. </p><p><br /></p><p> On top of work having been about as pleasant as a sack of smashed assholes, the house in Brazil has been a pain in the balls of late. We started the purchase several months ago, but the final sale has been held up by the difficulty made by the US .gov to allow private citizens to move their money overseas. It's 1000X easier to do so illegally or quasi-legally than to do so in 100% compliance with the law. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm one of those people who can't even speed 15 over the limit without getting a ticket- I am lucky in many, many ways, but I can't break a law or even think about breaking a law. I'll be caught at it. Always. If I look at an irrigation sprinkler that looks like it's coming loose, Code Enforcement pulls up the moment I think about picking up a shovel. </p><p> So, yeah, it's been a ballbuster to get money wired. On the Brazilian side, buying a house that was part of an estate creates a layer of legal folderol that means judges, lawyers and probate courts are involved. None of which is a real problem, just annoying AF. On the upside, since the sale is final, I don't have to report being a foreign property owner to the IRS for last year's taxes. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm thinking things have turned a corner and are starting to lighten up and my present shitty mood is a hangover effect. </p><p> On the upside, I'm learning a lot. And eventually I'll get myself a big white pimp hat and a guayabera and a cigar and make everyone call me 'Don Paolo' when I'm in residence at the casa. </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-60436760893635696412024-01-18T11:16:00.000-08:002024-01-18T11:16:56.091-08:00That's enough now. <p> I was home less than 12 hours before I got a text asking me to come back. </p><p><br /></p><p> I said no. </p><p><br /></p><p> I did 10 weeks. It's funny, 10 weeks is a short tour on a ship. But ships by their nature travel long distances, whereas a bunker barge does not. If I were working the ports of Philly and Baltimore, jobs are anywhere from 3 to 9 hours away from the loading dock. In New York? 30-40 mins. The loading terminals are almost all in Bayonne NJ, which is a 30 minute sail from NY harbor, and a 30 min sail the other way to Elizabeth NJ, where the majority of the container terminals are for NY/NJ. </p><p><br /></p><p> 10 days ago we got the first real winter storm. In the past 10 days, we had ONE nice day, which I define as light winds and a sight of the sun at home point. Other than that, it's been blowing gales every other day and just plain windy in the days in between, along with rain, frozen rain, sleet, snow and Monday night, an ice storm. </p><p> Monday night I wiped out on deck, and almost fell and caught myself another dozen times or so. Tuesday, more of the same but much much worse. The ice was heavy enough and mirror smooth to boot, thick enough to gloss over the nonskid on our decks. The present HQ has a LOT of obstructions on deck (large pipelines that are thigh high to be stepped over, small pipelines and conduit, 8 inches high, that must be walked on to be passed over, and valves, ports, hatches, etc. Plus the 4 100' cargo hoses on each side of the manifold, the pipeline junction where the hoses connect to the barge's piping. And our two 60' cargo cranes sadly have trip hazards in the control area as you rotate the crane. </p><p> I was coming apart on my last watch. It was one of those nights where nothing worked right. Even though we heat the coffin-sized fluid sump for our hydraulics, hundreds of feet of hydraulic piping full of cold hydraulic fluid on deck make the hydraulic-powered equipment SLOW and unbelievably loud to operate until the warm fluid reaches the equipment. So if you're using the anchor capstan on the bow, the sound level in the bunkroom is about what you'd hear from a chainsaw 50 feet away... for the first 45 seconds or so. It's NOT a pleasant way to wake up. </p><p> So the cargo cranes were barely moving, the capstans for mooring lines were barely moving, and I was constantly slipping and catching myself, which feels just AWESOME after a couple of hours, let me tell you. </p><p> Oh, and the oil supplier we have been using, in a fit of unbelievable genius, thought it a real bargain to buy bunker oil that was formulated for a tropical zone. The pour point (the temperature at which the oil will turn solid was SEVENTY frigging degrees, whereas it should be 20 degrees or less. So we've been having oil turn solid in our pipelines and hoses, needing to be blown out under high pressure using our cargo pumps... and by high pressure I mean higher than the maximum safe working pressure for the cargo system. </p><p> Imagine blowing out a snot rocket in your sinuses using an air compressor vs your own lungs. Same same. And even then, we've on several occasions been unable to get this oil to pump at all. As of yesterday when I left, this was still to be addressed. </p><p> I came home sore, and deeply deeply dispirited. It's brutal on my psyche, having to fight to do my job at every point, where nothing goes smoothly, the equipment is strained, everyone's stressed, the receiver of the oil is deeply unhappy because it's trash and we're risking blowing out their piping too, and they're perfectly happy to let me know that they're blaming me. And my company, while sympathetic, feels no particular urge to do anything, as this is just business, just some crappy oil that will eventually run out, and when we do fail to carry out a transfer, they just send us back to the same terminal to load MORE of the oil and hope that next time the pumps catch prime. Oh, and if we do cross the magic number of PSI in the process of trial-and-error to get a stuck pipeline stuck, if I rev the pump up and it jumps, say 5 PSI higher than I thought it would (there being no fine control, I'm revving a diesel engine using a not-very-sensitive twist throttle) and I do cause any sort of unanticipated consequences, whether it's on my deck or someone else's, the blame falls on ME. Oh, my company too, would get some flack, since they're the ones who keep deciding to accept this trash oil, knowing what could happen, but I'm the stupid bastard who puts his signature on the Declaration before starting a transfer. The company has already told me not to exceed a certain PSI. Think of trying to get to 4,000rpm on your car, knowing that at 3,900 it won't move, but at 4010 it will blow the engine. Step one, post-incident is to find a convenient bus to throw me under. </p><p> Thing is, we're burning out. I'm burning out. I'm coming home after 10 weeks with my mood at a very low low, and still ebbing. Anyone can have a bad day. Having a bad 2 weeks, with bad weather, and a lot of aches and pains related to that AND no prospect of things improving. </p><p> My mom was right. I should have just been a fuckin pimp. </p><p><br /></p><p> Anyhow, I'm home, everything hurts, everything sucks except for everything related to me being in my house with my family, which is awesome. I hope to enjoy it more by not being such a wet ass blanket today. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-13912701645584479662024-01-10T15:45:00.000-08:002024-01-10T15:45:18.301-08:00Still here! <p> Week 10 began with a roar. We're having nasty gales here, and it's been flat-out busy AF here on the HQ. Nonstop for about 2 weeks. Not much fun at all. Nothing has been going according to plan, because the plans keep changing... but we're chugging through it. </p><p><br /></p><p> Honestly, it's been a tough couple of months. Getting older means daily pain. Getting wiser, I hope, along with older means sometimes having to do less when I want to do more. I can still bull through the work just fine, in terms of safely being able to climb into bed at the end of the watch... but sustainable working, long term means that where I might have used brute strength to complete difficult tasks 5 years ago, today I need to NOT bull through onerous tasks and use technique a little more than brute force. </p><p><br /></p><p> Really, this has been the first time I have voluntarily limited myself at work in this way, doing so because it's smart, not because it's necessary. I'm still thinking about what that means. </p><p><br /></p><p> Yesterday was the capper to this marathon. Finally something blessedly broke enough to require repair by an engineer, and we got a free day today. Two weeks of nonstop work meant we were going to bed sore every night and there wasn't much time for anything but the grind. The last job was exactly what was expected- nothing went right, and we were in an area with miles and miles of fetch when the wind started blowing... which it did. From 5-10 knots to 40+ by the time we were done with the job, which was by far the most conflict-ridden bunker job I've done in 5 years. I no longer scream and fuss as I once did when being lied to or mistreated by the other ship's crew, but I sure wanted to. And the delays caused by the other ship being staffed by a passel of human trashbags, we got caught out in the weather and got our asses handed to us when we should have been moored in a safe place. </p><p><br /></p><p> Funny thing, though, when the job was done and we sailed, and it's blowing like a mad bastard, shit flying on deck, the light rain hitting us in the face so bad it <i>hurt</i>, and us corkscrewing more than we have in a long while beating into the weather... I felt GOOD. I felt like a sailor again. It's been a long frigging while since I felt the living sea lift us up like a dog with a bone. <i>And I fuckin' liked it. </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-90467116457962623902023-12-30T08:17:00.000-08:002023-12-30T08:17:34.396-08:00Hu's on first?<p> I had one of those moments this morning where I stopped what I was doing and looked at the crew on deck of the ship opposite me, and said out loud (to myself) "Are these guys fucking with me?"</p><p><br /></p><p> It was a legitimate question. We had finished transferring a small parcel of ULSFO, (ultra low sulfur heavy fuel oil, a clean burning heavy oil) to a ship with a Chinese (I think) deck gang. There was a Filipino engineer with great English, but the deck gang was... well, they sure were trying to speak to me in English, that's for sure. Points for that. But the poor guys... they weren't there yet.</p><p> And yeah, unless someone speaks to me in English or Portagee, I'm just as lost as can be. I'm not poking fun. </p><p> We finished transferring the oil and I had passed over the documents for the transfer, so I was waiting for them to sign for the fuel and start disconnecting my cargo hose.... and waiting... and waiting. </p><p> After 45 mins I called on the radio, and asked for the papers. "Yis papiz my fren', yis yis. Beedee enn. (BDN is the Bunker Delivery Note, the chain of custody document/bill of sale). I take this to mean they're still working on it or he has them ready, so I hang out on deck and wait.... and wait. </p><p> Call again on the radio, and it's the same thing.... and I get this feeling... either there's a communication gap or this guy's asking me for the papers I already gave him. So I remind him that I gave him the papers an hour ago. "Ok Ok. I send for you give me papers now." </p><p><br /></p><p> This went on for a couple of back and forths, but the poor guys were trying like hell to work with limited English and didn't know the words to tell me that they didn't know I had already given someone the paper work. </p><p><br /></p><p> And truth be told, I couldn't say who I gave the papers to. I won't say that all the crew looks alike, but rather that I didn't notice what any of them looked like. So I asked for the engineer. </p><p><br /></p><p> I can understand Tagalog-flavored English. Most Filipinos speak very decent English, and even when they don't I have enough experience to parse it out and the accent doesn't interfere. So finally we figure out that somehow they lost my papers and it'll be faster for me to reprint them than to continue searching. </p><p> Thing is, younger me would have been yelling and making drama. Me of today, with a chronic shortage of shits to give, shrugged it off and we got things done in short order... and truth be told, when I was running our deck crane to retrieve the cargo hose from their ship, they were grinning about the language barrier too and waving and so I think they got the humor in all of it. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-6054480284946115662023-12-22T19:36:00.000-08:002023-12-22T19:36:12.755-08:00Hey, who shat in the Santa Hat? <p> With Christmas coming up on Monday, The gods of the Office (Long may they manage; long may they shit light on the heads of the damned) headed home early today, leaving us with a tentative schedule of cargo ops for the next 4 days. It's a mixed bag. On the one hand, I'm free tonight, which is nice. OTOH, it looks like Christmas day will be a pisser, and busy.</p><p> So it goes. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm generally late to pull my santa hat out of the bottom of my locker, where it is located for storage along with pocket change, balled up store receipts, one sock from 2012, 4-6 Qtips of questionable provenance and 3-4 unwrapped Jolly Ranchers. Tomorrow's the day. Good day for a lint- crusted Jolly Rancher too. </p><p><br /></p><p> I'm late to pull out my Santa hat because 1), it's just a little too small, and therefore slightly uncomfortable and 2) I remember one boat at Christmas when someone shit in the santa hat and left it on the icemaker. </p><p><br /></p><p> Seriously, every sailor, and even the sailors of the US navy who can't navigate from A to B without doing an elephant walk and following the one guy in the fleet who can read a chart, in the course of a long enough career, has had to deal with a Phantom Shitter aboard. </p><p> Well, my experience came with, along with an unlikeable mate's coffee cup, someone crapping in a santa hat. </p><p> Even though I know it's not going to happen, I still don't leave my santa hat out where someone can mistake it for a polling station when they go and Vote Someone Aff The Island with their ass. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-75671857585820192712023-12-22T00:56:00.000-08:002023-12-22T00:56:38.738-08:00Return to the HQ<p> Well, my trip spent working over (meaning working during my scheduled time off) is now over, and I got the <strike>Barbie Dream home</strike> babysitting gig that I have been asking for, finally. Occasionally as needs must, opportunities come up for afloat staff to act in more of a caretaker role aboard tugs and barges, rather than a crewing role... oh, we're still crew, mind, but compared to, say, a mellow day on a bunker barge, a babysitting day means rest, time off, and work generally consists of Fire Watch (Am I on fire? No? Fire watch continues. and cooking and having idle time. </p><p> So, I have babysitting gig PTSD. My company likes to offer be babysitting positions from time to time, then anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 days after I get aboard, woops, change in plans, you're going somewhere miserable and you'll be working with so-and-so, who is a super nice guy who screams himself to sleep and has bedbugs. Yeah, I've been Charlie Fucking Brown and my company's dispatcher has been Lucy with the football a few times. Fool me 8 times, shame on you, fool me 9, etc etc. </p><p><br /></p><p> Well, I got my 2 weeks of babysitting. And it was grand. There was daily chores to be done, and something broke, every single day, and most of the tools were stolen off of there while the barge was sitting idle for a few months this past summer, so fixing the broke stuff required fabricobbling things and using tools wrong because I had to make do with what I had. I'm actually pretty good at ghetto fixes, you know, redneck engineering, so that's OK. </p><p><br /></p><p> The other night we had hard gales hit the northeast, and while flooding don't mean shit while you're on a boat, the wind gusting past 70 sure as hell does. Luckily we were sitting in a flooded drydock with lines out on both sides like a spider sitting in the middle of a web. </p><p>...and that's how it is in the US coastal northeast from New York to the Canadian maritimes. One day in mid-November, the wind starts to blow, and after that it doesn't stop until frigging May. </p><p><br /></p><p> I made it back to the HQ on Wednesday, and with the holidays here and so many crew positions unfilled and not being supplemented by guys working overtime (it's Christmas, nobody wants the overtime work and instead wants to be at home), we're very busy- I had to wait until Friday at 3am to sit down finally, with the current 3 hour block of free time I have tonight. </p><p><br /></p><p> Anyhow, it's good to be back on the HQ. Babysitting was awesome, without a doubt, but the HQ is home, and I feel better here. The noises are annoying, not strange at all, which is the opposite to the babysitting barge I was on, which had a nice water hammer effect going on in the heads, causing a gunshot-like sound everytime someone flushed the toilet. There was no peeing over the side, either, as there was an office building with a LOT of windows looking down on us, and I don't want to deal with the paparazzi while I'm trying to fill the ocean back up. </p><p><br /></p><p> I bought a whole chicken for Christmas. I made turkey for Thanksgiving, so Christmas dinner we're just roasting a chicken and making good fixins. From the look of things we have a cargo set up for the day that will keep us focused on work. </p><p><br /></p><p> This is week 7 for me. I'm getting too old for staying away from home this long, lol. It's not as easy as it once was. </p><p> Still, it's fine and good to be back on my home away from home. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-71107609111389617912023-12-14T07:22:00.000-08:002023-12-14T07:22:53.869-08:00Still here<p> Well, I'm still at work. I got off the HQ last week, loaded up on groceries and headed for the Brooklyn Navy Yard to my 2 week babysitting assignment. So far so good one week in! </p><p><br /></p><p> So, NY city has multiple power plants, no surprise there, it's a massive city and has grown organically over time, so there are a mix of old, new, and old-as-fuck powerplants all over the city, all of varying sizes and all using various fuel sources as well. I believe all the coal-fired plants were converted to Heavy Fuel Oil some years back, so there's heavy fuel, natural gas and or gasoil (diesel) for fuel. Of the powerplants, there are main plants, cogeneration plants (that make both electricity and heat, usually as steam), and peak plants too, that run only when electrical demand is high, like during heat waves and the dead of winter when temps are in the single digits. </p><p> So my babysitting gig is basically me being a caretaker of a barge that is being used as floating storage next to a couple of very large shore tanks, and topping up the tanks as they are drained down. It's the opposite of bunkering, where we're always on the move, and half the time we go to bed not knowing what the next day might hold for us. In my case, every morning I check in with the powerplant's control room to check our comms, and he'll give me the skinny on anything coming in the day that might affect my barge. </p><p> It's all so professional and controlled and managed. Unchaotic. I should be in tankerman heaven here, with a predictable schedule and lower-than-normal workload. </p><p> And I am, more or less. Except that I'm still dealing with fallout from home, with the construction on the new house being at a standstill because while Bank of America was retarded about me getting house-building money out of the US, my local Brazilian bank is even worse in terms of bureaucracy. So my wife has been very patient, except when she is not, at which point she becomes hell on wheels. So that's where things stand there. </p><p> Trying to stay positive, I'll just say that I'm grateful I have the time during the day to spend about 90 minutes on the phone EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY emailing and talking and forwarding attached documents and practicing my swearing in Portagee. </p><p><br /></p><p> Ah well. At least the workload is light. Other than a snapped serpentine belt on one of the generators here, things have been pleasantly predictable. If I could keep my eyes and my mind in the boat, it sure would be a nice tour here at work. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-58709472028028747452023-12-03T18:06:00.000-08:002023-12-03T18:06:44.915-08:00Damn, I just end up with 3rd worlders with B.O. next to me. <p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; font-family: graphik, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 34px; letter-spacing: -0.01em; line-height: 40px; margin: 0px 0px 4px; min-height: 1px; padding: 0px;">Female air passenger 'who forcibly performed oral sex on man sitting next to her before he "stopped resisting'' is escorted off jet to cheers from fellow travellers after flight lands in Moscow</h1><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-12800587/Female-air-passenger-performed-violent-oral-sex-man-sitting-stopped-resisting-escorted-jet-cheers-fellow-travellers-flight-lands-Moscow.html">https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-12800587/Female-air-passenger-performed-violent-oral-sex-man-sitting-stopped-resisting-escorted-jet-cheers-fellow-travellers-flight-lands-Moscow.html</a><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> What the hell, man? I always end up with either an elderly Hasidic gentleman with the hot farts or some stinky foreigner making me gag for 3 hours because deodorant is Colonialism or some such excuse. </p><p><br /></p><p> Some bohunk dingleberry just flying from A to B gets a hummer from a crazy blonde stranger (and we all know mentally ill women give the best blowjobs. Sorry not sorry), and I get either someone with BO issues or a person taking up the middle seat whose tailor is Omar The Tentmaker. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihl4AF11ESA8Jl2m_MXYYs0dEQx5WduK1-HspKq3osXq9BQ4kS0ikCnnou8PHEwUupjU2IahsXEQwojW2KO6kGWbjDqh8lMJrGi3wK6SKqdm8XdNUOFZg4TEX5G90DluxPjc9Sn3CocgUwxJPC3SDFMJSW5cApPN4WBu-WxOiqwyGoG5G4gJDymKT3bOSH/s500/stewie-i-hate-this-place.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="500" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihl4AF11ESA8Jl2m_MXYYs0dEQx5WduK1-HspKq3osXq9BQ4kS0ikCnnou8PHEwUupjU2IahsXEQwojW2KO6kGWbjDqh8lMJrGi3wK6SKqdm8XdNUOFZg4TEX5G90DluxPjc9Sn3CocgUwxJPC3SDFMJSW5cApPN4WBu-WxOiqwyGoG5G4gJDymKT3bOSH/s320/stewie-i-hate-this-place.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-57965681231117856272023-12-03T15:33:00.000-08:002023-12-03T15:33:06.623-08:00Lucy and the Football<p><br /></p><p> So with the new house in Brazil looking distinctly like a present day home on the Gaza strip after a vigorous JDAM-powered renovation, and in need of attention in the form of money, I am planning on staying at work rather than going home in a few days. I have secured promises of a good fill-in position to keep the coffers coffed. I am learning much about the Brazilian economy. It cost me more to buy nice matching doorknobs for all the doors than it did for the beautiful exotic hardwood to build the doors themselves. That's another thing. It's cheaper to build a custom real wooden door than to buy a vinyl, metal and plastic McDoor like we do in the US. I have no idea what the final look of my house will be, but I can tell you it's gonna have some right fancy doors. And a disco ball and lava lamp, which I just remembered I always wanted since I was 7.</p><p><br /></p><p> So, yeah, long story short, since I was just gonna be home for early-mid december and back here well before Christmas, I am just going to stay, I think, and get the OT. My wife AND my kid are both working Christmas this year. I'd likely drink a glass of hemlock if I sat in the living room alone on Christmas day. </p><p> The last few months have been really busy and on the high side, stress-wise at work. The only reason I AM planning to work over is that I have a good spot lined up. Thing is, my particular fleet manning coordinator has to play whac-a-mole to fill the constant manning gaps we have had for the past few years. </p><p> I have NEVER had a prime overtime position that I was able to keep for more than 2-3 days. Always, always, always, my company will call, apologize and transfer me onto some spot that is something far worse than where I was promised to be assigned. I know that this is not maliciously done, just an unfortunate confluence of need on their part and experience on mine. </p><p> Thing is, as I age, and as my daily work stress and job satisfaction waxes and wanes, it affects me more, and my tolerance for Taking One For the Team becomes a matter of trying to remember if there has ever been a time that the Team has ever Taken One for Me. </p><p> Well, that's pessimistic. I am overdue for a satisfactory OT gig. This could be my time. And if it's not? Well, same-day flights to my local airport are a thing. Being big and in the middle seat isn't THAT bad for me. It's hell for the folks on either side of me, granted, but I Take One For The Team almost every time I fly in that respect, whether I'm in the aisle or the window seat. It can be someone else's turn to spend 3 hours with a numb arm. </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-89874101142251143272023-11-25T11:31:00.000-08:002023-11-25T11:31:08.777-08:00dinner with a side of bribery<p> Well, Thanksgiving day was a shit show but it worked out in the end here on the floating prison that I call my workplace. We had all the signs of a rare day off on a holiday, a double win, only to have a nasty phone call come in late at night with orders to sail immediately for a load. </p><p> I was asleep, visions of Thanksgiving dinner, which it was my turn to cool, dancing in my head. We had been given a few hours to go shopping and load up on supplies the week before, so I actually had all the things we needed. So yeah, I went to bed feeling good about the next day, and woke up when a tug bumped us and I heard an engine light off and the hydraulics kick on. Fuuuuuuucccccckkkk. </p><p> BUT, it was a small, single product job. Just one grade of oil to load, straightforward, and I finished the job by 2pm and started cooking. I bought a turkey sans wings and legs, so it only took 2 hours to cook, and we ate really, really well. </p><p><br /></p><p> Good thing, too, because when dinner was over, the phone calls started. </p><p> So we've bought a wreck of a home in my wife's birth city in Brazil. Not being wealthy or connected, the US is VERY reluctant to allow ordinary douchebags like me to transfer a large sum of money overseas. Worse, I'm buying a home from an estate- the owner died 10 years ago, and is son and heir is selling it to me, but the son is poor like everyone, and can't afford the legal process to bring the house out of probate- hence the deal I got. I'm paying for that out of the cost of the house. The realtor who is making the deal is the owner's cousin, who also grew up in the home, who is also a childhood friend of my wife, who grew up next door to this house. </p><p> So the first time I tried to wire the money to Brazil, Bank of America queered the deal by doing some seriously sketchy shit. I have not had good luck with B of A. They are assholes. But they're assholes who are conveniently located in almost every coastal city and town in the US. So, yeah, B of A hires a 3rd party company to handle the wire transfer. Why? Because BofA says they'll send the money in reals, the local currency, so I have an American company handling the currency exchange. Presumably opportunity for graft, which Brazil lives and dies for... But the 3rd party tells the receiving bank in Brazil they want 0.5% of the money as a fee for the transfer BEFORE the bank even hands it to me. Now I already paid B of A's fee. The Bank in Brazil, being a bunch of like-minded ball-washing bastards, knows that American banks are a colossal pain in the balls and while reliable, awful to deal with, so they're already kinda pissed off. And they tell the 3rd party company to pound sand. </p><p> It takes 2 weeks to recall an unclaimed wire transfer internationally. B of A actually assigns a person to run down the money. And to their credit, B of A got my money back in 13 days, every penny. </p><p> So we resend the money, in US dollars this time. The bank in Brazil will give us the exchange rates, which means we figure we're going to lose a couple thousand bucks compared to the real exchange rate of the day. BUT, the bank is already spooked by B of A. They're so bad to deal with, and the US government is so intrusive when it comes to tracking ordinary citizens, that they want the real estate transfer papers BEFORE they'll release the money to the realtor. They figure that B of A is going to accuse them of money laundering if they don't have a paper trail as long as my crank. And the worst part for me is that I KNOW, in my heart of hearts, that the local bank just wants my to slide them a couple hundred beans their way to make the problems go away. That's how Brazil works. Graft is predictable there. They'll even be super polite doing it. The IRS's onerous total control over US citizens is so pervasive that the rest of the world finds interacting with them on our behalf as a form of punishment. The manager gets no bribe, and the home purchase is held up yet again. </p><p><br /></p><p> You know, it would have been easier to get the money in the realtor's hands illegally or quasi-legally. Withdraw the money from my bank over the course of a few weeks, and give it to my wife's friends to remit to the realtor's account a few grand at a time using the cash transfer systems set up by the Indians to funnel money out of the US for illegal aliens to send money home. .Western Union, Remitly, Xoom, Zelle, Cashapp, Easy. Nothing to it. But my idiot ass has to want to do it the right way and generate a paper trail for legal purposes so it doesn't appear sketchy, and I mistrust the financial system in Brazil at the moment because it is controlled by socialists who HATE America right now. </p><p> This better be worth it. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-73518203232223648732023-11-22T12:22:00.000-08:002023-11-23T13:44:54.073-08:00sun shines on a dog's ass some days<p> Well, howdee-do, I think we got Thanksgiving off! </p><p><br /></p><p> This is a breath of fresh air. It's been right steady work-wise this tour. Plus the prospect of not going home at the end of it, for like a dog to its' vomit, so this fool has returned to his folly (of asking for and receiving overtime work), so with about 55 days of work to go before I breathe the free air, it's hard to get excited about much... but... tomorrow's a holiday, and my ass may be able to stay tied up at a lay berth and cook an honest meal. </p><p> This morning Big E, one of the kings of overtime this year, is going home for his full 2 weeks off, and has committed to not working over as much in 2024. I hope he does. I spent the last several years doing minimal overtime, and it was wonderful. </p><p> With Big E headed home, B came aboard at oh-dark-thirty, just before 0500 this morning. We had a small gale hitting us last night, so B and I caught up while waiting for the stores to open and the rain to stop, and just after 7 we went ashore and got the last of the Thanksgiving fixin's purchased. We also had a chance to get breakfast at Junior's, the famous Brooklyn diner that lays claim to inventing the modern cheesecake. This is the first time in I can't remember how long, maybe a year? since we had time to sit down and eat a meal while ashore. </p><p><br /></p><p> My job has gotten a LOT less fun in the past 3 years. I don't believe I could do this work any longer if I didn't have B or E working with me. Too much stress, too much negativity, not enough quality of life while at work... but when carried out with a friend, or even better in my case, with two good friends, the work becomes tolerable, and nothing makes a shitty day better than sharing it. So that helps. </p><p><br /></p><p> But I didn't come here (entirely) to bitch and moan. It's thanksgiving and I have a LOT to be grateful for. Sure, my job satisfaction isn't among them, but having the damn job is. </p><p><br /></p><p> The house in Brazil is coming along, but slowly. There's a lot of demo happening, which is a tad depressing to look at, as the house looked ROUGH before they started fucking it up even worse. But still, one step at a time, I guess. </p><p> Happy Thanksgiving everyone. </p><p>EDIT: Yeah, at midnight we got a call. Tugs dispatched to help us out of the berth, time to go to work after all. There was a breakdown on one of our barges, and we got the nod to pinch hit, On the upside, it was straightforward, and we were done by 1300 today, so I got to cook and we did get to eat a hot dinner. Could have been worse. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-73588484395176768152023-11-20T10:10:00.000-08:002023-11-20T10:10:11.293-08:00nothing much to report<p> The days are running together- I've been here about 2 weeks, but it's hard to tell the difference between one day and the next. There's plenty of work, some off time here and there, too, but not much. </p><p><br /></p><p> The weather is turning colder, and while I'm not seeing the massive backlog of container ships bringing all the cheap Chinese crap for Christmas, I am seeing a LOT of tanker traffic, and I'm doling out small parcels of fuel for these ships almost every day. Weird. </p><p><br /></p><p> Not much inspiration happening at the moment. Thanksgiving is Thursday, and we'll cook well here on the HQ, small as it may be. </p><p><br /></p><p>Also, whoever said air fryer french fries are just as good as the real thing can eat a dick. Ruined a perfectly good russet spud. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-20616331833503943892023-11-08T20:03:00.004-08:002023-11-08T20:03:47.691-08:00Back to itI had an amazing two weeks at home. I spent the first week with Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife in Ashe County, NC, where we rented a remote isolated cabin and spent a few days just enjoying each other's company and wandering around. The second week was more routine at home, but full of good times. <div><br /></div><div>But back at it today, and on arrival, before I was even out of my street clothes, I was climbing over a dead generator. Serpentine belt let go. Replacing it is annoying, but not difficult. It's one of those things where I have to remove parts in order to get at certain nuts to remove other parts. Engineering like that makes me weep, as I am neither a confident nor knowledgeable mechanic, so tearing apart half of the radiator in order to remove one section of safety shroud has me clenching fabric and chewing a hole in my underwear with my butthole. </div><div> And worse when I discovered that the replacement belt is the wrong size. We went from some NAPA clone belt to what looks like a Chinesium grade belt, so I couldn't match part numbers anyhow, but as we have only one type of serpentine belt for our gensets, I thought it was a correct replacement. </div><div><br /></div><div> Anyhow, turns out, we don't have the right belt. And now I need new jeans because I am institutionally unable to not get covered in shit or grease when there is shit or grease within eyesight. </div><div><br /></div><div> Ah well. Welcome back, and here's an extra set of work pants for the month. </div><div><br /></div>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-56606073976374481172023-10-24T14:17:00.002-07:002023-10-24T14:17:55.953-07:00Home tomorrow, and a new phase begins<p> Well, tomorrow is another trip done. I'm going home, briefly. Months ago, I booked a long weekend trip in the Blue Ridge mountains, and so we're packing the car as soon as I get home and headed out Thursday morning. </p><p> It's been a minute since I did a road trip with Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife, who is a good travel companion, once we get out of south Florida, anyhow. She is an absolute pill when it comes to highway driving close to home for some reason, but once we're a bit out of town she settles right down. </p><p><br /></p><p> I don't plan on being home for the holidays this year. It's my year to work Thanksgiving, Christmas AND New Year's day, anyhow, and this year we've been in the final stages of a BIG project that has been in the works for about 3 years, and finally got enough of our ducks in a row to pull the trigger. </p><p><br /></p><p> I bought us, I suppose I should say WE bought us, a house in Brazil. Closing is next week. </p><p><br /></p><p> I bought a house in Brazil about 8-10 years ago, a tiny little place for my mother-in-law. I paid for it and put it in her name, so technically we don't own property in Brazil yet. The old house itself is too small for anyone but her and her maid/caregiver, my MIL being blind as a bat. It's also across town from the rest of the massive giant family, which makes visiting happen less frequently than it should. </p><p> </p><p> So, yeah, my pasty fat ass is going International. </p><p><br /></p><p> The new house is in a city named Vitoria Da Conquista,(Victory of the Conquest, because conquistadores were badass mofos) in the state of Bahia. It sits on the leeward side of a ridge on a plain, giving part of the city a gradual slope with ravines cut in it from a few streams and rivers. It's arid land, very temperate- when I was there in August, it was winter, and temps were about 60 at night and 70 in the day, while summer sees temps that usually max out in the low 80's because of the altitude. </p><p><br /></p><p> Yeah, I am not a city person. I hate urban areas, and yet I will now have about half an acre in an established urban area. And me, a guy who likes water and green things, am in an area that is about as dry as Oklahoma. It's NOT a pretty city. It has its parts, of course, as it's an old city built on the crossroads connecting the <i>fazendas, </i>the massive farms with hereditary family workers, as well as coffee plantations, and the port of Salvador, the nearest seaport with intermodal cargo transportation about 300 miles away. </p><p><br /></p><p> The house and property? It's pretty gross right now. It was a family home for ages, but the family moved to Sao Paolo, and the property has been vacant for a decade or more. The house is a 3 bedroom, 2 bath behind a gate and a facade facing the street, which is a quiet neighborhood, in Brazilian terms, anyhow. It's 70's tile everywhere, with a laundry shed and 2 additional bedrooms detached in the yard. </p><p> Being an arid and temperate area, there's a lot of outdoor living, which appeals to me, as do the massive walls that surround the property, which, while ugly at the moment, will give great privacy and potential to use the large yard as I damn well see fit. Thank God labor is cheap there, because there is a lot of it, and while I don't relish not being there to do much of it, I'll have to trust the architect and construction company who will do the work, which will be done in steps- first to made the house adequate and cozy and neat so I can move my mother-in-law in and sell off her house, second to landscape in preparation for major upgrades, including putting in irrigation and a pool, and third to build a masive open outdoor kitchen, living room and cabana with 2 really nice bedrooms over it, on the far side of the house, which will be for our use when we're in town.</p><p> If I survive to retirement, I will snowbird it and live in Brazil for a few months a year. Since Brazilian banks don't want to get involved with Americans right now, the current leftist shitstains in both the US AND Brazil in power being dicks, paying cash for everything is a hellacious burden, but OTOH, no big monthly bills. </p><p><br /></p><p> But OMG what a dump it is at the moment. I'm being ordered to view it as a canvas, a velvet Elvis, ready to be overcoated and redone to our taste. I've got the Mrs on it so I don't need to worry we'll trade velvet elvis for dogs playing poker, at least. She does have good taste. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Owner is a childhood friend of Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife. </p><p><br /></p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2527913791294258201.post-72367694441919168022023-10-13T07:32:00.000-07:002023-10-13T07:32:05.184-07:00It's quiet<p> I hate this. </p><p><br /></p><p> The past two weeks has alternated between Busy and Goddam Busy. Lots of cargo coming in and out of NY. It's the ramp up to the holidays, where things that aren't part of the Just In Time logistics chain are getting warehoused, plus the usual daily economy of the busiest cargo port in the US. </p><p> I'm aware of what's going on in the world, more or less. Although I've been away from blue water sailoring for 15 years now, I still like to be semi-disconnected from the broken hearted world we live in, and I still very much enjoy letting my world shrink down. I get all the socializing I need from my coworkers and shipmates, and a daily phone call with Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife. But I have Instagram to look at boats and boobs, which is about all the internet is good for, and some daily news does leak in between the cracks. </p><p><br /></p><p> But yeah, busy. We're doing a lot of small oil parcel moves between storage terminals and ships, just gassing them up and off they go. </p><p> Gimme half a million of the regular and a pack of Marlboros will ya? </p><p> With all these rinky-dink parcels, ships taking 500, 1000 tons of fuel oil at a time, and 100-200 tons of diesel to keep their lights on on top of that, we're not filling anywhere near all our tanks, and then with with the supersize China-bound container ships, they're taking 6000 tons at a time, which is clogging up the storage terminal docks... and the storage terminals are being reduced in number, as the Biden Admin and the Watermelons at the EPA (green on the outside, red on the inside) makes it impossible for small oil companies to survive by pressuring banks to refuse to lend to companies not favored by Green Inc. </p><p><br /></p><p> So, yeah, lots of scrambling, lots of phone calls to hurry up. </p><p> I lost both of my generators on board over the weekend. We only have the two. One threw an idler pulley on the serpentine belt- the spring-loaded pulley that controls tension on the belt so it doesn't slip. So that beltless genset went down, and the other generator fired right up, and then promptly died 30 seconds later. Injector pump died. I cannibalized the deadlined gen with no fuel pump, and got a working idler pulley in place on the overheated gen, then proceeded to burn my balls off (and hands,but I mean who gives a shit about hands, my balls were baking from having to lean on the engine block to get at the belt and pulleys). reinstalling everything. </p><p> It was concerning. I mean, I like my balls. Granted, I'll be 50 in a few months, and not planning on having more kids, so they're mostly just decorative at this point, but still... I want to keep the aesthetic I have going on down there. I'm fond of it. </p><p> All this while a small chemical tanker was pretty upset that they had to wait while I sorted this out. My gens don't power our oil pumps or hydraulics, which are run off of other, larger dedicated diesel engines, but they do power the alarm system, computers and the printers that make all that lovely paperwork that the .gov and the accounting department just loves; it can't happen otherwise. I got us online, got the job done and onto the next only 1 hour late. Which prompted a couple of phone calls and a few of those "This fuckin' guy" whispers from me, with the phone held to the chest instead of against the head. We've all done it. </p><p> So, finally, today I am free. We burnt the midnight oil yesterday doing all the things that were being delayed- taking on supplies, filling the water tanks, getting trash off and food on, swapping out the dead injector pump and getting the offline gen online, etc. We even took delivery of a bunch of new mooring lines. some of the old ones were getting frayed and just shedding everywhere, like a Portuguese girl in the spring. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLCDwl7e8_xaXydUauKpH8W4aZ-QrTGKkNeLDiuWeSGibJhEFP0qzd2AXFCsWy8kB9Gz8zeIuD_4cibaIrZAeLAAxFCcapBsezwkYmTjcy3f3y3KY3jkbKwenhRQhN9SiUcEq_-Gy2v9DXdVoMQ7XUmNnaE5tubz23SvBdEVKY6SOjkKclF7AynJe1XXD/s4000/t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLCDwl7e8_xaXydUauKpH8W4aZ-QrTGKkNeLDiuWeSGibJhEFP0qzd2AXFCsWy8kB9Gz8zeIuD_4cibaIrZAeLAAxFCcapBsezwkYmTjcy3f3y3KY3jkbKwenhRQhN9SiUcEq_-Gy2v9DXdVoMQ7XUmNnaE5tubz23SvBdEVKY6SOjkKclF7AynJe1XXD/s320/t.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manhattan, dead ahead. Statue of Liberty is about 2 points off the port bow</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> And today everyone's pretty keyed up. And dammit, that includes me. Apparently every single NY cop has to be at work and in uniform today, because some shitbird is making threats against Christiandom again and it's enough that NY is taking it seriously. Although I'm at anchor about a mile of so from the foot of the Statue of Liberty, we're getting waked pretty hard (rocked by the waves made by the big harbor ferries which are passing unusually close today), and it was enough to knock some shit off the shelves in the galley. I should know better, being a mariner, but the HQ hasn't hit some spicy seas in years. </p><p> Looking out the portholes, there's a LOT of flashing blue lights around the harbor. The Coast Guard's rubber ducky boats I've been seeing have a Ma Deuce mounted on the bow. Everyone's on edge. </p><p> I'm determined to enjoy my day off, but it's like smelling a jug of milk and knowing from that whiff that it needs to go in the trash tomorrow. It's OK, and you know it's OK, but you can't stop thinking about how it's almost not OK. THAT's the feeling here in the harbor. </p><p><br /></p><p> Some happier news, though. We passed the single biggest hurdle, one of the last, on the long-term life-altering project at home. I'll share that on a happier day up ahead. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Paul, Dammit!http://www.blogger.com/profile/02264872375942355609noreply@blogger.com0