Everyone in the Philippines is armed. Every store, factory, warehouse, restaurant, and pet shop has a uniformed guard out front. Actually, I haven't been to the pet store yet, as I don't want to see what I am probably eating. Each guard is strapping either a crappy looking wheelgun or a well worn 12 gauge pistol grip pump gun on a sling. I take that back. Not all the guards carry a gun. But they do all have a holster, even if it is empty. And six bullets snugged each into a little leather loop on his belt, cowboy style. Even the guys without pistols carry the six bullets. Perhaps, in the event of a large gun battle, they anticipate a fellow guard's need for spare ammo? My favorite is the boatyard guard who only has four of his six bullets. Maybe he misplaced them? Loaned them out to a friend in need? Did he already use two of those things on somebody today? Whatever the reason, I straighten up around that guy.
The guards come in two flavors: white uniform and blue uniform. All the uniforms are so similar in style as to be indistinguishable from one another; perhaps there is a central armed guard uniform distribution center somewhere in the city? The unis are pretty snappy, actually; fancy gold badges and buttons, a whistle, epaulets, name tags, embroidery. Just the right combination of flash and paramilitary style to let you know you're in the former sovereign state of Ferdi and Imelda.
There are several armed guards on rotation at the shipyard. There is always a guy at the gate, usually one wandering around the yard, and one on our boat, I guess to make sure that the yard workers don't make off with any of the big stuff. Normally they just stand around getting in the way, but several times as I have been struggling to get a large load of something up the two stories of stairs to get on the boat, or I am staggering around a corner with something unwieldy, the boat guard is the only one paying enough attention to lend a hand, as everyone else is engrossed in burning, cutting, grinding, sanding, or hammering something. Except that one kid who wanders the boat forlornly with the hame made broom, tackling the Sisyphean task of sweeping up, in face of the fact that forty dirty dudes with power tools and arc welders are just going to continue thrashing it day in and out.
Most of the yard guards are quite friendly and unimposing, all smiles and good cheer. I guess it is easy to be happy when your job is to stand around and watch as others around you sandblast, heft sheet steel, and haul the effluent dregs of assorted waste tanks in old paint buckets. There is one exception, a dour, serious looking fellow I have yet to see crack a smile. Whereas I will mug and goof off at some of the other hard cases around the boat until they smile, this guy, the armed guy, I leave to his own cranky devices. Instead of wearing a holster, he just sticks his revolver down the front of his pants, mobster style. Maybe the source of his unhappiness stems from his lack of a holster. Let’s face it, even the guys without guns have a holster.
So the other day I climbed down the scaffolding from the boat to find my crew in a tight little knot around one of the guards. Isn't it funny that boys up to no good, when gathered in a group, always appear the same, no matter their age, maturity level and surroundings? Since I like to be up to no good myself, I climbed down and stuck in my nose.
One of my friends was holding a chromed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver that the guard was trying to unload. Neat. Can I see? Wow. Feels light. And loose. Flimsy. Almost...shoddy. You did say this was a Smith, right? Yep, says so right there on the barrel. Wait a minute...Are those letters...routered? Because they are a little off. What about the stamp on the other side? Hmmm. Shows uneven fading and again, like the letters, something just isn't right. Let's take a closer look at this thing. Well, nothing fits snugly, the trigger is mushy, The wood grips are hand carved, the cylinder fit is sloppy, I'm pretty sure this is some sort of poorly chromed alloy instead of steel, and, oh my, the cross hatching on the end of the ejector rod, is that done by hand? Did you make this in your basement?
Turns out that bogus handguns are just as prevalent as pirated movies in this country. I told my Chuukese friend Madison that if he bought the gun 'for his cousin' as he was contemplating, I would pistol whip him with it. Not much of a threat considering that the thing would probably fall apart.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Where There's Smoke...
…There’s probably a small Filipino man swathed like a ninja, smoking a butt, sporting fake Ray-Bans, wielding an oxy-propane cutting torch, burning what would seem to be important hunks of steel off the boat.
34
I tried to keep 34 low key. I didn’t mention it to anyone. Somehow they knew, perhaps from my passport. No one really said anything until lunch. We were eating at a Japanese place. I stepped across the way to buy some treats for the boys at the bakeshop, not really intending to state the reason. When I returned, I was presented with a special dish, the Fruits of the Looms Salad. Don’t ask why in the world it was called that; many things get lost in translation out here. I had been craving fresh greens and salads on the crossing, so this is what the boys opted to order.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
The salad was tasty, but the best part by far was the singing. Here I am trying to be low profile about the day (no one wants to make the birthday boy take the hatches off the poopie tank, and I, as the new guy, am not looking for special treatment), and I turn around to find the entire Filipino staff massed behind me to sing happy birthday. Imagine the Fa-ra-ra-ra-ra scene in Christmas Story and you will get a good idea. The rendition was so outstandingly bad that they stopped in the middle, started over, got to the middle again, and pretty much gave up. As lunch continued, we could hear them in the back practicing for the next time some dirty white dude came in for a birthday. Each of them individually came up to me afterwards and said, “Happy Birthday, sir.” It was very touching and most memorable.
Then I went back to the boat and took the hatches off the poopie tanks.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Land Ho
I wonder if Macarthur felt this way when he steamed into the Gulf of Leyte. Somehow I don’t see him as shirtless and blasting Golden Earring, but who knows, maybe he was into that sort of thing. Anyways, we’re here; spent yesterday cruising through passes between Philippine Islands. Dodged every size boat from outrigger canoes with two stroke engines to big car ferries last night on the ten to two, moving from the radar to the binoculars to the tiller to make sure we were on course, not of the collision variety.
Arrived in Cebu this morning and squeezed into a drydocking facility. The shipyard is…functional. Ought to be interesting to spend the next month or so here. I’m not going to use the word squalor. Wait, yes I am. Shanty shacks of rusted corrugated and discarded boat fragments along the drydock slips serve for cooking, eating, and maybe some sleeping. A fine sheen of some petroleum product floats atop the water, and assorted garbage collects upon the banks, but that does not stop folks from bathing, washing clothes, and scrubbing their teeth in it. I am getting a bit ill typing this and thinking about it, actually. Dogs roam the shipyard making out as best they can. A guard tower consisting of a tin shack affixed atop a rusted water tower gives the armed guard sweltering inside a commanding view of the area where our boat is tied. Other boats are moored along the edges of the slip, and maneuvering within the strict confines is a tight squeeze. We pull up right behind a military patrol boat that has completed repairs and is getting ready to leave the yard, already bristling with guns and a new coat of navy grey paint.
The most striking feature about the yard is its workers. As we squeezed past other boats under repair, work ceased and heads poked out along the shoreline, the shanty shacks, the assorted decks of the large ferry boat under repair beside us, including, most comically, a hole cut out of the hull near the waterline. I got the impression that I was being scrutinized by a clan of thrift store ninjas. The workers are, of course, Filipino, but you cannot tell by the way they are done up. Most of them wear a t-shirt on their head, by poking their head through the head hole and tying the sleeves behind the head, allowing the body of the shirt to gather around the neck. They complete the look by pulling the bottom part of the t-shirt’s head hole over nose and mouth, exposing only the eyes, which many of them cover with sunglasses. The idea is to provide some protection from the sun and assorted dangers of the shipyard.
Said dangers are myriad. This place is not, repeat not OSHA approved. Welding grinding, cutting, painting, winching, scaffolding, hoisting all occurs with a lack of protection that would make an American job safety manager go apoplectic. No ventilators, hearing protection, eye protection beyond cheap plastic shades, or steel toed shoes. There are some hard hats around, but for the most part, a t-shirt on the head ninja style suffices. That is not to say that these guys are careless or in considerable danger, just that things aren’t run to stringent U.S. standards. Part of the reason we’re here, I guess.
Into Each Life...
…A little rain must fall. Luckily it was not accompanied by eight to ten foot swells. The sea stayed surprisingly calm. Despite the fact that the ship was heeling over due to the intense wind, she plugged along at a steady 9.5 knot speed, unhindered by the sheets of rain hitting the boat sideways. First inclement weather we’ve seen. Happened to be on my watch, and I was glad of it, as, after we got through it, we were treated to an excellent lightning show that lasted for hours. The whole sky would light up every minute or so. Some of the flashes were far enough and high enough that they were indistinct and just lit up the distant clouds. Others were low enough that they were vivid bolts unwinding across the sky in horizontal discharge patterns that left afterimages like Chinese dragons on my retinas. Under the sway of Mike the mechanic’s favorite band, I cued up AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck”, pulled my chair outside, and marveled at the show. Better than commercial T.V. by a long shot.
Reciprocation
Never in the history of hand held work implements has there been a tool more aptly named than the reciprocating saw. For those not familiar with this device, also know as a sawzall, it is a hand held tool, either battery operated or in this case 220v wall plug driven, with a blade projecting out of the front. When activated, the motor retracts the blade into the body of the tool and then forces it out to its original position on a straight line, thus reciprocating. It will do this as long as you hold down the trigger. Fast. Different jobs and intended cutting material call for different types of blades.
For the last four days straight, I have been burning through heavy duty fire/rescue metal cutting blades like wine coolers at a high school house party, trimming about an inch width of quarter inch thick plate steel all the way around every exterior door frame hole in the superstructure of the Odyssey to make room for new, wider doors. Thirteen of them. I won’t go into the math, but trust me and my now constantly vibrating hands when I say that this is a lot of plate steel.
It was around the third day that I began to formulate an understanding of and develop a relationship with the saw. With my back to hundreds of miles of clear blue ocean and sunlight, my face to the task of cutting steel, the edges of a theory became tangible. Not so much a theory as a simple truth.
The reciprocating saw does exactly that. It reciprocates. Yes, on a basic mechanical yank the blade back and forth at a thousand RPMs level it reciprocates, but also on a deeper, more metaphorical level. The reciprocal saw gives back to you what you give to it. I know this sounds corny, but I’ve had four days of hard sawing to consider it.
I’ve always claimed that the reciprocating saw was my favorite power tool. I think I was in love more with the idea of the saw than the actual use of it: a portable tool that hacks through metal. It appealed to my petty larcenous high school hijinks tendencies, and it was handy for light demolition work; deconstructing, if you will. Pick it up, plug it in, cut through a pesky nail or framing two by four at an odd angle, impractical to reach with a less maneuverable tool. Somewhat unique amongst power tools in the free form, swashbuckling way you can wave it around, use it upside down, push cut, pull cut, curve or angle the cut. A power tool wild card. Handy for a short, finite job.
There’s nothing short or finite about enlarging a hole in plate steel, millimeter by millimeter. Or thirteen of them. Thus, through hours, days of constant companionship with the reciprocating saw, I began to understand just how aptly named it is, and my theory was born and verified.
In the beginning I was eager and sloppy, and the saw responded in kind, wandering all over the place and jumping about in my novice hands. When I say jumping I mean that, as the saw retracts and then springs forward again, if you have pulled it out of the cut or bent the blade at an odd angle, when the blade tries to shoot forward again, it will not return to the cut but ricochet the whole tool back at whatever body part you are holding behind it at the time.
It only took a few instances of this to pass from the eager sloppy phase to the nervous jumpy phase. Again the saw picked up on my mood, giving me reason to be nervous, heating up through continuous usage to temperatures necessitating a thick leather glove, pelting me with hot metal shrapnel, and, as mentioned before, eagerly jumping backwards at me when I mishandled it. Scary.
On to the angry, aggressive phase of the learning curve. Determined to dominate the saw, I began mashing and pressing, forcing it into the metal until the motor slowed and protested. Sparks and smoke flew, the stench of hot metal permeated the air, and saw blades dulled at an alarming rate. Progress was, unfortunately, no faster, fatigue was higher, and the extra force applied made not only for wasted blades but the sloppy cutting of a second grader marked down for not staying in the lines. Mike the Mechanic sighed when he saw my work and, in his wonderful, broken English, he asked me, rhetorically, I think, “Why you cut this one like this way? Now too wide for door. Who this guy cut like this?”
On the third day, the seeds of harmony were sown. A beautiful morning, a new blade, a fresh arm, and a positive outlook all combined to give me the patience to pay attention to the saw, listen to it, let it guide me. Light, steady pressure, a firm but not overzealous grip, and the blade followed the line by itself. If I started bending the blade, the saw gave me hints; by paying attention to them I was able to get back on track before the whole saw came jumping back at my face. By the fourth day, the saw was even showing me sweet spots where it liked to be held to cut the most efficiently. It was reciprocating. Zen metal cutting.
Things were going so well by this time that I had trouble relinquishing it to anyone else so they could take a turn with it. I was becoming possessive, protective, covetous. In fact, I wonder where that thing is right now…
For the last four days straight, I have been burning through heavy duty fire/rescue metal cutting blades like wine coolers at a high school house party, trimming about an inch width of quarter inch thick plate steel all the way around every exterior door frame hole in the superstructure of the Odyssey to make room for new, wider doors. Thirteen of them. I won’t go into the math, but trust me and my now constantly vibrating hands when I say that this is a lot of plate steel.
It was around the third day that I began to formulate an understanding of and develop a relationship with the saw. With my back to hundreds of miles of clear blue ocean and sunlight, my face to the task of cutting steel, the edges of a theory became tangible. Not so much a theory as a simple truth.
The reciprocating saw does exactly that. It reciprocates. Yes, on a basic mechanical yank the blade back and forth at a thousand RPMs level it reciprocates, but also on a deeper, more metaphorical level. The reciprocal saw gives back to you what you give to it. I know this sounds corny, but I’ve had four days of hard sawing to consider it.
I’ve always claimed that the reciprocating saw was my favorite power tool. I think I was in love more with the idea of the saw than the actual use of it: a portable tool that hacks through metal. It appealed to my petty larcenous high school hijinks tendencies, and it was handy for light demolition work; deconstructing, if you will. Pick it up, plug it in, cut through a pesky nail or framing two by four at an odd angle, impractical to reach with a less maneuverable tool. Somewhat unique amongst power tools in the free form, swashbuckling way you can wave it around, use it upside down, push cut, pull cut, curve or angle the cut. A power tool wild card. Handy for a short, finite job.
There’s nothing short or finite about enlarging a hole in plate steel, millimeter by millimeter. Or thirteen of them. Thus, through hours, days of constant companionship with the reciprocating saw, I began to understand just how aptly named it is, and my theory was born and verified.
In the beginning I was eager and sloppy, and the saw responded in kind, wandering all over the place and jumping about in my novice hands. When I say jumping I mean that, as the saw retracts and then springs forward again, if you have pulled it out of the cut or bent the blade at an odd angle, when the blade tries to shoot forward again, it will not return to the cut but ricochet the whole tool back at whatever body part you are holding behind it at the time.
It only took a few instances of this to pass from the eager sloppy phase to the nervous jumpy phase. Again the saw picked up on my mood, giving me reason to be nervous, heating up through continuous usage to temperatures necessitating a thick leather glove, pelting me with hot metal shrapnel, and, as mentioned before, eagerly jumping backwards at me when I mishandled it. Scary.
On to the angry, aggressive phase of the learning curve. Determined to dominate the saw, I began mashing and pressing, forcing it into the metal until the motor slowed and protested. Sparks and smoke flew, the stench of hot metal permeated the air, and saw blades dulled at an alarming rate. Progress was, unfortunately, no faster, fatigue was higher, and the extra force applied made not only for wasted blades but the sloppy cutting of a second grader marked down for not staying in the lines. Mike the Mechanic sighed when he saw my work and, in his wonderful, broken English, he asked me, rhetorically, I think, “Why you cut this one like this way? Now too wide for door. Who this guy cut like this?”
On the third day, the seeds of harmony were sown. A beautiful morning, a new blade, a fresh arm, and a positive outlook all combined to give me the patience to pay attention to the saw, listen to it, let it guide me. Light, steady pressure, a firm but not overzealous grip, and the blade followed the line by itself. If I started bending the blade, the saw gave me hints; by paying attention to them I was able to get back on track before the whole saw came jumping back at my face. By the fourth day, the saw was even showing me sweet spots where it liked to be held to cut the most efficiently. It was reciprocating. Zen metal cutting.
Things were going so well by this time that I had trouble relinquishing it to anyone else so they could take a turn with it. I was becoming possessive, protective, covetous. In fact, I wonder where that thing is right now…
The 10 to 2
I like my sleep. As sleep traditionally is a night-time thing, I usually miss a good portion of the night. I am on the 10 to 2 watch shift, which has given me the duty/opportunity to better appreciate those hours for something besides reading or causing trouble, and I have enjoyed it thoroughly, in no small part due to my surroundings.
The weather on the crossing has been superlative. Whatever piece of wood the captain knocked on when invoking peaceful travels is a powerful one, as the seas we have crossed are living up to their Pacific name. Very little swell, light wind, only one brief period of rain have made our journey easy, and have made the ten to two most enjoyable.
I am on watch with Mike the Filipino engineer wizard. That’s right, I’m hanging out with Mike the mechanic, so eat your heart out all you eighties music aficionados. He is a witty dude who has Chuuk wired; when we travel together through town everyone acknowledges the guy who used to keep their cars running, no mean feat in this place. When we are on watch, we talk sometimes but often pass the hours in pleasant silence, taking turns doing engine room checks and using my iPod. Mike is a hard rock fan. He gravitates to AC/DC, Aerosmith, Van Halen, etc. on my iPod, and I find myself stocking it to keep him happy. Sure it is nice to keep the engineer happy, but I also do it for personal enjoyment, as Mike loves to sing along. He does so with a childlike disregard for what I may think about his singing. It is really amusing to sit just outside the pilot house and watch Mike, slumped in the captain’s seat, rocking back and forth and singing along in a quiet, high pitched, keening voice that, though awful, is quite Axel Rose-like when he is jamming out to Guns n Roses. Classic.
Aside from watching Mike jam, the primary source of joy on the 10 to 2 is the open ocean. Keep in mind that we are in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles from land. During the daytime, the view stretches to infinity, where I feel that I can detect the clouds arcing downward to wrap around the curvature of the earth. The sea is this perfect blue described too many times for me to add my own trite description. Suffice to say that it is enchanting.
It looks different, of course, at night. The color is the source of midnight blue. I have a spot next to the pilot house where I set a chair. It provides a good view over the
railing and I can still see the radar through the window, not that there is anything on it. I sit on the windward side of the boat and am usually quite comfortable without a shirt, soaking up the mild breeze and the sights.
Our running lights are the largest source of light pollution for many miles, so the heavens are vivid in the clear weather. Distant galaxies are so bright and tangible that they appear as clouds. Red stars wink like the running lights of a stationary airplane forever frozen in its course. Every night the moon waxes and performs its descent at a later time in the watch, shifting colors as it drops into the sea, projecting that picture postcard line reflection of moonlight across the dark water as it falls. The stars here are different, in different places in the sky. My astronomy is weak anyways, but instead of the usual constellations, I have found friends visible from my port perch to keep me company. Instead of Cassiopeia I have the Penguin. I have traded Orion for the Bowing Man. Like countless generations before me I find shapes in the outlines of the heavens.
Despite messing with my sleep schedule, the 10 to 2 is pretty cool.
Middle of Frickin' Nowhere, Bro
We began our Philippines trek by passing out of Truk Lagoon yesterday morning, moving by exposed reef upon which the remains of a motor vessel, broken in half, lay as a reminder to the incautious navigator. The boat immediately took on a steady roll as it reacted to the open ocean waves that had traveled thousands of miles, waves from which the lagoon protects us during normal operations. The roll of the vessel was a noticeable symbol of the undertaking ahead; I’ve never made a crossing this long before.
Three pairs of crewmembers each take two four hour watch shifts, monitoring the boat as she slugs along at a steady nine and a half knots. Good time to get to know someone, sitting in the pilot house in the middle of the night, watching the radar and the GPS for four hours. My partner is a Filipino mechanical wizard named Mike. He is the engineer; for my money the most important person on the boat besides the chef, and since we don’t have a chef on this cruise, Mike is it. He is a trained jet mechanic who also used to run a garage in Chuuk’s capital, but now he slums it on the Odyssey; I imagine marine diesels are tinker toys compared to jet engines.
This morning I did a few minor projects around the boat, getting her ready for drydock. Upon completion, I checked in with the captain, who told me not to start anything else as he planned to slow down and dump us for a dive as we passed over Mogami Bank, a shallow area on our route, the remains of an atoll that is now just a submerged reef. Don’t bother looking for it on a map. The other instructors and I ran around getting ready like kids for the first day of spring break. As we stood on the dive deck in our gear, prepared to jump into the ocean with no land in sight in any direction, the New Zealander, Mark, a perfectly wonderful, upbeat, competent human being pops his reg out of his mouth, looks over at me, grins like a kid, and sums it all up by saying, “Middle of flippin’ nowhere, bro.”
In we went. Crystal visibility to the bottom, a flat reef in the sand at about a hundred feet. I was the last to begin my descent. J.J., one of the instructors, started rapping on his tank and pointing out sharks cruising the reef, three to five foot reef sharks moving in a distinctively sharky way below us. I was engrossed until, still in fifty feet of open water, I noticed movement behind me and turned around to greet the bottom dwelling sharks’ four larger six foot cousins who had come up off the bottom to greet me. Not aggressive, mind you. We call it curious in the dive business. I continued to drop.
The coral was in pristine condition at a hundred feet. Big table corals, soft corals, anemones, all alive with colorful reef fish. The butterfly fish here are abundant, with species that we would wait months to see in Kona showing up in droves. Also a big school of unicorn fish hanging out above the reef, not afraid to let us get in the middle of them. And always the sharks, poking around behind us and shying away when we turned towards them.
We spent about twenty minutes in open ocean reef dive bliss before heading to the surface. I can’t, of course say for sure that we were the first people to ever dive that spot, but if not, I bet we were pretty close.
Three pairs of crewmembers each take two four hour watch shifts, monitoring the boat as she slugs along at a steady nine and a half knots. Good time to get to know someone, sitting in the pilot house in the middle of the night, watching the radar and the GPS for four hours. My partner is a Filipino mechanical wizard named Mike. He is the engineer; for my money the most important person on the boat besides the chef, and since we don’t have a chef on this cruise, Mike is it. He is a trained jet mechanic who also used to run a garage in Chuuk’s capital, but now he slums it on the Odyssey; I imagine marine diesels are tinker toys compared to jet engines.
This morning I did a few minor projects around the boat, getting her ready for drydock. Upon completion, I checked in with the captain, who told me not to start anything else as he planned to slow down and dump us for a dive as we passed over Mogami Bank, a shallow area on our route, the remains of an atoll that is now just a submerged reef. Don’t bother looking for it on a map. The other instructors and I ran around getting ready like kids for the first day of spring break. As we stood on the dive deck in our gear, prepared to jump into the ocean with no land in sight in any direction, the New Zealander, Mark, a perfectly wonderful, upbeat, competent human being pops his reg out of his mouth, looks over at me, grins like a kid, and sums it all up by saying, “Middle of flippin’ nowhere, bro.”
In we went. Crystal visibility to the bottom, a flat reef in the sand at about a hundred feet. I was the last to begin my descent. J.J., one of the instructors, started rapping on his tank and pointing out sharks cruising the reef, three to five foot reef sharks moving in a distinctively sharky way below us. I was engrossed until, still in fifty feet of open water, I noticed movement behind me and turned around to greet the bottom dwelling sharks’ four larger six foot cousins who had come up off the bottom to greet me. Not aggressive, mind you. We call it curious in the dive business. I continued to drop.
The coral was in pristine condition at a hundred feet. Big table corals, soft corals, anemones, all alive with colorful reef fish. The butterfly fish here are abundant, with species that we would wait months to see in Kona showing up in droves. Also a big school of unicorn fish hanging out above the reef, not afraid to let us get in the middle of them. And always the sharks, poking around behind us and shying away when we turned towards them.
We spent about twenty minutes in open ocean reef dive bliss before heading to the surface. I can’t, of course say for sure that we were the first people to ever dive that spot, but if not, I bet we were pretty close.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Many Hands Make Light Work
Bid farewell to our guests this morning and proceeded to rearrange and unload the entire boat: mattresses, bed frames, furniture, kitchen goods, housewares, laundry, SCUBA gear and tanks, weights, the pictures on the walls, boutique items, extra line, a dryer, a fridge and freezer, the works. Everything not involved in the open ocean running of the boat and the essentials for six people to live for a couple of weeks came off the boat either by skiff to shore or by van once we were parked at the local industrial dock. Stuffed it all into storage spaces belonging to the company, and when I say stuffed I mean to the ceiling.
Cleared the entire dive deck of camera table and gear benches, which also went into storage, and replaced them with eight 250 gallon diesel drums, then loaded them with fuel. Took on new exterior doors to replace every door on the boat. New windshields, new shower enclosures, hundreds of square yards of carpeting, a workshop of power tools, a hundred yards of PVC pipe, etc.
The entire process was carried out by what I have come to think of as the Odyssey army. The local crew usually alternates weeks of work, so there are more than two complete crews as well as an auxiliary staff that shows up on Sundays to help get the boat ready for the next charter. Well, they were all here today, probably twenty-five people total. Everything that we moved, loaded, or unloaded was done as a line of humans passing gear from one to the next. Heavy items drew hordes of folks who piled on with ant-like determination. If we’d been moving limestone blocks we could have knocked together a passable pyramid by day’s end. Maybe that’s stretching it a bit, but many hands do indeed make light work. And thoroughly exhausted, smelly workers. I had one of the most blissful ocean swims of my life after the work day closed, though the fish probably resented my filthy presence.
The items we took aboard are headed with us to the Philippines, to be installed either on the way to or during drydock in that country. The plan is to leave tomorrow around noon and drive for eight days straight, a bit over 1600 miles. When we arrive, we will, if thing are on schedule, drive right on to a massive trailer and pull the boat out of the water. Then the real fun will begin as we take apart everything on the boat and rebuild, fix, or replace it. Weak sections of the steel hull will be cut out and replaced. Water and sewage tanks will be cut out and replaced. Walls will come down and be rebuilt. Then we coat the whole ship in new paint. The process is going to take two months; we are due back in Chuuk in early October. I am looking forward to visiting a new part of the world. Painting boats, not so much, but it ought to be an experience. One I will continue to update about as time goes by. Thanks again for tuning in.
THE
Cleared the entire dive deck of camera table and gear benches, which also went into storage, and replaced them with eight 250 gallon diesel drums, then loaded them with fuel. Took on new exterior doors to replace every door on the boat. New windshields, new shower enclosures, hundreds of square yards of carpeting, a workshop of power tools, a hundred yards of PVC pipe, etc.
The entire process was carried out by what I have come to think of as the Odyssey army. The local crew usually alternates weeks of work, so there are more than two complete crews as well as an auxiliary staff that shows up on Sundays to help get the boat ready for the next charter. Well, they were all here today, probably twenty-five people total. Everything that we moved, loaded, or unloaded was done as a line of humans passing gear from one to the next. Heavy items drew hordes of folks who piled on with ant-like determination. If we’d been moving limestone blocks we could have knocked together a passable pyramid by day’s end. Maybe that’s stretching it a bit, but many hands do indeed make light work. And thoroughly exhausted, smelly workers. I had one of the most blissful ocean swims of my life after the work day closed, though the fish probably resented my filthy presence.
The items we took aboard are headed with us to the Philippines, to be installed either on the way to or during drydock in that country. The plan is to leave tomorrow around noon and drive for eight days straight, a bit over 1600 miles. When we arrive, we will, if thing are on schedule, drive right on to a massive trailer and pull the boat out of the water. Then the real fun will begin as we take apart everything on the boat and rebuild, fix, or replace it. Weak sections of the steel hull will be cut out and replaced. Water and sewage tanks will be cut out and replaced. Walls will come down and be rebuilt. Then we coat the whole ship in new paint. The process is going to take two months; we are due back in Chuuk in early October. I am looking forward to visiting a new part of the world. Painting boats, not so much, but it ought to be an experience. One I will continue to update about as time goes by. Thanks again for tuning in.
THE
Saturday, August 2, 2008
First Impressions
After a three and a half day delay in getting to Chuuk Republic, Federated States of Micronesia, I arrived at 4:20 AM local time. Great way to start a job, showing up almost four days late and getting your new boss up in the middle of the night to skiff across the lagoon and wait for an hour and a half to pick you up at the airport. He was surprisingly understanding, and seems to be a thoroughly pleasant man who has carved himself the life he wants by learning how to do things and then doing them, whether running a dive business in the middle of nowhere, building a house, or sailing the seven seas. I feel like I have landed in the proper place to soak up a lot of knowledge.
I had my first look at my new home as the sun came up over the lagoon. The Odyssey is a three-decked steel hulled vessel of 132’ and 362 gross tons. She’s a good-looking boat. Take a look if you want at www.trukodyssey.com.
By the time I got my gear stowed it was time to move the boat through a pass between two islands, a trip fraught with shallow reefs requiring zagging course changes. We arrived at our first dive destination of the day; I set up my gear and took my first dive in Truk Lagoon. Next thing I know I’m following one of the locals into the exploded bow of a 300+ foot Japanese vessel, trailing him through rusty corridors down rusty stairwells into a rusty engine room, through holds loaded with unexpended ordnance, past bathrooms with tile that is in better shape than the stuff in my old apartment in Venice Beach, and out a jagged torpedo hole near the stern that puts us in 140’ of water right next to the massive prop. A reef shark rises from underneath the boat and swims up to check me out; he seems to grin as he glides within feet of me. I swear I heard him say, “Welcome to Truk Lagoon.”
Next dive we move outside the lagoon through a narrow pass and moor up next to a shallow coral wall. Sharks begin to circle behind the boat before the engines are even dead. Some of the crew toss some scraps and the sharks go nuts. They dissipate after a bit and we suit up and jump in. They follow us like puppies to the preordained feeding area, and a couple of the crew set up a sling system that drops a frozen tuna into our midst. Seven hours in Micronesia and I’m in the midst of a feeding frenzy watching forty sharks vie for the tuna popsicle prize. I think I’m going to like it here.
Third dive of the day on the Rio de Janeiro Maru, a turn of the century luxury liner steamship pressed into service at the outset of the war and converted into a transport ship. The guide I follow traces a passage through the boat that takes in the forward holds, the superstructure, the engine room, the stern holds, and the poop deck, all without swimming outside the boat. In other words, for twenty something minutes at depths of 80’-120’, the only light I saw was projecting from my flashlight or filtering from a distant opening. Epic, until you consider that I will soon be counted upon to know these routes and be able to guide them myself. Lots of floor plans floating through my head; many wrecks, similar layouts, and one rusty corridor starts to look a lot like all the others.
I’m working on getting a handle on how to describe diving in the wrecks, what it feels like to shine a light into a yawning black hole and then make the decision to pass from daylight and open ocean into an overhead environment that is a sunken graveyard, a historical monument, a potential deathtrap. Amongst the layers of silt and debris, I come upon sixty year old scenes that look like someone might have just left, stepped outside and left the kettle on the stove, hung their welding goggles up on the machine shop drill press. Eerie.
The camera hasn’t been out yet, but I will get to that soon. We leave for drydock in the Philippines on Monday, at which point I will probably have more reliable internet access and be able to post further. Thanks for reading and I hope you are well. Check back at your convenience.
THE
I had my first look at my new home as the sun came up over the lagoon. The Odyssey is a three-decked steel hulled vessel of 132’ and 362 gross tons. She’s a good-looking boat. Take a look if you want at www.trukodyssey.com.
By the time I got my gear stowed it was time to move the boat through a pass between two islands, a trip fraught with shallow reefs requiring zagging course changes. We arrived at our first dive destination of the day; I set up my gear and took my first dive in Truk Lagoon. Next thing I know I’m following one of the locals into the exploded bow of a 300+ foot Japanese vessel, trailing him through rusty corridors down rusty stairwells into a rusty engine room, through holds loaded with unexpended ordnance, past bathrooms with tile that is in better shape than the stuff in my old apartment in Venice Beach, and out a jagged torpedo hole near the stern that puts us in 140’ of water right next to the massive prop. A reef shark rises from underneath the boat and swims up to check me out; he seems to grin as he glides within feet of me. I swear I heard him say, “Welcome to Truk Lagoon.”
Next dive we move outside the lagoon through a narrow pass and moor up next to a shallow coral wall. Sharks begin to circle behind the boat before the engines are even dead. Some of the crew toss some scraps and the sharks go nuts. They dissipate after a bit and we suit up and jump in. They follow us like puppies to the preordained feeding area, and a couple of the crew set up a sling system that drops a frozen tuna into our midst. Seven hours in Micronesia and I’m in the midst of a feeding frenzy watching forty sharks vie for the tuna popsicle prize. I think I’m going to like it here.
Third dive of the day on the Rio de Janeiro Maru, a turn of the century luxury liner steamship pressed into service at the outset of the war and converted into a transport ship. The guide I follow traces a passage through the boat that takes in the forward holds, the superstructure, the engine room, the stern holds, and the poop deck, all without swimming outside the boat. In other words, for twenty something minutes at depths of 80’-120’, the only light I saw was projecting from my flashlight or filtering from a distant opening. Epic, until you consider that I will soon be counted upon to know these routes and be able to guide them myself. Lots of floor plans floating through my head; many wrecks, similar layouts, and one rusty corridor starts to look a lot like all the others.
I’m working on getting a handle on how to describe diving in the wrecks, what it feels like to shine a light into a yawning black hole and then make the decision to pass from daylight and open ocean into an overhead environment that is a sunken graveyard, a historical monument, a potential deathtrap. Amongst the layers of silt and debris, I come upon sixty year old scenes that look like someone might have just left, stepped outside and left the kettle on the stove, hung their welding goggles up on the machine shop drill press. Eerie.
The camera hasn’t been out yet, but I will get to that soon. We leave for drydock in the Philippines on Monday, at which point I will probably have more reliable internet access and be able to post further. Thanks for reading and I hope you are well. Check back at your convenience.
THE
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