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Beyond Boundaries 29.01.20 Flipbook PDF
Beyond Boundaries 29.01.20
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BEYOND BOUNDARIES DES KEARNS
Popeye Publishing
CONTENTS OCEAN ROADS 6 pm Krabi Boat Lagoon Marina Byron Bay 1964 Chasing rainbows Outward bound Shipwreck Tall ship to ‘Frisco Sixties counterculture Along the Cape Horn road Soldier of Fortune Schooner Bluenose Homeward bound
6 13 23 33 44 55 62 69 92 97 112
FULL FLOOD AT SEYMOUR NARROWS Uncertified third officer Cleaning toilets Running the rapids The ocean-going tug
129 136 140 154
GOLD RUSH Swashbuckling recklessness Odd bedfellows Fearful ice Fresh manure on the boardroom carpet Hard aground Sea man to sand man April 12 Event Clutching defeat from the jaws of victory Bloody farewell drink Good little cogs
163 180 190 199 210 222 231 236 241 242
MOVING THE WORLD’S LARGEST OIL STRUCTURES ON THE OCEANS Capt. John Killick Locked in a shed on the Russian tundra The unexpected Who really discovered Australia Mission impossible Swiss cheese drilling Ahh! Indonesia Plant your corn early, boy Li Shan missed the marriage bus Spratly Islands conflict Logic free zone Dominican Republic The law is an ass Mariner’s coffin
249 253 258 262 264 268 270 275 281 285 289 291 298 302
RESTORING CARIAD Boat Builder
306
8 pm Krabi Boat Lagoon Marina Susie
324 326
In memory Susie
Every reasonable effort was made to trace and contact holders of copyright photos in order to credit sources correctly. In the event of omission or error the author should be notified so that a full acknowledgement may be made in future editions. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher. ISBN # 978-1-64606-700-8 Des Kearns © 2020
Popeye Publishing 175 Moo 2, Talingchan, Nuea Klong Krabi 81130, Thailand. +66 8 4846-8869 [email protected] www.deskearns.com
Acknowledgements. Kanchala ‘Ked’ Krissadaraksa, specializes in selecting impossible occupations and tackling them with dedication and a stout heart, never thinking failure is possible. Critiquing this book was no exception. This book was a project comprising individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Ked, despite English being her second language, over a six-year period, offered daily one-line prompts to channel order into the puzzle and ultimately to make the pieces fit. I applaud gypsy girl, Ingri (Gayle Chambers) Berg for her fortitude and persistence over that same six-year period. She never gave up on me. She prompted in different ways. “M’thinks a meeting at Vaima’s on Tahiti’s Quay de Commerce could be useful on many fronts." “Do you remember when we climbed down the treacherous cliff to the Leper Colony on Molokai?” “Do you recall with Carthaginian, we took Marlon Brando, Tarita and little Jon-Jon over to Tetiaroa? There was a hut with one Tahitian man living on the atoll." Daughters, Ondine, Sioban and Ashley offered encouragement, suggestions and corrections. In one instance they unceremoniously ripped out an entire chapter. Len White, from the Byron Bay days, made the pilgrimage from Australia to Thailand to assist. Our joint discussions, and his own manuscript, entitled Why Me, also provided insightful suggestions and order to the book.
6 pm. Krabi Boat Lagoon Marina, Thailand.
6
I was still a teenager when I first set sail from Australia. I knew nothing about navigation but quickly learnt one second equals a quarter of a mile, so a good timekeeper was critical. Someone suggested a watch I had never heard of called a Rolex, a reasonably priced watch at $138. I chose the GMT Master which was produced in collaboration with Pan-American Airways for use by their pilots. The bidirectional rotating red and blue bezel and third hand enable the wearer to keep track of time on the Greenwich Meridian. By the time I paid for my watch I had $12 left to circumnavigate. That same Rolex watch has been on my wrist for 54 years. Its hands overlay my gnarled hands. Veins are visible under leathery skin that is no longer elastic; the same hands that once fisted topsails on the square-rigged ship Carthaginian. The edge of the cast stainless steel watch body has worn away from chafing against my skin for half a century and is now razor sharp. I hear melodramatic music of the latest Rolex watch advertisement. The announcer, speaking in upper class tones, gets carried away….This watch is witness to deeds that moved nations. Dared men faster and further. Worn by champions and luminaries. It doesn’t just tell time, it tells history. I was not a champion or a luminary but during my tenure this Rolex has witnessed the greatest changes the world has ever seen. With each tick it asseverates, recording history in relentless half-second movements. My companion and mute witness. In my youth work was a dirty word. Toil, except surfing, was to be avoided at all cost. Now in my 75th year, I look forward to each new workday. The workers have all gone home. In my office the bustle of the day has been replaced by absolute quiet. My mahogany desk is crafted from ship’s hull planking with bronze fastening bolts that were cast in Southampton in 1895 and still embedded flush in the planking having withstood the ravages of the sea for 120 years. Next to my leather sofa I see weathered books in oak wood shelves written by my heroes, Miles and Beryl Smeeton, Sterling Hayden, Nordhoff and Hall, Bill Tillman. Other books read at sea long ago; Rudyard Kipling, Robert Service, John Masefield, Robert Louis Stevenson, Herman Melville, Jack London. 7
At the far end of my office, a personal museum on a burled teak table; artefacts displayed on an Australian red ensign. I pick up a sail needle case, handcrafted from whalebone; carved in the fo’c’s’le of the schooner Bluenose. Alongside, lies another sail needle case, hand-carved, a gift from a West Indian schooner master, the only stipulation being that the object was to be named Cap’n Jorgenson. A 200-year old Green River knife from the P-Line four-master, Pamir. Brass verdigrises’ sextant used by Miles and Beryl Smeeton during their circumnavigations on Tzu Hang. A teak writing desk with secret drawer inside, the smell of linseed oil lingering. Gold embossed Certificate of Competency as Master of a Foreign Going Steam Ship. Later the name modernised to Master Mariner. Inside the pages are yellowed with age. I recall in 2007 we were restoring Cariad, one of the world’s ‘bigfive’ classic yachts, utilising artisans from Thailand, Canada and Australia. During our restoration work, Cutty Sark caught fire in Greenwich. The famous British Clipper all but destroyed. Restoration costs were estimated at £50 million. I quietly chuckle remembering the absolute cheek of an email I sent to the Cutty Sark Foundation offering to transport Cutty Sark by barge out to Thailand and restore her for thirty percent of UK cost estimates. I further stated, not only did we have the expertise and infrastructure to do the job, but when completed, we would sail the great clipper to Shanghai to load a cargo of tea then sail her home so the people of Great Britain could drum her up the channel as they did long ago. Now I am laughing out loud imagining the Cutty Sark board members suffering apoplexies over the audacity, the indignity to Sovereign England. Was Thailand capable of anything, let alone restoring Britain’s greatest maritime icon? I hear them now. "There is a clown out in the Far East who says he can restore our beloved Cutty Sark. The cheek of the bugger.” Notwithstanding the fact we were confident we could deliver on our promise, I did not expect, nor receive a reply. A smattering of vessels remembered, Tiare Taporo, Carronade, Valrosa, Carthaginian, Bluenose, Ondine, Nella Dan, Chelwood, Star Pinewood, Haida Brave, Gibraltar Straits, Canmar Explorer III, Moliqpak, World Saga, Maersk Giant, Balder, Galaxy, Key Biscayne. 8
I look back now and see a visual anthology of places and people. Tahiti. The purple bulk of the fabled isle gaining colour and substance as it rises from the sea. The sound of Tamure drums blast in my ears, Tamure tamure e tamure mure ra. Nostrils assailed by the stench of the toilet in Quinn’s Bar, contrasting with the heady frangipani perfume worn by Quinn’s girls. Sitting on Tahiti’s Point Venus eating a mango waiting for the sun to come up. That night we invited some rather upper-class girls on board for sunset drinks. They were visiting for one night only on a P&O passenger liner. We had no money, so we mixed a rum punch in a bucket. Cheap rum, vanilla beans to improve the taste, and various fruit juices. Ice from a street vendor. One girl asked, “Where is the toilet?” to which we answered, “You’re drinking out of it.” And so ended the party. Alawai Yacht Harbour, Honolulu. Rather noisy party on our small sloop. A few rums and a few songs. The fellow on the yacht opposite kept telling us to cut down the noise. Finally, he got so wild he took his pressure-pack foghorn (and you know how much noise they make) and kept blasting into the night. The police came down, arrested him and fined him $50 for disturbing the peace. San Francisco. Gulping up the last few miles of our Pacific Ocean crossing estimating the time we would see the blink of Farallon Lighthouse welcoming us to California. A cold foggy night in Sausalito, snug below in our small yacht, Andy decides to write love letters to both his girlfriends. Unfortunately, he put the letters in the wrong envelopes and posted them. And so ended that party. Brazil. High above Rio de Janeiro, naively wandering through crime ridden Favelas; lining up with peasants in Bahia de Salvador in the town square to fill jerry cans with drinking water. Cape Town. A huge signboard posted on an uninhabited pristine white beach, ‘This Beach for Whites Only.’ Southern Ocean. Sailing in company with the great wandering Albatross, his baleful eye and 12-foot wingspan gliding past our boat and landing on the ocean a mile ahead hoping for food. We observe his buffeting manoeuvres, wheeling and banking as he skims with wingtips arched downward inches above the water. Suddenly like a rubber ball he bounces skyward on an elevator of air, stalls, plummets and straightens out towards the horizon. 9
North Sea. 32,000-ton ship hove-to near Scotland’s Orkney Islands. Hand steering, coaxing the bow to ride at the most comfortable attitude. It was no longer a big ship but just a ship with the same handling principles as a small craft. Egypt. The majestic Pyramids are seen from a distance then disappointment standing at the base when they became just a pile of rocks. From Cairo in an ancient Peugeot 403 taxi, rattling down the dusty eastern desert coastal road, Arab music blaring out through open windows, the driver suddenly stops at a boulder strewn peninsular. He points out a white limestone ridge extending offshore into the turquoise clear waters and explains, with straight face, this is where Moses parted the waters of the Red Sea. Dubai. Standing by helpless while an Arab mercilessly beats his wife in the street with a suitcase because he thought she looked at another man through her black Abaya. In 1995, the day after US President Bill Clinton declared Iran a sponsor of terrorism, imposing sanctions and prohibiting all American involvement with the Iranian petroleum industry, we received a request to tow an American oil rig, without paperwork, into the Iranian sector of the Persian Gulf. Saigon. Far reaching tentacles of American influence. A neon sign proclaims Hollywood East and illuminates a girl in a tight white dress in contrast with a riot of colour of bougainvillea, feeding a threelegged dog a piece of chicken she bought from a nearby roadside stall. Inside the girls all wear numbers, a cash and carry rent a wife for the night system. A Vietnamese tout with an American flag draped around his shoulders hails, “What’s that I smell in the air? Ah! The American Dream, Hollywood.” The tout looks in my direction, “What’s your dream, boy?” Jakarta. Adrenalin pumping taxi ride towards the airport fleeing firebombing, weaving through cars ablaze during riots in Indonesia. Rangoon. Terrified taxi driver outside Aung San Suu Kyi’s house on the Rangoon Royal Lakes, a soldier, barely a teenager, rams a machine gun under my chin, signalling us to move on. Peace Hotel, Shanghai. Breakfast in the fantastic Dragon Phoenix Restaurant overlooking the Bund. Outside China recovering from the Cultural Revolution, its people shedding their drab Mao suits. 10
India. Night taxi from Pondicherry to Madras hidden under a blanket in the back seat of an old Ambassador car on the day Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated. Perth. New super-high bungee jump tower. Knees shaking. Heart pumping fast. Preparatory to jumping instructor cautions, “Don’t look over there, mate, that’s a graveyard.” Legs captive. Trusting an elastic bungee cord. Concentrate brain, spread arms wide, then jump. Company later angry, “Did you take into account, if you had died you could have delayed the rig move?” Another lesson the oil business must go on no matter what. Irian Jaya. Dodging a spear that was thrown over the oil compound fence while our meeting was in progress. Deadhorse Alaska. Landing in a Lear Jet on a runway marked by black plastic garbage bags. My watch records 45 minutes of actual daylight on the shortest day of the year. High Arctic. Smell of raw jet fuel from a Sikorsky S61 helicopter with doors open in -41 degrees, searching for hazardous ice that could impede the drill ships exploring for oil under the polar ice cap. Persian Gulf. While in command during a jack-up oilrig move, sudden gale force winds drive tug and tow inexorably towards a production platform. Two choices: End my career by taking out the production platform or end my career by pinning the legs on the seabed and taking out the connecting oil pipelines. In both cases I would be personally responsible for catastrophic physical and environmental damage. I chose the pipelines. Later when we jumped divers, we found pipelines resembling spaghetti around the legs with no sustained damage whatsoever. Was it luck? Abu Dhabi. Driving my Range Rover towards the Oman border on a new five-lane road over empty desert. Shimmering hot sand stretches to the horizon. I see a lone Bedouin walking beside the road. I stop and offer him a lift. He accepts and sits motionless in the front seat enjoying the air conditioning. His body odour is overpowering, bearded face expressionless. One hour later his kind eyes catch mine and he motions to stop. Shukraan, he said as he set off across the shimmering desert. I lost sight of him when he blended into the sand. My Rolex reads high noon. How did the Bedouin measure time? 11
O C E A N ROADS
12
1 BYRON BAY 1964
When Dave Jackman rode the Queenscliff Bombora (dangerous submerged offshore reef) in 1961, the photo appeared on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald. Jackman personified the surfer in his lonely detachment from society against the sea. The photo fired the imagination of Australia’s youth. Schools and downtown businesses reported record numbers of absentees. When Scotty Dillon rode the La Perouse ‘Bombie’ his ride lit the fuse and cemented the ideal sought by Australian youth of the day. Like a giant magnet, we all wanted to be a part of it. I was captivated by the casual effrontery when the surfer subdues the wave, the triumphal quality as he skims along. The challenge of surfing is one of extreme forces, the indomitable spirit of youth against the power of the sea. The surfer stands alone and learns to depend on himself, to trust his body and to engage his nerve. Byron Bay lighthouse stands sentinel high on the cliffs of Australia’s easternmost point. Ocean swells wrap around the point, peeling off in perfect ranks and rolling into the bay beyond. These are not ordinary waves. They are perfectly shaped with shoulders that stand up for rides of three-quarters of a mile or more, a surfer’s dream. Nearby is the small country town of Byron Bay with mostly unpainted houses and a few shops. Beyond the town is lush grazing land and sugar cane fields, sheep, cattle and the occasional country road. Some of the coastal rivers are still crossed by small car ferries. 13
Beyond Boundaries
We believed that if you wanted to learn about the ocean a good place to start was physically in the water. We are five boys aged seventeen years on a wilderness beach. We are tanned and our hair is bleached blond from the sun. The sun is rising, prisms of light are bouncing off the early morning ocean with gold and silver all shimmering and inviting. We still see the blink from the lighthouse. We know the only other inhabitant of this area is the light keeper who will be sleeping for another hour or two. The waves march through like ranks of soldiers. “Let’s check out the sets,” says McTavish, eyes darting and alert, reading and evaluating tell-tale signs, trees, flags, anything to get a better feel for the local wind direction, the best take off point and a hundred other details. We offload our surfboards from the rack of my old Ford. These were the days when America built real cars. Mine was a 1950 twin spinner Ford with a flathead V8 engine purchased for the grand sum of $49. The chrome had been stripped off and truck springs added to the back suspension, good for going through the bush. All five surfboards are different in design according to our individual needs of flex, weight distribution and foil asymmetrics. Scotty Dillon built mine. We paddle out to sea in the early morning glare. We have left behind the city machine with its smoke and its fumes and noise of buses and trucks and pedestrians all in a hurry and the, “One Way,” and ‘No Entry,’ high prices, poor workmanship and the, “Don’t touch that mate or we’ll go on strike.” Here in Byron Bay life seems so clean and so natural. Life is fun. “You can’t have fun kid, get a steady job. Be an architect or a doctor or an accountant.” “But I like the sun and this life and everything it represents.” “You’re not allowed kid.” “Oh! Yes I am.” “We’ll jail you.” “Ha! You can’t. The only prison is the mind and the door is stuck open. Hoo! Ha!” 14
Byron Bay 1964
My yearning turned to realism riding the Bombora off Long Reef Beach in Sydney. Sitting on my surfboard at first light, head full of dreams, feet dangling as shark bait. It was here I opened my eyes. Would destiny provide a life on the oceans or were these aspirations just a reflection of youth? In matters of technical skill there are four levels of surfers, very average, very good, brilliant and natural. The natural category goes beyond mere skill and into an area where technical knowledge and ability is backed by an innate feel, a gut instinct, a sixth sense, an empathy with the subject that cannot be taught. I was average. I would never, could never, be a Nat Young or Bob McTavish. It wasn’t trying to emulate the stars riding big waves while bikinied beauties on the beach gasped in hopeless admiration, it was more than that. And not all the beauties sat on the beach. Dorothy de Rooy and Pearl Turton, already pioneering surfers, were fast driving the thin edge of the wedge into the male dominated surfing world. McTavish was determined to compete in the world surfing championships in Hawaii but didn’t have any money, so he stowed away on the P&O passenger liner Orsova. McTavish, unlike traditional stowaways, did not try to hide. Instead he headed straight for the swimming pool and began ‘bombing' holidaymakers from the promenade deck above. He carried no clothes, no money and no passport. He dined on tourist half-eaten snacks and leftovers. At first, he slept in a deck chair in the lee of the wind. During the long passage to the Hawaiian Islands, stowaway McTavish was the life of the party, well like, well fed and we understand well looked after by the younger single ladies. On arrival in Honolulu, McTavish waited his chance then walked down the gangway like an Eastern Potentate, borrowed a surfboard, and gained the respect of the Hawaiian surfing fraternity by riding the big waves at Waimea Bay. When the Australian newspapers heard of his plight, he became an overnight folk hero. The FBI were less impressed. They arrested him and shipped him home. P&O condemned him publicly, but privately they made no demands for restitution. The rationale presumably being that Peninsula and Orient Steamship Line (P&O) was founded in the 1800’s by adventurers, so why penalise a kindred spirit. 15
Beyond Boundaries
His anti-materialistic views and self-sufficiency had the same effect on those who met him. They found it frightening. If a man can live and be happy without all the things we have been fighting and working for, you have to wonder what those things are worth. Nat was the surfer they called ‘The Animal’ and was destined to become a trendsetter for the sixties. Robert ‘Nat’ Young was loud, egotistical, aloof, tough and confident. He would become state champion twice, Australian champion three times and finally world champion. He had an easy aloofness, which compelled people to come to him. Ken “Bomber” Mills lived in his 1938 Dodge, a beautiful American piece of engineering with a straight six-cylinder engine, leather seats and real pearl shell door handles. Price for his car was $38, a dollar for each year. He was destined to study architecture, but his heart was not in it. On the bitumen road up from Sydney, Ken was driving when the police pulled us over for vehicle inspection. When the policeman asked Ken his occupation he answered, Surfboard Designer. On the traffic ticket the policeman wrote, Unskilled Labourer. Len White was a mathematical whiz kid with a bright future in the financial world, but his sights were set on a trek by foot into the forbidden Hunza Valley in Tibet. Ross ‘Willy’ Ovington was destined for Beirut. He would marry a girl so tall they nicknamed her ‘lofty the light bulb changer.’ Salt spume forms mist on the shoreline. We paddle out and feel the first tingle of cold water on our bodies. We hum to the tunes, Bankin’ off the northeast wind, and Harry Nilsson’s, If I were the king of the world, tell ya what I would do. The flat palms of our hands dig deep into the blue water. We squint into the early morning sun. Beyond the break is glassy smooth water, prisms of light bouncing up from the depths on the approach of long ocean swells. Let me take you for the ride of your life and share the magic of Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia. Take a deep breath before you read the next few paragraphs. Here comes a wave now. Timing is critical. Pivoting the board, we 16
Byron Bay 1964
take one paddle only and at the exact moment we slide onto the wave driving straight down and holding this track until the board starts to level out. Hold on tight now we are banking into a savage turn laying over almost 90 degrees to the face of the wave as we hit full power, drawing out in an arc towards the bowl. Some fancy footwork as we ease off the power, gliding in a parabolic arc. Glance over your shoulder. Our track is a line sweeping through a sunlit tube. The arc tightens as we start to drive, overtaking the lip on the way down as we come around the bottom section and blast into the clear. Stop for a minute and listen as our board hisses and sings over the water sitting on maximum trim. A little pressure on the inside edge draws our board into a long driving turn climbing to the top, fifteen feet from the pocket now in a boiling rotating mass of white water. Drop the back foot for a cut back, tight and quick, matching the speed of the wave. Climb now until we are almost driving over the back of the wave then turn back into the spinning mass. The inside part rushes up the wave’s face like an up draught to a gull. We float on the upper part of this. Further ahead a square spot starts to form as we slip back on solid water driving along the top. Now pull out all the stops and go for it. Go for the bottom. Dive for the power rushing over the ledge, turning the base of the wave square with its onrushing speed. The bottom turn comes hard, centrifugal force driving against the current into the wave with ‘G’ force jamming us into the board. Coming out of the turn the acceleration is brutal. Roll out into a long top turn and rip the curl back. Look behind again and you’ll see our track becomes a thin white line twisted like a French curve. As the board comes around, we are driving back under the track we cut on the way out. Turning down in a tight arc against the white water we curve towards the last section sucking out over the inside bank as we set up to enter the tube. The arc flattens out the curl and we drop to the bottom of the tube to gain more speed. We are enveloped and invincible, completely inside the tube. Crouched into a ball, the curl hits the base two feet ahead of the nose of our board. The end is near. 17
Beyond Boundaries
For twenty days we surfed The Pass at Byron Bay spending as much as eight hours in the water each day. At night we sat by our campfire and ate bread and bananas, yogurt, milk and meat from nearby farms. The farmers had never seen surfboards and were mystified by us. We turned in with the sun and rose with the sun. Snug in our sleeping bags at night we became accustomed to the sweep of the lighthouse beam passing over our heads once every fifteen seconds. Byron Bay lighthouse was the harbinger of the coming hordes. This was not just a fantasy. We had found a place where the air was good and clean, where streams wandered idly and playfully down the hills, where un-ridden waves, perfect in their shape, broke on empty beaches and disappeared into gritty sand, where the pattern had not been disturbed and things were the way they had always been, where it was possible to establish the quality of life with its delicacy, its humanity and disciplines. It was more than just riding waves; it was more than anything I can write or think. Flat calm day. We sit with our backs against the warm rocks on this uttermost rocky peninsula looking out to sea towards our respective distant futures and goals. Time is unimportant. We are governed by daylight and darkness. Our stomachs tell us when we need food. We project an image of bleached hair covering empty heads. We are stereotyped for our free spirit attitude. As part of the show we convince each other we are students of the sea. We know a bit about weather patterns and shoreline geology that affect our waves. We understand, for example, why waves break. We know that storms create winds and winds create swells. As the swell approaches the continental shelf it begins to feel the ocean bottom then slows down and builds up. When the depth of water is roughly equal to 1.3 times the swell height, the top of the wave loses its support and falls forward. The swell retains all its energy until the moment it hits the shallow bottom. The wave then rises abruptly and the top pitches forward plunging into the trough ahead. The steep face and falling lip of the wave resembles the eye of a hurricane with the same turmoil surrounding it and the hollow curl is the tube, the most radical piece of real estate in surfing. 18
Byron Bay 1964
We also learnt if you take off half a second late there is a liquid sledgehammer right behind you. Bomber Mills breaks the silence. “Think I’ll wander into town to see the girl in the Post Office.” “Hey Mate,” says McTavish imitating a priest, “Face up to it, you’re the wrong sort, a riff-raff surfer with no future. Her father will kill you. We chip in, "It’s miles to town, how you gettin’ there mate, on a rockin’ horse?” Ken walks away to howls of ridicule. “Handsome is as handsome does,” he shoots back. We talk quietly of a safari to ride the big waves of Waimea and Banzai Pipeline on the windward side of Oahu with surfboards called Elephant Guns. The world was beckoning. My sights were already set on Tiare Taporo, the last Pacific island trading schooner still carrying cargo under sail. Tiare Taporo and the Pacific Ocean would be a good start.
19
1961 Dave Jackman rides Queenscliff Bombora
1962 Scott Dillon rides Bare Island Bombora
20
Executive Board Meeting Ken ‘Bomber’ Mills, Ross ‘Willie’ Ovington, Des Kearns
Bob McTavish
21
Photo courtesy A.B. Donald Trading Company
Tiare Taporo, the last Pacific Island Trading schooner, still carrying cargo under sail. Built in Auckland by Charles Bailey and Sons in 1913 for the grand sum of £3,500. Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall dedicated their book Mutiny on the Bounty to “Men who sailed the seas the Bounty sailed” Capt. Andy Thompson – Schooner Tiare Taporo Capt. Vigo Rasmussen – Schooner Tagua
22
2 CHASING RAINBOWS Every time I look at you son, I think I’m a man short
The Auckland Newspaper advertisement read, ‘Crew wanted for schooner Tiare Taporo soon to sail for the Cook Islands.’ I searched the Auckland docks for the Trader. Alongside a doglegged breakwater I saw an old minesweeper and a few old hulks but then my eyes saw a most beautiful schooner. She rode with an old spar against the driven piling. The words Tiare Taporo – Suva carved into her stern. Owned by A.B. Donald, a South Sea Islands trading firm, she looked deserted until I heard a loud voice say, “Get the hell off.” Les Ellis introduced himself as the Captain. I later found out he was a stevedore, man about the wharves appointed by the owners as caretaker. He was linked to an infamous character named Hamish Murray, an ex-engineer on Donalds’ traders who had been thrown out of the Cook Islands for fighting and drinking. Ellis and Murray found Bill Christopher, a retired businessman looking for adventure. Hamish told Christopher, the prospective buyer, how easy it was to trade in the Cook Islands and that he, Hamish Murray, knew everybody worth knowing, and as a bonus he would ship as engineer as well. The deal was closed. Bill Christopher got his trading ship. Hamish was going back to the islands. Ellis had his commission on the sale. The simple fact that the Cook Islands had condemned the trader, forbidding her to ever return to her old trade, was a small omission by Ellis and Murray. 23
Beyond Boundaries
Les Ellis showed me around. A green awning was slung over the stern. Her big iron wheel bucked against its beckets. Her paintwork was in bad repair. A red surfboat lay across her decks. There was a forward deckhouse for crew and galley. In the bow an enormous hand windlass and a big jutting jib boom. She was big bellied for carrying cargo, but the bow was fine with a splendid sheer in the deck. For the first 25 years of her life she carried cargo under sail with no engine but was eventually fitted with a four-cylinder 110 HP Atlas diesel, the type with external pushrods. The main saloon was panelled in polished mahogany. The centrepiece was a gimbaled table, a masterpiece in craftsmanship. A deep red upholstered sofa sat upon thick pile carpet. A Seth Thomas clock banged out six bells (three o’clock) when I went below. An oval brass mirror taken from Count Felix von Luckner’s Seeadler hung in the main saloon. Tiare Taporo was now commanded by 77-year old Capt. Len Boulton who had gone to sea in square rig at age twelve. At age nineteen he served as First Mate on the four-mast barque H.K. Hall running around the Horn. He gained his Master’s Certificate in Sail at twenty-three. After the war he was Master of the German P-Line barque Pamir, then served twenty-six years as Master on Maui Pomare trading from New Zealand to the Pacific Islands. Since retiring at age 65 he recorded twenty-two delivery commands. He swore each was to be his last. He had white hair, a tanned leathery face and a thick wrinkled neck and spoke about the great clipper ships as if they were still running. He wore blue denim coveralls, no shirt, an unlit roll-your-own-cigarette stuck to his bottom lip. A Sunday felt hat was cocked on the back of his head. With trepidation I quickly realised Capt. Boulton had ‘lost it’ and my grand and romantic idea conceived on the warm rocks at Byron Bay momentarily faltered. Ignoring the warning signs, I told him I too wanted to round Cape Horn. “Son,” he said, “ef you’re goin’ down Cape Horn way, it’s hard runnin’, don’t over canvas ‘er. Beware of the islands of Diego Ramirez, they stick out of the sea like ugly black teeth.” "And ef ya goes down there, remember the old man that was there before you." 24
Chasing Rainbows
Two English lads who had travelled overland with a Willys Jeep from Scotland to Melbourne joined the crew. Then came the cook who looked and acted more like a Danish nobleman than a cook. He was suave and distinguished with well-groomed blond hair and pale blue eyes. He had an English cultured accent and wore a blue yachting jacket with cravat. Matara Charlie was a 33-year-old pearl diver from Penrhyn Island in the Northern Cooks but he always said he was from Mangaia because that was a prestige island. He had many aliases; Tara Poiri and Haretama Samatona Masters, to name two. His wife was threequarter Rarotongan and one-quarter German, “When I come home drunk my wife always takes the knife to me. It is the quarter German that takes the knife.” He talked incessantly of carrying cargo under sail and of the difficulty of having to throw over the chain topsails sheets when tacking. He would say, “I tell you true, the schooner boat is the man’s boat, the motorboat is the woman’s boat.” Peter Davies, a young English fellow, was editor of a New Zealand woman’s magazine. He insisted on wearing baggy double-breasted pin stripe suits. We never saw him soil his hands. He always had appointments with clients for some big deal. “This ship is going places. She will be an island tramp making a fortune. I will see to that.” As it happened his sole achievement after a month’s public relations exercises and board meetings was a black rubber stamp with the words, South Pacific Schooner Company. He regaled us with wild stories of living in 35 countries and considered living with us crew beneath his dignity, so he moved into the spacious owner’s cabin. While most of us had small canvas sea bags he had two suitcases and a full set of golf clubs. D.K. Dowling, Accountant, was tall, wore neat glasses and spoke at machine gun speed. It was incredible how fast he could speak and with each sentence came the same phrases. “The fact of the matter is,” or “the whole point is.” He was chasing rainbows. He thought a voyage on the last sailing trading schooner would be romantic. He was a square peg in a round hole. Tragically lacking confidence, he quit before the ship sailed. Jack Carruthers would have indeed been a world traveller if half of what he said was true. He talked of the black–birding trade in New 25
Beyond Boundaries
Guinea. One of the basic qualities of a good liar is a good memory and Jack was blessed with that. Everyone knew his stories were fantasy, but no one could catch him out. He was kind-hearted and jovial, and we couldn’t help liking him. Tom the Bosun was our saving grace. He was a first-class seaman. In the coming weeks there was much to be done and much to be learnt. Tom was a hard driver. We rigged, tarred down, painted, caulked the decks and laid dunnage in the hold in preparation for cargo. When it came to loading our cargo of cement and building materials, Les Ellis was in charge. Two longshoremen plus ship’s crew did the loading. The longshoremen immediately stopped work and wanted embarrassment money for loading toilet seats. It was obvious Ellis was positioning 80-tons of cement too far forward. Even as neophytes we could see she was going to be bow down. “I’ve been loading ships for 25 years. I know what I am doing.” He would say. Tom the Bosun, reached his patience limit. He walked up to Ellis and knocked him to the ground with a single punch. “She be down by the head boys. You’ll hav’ta take some of that cement outa the for’ard,” says Capt. Boulton. We spent Easter Sunday on our hands and knees barely able to breathe from choking cement dust hauling bags of cement aft between the narrow spaces below the deck. Eventually I learnt the last sailing Pacific Islands Trading Schooner was rotten and should have been scrapped. Virtually no one on board had any seagoing experience. In short, the ship was a farce. Tiare Taporo, in Polynesian language means flower of the lime. After fifty years of hard usage the flower had wilted. The Auckland Marine Department were aghast, but we signed Ship’s Articles anyway. My pay was one dollar per month. Charlie could not produce identification papers or an address. The Auckland Shipping Officer asked him where his father lived. He told him Papatoetoe. “Does your father drink beer?” “Yes.” The officer wrote down his address as Papatoetoe Pub. 26
Chasing Rainbows
We sailed on April Fool’s Day. The newspapers were caught up in the romance of our newsworthy departure, a disgraceful event. Leaving the wharf, we went aground and were finally towed stern first into the shipping channel and sent on our way like a naughty child. The ship leaked and the sails were in poor condition but somehow, we made everything work. The rig when trimmed to the wind seemed to know what was expected of her and ploughed towards the Cooks Islands, 1,700 miles to the North East. The captain reported his sextant was broken but in truth he had forgotten how to use it. Then the engine quit. I was asked to help and lowered myself into the reeling, stinking engine room where the great iron beast stood taller than even big Hamish. It was dark green in colour with an enormous flywheel on one end and the cursing Hamish on the other trying to coax movement out of a head bolt. Hamish said there were only two starts left in the air bottles and the generator was irreparable. “So the bastard had better start.” We worked for forty-eight hours. We took periodic rests, but Hamish kept on working, cursing, hammering and sweating freely. He replaced a set of rings and the cylinder head in a rolling seaway. We held our breath as Hamish gave it the last air start. The air whistled and began turning over the big cylinders. Then we felt the throb of 288 RPM from the 1948 Atlas Diesel. When Hamish saw the sunlight for the first time in forty-eight hours he was covered with oil and grease. He had big pudgy rough hands, big round head with hair cropped short, flaring nostrils and bloodshot eyes through lack of sleep. He wore a brown and yellow T-shirt two sizes too small with gaping holes through which protruded rolls of fat. We saw another side to our engineer. Hamish Murray of the Shetland Islands who had spent his life on old trading vessels, was not a qualified engineer, but was genius at improvisation, using bad language and brute force to keep ancient heavy-duty engines running. One night we heard the ominous sound of surf in the blackness so hove-to till dawn. We lay amongst the rocks of the Kermadec Islands way to the north of our intended course. In retrospect, had we not struck the Kermadecs we may not have found Rarotonga. 27
Beyond Boundaries
After fifteen days we used the local radio station as homing device and suddenly Rarotonga rose from the sea. A rain shower passed. The lush green mountain spires glistened against the gunmetal grey sky. On the shoreline rocks fine spray shot skywards. We could see rivers and waterfalls and sailing pirogues. We imagined girls with shiny black hair and flashing eyes. Capt. Boulton, in the dying light of the day, looks towards the rim of Rarotonga, “I never thought I would set foot on these shores again. Must be one of the few islands where I haven’t clouted a missionary.” Then it all went wrong. While entering the narrow channel into Avarua Harbour, he turned the wheel hard to starboard and deliberately drove the schooner onto the coral reef until it came to a grinding, shuddering halt. Capt. Boulton had finally lost it. He sat by the wheel with his head bowed between his legs and never said a word to anyone. Capt. Andy Thompson was called out of retirement and again took control of the schooner he had commanded for 32 years. Authors Nordhoff & Hall dedicated the Bounty Trilogy to this man directing operations today. The man known as Capt. Andy still had his broad Boston accent. I worked shoulder-to-shoulder with a legend. I would learn from this man. Without recrimination, Capt. Andy quietly and gently escorted Capt. Boulton off the ship and arranged for him to be sent back to New Zealand. At first the consignees would not accept the cargo because of the previous ban. In all probability Capt. Andy had a hand in the reversal. Capt. Andy wasn’t different from Capt. Boulton. He didn’t want to quit either. We carried bellies full of copra (along with cockroaches and rats) and building materials and oranges and pearl shell. These were still the days when island traders were the only contact the Cook Island inhabitants had with the outside world. The story goes during one trip a chicken was lost overboard. Capt. Andy immediately dispatched a man to the masthead, reversed the course and searched until he found the chicken, not because he wanted the chicken, but to give the crew and passengers assurance that if they fell overboard, he would come back for them. AB Donalds’ most famous passenger was the painter Paul Gauguin 28
Chasing Rainbows
who lived in the Marquises Islands and travelled on Donald Trading ships to Tahiti. He was always penniless and would pay his passage with his paintings. At sea the paintings were thrown overboard. Tiare was again banned from trading in the Cooks so we returned to New Zealand. Our second trip was to Noumea and the New Hebrides Islands. We loaded 140 tons of potatoes, onions and garlic. The new captain was 26-year-old Geoff George from China Navigation Company and holder of Certificate of Competency as Master of a Foreign Going Steamship. We arrived in Noumea with Geoff George standing ramrod straight atop the deckhouse in spotless white shirt, white shorts and white long socks. The paint was fresh, and her brass shone. Her magnetic compass base consisted of three bronze fish standing on their tails with the polished magnetic compass nestled between the heads. As we came alongside the commercial dock the French passenger liner Caledonia was being hauled off the dock by tugs. A group of tough looking girls were pelting the liner with stones. Hollow ringing noises rebounded off the steel ship. We discharged cargo within sight of a man who had hanged himself from the rafters of the nearby warehouse. 0450 hrs on the morning 23rd August 1964 we ingloriously sailed into Port Vila and passed down the harbour towards an old schooner used for storing copra when suddenly we hit the overhead power lines between the town and the Resident Commissioner’s island. Tiare was engulfed under tangles of wire. The Resident Commissioner won’t be using his electric razor this morning we joked. Our ship was arrested and towed to the fuel dock with a fine imposed to cover costs of repairs to the overhead power lines. The active volcano on Lopevi Island was erupting and two French vulcanologists were trapped on the island and posted as missing. The Government offered us a deal. If we volunteered the ship and safely retrieved the scientists, they would cancel the fine. Lopevi Island rose sheer out of the sea. We sailed into a cloud of white dust and dropped anchor. Five thousand feet above, the crater was obscured by dense cloud and smoke. Lava was still cascading down the slopes with steam gushing from cracks and crevices in charred vegetation and burnt tree stumps. 29
Beyond Boundaries
The island was covered in a mantle of lava ash and our rescue mission entered a world of unreality with steam gushing from vents in the ground. Only treetops were visible. We found the vulcanologists sheltering in a lean-to. Tiare Taporo was officially released from her burden of debt. The government was half British, half French. Strange combination because the two countries have never seen eye to eye on anything. The British were most popular, but the French had more possessions. The British established their Resident Commissioner on an island in the centre of the harbour, while the French built a luxurious residence on top of the hill overlooking the harbour. At 7 am each morning there was a bugling ceremony where both ensigns were raised. The British drove on the left, French on the right so it was not uncommon for two vehicles to be grille-to-grille blowing their horns at each other until one surrendered and moved aside. The British controlled dogs, the French were responsible for cats. Bob Paul was a local British trader who owned a few small planes and built his own airfield. Two French airplanes tried to land on his airfield, but he rolled out oil drums to block the runway. The French tried unsuccessfully to impose the death penalty. We tramped through the islands of Tanna, Malekula, Espiritu Santo, Ambrym, and Erromango picking up scraps of general cargo and sometimes, valuable sandalwood. No maritime laws existed. Anything that floated could trade. The research of Samuel Plimsoll had not reached this area. Maybe it was here in these Melanesian Islands that Rudyard Kipling got his inspiration for the lines in his poem, The Long Trail. I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll, Of a black Bilbao tramp, With her Loadline over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the trail that is always new.
30
Chasing Rainbows
The Traders said missionaries came to the islands to do good. Apparently, they did right well. The missions declared each islander was to donate fifty percent of his copra harvest to God. As the months passed the pile of copra alongside the church grew and grew. While the missionaries were away a local trader came ashore from his cargo schooner wearing a white sheet over his head and took the copra. When the infuriated missionaries questioned the natives, they received the simple response: "God came for it.” Finally, our money ran out. Local traders Tom Lowe and Bob Paul bought Tiare Taporo and continued trading in the New Hebrides Islands. Six months later she was wrecked, ending her career on a jagged reef off Aneityum Island. I still hear the words of Capt. Boulton. When I leave the western ocean to the south’ard I will steer In a tall colonial clipper far and far from ‘ere. Down the channel on the bowline, Through the tropics running free, when I’m through with this ‘ere ocean and when its through with me I’ll go flying like a seagull as they say old shellbacks do, To see the ships I sailed in and the shipmates that I knew. That was another rainbow. Sadly, the ocean was through with him. In New Zealand he was given command of a freighter for delivery to Japan, but he wrecked the ship in the Jomard Passage north of New Guinea. At age 78, they took away his Masters Papers. He was the captain with an enviable sea career; the captain whose only family was his shipmates; a sad captain who continued going to sea because no one wants you when you get old. The ship and crew were a farce, but it was a start. We did carry some cargo under sail and the ship did stagger, maybe blunder is a better word, across 8,000 miles of Pacific Ocean. Wanting more was my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 31
Becalmed somewhere in the South Pacific.
Bucket ‘n Chuckit. Ocean view. Plenty of ventilation. No moving parts. No restrictive laws. 32
3 OUTWARD BOUND Outside the system, carving out destiny on our terms, beholden to no one, no country and no rules. We stayed a day, a week, or a year at any island or in any country we chose. An hour’s notice was all we needed to up anchor and set sail towards the horizon. Life is like a game of billiards. Whether by design or accident we bounce from one person to another and that sometimes determines our life’s course. Ken Mills and I had the good fortune to meet Andy Wall and knocked all the balls into the side pockets with one shot. We met Andy at a party where we sang football songs. Andy casually asked, “You guys wanna sail to New Zealand?” Australians tend to speak in clipped tones, “Yeah,” we said. That simple word set my friendship with Andy that spanned the next four decades. Andy’s family owned one of the largest building companies in Australia. As a schoolboy on rare visits to the city, I saw Sydney skyscrapers displaying the signboard, Robert Wall and Sons. When Andy’s father died, the firm’s accountant assumed management responsibilities. Within 18 months Robert Wall and Sons was bankrupt. When the dust settled, Andy inherited $11,000 - enough to build a simple wooden sloop for which he had only modest plans. A truck carrying Douglas Fir and Spotted Gum timber diverted from its normal route and the contents of the truck were offloaded at Ron Swanson’s Boatyard where it was converted into a yacht hull soon to be named Carronade. Andy’s grandfather was Andrew Heron, born in Glasgow in 1880. In 1905 at age 25, he became Chief Engineer on the steamship Tambo delivering mail from England to Australia. 33
Beyond Boundaries
Whilst visiting Australia, Heron bought what was considered useless waterfront bush land on the shores of Pittwater. The price for two acres of waterfront land was four English Pounds. Travelling through the Straits of Taiwan, Tambo hit a typhoon. The engine room gang, known as the black gang, because they shovelled coal all day, abandoned the engine room and refused to work. Chief Engineer Andrew Heron took over and organised passengers to go down to the engine room and shovel coal. He led by example and kept the triple expansion steam engine running until the typhoon passed. In 1907, he was appointed Lloyds Surveyor and posted to China. In Shanghai at a reception given by Madame Chiang Kaishek, he met his wife Emily and together they settled in a strange southern continent called Australia. The Wall family waterfront house was aptly named Tambo and sits on that same waterfront land in Pittwater 20 miles north of Sydney, now home to the very rich. The house was constructed from oiled pitch pine timber. Koala bears nestled in the overhanging gum trees. An electric inclinator led down to a private dock where Carronade was moored. The house was part of the bankrupt estate. The bailiffs had not yet appeared, so Andy continued to live there. Ken and I also moved in for the final fit-out. Andy attended King’s College, a prestigious private school. As kids we poked fun at the King’s College uniform, a grey military uniform with red and blue stripes down the trouser legs, topped with a traditional Australian digger’s hat. After graduation, through family influence, Andy was accepted into Cooper Brothers, one of Australia’s Ivy League accountancy firms founded in 1850. Cooper Brothers proudly announced, “Andy Wall is a bright young man who will rise to the top.” Andy’s family owned a small wooden sloop called Irex. On any given day, Andy would report for work, hang his coat over the chair, scatter papers on his desk, then disappear out the back door down to his sloop and go sailing on Sydney Harbour. His accountancy career terminated suddenly when Irex sailed under the stern of Cooper Brother’s corporate yacht while they were entertaining guests. In the 110-year history of Cooper Brothers, no one had ever been fired. 34
Outward Bound
The young tanned rogue was asked to resign leaving him free to pursue his clear calling. Initially, Ken and I had two concerns; the small size of Andy’s yacht, and his absent-mindedness. We paid no attention when he had two accidents getting his car out of the driveway. However, when he went to the city and returned home by ferry with not the slightest idea where he had parked his car we began to worry. Andy had chosen an Australian designed Carmen Class sloop that had proven its worth in the tough Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. From an empty shell, he fitted her out himself with great foresight and practical common sense. Onlookers were openly skeptical, however our doubts disappeared when we quickly saw Andy was a natural sailor, organised and meticulous on a boat, but hopeless on the land. We could live with that. When we departed Andy’s dock at Tambo outbound around the world, I had nothing more than unbridled enthusiasm and $12 in my pocket. Only a fool or a supreme optimist would consider this amount sufficient to circumnavigate. Our sailing philosophy was simple. Our hull must be sound and our rig stout. We took care of the things that mattered; sea keeping qualities, simple tiller steering; good anchor gear, good rigging and sails, a one-cylinder diesel engine with hand start, five gallons of fuel, canvas pipe cots to sleep on, a place to cook, magnetic compass, sextants and some navigation tables. We had no toilet, no electronics, no anchor winch, no refrigeration and no self-steering. The two-way radio was the first thing we threw into the garbage in the belief that true self sufficiency must rest with us, and us alone, and not be dependent on others coming to assist if we got into trouble. In March 1965 we crossed the Tasman Sea to New Zealand arriving at the public dock in Russell in the Bay of Islands to the gaze of a gawking crowd. Despite the fact we had crossed an ocean, Andy insisted our little timber sloop must appear as if we had just been for a day sail. When we came alongside under sail it was a shambles. Andy spat the dummy. “Idiots. Incompetent fools. When we come alongside under sail, I expect a textbook professional operation. Professional is what I want to see.” 35
Beyond Boundaries
Andy’s voice raised another octave, “Professional! Do you understand?” Ken’s reaction was a monotone statement shot in my direction, “I think the tall chap is getting a bit excited.” “Yes, he does appear a little agitated.” Ken and I were surf bums and therefore taken by surprise with Andy calling for professionalism. Andy’s outburst was the road sign that he had standards. It was the first turning point in my life and during the next forty years I never heard Andy raise his voice again. From Russell we sailed south to Auckland and berthed in Westhaven Marina where our little sloop attracted attention because she was considered a radical design. Our first welcoming invitation was to the Gluepot Pub on top of the steep hill behind Westhaven. 6 pm closing was still in effect, stupidly introduced by a government thinking if the pubs were closed at 6 pm, husbands would go home to their families. Eight of us arrived at the Gluepot Pub whereupon our new yachting friends ordered six beers for each person. Each set of six was arranged in neat rows. Forty-eight glasses of beer on the bar resembling the top of a nuclear reactor. To our amazement the Kiwis synchronized watches. It was exactly 1724 hours, 34 minutes before closing time. On the dot of 1725 hours, eight beer glasses were ceremoniously hoisted, then chug-a-lugged in one shot. There was a momentary break for ribald chat and to wipe our mouths with the backs of our hands in preparation for the next onslaught. The rest is a blur. Every 5 ½ minutes, glasses of beer were hoisted. The pub announced ‘last drink’ then closed. We spilled out into the street and stumbled down the hill. I managed to stagger 100 metres before throwing up in a rose garden and swore off the demon drink forever. My $12 soon evaporated. A nearby butter factory displayed a Labour Wanted sign. The job entailed standing at the end of a conveyor belt while 56lb butter boxes whistled off the conveyor belt and smashed into my stomach. With each impact in the guts my stomach muscles cringed. As the days passed, I began to think further education might have been a good idea. 36
Outward Bound
Ron Holland, a 17-year-old schoolboy, became our frequent visitor. He was enraptured with sailing and in particular with our Carmen Class sloop. He simply joined our team and sometimes slept on our cabin sole. As the days passed, sitting below at our tiny dinette table he sketched delicate flowing yacht lines. Carronade had leaked since the day she was launched. We pumped all the way across the Tasman. She still leaked. Ron made a sketch of our bilge construction adding three stiffening floors. “If you install these floor reinforcements your leaks will stop,” he casually remarked. Andy studied the sketch. “Yes, it might work.” Then Ron overstepped the mark when he said to Andy, “In fact if you agree to go for a sail, I will teach you how to sail your yacht.” This was too much. Andy’s pride was bruised. “Listen here, you smart-ass, we’re the boys who just crossed the Tasman. What would you know about sailing?” “You’ll find out.” “Huh! We’ll agree to go sailing if for no other reason than to shut you up.” Sails were set in a fresh harbour breeze. Andy referred to Ron, who was two years our junior, as the young punk. Ron took the helm and his masterful manoeuvres made our yacht literally sing to the breeze. Who the hell was this kid? Where did he learn this stuff? Ron Holland gained our respect. When we finally sailed out into the Pacific, Andy grudgingly bestowed the ultimate compliment, “Hmm! That young Ron might amount to something one day.” Little did Andy know the magnitude of his prediction. Ron Holland became one of the world’s leading yacht designers. In 2019 he was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award, honouring a designer who made an indelible impression on the yachting industry. When we hauled out for antifouling paint, we received a visit from Alan Warwick who was a house architect. He said he heard we were planning a Cape Horn passage and asked us to visit his house that evening while he built a new main hatch for Carronade. “But our hatch is fine.” 37
Beyond Boundaries
"It is not fine. The opening is dangerously large and not acceptable design or construction. "What is it with these bloody Kiwis?” says an exasperated Andy. Alan Warwick’s garage turned out to be an immaculate workshop fitted with every modern woodworking machine imaginable. “Now boys, sit over there and don’t move. You can watch but I don’t want any of you touching my tools or machinery.” Alan supplied all the materials, timber, glue, screws and the paint. The finished product was a sturdy hatch which could be through bolted in a seaway. The design incorporated a tiny lockable hatch board system for access during extreme weather. This anecdote is extraordinary because shortly afterwards Alan Warwick also became of the world’s foremost yacht designers. Twenty years old and twenty days at sea in a small boat and suddenly Tahiti rises out of the sea. We see the purple bulk of the fabled isle gaining colour and substance. Andy, Ken and myself lost in our own thoughts. The isle of illusion thrusting her breast up through the great South Sea welcoming all-comers whether they be discoverers, men of God, poets or adventurers. We moored stern to the quay directly across from a bar called Quinn’s, literally a stumble away. Our mooring ropes were tied to old cannons buried in the dirt. Tahitian girls from Quinn’s bar greeted visitors with their song. Allo capitaine, ‘ow are you? Allo capitaine, ‘ow are you? I love you, yes I doooo. Goddamn sonofabitch, wassa mattah you? There’s never been a bar like Quinn’s. Ever. It roared day and night. It was a bamboo jungle, a grimy, stinking, crowded waterfront joint that smelled of stale beer and disinfectant, too much cigarette smoke and too little fresh air. As naïve youths we rubbed shoulders with archetypal French Legionnaires, Tahitians and seedy Caucasians resembling leftovers from a Joseph Conrad novel. People who had ventured into dives the waterfront dives of Marseilles or in Wanchai district in Hong Kong acknowledge that they had never tasted the full extravagance of descent until they entered Quinn’s. 38
Outward Bound
Imagine, someone said, a wild west saloon, take away the liquor control board, the fire marshal, the building inspector, the health and sanitation officer and what remained was Quinn’s. The place was unhinged. Music blared out into the street and along the waterfront. The bamboo walls pulsated; the floor bent in rhythm to the swing of frenzied dancers doing the Tamure dance. Fights broke out but the dancing didn’t stop. The music just played louder. Beer bottles, ashtrays and chairs would fly bringing more people into the fight. When it was over, strangers bought each other drinks at the bar. Women fought women, clawing and gouging and cursing with the victor going home with her man. It was said when a good man fell from Grace, he fell in Quinn’s. A mountain of beer crates stood on the sidewalk. On my first visit to Quinn’s I stood beside the entrance, transfixed in the way a young schoolboy might be on his first day of school. There was a momentary explosion of shouts and curses in front of me. Soon a dark body sailed through the air and landed with a brutal crash in the pile of beer crates. Inside, girls sought out rich tourists who gave them food, clothing or money so they could support their worthless beachcomber boyfriends. Susie-No-Pants was a Quinn’s girl, tough on the outside, heart of gold on the inside. “You summa beech,” she would say, “why everybody call me Susie-No-Pants?” She would stand up straight and tall, lift her flowered dress high and shout, “See, me have pants.” Then she would call to the waiter to bring another Hinano beer, and sometimes a beer for her companion, if she knew he had no money. Susie was like that. To Polynesians land means prestige. Land is handed down from generation to generation. Young Susie fell in love with a Norwegian seaman, sold her land and her cattle so she could lend her lover some money. He disappeared with the money and was never seen again. Susie brushed the matter aside and continued to laugh her way through life - Aita e peapea (never mind). Susie grew up in the Tuamotu Islands, harvesting coconut to turn into copra. She would proudly hold up calloused hands. 39
Beyond Boundaries
She made an effort to learn English and how to behave in polite company. On one occasion, apologetically she said to me, “Excuse, me go piss.” There was only one toilet in Quinn’s Bar. Known as the Fare iti (little house) separated from the dance floor by a tattered cloth curtain. It accommodated both men and women. Basically, you peed up against a sheet of rusty iron and it probably ran out into the street somewhere through a steel grating under foot. It took some getting used to. Merrily peeing away, when suddenly a girl beside me, dress hiked up, leaning well back, lets the excess beer go against the same sheet of steel. That, or they squatted over the grating below. Susie danced with such exuberance and such happiness that it was difficult to not follow her every move. She danced with whomever she liked. Went home with whomever she liked. But it was always her choice. “Allo Capitaine, tonight you comma my house, Goddamn you.” She followed her heart and the gods of uproarious good times. She was big framed and not pretty by European standards. Her beauty was larger, more generous and more powerful than that. She was all Polynesian woman, no holds barred. Her thick black hair hung midway down her back. A Tiare Tahiti flower stuck behind her left ear, her eyes were black and opaque. I am sure she was not aware of her startling appearance. Stan Raynor of the schooner, Dwyn Wen brought Charmayne to Tahiti. “I was doing some sail repairs in Raiatea when I was asked if I would like a nice young girl. She was fifteen at the time and quite lovely. The instant we arrived in Tahiti she was off like a homing pigeon towards Quinn’s. Later that evening I wandered by to see her. She had her arms around someone else, was wearing a straw hat adorned with frangipani flowers and had a stiff drink in her hand. She had found home.” Charmayne soon became known as the Wildflower of Raiatea. At 21 she was slim and beautiful but as her name implies, was wild, 40
Outward Bound
crazy wild. When drunk, she would scream like a banshee and threaten Legionnaires, whom she hated, with heavy Paua shell ashtrays, back them up against the wall and threaten to launch the lethal projectiles at their heads if they moved a muscle. By chance I met Madeleine Mihi from the island of Bora Bora. Madeleine was soft and gentle. We fell in love. I was twenty-one, she was twenty-three. We moved out to a small fare nihau, a palm thatched house nestled deep in the Fautaua Valley where waterfalls cascaded down from Mount Orophena above. There was lush, cool, overhanging vegetation and a river flowed past our front door. We lived in youthful innocent bliss. Madeleine was a girl from a Gauguin painting, clad in a pareu with long black hair cascading over her bare shoulders. She washed her clothes in the river that poured down from the mountains and made her own perfume from frangipani flowers. Sometimes before dawn we would sit on Point Venus eating mangoes, waiting for the sun to rise. The same Point Venus where Captain Cook made his observation of the transit of Venus. Cut and badly bruised from a motorbike accident, she explained with serious face, the Tupapau (ghost) jumped out of the bushes and pulled her motorbike into the roadside ditch. She refused to entertain the logic that Hinano beer had anything to do with it. It was definitely a Tupapau. The ghost pulled her into the ditch and that was the end of it.
41
Susie-No-Pants
Madeleine Mihi 42
21st Birthday, Manihi Atoll, Tuamotu Archipelago.
Valrosa – Rangiroa Atoll.
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4 SHIPWRECK
The money I earned in Auckland quickly dried up. I was fortunate to secure a job on a beautiful Fife designed schooner named Valrosa, making trips to the Tuamotu Archipelago and beyond. Andy decided to push on towards Hawaii. Bob Nance, a quiet and cultivated fellow from the unlikely bush town of Wallaby Creek in Australia, took my place. Bob had been shipwrecked and repatriated to Tahiti. Valrosa was owned by Marc Darnois a French fighter pilot who was shot down on the last day of World War II. He survived but lost one of his legs. Mark wore a Tahitian pareu around his waist and preferred to hop on his one leg rather than use prop assistance. He equally shared his time with his Tahitian wife and two French mistresses. A review of maritime accidents reveals one element in common. They all start out with no warning signs of what is to come. Valrosa was northbound under full sail towards the Tuamotu Atoll of Rangiroa when I went out to the end of the bowsprit. Being so far out from the deck I could look at the ship as a separate vessel. Our black hull supported a pyramid of towering canvas. The night air was quiet, sea steady, sails motionless. On board on this particular passage was mistress number one, a former cabaret girl, and mistress number two, the wife of a French doctor. We had just cleared Rangiroa Atoll when the weather deteriorated. 44
Shipwreck
Change of plan. We would run back to Huahine in the Society Islands. Our course intended to pass north of the archipelago during the night so that by daybreak the way would be clear to stand south to pass safely between Tikehau and Matahiva Atolls. At 0400 hours we changed watch and I stood alone at the helm, the sea and the long heaving deck. Heavy rain restricted visibility. Rain on the varnish work made the spars glisten. A faint white light threw life onto the compass. The air was swollen with freshness and the wind moaned aloft. I hunched against the driving rain. At 0425 hours I saw the silhouette of a coconut tree directly ahead of the bowsprit. It was that image which for generations, sailors have glimpsed before their destruction. In those few remaining instants you try to imagine what it is going to be like when you hit the coral reef. I spun the wheel hard to starboard. I saw images of dark waves. Finally, it came, the agonising, crunching, grinding sounds as the schooner came to rest on the coral, deck towards the shore, keel to weather. A few streaks of light showed the outline of the stricken ship lying over on her side. It was obvious the 42-ton lead keel had snapped off on impact leaving no alternative but to abandon ship. With our inflatable dinghy, via a lifeline, we ferried the passengers to shore. Marc and I sat together with feet on the lower bulwarks, backs against the deck. The ship was breaking up. Slowly the water rose. Past our ankles, knees and finally our waists. Suddenly the deck opened up like a giant clamshell and spat planks and fastenings into the sea. The ship’s back was broken. With the keel gone there was nothing left to hold her together. Marc said, “We must leave the ship now, please get my sextant for me.” It was still dark as we jumped into the sea and swam to the safety of the coral shelf. The sextant case opened with the impact of hitting the water. I slammed it shut leaving it full of seawater and waited for a suitable wave. Stalling body motion upon its crest I allowed myself to be carried along with the suctioning force at the back of the wave. It was an old trick learnt from surfing. This cushioned the impact of slamming into the sharp coral. We sat in a line on the sandy beach and helplessly watched the schooner being pounded to matchsticks. 45
Beyond Boundaries
Towards the east the sun struggled to penetrate leaden clouds. The entire port side had been stove in because we recognised interior fittings washing ashore. Stout oak frames and sturdy teak planks, bonded together 62 years ago by Southampton shipwrights, were crushed like eggshells. Thoughts. If it hadn’t been raining, I might have seen the reef. If the wind had been ahead, I may have heard the roar of surf. Fast forward to 2011. Capt. Graeme Lawrence, of the superyacht Rasselas, visited Tikehau Atoll armed with my old logbook entries from 1965. He applied this data with visual observations to stitch together the most probable course of events. On 28th November 2011, Capt. Lawrence sent the following report: “We have plotted your course from the information you have given. Early indications showed you did not take into account the strength of the adverse current, which in turn slowed your speed over the ground. Given currents are difficult to predict within this Archipelago (and given you already knew currents generally run easterly through the atolls) you may have overlooked the fact that the current velocity can increase after strong southerly winds. The Estimated Position from the course and logbook looks good, but you may have been slower over the ground, creating the error. Clearly you turned too early onto the southwest course 227 degrees at 0300 hours and we believe from the attitude of the stricken ship on the reef, the wind angle was 40-60 degrees confirming Valrosa was wrecked on the north east shore of the atoll. Looks like you should have run north of Mataiva Atoll and gybed over at daybreak. It is quite one thing to analyse the situation from the bridge of Rasselas with our array of computers and electronics compared to your chart, compass and your eyesight.” Reduced to a level of no clothes and no shoes our shipwrecked group was taken to the village of Toherahera, where the inhabitants banded together to make our stay comfortable. They insisted we sleep in their beds while they slept on the floor. We reciprocated on early morning fishing parties to the Pass and helped villagers collect coconuts for producing copra. 46
Shipwreck
This completed the cycle started on Tiare Taporo in the Cook Islands. The coconut is split with an axe and dried in the sun on sheets of corrugated iron. Once dry the coconut meat is gouged from the husk, bagged and sent to market for the manufacture of perfumes and oils. At night we sat beneath a large Tou tree with ukuleles made from coconut shells and quietly hummed a solemn tune that I could not understand but knew was about Valrosa. Carrying salvaged name boards and pieces from the stricken schooner we returned to Papeete as passengers on a local trading vessel. No investigation followed. The schooner Valrosa was wrecked.
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0400 hours 30th October 1965. Schooner Valrosa wrecked, Tikehau Atoll, Tuamotu Archipelago. (Only surviving photo by Bicky Marque)
Carrying wreckage from the schooner’s transom. (Photo La Dépêche de Tahiti)
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Worldly possessions. Marooned on Tikehau Atoll. Tuamotu Archipelago. French Polynesia.
49
Beyond Boundaries
14th November 1965. Dear Dad, I am writing specifically to you because I do not want to alarm mother. I have been shipwrecked in the Tuamotu Archipelago. I am now safely in Tahiti. My sole possessions are a pair of shorts and a ripped T-shirt. I have no money and no passport. A doctor’s wife kindly gave me a pair of thongs so at least I have some footwear. Even in Tahiti a person without shoes has no dignity. I have a wonderful Polynesian girlfriend named Madeleine with whom I am staying but I am stuck without money even for daily essentials. I need a new passport but again it comes down to money. Please I am asking if you could send me some money c/o the Banque de l’Indochine, Papeete, Tahiti. The wreck of the schooner Valrosa has been in all the newspapers so I should be able to collect the cash without passport. I am sorry to ask for your assistance, but I have no other person to whom I can turn. Des 2nd December 1965. Dear Des, Your mother is unaware of the content of this letter because I also do not want to distress her. Mothers tend to forget children grow up, become adults, make, and are responsible for, their own decisions. When you decided to be a vagabond your mother and I gave you our blessing knowing full well we would have angst from time to time. I quote from the poem, “The Men Who Don’t Fit In." There’s a race of men that don’t fit in. A race that can’t stay still. So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will, They range the field and rove the flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest. 50
Shipwreck
There are worse places to be destitute than Tahiti. Adventure builds character but so does adversity. While I appreciate your sticky situation without passport or money, I have decided not to send you any money. Instead you must draw on inner strength and resourcefulness to dig yourself out of this hole. This will be your first true test to see if you can wheel your own barrow. On a conciliatory note your mother has already posted a Christmas cake to you addressed for pick up at Poste Restante, Papeete, Society Islands. Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, Father. I found the poem by Robert Service to which my father was referring. It struck a chord. And each forgets as he strips and runs, With a brilliant, fitful pace. It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones, Who win in the lifelong race, And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime has past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead, In the glare of the truth at last.
51
Beyond Boundaries
Madeleine invited me to her family home in Anau on the windward side of Bora Bora. For generations her family had fished, grown copra, breadfruit and vegetables. They were self-sufficient and needed nothing from the outside world. The family house is set back in the trees and nestled in the arm of the bay. On the seaward crook of the arm stands a pillar of rock akin to the rock statues of Easter Island. The land behind the house gradually climbs until it abuts sharp granite rock projections. The yard is spacious and consists of three separate palm-thatched fares, a washing house, a cookhouse and an eating house. Separate from the rest is the sleeping house, of dark blue weatherboard construction with palm thatched roof. Inside on the floor is a mass of mattresses gaily covered with pareu material. One side faces the mountain, the other overlooks the sea. The windows are curtained with blue and white pareu. I see one large table with watermelons underneath, a set of book shelves, an 18th century cabinet salvaged from a wrecked sailing ship, a dividing wall displays travel posters from Waikiki, London’s Big Ben clock with double decker bus in front, a Phillips radio, a French flag, a stuffed koala bear and strings of shell leis. Outside the yard is dotted with well-tended flower gardens, grapefruit and breadfruit trees. A peaceful scene broken only by the cry of children or chickens. The muffled sound of an outboard engine can be heard across the coral lagoon with its magnificent colours of turquoise, purple and brown. Surf booms on the outer reef. Mama is big boned and handsome with hands roughened from manual labour. Papa smiles and drinks Hinano beer. Madeline’s sister is classic Polynesian, tall and strong with an animated face, 21 years old and expecting her third child. Papa roasts a pig in an emu pit. We drink Hinano beer. Madeleine strums her ukulele quietly singing the Hinano song - Tamarii Punaruu Oe Hinano. Papa gets paralytic drunk. In the night he passes out on the bare wooden boards of his fishing canoe. Mama goes to comfort Papa. Madeleine and I find Mama in the darkness singing lullabies to Papa who is fast asleep with his head on Mama’s lap in the fishing canoe. Soon they are both asleep. Madeleine says the sun will wake them in the morning. 52
Shipwreck
I had never witnessed love like this. Mama and Papa committed to each other forever, come what may. I needed money. An opportunity arose to deliver a yacht up to Honolulu. Sadly, it involved leaving Madeleine. Early morning on the day of departure we left our palm thatch house for the last time. We gathered our belongings and silently closed the door. The morning air was crisp, and the stream was running strongly from the night’s rains. We took coffee at Viama’s. Madeleine’s eyes were bright, she had good white teeth and her hair was long and shining. My parting words, “J’y reviendrai,” I shall return, were reciprocated by, “Bon courage à bientôt.” We kissed on both cheeks.
53
Carthaginian, San Francisco bound.
Old sailor’s trick. Heave to (stop the ship) by backing the main yards.
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5 ‘FRISCO BOUND In Honolulu I was again reunited with Andy and Ken and together we shipped out on the tall ship Carthaginian bound for California. This would be Ken Mills’ last passage before returning home to Australia to marry. Since leaving Australia, Ken had written daily letters to his girl Sue. Each letter included a water colour painting depicting our whereabouts. I would take Ken’s place on Carronade with Andy Wall and Bob Nance. The Chinese say you are not a man until you have walked on the Great Wall. We believed you were not a real seaman until you had laid out on the footropes on the main topsail yard of a square-rigged ship and fisted heavy canvas. The windjammer has often been described as the most beautiful of all man’s creations. These fine ships were once the only means for passengers and cargo to traverse the world’s oceans. The sailing ship’s gear is a model of order and system – a place for everything and everything in its place. Every rope and line has its purpose. The lead of gear follows a clearly defined principle and any sail trained seaman can lay his hand on a particular line no matter how dark the night. Ships used God’s wind according to patterns and rules. Wind doesn’t cost a thing. Once the sailing ship has passed the wind is still there for others to use. Square rigged sailing ships and skills were brought to perfection then thrown away as steamships took over. Carthaginian’s Captain Tucker Thompson was a stocky and wellmuscled man of thirty-eight. 55
Beyond Boundaries
My first time aloft I climbed through the maze of rigging with the ship diminishing in size beneath. Up the lower shrouds, over the awkward futtocks, up the t’gallant rigging and higher still, swinging out onto the footropes of the royal yard. I kept thinking to myself, “I’m fine while the vessel is still fast to the dock, but how about taking in the royal during a gale-wracked night at sea with the masts whipping and the canvas wet and stiff like cardboard doing its utmost to tear fingernails from the quick?” Memorable passage written by Alan Villiers when working high in the masts of a square-rigged ship. Once a steel buntline, writhing back over the yard caught Zimmerman in the head and brought swift blood. He reeled a bit, but carried on. Then after a while we saw that he had fainted and lay in imminent peril across the yard. For one awful moment the canvas stayed still while we fought to him. Then because we could not take him down, we lashed him there. When we had time to remember him, we found that be had come to and was back working. Words could not describe the childlike joy I felt with my feet firmly planted on the footropes, leaning over the yard with ribs hooked onto the iron jackstay across the top of the yard which allowed both hands free to work and fist canvas. At night down below Andy and I studied books on masting and rigging and handling square-rigged ships. In the dark of night we went high into the rigging to discuss various points. The following day with our teams we each took a mast and began bending the heavy square sails as if we had been sailing in square rig all our lives. From the start we developed keen man-to-man competition. Andy with his team on the foremast working against mine on the mainmast to see who bent the four sails first. No matter who won, there was always criticism of the opposition’s furls. I learnt professionalism from Andy and now we were in direct competition with each other. We became accustomed to working aloft. We were fit, hands calloused, general appearance unkempt, clothes covered with tar and we reeked of hemp, oakum and marline. Carthaginian was no yacht. The work was hard and filthy, tarring rigging, moving pig-iron ballast and hauling sail. All the while the man-to-man spirit became bitter curse-for-curse competition. 56
‘Frisco Bound
Even simple events like going aloft were a race. The easiest way to come down to the deck was by sliding down the backstays. This further developed onto forestays and topmast stays. In the end we learnt how to work on all three masts without ever touching the deck. We set up the seventy-two deadeyes and lanyards used for setting the rig taut with chain blocks. Men spread throughout the rigging trying to outdo each other. Andy and I were the two mates on board. It was still dark when we slipped the heavy mooring lines and the black vessel nosed out of Waikiki in the grey of dawn. Seafarers never use the word ‘Frisco’ yet somehow ‘Frisco Bound’ seemed to fit the atmosphere of the morning. We sang to an old Hawaiian song. Mrs. Poupoulee got lots of papaya. Oh! Mio Maya, she got big papaya. She heaved to the ocean swell, as all hands turned to sweating down halyards and sheets of the fore and aft sail. As dawn broke, several men were sent aloft to cast off gaskets from courses and topsails. Terms foreign to us weeks before broke the early morning air. Orders constantly given then rapidly executed as we sang out at the ropes in our hoarsest voices. It took fourteen hours to set sail on our first attempt. One hundred and fifty-one lines had to be belayed. “What about the t’gallants, Tucker?” “Yeah, let’s get it all up.” On departure we accounted for the loss of nine men. Many of them had worked hard in port but found they couldn’t cope working aloft. Others found that sailing a square-rigger was anything but romantic. Some imagined life at sea as sitting in a deck chair while the ship sailed itself. Our crew now stood at eight able-bodied men. Not enough. “Do you think we can sail with eight?” asks Tucker. “Yes, we can, what we lack in numbers we make up for in spirit.” Six days out, Andy woke me. “Psst, Des, wake up mate. I want to show you something on deck.” Feeling groggy I looked at my watch. I had only been asleep half an hour. “What the hell do you want?” Springing from my bunk I am thrown violently against the hull. “Jesus! What are you doin’ up there?” “Come up on deck and see before Tucker wakes up and spoils it.” 57
Beyond Boundaries
Heavy oak timbers deadened the noise of wind and sea, so I was doubly taken aback as I emerged on deck to find it was blowing wildly. Carthaginian was channels down carrying an overpowering press of canvas. I followed Andy to the stern where Ken was giving the helm a careful spoke or two. “Welcome to the watch of real seamen.” “Up yours mate,” I said in passing. They were sweating a strange looking tackle leading back to the taffrail. Andy then explained what he had done. The mizzen topmast was a weak spar, after setting both royals, he had taken the brace leads via the mizzen back to the taffrail, thus jury staying the rig and at the same time supporting the mizzen topmast sufficiently to set the mizzen topsail. “I said a quick prayer that all three masts didn’t come down around our ears. It is highly unorthodox, but it works,” explained Andy. Tucker woke and ordered the royals to come off. At the change of watch, we learned they had logged 42 miles in the four hours. It was our job to better it. As Ken went below he sniped, “They wouldn’t have the guts to put the royals back on.” Jim and I were on our way to loose the gaskets when Tucker called me back. I was mentally preparing a protest speech. “The royals and the flying jib,” he said. As I weaved up through the rigging, I could see Jim Kohler keeping even pace on the bucking spars. We laid out on the royal yard and cast off the sail gaskets. From the deck the sail sheeted home, the yard was raised and the big black ship surged half a knot faster. Jim began to whoop with joy. I soon caught the fever and together we gave back yell for yell to the howling southeaster. Our feet were firmly planted on the footropes. Our ribs hooked over the jackstay. Not only was it quite comfortable but left both hands free to tackle the work at hand. Though I must admit at times the old adage, one hand for the ship and one for yourself, became two hands for ourselves when the only thing we could do was hang on. Below others were setting the flying jib. It was sheer lunacy, but we tore on with our wash ports clanging. So fired with enthusiasm were we, and so whole-heartedly did we throw ourselves into working the ship that when we raised the Golden Gate none of us were prepared for it. 58
‘Frisco Bound
Exactly one hundred and thirty years before, a young man named Richard Henry Dana, sailing before the mast, in the Brig Pilgrim approached the same San Francisco Bay. He would have been about our age, in his early twenties. He had been an undergraduate of Harvard University but a weakness of the eyes forced him to give up his studies and undertake the two-year voyage to cure his eyesight by a complete change of environment, a long absence from books, plenty of hard work, plain food and open air. At that time, California was Spanish. Dana describes the Bay. “Lying in latitude 37 degrees, 58 minutes, magnificent, containing several good harbours and surrounded by fertile and finely wooded country. There was an old fort, the Mission of Delores and near the bight of Yerba Buena trading vessels anchored. There was no other habitation on that side of the bay except a shanty of rough boards put up by a man named Richardson who did a little trading with the Indians. The next year Richardson built himself an adobe house on the same spot long afterwards known as the oldest house in the great city of San Francisco.” Carthaginian seemed incongruous with the distant glistening city, the spanning causeway and the States Line merchant ship standing out to sea. Silhouetted against the setting sun and inspired by the ever-freshening breeze San Francisco Bay opened up before us. We squared the yards and let her tromp down the harbour. Showmanship? Yes. But rather than round up to anchor the opportunity to show off was too much to resist because for us this was probably our last day in square rig. In the lee of the Island of the Angeles, which Dana called Wood Island because there he collected firewood, we clewed up and furled all sails, like two pencils, one upon the other, an acquired standard we hoped would do our forefathers proud. Upon nightfall we dropped anchor in Sausalito under a high and beautiful sloping hill. Dana spoke of such a hill, “upon which herds of hundreds and hundreds of red deer and the stag, with his high branching antlers, were bounding about looking at us for a moment, and then starting off, afrighted at the noises which we made for the purpose of seeing the variety of their beautiful attitudes and motions.” I am sure it was the same hill. 59
Replacing chafing gear while underway from a bosun’s chair
The girl-in-the-tub Gayle Chambers (Carthaginian1966 photo) republished in this book because we have a suspicion that she may have been a mermaid in disguise. 60
Andy Wall furling the royal sail.
Des Kearns, Ken Mills and Andy Wall overhauling buntlines. We wore farmer’s rubber boots on the foot ropes. 61
6 SIXTIES COUNTER-CULTURE
Andy got into a monumental fight in the Ala Wai Yacht Harbour which continued throughout New Year’s Eve. Each combatant slugged it out. Both were tough. Neither would quit. Just after midnight Bob and I returned to Carronade to find Andy lying in his bunk in a pool of blood. He didn’t move for three days. When we departed again for San Francisco, Bob and I sailed the boat because Andy couldn’t get out of his bunk. He was badly injured. Fifteen days later we entered the San Francisco ship channel. Beyond the Golden Gate we drifted with the incoming tide. Fog cascaded down the hill behind Sausalito like a giant waterfall. Sausalito had a touch of Colonial America, a community of voyaging sailors, authors, artists and vagabonds. The Sixties was the decade where the Establishment lost control of the people. The Sixties was the zenith of America. Everybody was driving big convertibles. The Hippie era was at its peak of national crisis and revolt against the Vietnam War. Haight-Ashbury district was where flower power met free love. Hordes of hippies boarded psychedelic buses and crisscrossed America looking for music festivals to drop out and turn on. Janice Joplin delivered her message in a haze of LSD on her psychedelic red bus. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. 62
Sixties Counter-Culture
The counterculture had been building since the 50’s. Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda produced their film Easy Rider shooting with hand-held cameras from motorcycles across America with their message. People who are free are viewed by the Establishment as dangerous. Bob Dylan was the reluctant voice of a generation. His songs were anthems for the Civil Rights movement of anti-war. How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man. Yes,‘n’ how many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand? Yes, ‘n’ how many times must cannonballs fly before they’re forever banned? The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind. Bruce Brown’s surf film Endless Summer followed two surfers, Mike Hynson and Robert August on a surfing trip around the world, travelling the coasts of Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti, Hawaii, Senegal, Ghana, Nigeria and South Africa, in a quest to find new surf spots. Endless Summer became part of the counterculture against conventional living and societal norms. At Cape St. Francis, South Africa the trio walked over an expanse of sand dunes and discovered waves so perfect they could have been made by a machine. We chose our itinerant life. We crossed the Pacific Ocean seeking out the best sailing conditions and remotest islands. Rarely did we see another yacht. Ocean voyaging in small boats was still relatively new. We were beholden to one, no country and no rules. We stayed a day, a week or a year at any island or in any country we chose. An hour’s notice was all we needed to up-anchor and set sail towards the horizon and a new adventure. Outside the system, carving out our destiny on our own terms. It was a golden, innocent time when anything was possible. In Sausalito, the ‘sit-ins’ were happening at the end of our dock. To our surprise Sterling Hayden, sailor, actor and writer, sat crosslegged amongst the hippies with flowers in his hair, smoking dope. Right on our doorstep was the man we had come to see. On Rangiroa Atoll we visited the wreck of his schooner Wanderer and took a belaying pin from the wreck. We wished to pass it on to him as a lasting memento of his great sailing vessel and his adventure when he bought the San Francisco Pilot schooner Gracie S, renamed her Wanderer and escaped to the South Seas. 63
Beyond Boundaries
His railway carriage sat on a Sausalito spur hidden by a building and an embankment, giving him privacy but with a view of San Francisco Bay. His executive rail car was built for tycoons in the 1890’s era. Lined with fine polished mahogany panelling and brass fittings, oil-burning heating, brass bed secured to the bulkheads of the master stateroom, two smaller staterooms, something railroaders call a ‘kitchen’ and a spacious writer’s den aft. His den reflected his character. Sturdy oak desk, an old teapot he used to brew tea so strong a mouse could walk on it. One of his two typewriters, an ancient Underwood, was reminiscent of clicking telegraph keys. There were brass oil lamps, ships clocks, framed photos of all his eight previous sailing ships; shells and carvings from the South Seas. Hayden offers me a seat and graciously accepts the polished lignum vitae belaying pin. He caresses this tangible link to his beloved schooner Wanderer then looks squarely at me. Hard living had taken its toll. He had fiery deep-set eyes, bushy eyebrows, slightly reddish hair and a set of fine big teeth seen through a reddishbrown beard, greying along the cheekbones. A tall craggy man at six foot five inches. His presence dominated similar to putting the positive pole of a magnet underneath a sheet of paper covered with iron filings. The iron filings are drawn to the focal point but at the same time keep their distance around the centre of the magnetic field. I was humbled to be in his presence. Sterling Hayden spoke to me with passion about the day he returned with his schooner from the South Seas to face the courts and bankruptcy… “When I returned with Wanderer from Tahiti, as I approached San Francisco Bay from seaward the scene that I saw before me no artist could paint. A windless night and soft, with a light ship chained to a leaden sea beneath a mass of luminous cloud. The sea that never sleeps all but sleeping. A dark and desolate prairie, nothing abroad on its surface save three ships converged, and at the edge of its plunging slope and the far-flung blink of the light on Southeast Farallon. Wanderer ghosted in from the west and all unchallenged passed the anchored lightship and rounded up alongside the pilot schooner 64
Sixties Counter-Culture
California. The early eastern sky still glowed with the lights of San Francisco. The lightship’s welcoming beacon stabbed the night at fifteen-second intervals. From the California came a hail of recognition. It sent a small boat and over the rail climbs the burly form of a pilot wearing a felt hat. “I brought you the morning Chronicle. The courts and the lawyers and the Press are waiting to hang you out to dry Hayden.” The pilot paces the deck for a bit taking in the gear and the sails. This great schooner served us Pilots well for fifty years. Wish I had been with you, Hayden and I say that from the heart. If they give you a hard time you can always call on the San Francisco bar pilots for support.” “Once we cleared the Golden Gate inbound, I throttled down and we glided past the smiling Sausalito waterfront. The sun poured down and the cars on the causeway suddenly headed for parking spots. People leapt out to wave and fumble with cameras. Up in the green hills people stood on porches peering through telescopes instead of at Sunday papers. All eyes were on the Wanderer, both the boat and the man. Our old mooring basin still lay half in the clutch of the new marina, no swinging room remained, and the entrance was only a slot. A selfstyled wharfinger shouted, “You’ll have to anchor, Hayden, and wait for slack water. Too much current now, see?” He dumps a crate in the water. Spike was leaning on the rail with eyes fixed on me already knowing what I would do, “Spike, we’ll back the bastard in.” “What else?” Spike hocks and spits over the side. “I bent to a match for a cigarette, rolled up my sleeves, open full throttle and ram the wheel hard over. Idle down, reverse and rev up, idle and jam ‘er ahead, three times in fast succession. She carves a big ponderous arc. When the time is right, I back down hard and she pounds in now, full in the face of some pilings. The ebb sets her sideways. A clown near the end of the bulkhead dressed in a yachtsman’s suit starts jumping up and down, “Go ahead, you’re gonna smash the dock.” I remain calm and shout back, “For Christ’s sake shut up.” 65
Beyond Boundaries
“She pounds in, stern first, threading the eye of the slot. Spike casually drops a mooring line over the neck of a passing piling. “Fourteen inches, fourteen inches to spare.” Someone throws a few turns on the capstan. “Check her.” I say. Two bowlines snake ashore. The ebbing current is strong. “Surge just a touch as she goes.” “The wet line stretches and stiffens with water wrung from its strands. She hangs fire now and notch-by-notch we throttle back. Reverse gear growls and the diesel whines and the whole ship trembles as she springs herself, inch by inch, across the grain of the current. Spike is chewing tobacco fast. I give her a few more revs. Spike boots the line and it rings like steel. “Ishmael!” says Spike, “if that bastard parts, you’re going straight back through the post office and halfway up the hill.” Luck and the spring line held. With mud from the bottom churning, she clawed her way into her berth, just one ship length from where we began our renegade voyage. I rang down with a vengeance. Finished with engines. It was the final nail driven into my casket of my past. What awaited me were viscous court sessions and custody battles.” Throughout winter we sat snugly berthed on Sausalito’s T-Pier. When we heard a high-pitched, whining voice from the dock. Andy is annoyed. “Sounds like a bloody religious crackpot.” The intruder continues to wail. “Hear me, ye sinners, ye wayward wanderers, you’ve left your mother and I all alone in an empty house looking at four walls.” Andy’s had enough. “Let’s get rid of this idiot.” We emerged on deck to see a man imitating a preacher. He is holding a piece of wood like a microphone. His woollen cap is bent low on his forehead. Under the brim of his cap, kind but piercing eyes. He has a seafarer’s white beard. “Who the hell are you?” asks Andy with a smirk. “My name is Spike Africa.” 66
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Humbled and embarrassed, we stand before the great schooner master himself, the self-proclaimed President of the Pacific Ocean. “Every year we seek out homeless ones and invite them into our home for Thanksgiving Dinner. This day celebrates the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. After several years of crop failures, the Pilgrims finally had a prosperous year. They shot a wild turkey and had a celebration dinner. The custom has remained in America ever since. The Africa family would be grateful if you would accept our invitation.” Spike Africa’s living room was situated high on the hill above Sausalito. It smacked of a New England maritime museum with old oak furniture, a homely fireplace, rich worn carpets, bits of old ships, old paintings, scrimshaw on whale’s teeth and fancy rope work. “It’s a good job we’re high on the hill otherwise on a high tide we’d sail away.” says Red, Spike’s wife. Red serves Thanksgiving Dinner to Spike, her three kids, Dede, Kit and Dana, and to Andy, Bob and myself. Heaped plates of turkey with cranberry sauce, baked potatoes, yams, carrots and peas, the best meal we’d had in years. Rum flowed and we studied the man they call Spike Africa. We had already heard the story when he went to sea as a young boy and the captain asked his name. “Spike, Sir.” “Spike what?” “Just Spike.” “We’re bound for Africa,” said the captain, “therefore we shall record your name as Spike Africa.” Spike burps and spits tobacco juice into a cuspidor. He pauses for a minute, lifts his leg and lets go an enormous reverberating fart. Red and the kids yell, Hooray! Cheering him on and laughing through their tears. We found ourselves in the bosom of a real family. Spike was right. We were the homeless ones. Spike puts a wad of Copenhagen snuff inside his lower lip, raises his rum glass, looks down in the direction of Hayden’s rail car. “To you Ishmael.” 67
Jack Earl oil painting. Carronade abeam Cape Horn, 30th March 1967.
Tierra del Fuego routing. 68
7 ALONG THE CAPE HORN ROAD
Outward bound again. 13th December 1966 heralded thick fog. We ghosted down San Francisco Bay accompanied by the yacht Griffyn. Deep-throated foghorns from Alcatraz and Lime Point bade us farewell. Our Blue Ensign hangs limp. It was difficult to leave newfound friends. The previous Sunday there had been a special church service to wish us well. Sena Burke is on board Griffyn, an attractive, red haired girl who had given me her St. Christopher’s Medal to keep me safe. Her father had given it to her when she was a child and she had worn it ever since. On the Golden Gate, commuters sped on their way to their offices. Foghorns seemed to be everywhere, distant strident tones all mixed and lost in the thick damp wool of the fog. In the greyness we sailed close to the stern of pilot schooner California and gave a brief wave to the San Francisco bar pilots. “To be truly challenging,” recorded Sterling Hayden, “a voyage, like a life must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is about. I’ve always wanted to sail to the South Seas but I can’t afford it. What these men can’t afford is not to go. 69
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They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of security and in the worship of security we grind our lives beneath the wheels of routine. Before we know it, our lives are gone. What does a man need? Really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in, and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That’s all in the material sense. And we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, gadgetry and playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by. The dreams of youth lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. Where then lies the answer? In choice which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?” We disappeared into a grey void and laid our course towards Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas Islands. Andy stood on the stern looking back towards San Francisco. “No matter how hard you stare you can’t see Heather in this fog,” says Bob. Andy stands, eyes transfixed. Cupid had shot his arrow into Andy’s heart. He was pining for Heather and we were headed south towards the tip of South America, a distance of 9,000 miles. We were broke. In cash collectively we had a few hundred dollars. We had chosen adventure over comfort, uncertainty over security. Living without material attachment does not mean owning nothing or not having material goods. It means not being owned by what you own. It means not worrying about losing such things, and not betraying integrity and principles and especially freedom from such things. It means making decisions not based on material gain, but for the greater good of the cause. The cause being one’s dreams and objectives, whatever they may be. It also means the seeking of hardships, sacrifice and difficulties as challenges to be confronted. Christmas Day. Latitude 11 deg. 05.6 North, 127 deg. 21 East. Thoughts of hearth and home made poignant by Andy reading selected lines from Robert Louis Stevenson’s Christmas at Sea. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer, For it is just that I should tell you of all the days in the year, This day is blessed Christmas morn. 70
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And the house above is the house where I was born. Oh! Well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk was of me, Of the shadow on the household, the son that went to sea. From our Sailing Ship Directory dated 1898, we read, “Captains are advised not to put into the Marquesas Islands lest they should lose half their crew to the licentious women.” This was our second visit to the Marquesas. Drifting down Taiohae Bay with catspaws of wind we see the village of Taiohae nestled hard up against cliffs cloaked with unusual and awesome peaks, green and lush, dropping to black sand beaches. Louie is the local Gendarme and usually comes out to visiting vessels for Customs and Immigration formalities. Apart from having a French wife he has a local girlfriend (an anybody’s girl) named Dora. Andy immediately gets on the wrong side of Louie by first arriving with an expired visa then stealing his girlfriend. Louie unilaterally imposed a curfew. No sleeping ashore. No exceptions. Another Australian yacht was also occupying Louie’s time. Tropic Seas was owned by five Australian youths. An argument developed. Two of the youths stole the yacht and sailed to Honolulu abandoning the other three in Maurice’s Bar where a calendar hung with a painting of Tiare Taporo set against the granite spires of Bora Bora. These were the Marquesas, the desolate isles, the wilderness isles, the islands that always were outcasts, but never more so than now. Far more than Oceania, these islands had known the wrath of the white man. The Marquesan resented being enslaved. He fought back when they chained him and shipped him to the hellish guano islands off Peru. He fought back when the pious Yankee whale ships came in quest of brawny harpooners and moist warm island girls. And he fought back when the traders swindled him out of his land and the missionaries laid siege on his soul. In less than a hundred years, Marquesans were all but extinguished. In 1800 the population was estimated at 85,000. A century later, because of disease, debauch, suppression and outright slaughter, the pitiful remnant numbered less than 2,600 among the islands that comprise the archipelago. 71
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On a veranda overlooking Taiohae Bay we met veteran trader Bob McKitrick, now 87. His arms were tattooed sailor-fashion with hearts, anchors and clasped hands. Despite his years in the islands, he had not lost his Liverpool brogue. His seafaring days were long past, but he had not lost his consuming love of the sea. He had thrashed around Cape Horn in big square-riggers, watched knife fights in the streets of lawless ports on the Chilean coast and had been blown ashore when a typhoon swept up the Hooghly River. Trader Bob was a relic of the past when a seaman’s life was cheap, and the mates used brass knuckles to keep the crew at work. Bob’s mind tended to wander, he was almost blind and he had the shakes in his left hand. He called us Sundowners and kept asking us whether the big German four masters were still running out to Sydney. I celebrated my 21st birthday on Manihi Atoll on a bleached coral stone wharf. At the wharf’s end stood a whitewashed pearl shell building. During the birthday dinner we sat under a shady Tou tree. Everyone was dancing except one boy. I asked the missionary why the boy was signalled out. “Mormons are not allowed to dance.” He said with his head held high. I now understood why Captain Boulton clouted missionaries. We rolled for Otaheite to complete fitting out for our southward passage towards Cape Horn. As we drew away from Manihi Atoll the villagers waved for a long time. Soon the atoll was gone. I had not seen Madeleine for more than a year. Was she on Bora Bora? Would I be able to find her? It felt good to be back on the Quay de Commerce with our stern lines again tied to old cannons. A visit to the Post Office revealed there were no letters from home but surprisingly, after 54 weeks, my mother’s Christmas cake was there. I sat on the cannons, opened the cake and broke off a chunk. It was still moist and delicious. Paradise has many layers. The quay was lined with a motley lot of dilapidated cruising yachts, owned by penniless voyagers. I did not appreciate these voyagers were trendsetters, the people who would produce the escapist books. Jean Gau was there with his old Tahiti ketch Atom. Bernard Moitessier and his rusty steel yacht Joshua, sailing solo around 72
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the world. Commander Mike Bayles in his eighteen-footer attempting to circumnavigate. Dr. David Lewis in his primitive catamaran Rehu Moana. The bowsprit was made from driftwood found in Patagonia. Other bits of driftwood and rope held the twin hulls together. David Lewis planned to sail to New Zealand using traditional Polynesian methods of navigation, no sextant, chronometer or compass. On our previous visit we had met Curt and Jenny Ashford, hippies from California in search of a dream. Conspicuous by their absence they reportedly departed Tahiti under strange circumstances. Three months later Jenny’s body was found floating in a hand-sewn canvas body bag with the final stitch passing through her nose. In days of yore it was traditional when sailors died at sea they always passed the last stitch of the canvas body bag through the nose to confirm they were actually dead. Quinn’s, Lafayette, Zizou and the Bar Lea were still in full swing. Viama’s coffee shop and Le Circle Bougainville, still the meeting hubs. The Stuart Hotel, still a short time hotel. Further down the jetty the A. B. Donald schooner Vaitere loaded cargo for the outer islands. It was no longer necessary to bring Monsieur Bebe a jar of peanut butter to grease the wheels for Immigration clearance. Peanut butter was now available at a recently opened small supermarket. Gayle Chambers from Carthaginian was working out at the Matavai Hotel. On our last day in Tahiti a hush fell over Carronade. We were afraid of the unknown. Our plan called for keeping off the Patagonian lee shore by sailing well south towards Antarctica. We reasoned if we missed the bottom of South America, we had sufficient food to sail on to Africa. Fresh water could be collected from rain squalls. As the island of Tahiti dropped below the horizon it was my turn to wistfully look back. I was pining for Madeleine. I made the difficult decision not to seek her out. I was not ready for commitment and our journey would take us around the bottom of South America, up to the West Indies, twice across the Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, thence Australia. What were the odds of seeing Madeleine again? And love? We think about it, sing about it, dream about it and lose sleep worrying 73
Beyond Boundaries
about it. When we don’t have it, we search for it. When we discover it, we don’t know what to do with it. When we have it, we fear losing it. Was our love and unrequited love, a one-sided love that was not openly reciprocated or understood as such by the beloved? Cape Horn is nothing more than an island at the coccyx of the great Andean spine. Resembling a clenched fist. It stands like a sentinel between two great oceans and is the last word in the sailor’s lexicon. Its ironbound reputation has put fear into men’s hearts for centuries. Undeniably a Cape Horn voyage today under sail is an anachronism. Time there was when a ship had no choice but the ditch at Panama changed all that. In the bitter winds and angry seas of the Cape the same measure of anxiety and discomfort is there along the old forsaken trail where danger exists but not as much as people believe. Winds blow elsewhere at times as strongly as they do south of fifty degrees south latitude. Seas may pyramid as high and break as heavily. There may be places equally remote and bleakly lonely. Currents in other regions may be as adverse. These foes the sailorman may encounter separately or in pairs here and there, aye, encounter and best, but always in his heart he will wonder if he could face all combined. The Argentinean Vito Dumas once wrote, “Lives there a sailor who would not have made a Cape Horn passage in his own small vessel rather than any other voyage in the world?” Cape Horn took on new light, a new meaning, with the knowledge we were going there to experience all the fears and adventures we had read about. Our course took us south through trade winds and calms to the more boisterous Roaring Forties belt where we ran our easting down in the wake of the old Cape Horn clippers. On 26th March 1967, 500 miles from Cape Horn we were awed by what we saw and heard beyond the common experience of men. Our small thirty-foot sloop was long past the point of no return and fast bringing up the latitude of the Horn. At the change of watch I remarked to Andy that the Southern Cross was directly overhead. Craning his neck to see it, he said quietly, “Yes, we’re a long way south.” The barometer had been falling for three days without change in weather. We had been lucky till then but now silently scanned the 74
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weather horizon waiting for the contest to begin. The barometer stands at 28.6 Millibars, a quarter of an inch from the end of the scale. We shook with uncertainty and tenseness waiting for the unknown. It all happened quickly, beginning with the steady increase in wind and sea. By daybreak, we scudded before roaring seas under a gunmetal sky. We doused all sail and ran under bare poles but still drove uncontrollably down the faces of waves, at times reaching nine knots so we laid out a long warp of manila rope, on the end of which was made fast a bight of chain and a motor scooter tire to create extra drag. Still our speed increased so we laid out another and yet another warp, settling down to 6½ knots with no sail and three warps trailing. At one stage we surfed down the face of a wave that later broke uninterrupted for 200 metres. The warps, chains and tires leapt out of the water and ricocheted down the face. We had been living roughly for the past ten days, eating our meals one at a time sitting on the cabin sole braced between the lower bunk and the saloon table. Due to severe cold we needed to relieve ourselves at increasingly more frequent intervals. As the vessel was battened down the only solution was to pee into a cocoa tin then open the tiny hatch an inch or two and pour it into the cockpit. For other needs we used a plastic bucket passing it out to the helmsman for disposal. For heating we used a Tilley pressure lamp. However, having condensation soon formed on the deck head and as time passed the condensation turned to green slime. Everything became cold and greasy to the touch. Our sleeping bags were wet, and we slept in wet clothes. We found with wool next to the skin, wet presented no problem. We were not miserable or uncomfortable. We had conditioned ourselves to accepting challenges. Our daily routine was so exacting we had no time to regret, complain, argue or even think about why we were there. There was a grand shared feeling that we were running our easting down, as did the great clipper ships. Nothing else mattered. In any event it was not our place to complain as we had chosen this life. 75
Beyond Boundaries
I was on the tiller when Andy opened the hatch with his bucket for the day. I reached cautiously for it and then yelled, “Hey! Andy, we’re dead in the water.” We were in a giant trough, so deep no wind penetrated, and the wave that rose up astern was almost vertical and unlike any we had ever seen. There was water cascading down like a waterfall. Andy’s face turned to horror as he blurted out, “I’ve got to close this now.” Apparently as he darted below, he said to Bob Nance, who was reading Romeo and Juliet in his bunk, “say a quick prayer for Des.” Carronade, after taking the brunt of the force went down bow first, stood vertically on end for a moment before recovering and slewing sideways onto her beam-ends. She rolled under the giant wave. How she was not dismasted will always be a mystery. The next thing I knew, tons of water were toppling from the sky, a giant tearing noise seemed to wrench the boat apart. I remember feeling crushed as the cockpit and whole boat went over my head. From then on I was under water in an upside down position. I had the feeling we were sinking. The water temperature was 40º F. and yet I don’t recall being cold. Suddenly the boat righted herself shrugging off cascades of water. At the time of rolling, I was lashed in the cockpit by three lifelines. One of the lines had snagged on a winch pinning me in the steering position. I stood, bewildered, waist deep in icy water. Our gallant sloop seemed low in the water and sluggish, I wasn’t scared, having experienced surfboats capsizing in big surf but in those days I could swim to the beach. Out here there was no land. The maximum time a person can live in such cold water is twenty minutes. In answer to a scream below I said I was all right. Having so many clothes on and feeling numbed through, I had no way of telling whether I was injured or not. I still imagined the boat was full of water although Andy and Bob said it was not. I didn’t believe them and as a reaction, began furiously bailing the cockpit with the bucket, which miraculously was still in my hand, explaining the wrenched shoulder blade. No one ever flushed a toilet with that much water I thought. The fibreglass spray dodger was smashed, dinghy broken in two pieces, lifebuoy broken in half, but no apparent damage to the mast. 76
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Thank God for Alan Warwick’s hatch. Without it we would have foundered. I stood in the cockpit with the tiller between my legs. Carronade seemed smaller than before. There was no protection from the fury of the streaked rollers colliding and causing avalanches of seething foam. I asked Andy and Bob to come on deck to throw overboard the two halves of the dinghy. Their immediate reaction, not realising the extent of the damage, “Christ! He’s gone mad and wants to abandon ship.” All was bedlam below. Food and bedding soaked with seawater. This was serious because without our radio receiver, a Zenith Transoceanic, we could no longer get time signals for navigation. As night fell, fierce hail and snow squalls swept over us. It seemed the Horn was battering us with all its fury. We could not glance to windward without being blinded by driving sleet. To our surprise the seas were getting bigger. We had more than 1000 feet of line streamed astern to check the boat’s speed. We all agreed it was worse below where we couldn’t see what was going on. Imagination is always more frightening than what is seen. The most any of us could take was an hour and a half on the helm. I vividly recall Andy and myself at the change of watch assuring each other that the barometer was beginning to rise. Andy would tap it with his finger. It would drop a fraction. “See that, it’s rising. We’re going to be all right.” “Yes. It’s going up,” I agreed. A brilliant full moon blasted through the clouds, illuminating the breaking seas. Bob said that on the helm he had a feeling of superhuman power. As he encountered each onrushing wall of water he felt he was controlling the sea at its mightiest. Andy said Carronade seemed to know what was expected of her and rose gallantly to the biggest of seas. This was the experience of our lives. In the Southern Ocean nature has a proving ground to demonstrate what she can do. How many times in our lives do we get the opportunity to see nature at her finest? The grand finale came when a squall struck with such violence and intensity that it turned the entire sea white. I kept saying to myself, steer you bastard, steer. If one of these brute crests catches us beam-on, this time we’ll go to the bottom. 77
Beyond Boundaries
When that squall abated the ocean suddenly calmed. The last defiant blast from nature telling us she had let us through. It was also to be a lesson about what is really necessary in an ocean-going yacht. You need a sturdy watertight hull. Stout rig. Good sails. A means of steering (the simpler the better). Food and water. A place to cook, navigate and a place to lie down. Good anchor gear when you get close to land. The rest is gingerbread. Four days later Andy took extra precaution to obtain the usual sun sights, a sight of the moon and several evening star sights. From these he laid a course to pass between Ildefonso and Diego Ramirez Islands. Over time, our small boat voyaging and confined space living had developed a special brand of comradeship. We depended on each other. During the long and lonely hours of my watch I remembered old Captain Boulton’s words, "Son if you’re runnin’ east round the Horn, beware of the islands of Diego Ramirez. They stick out of the sea like ugly black teeth." At 5 am land started to appear everywhere, the sun a red disc beneath low grey sky. The coast became clear and we could see the Darwin Ranges, silver blue and snow-covered. We picked up False Cape Horn, Hermite Island and Cape Horn, Antarctica lay somewhere in the silver wilderness to the south. Andy wrote a poem for the logbook. And when I reach the Pearly Gates, To Saint Peter I can tell, One more Cape Horner reporting Sir, For I’ve served my time in Hell. Ten miles from the Cape we could see Port Maxwell, our anchorage for the night. The sea changed colour to murky green-grey. Sun reflected off snow-covered peaks on the Darwin Ranges. Cape Horn took on colour and substance. We gulped up the last of the long sea miles. The salt spray stung our faces, but we stayed on deck to savour the moment. As we drew near the granite bastion, we thought of all the clipper ships that had thumped their way through these same Drake Straits, over canvassed, with flooded fo’c’s’les, ill clad men driven by Masters blind to suffering and exhaustion. Today the albatross and the other numerous sea birds must be lonely 78
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without the passing clouds of white canvas. Everything was in accord for the moment, the sea, the spectacular coast, the grey scudding sky, the weather-beaten vessel, the haggard but high-spirited crew. We passed abeam at ll.5O am. The cliffs, when we drew near were sheer black and jagged. Once past the promontory the eastern side was more hospitable. Green grassy slopes and a bay suitable for landing on calm days. The wind fell and it was obvious that we could not make Port Maxwell with a safe margin of time. We decided to sail east of Herschel Island and anchor in what the Pilot Book referred to a safe anchorage free from williwaws. We passed patches of thick kelp and dangerous sea- washed rocks and slowly progressed up the channel. Meanwhile the barometer dropped to 29.15 inches, signalling it would start to blow soon. We sailed within metres of the shale and granite outcrop of Deceit Island. As we approached our anchorage at Puerto Piedrabuena, a squall brought gale force winds and blinding rain. To our surprise there was a house with a radio aerial on a headland north of our anchorage. Probably a sheep farmer or weather station we thought. There were a few anxious moments as we fought for the last mile, the last of 5,000. We dropped both anchors a few metres off the beach deep in a kelp bed. It was now late afternoon. As we prepared the evening meal we heard the crack of a rifle. We took the binoculars but could see no one. Bob saw him first. A lone man upon the wind-blown slopes dressed in grey and waving a white rag to attract our attention. He obviously wanted us to come ashore. He was some distance from us but we managed to converse by signs. We held up our oars and crisscrossed our arms to denote that we had no dinghy. We held up the Australian flag. He waved vigorously as if he understood, wrapped the white rag around his neck, lifted his rifle over his shoulder and walked slowly among the trees bent from the wind and disappeared over the hill. We estimated he had a long walk ahead of him if he was the inhabitant of the dwelling on the headland. This hit us deeply. We had travelled 5,000 miles to the most fascinating corner of the world and could not go ashore because we had lost our dinghy. 79
Beyond Boundaries
Who was this lone soul? He would dearly love to seek our company and we his. I shall always connect Cape Horn with this apparition on the hillside. The following day we inflated our emergency life-raft, removed the awning and provisions, waited for a lull in the wind, then pulled for the shore. Carronade was anchored in the middle of the bay. We bent every piece of rope together to make a lifeline between her stern and the shore. We buoyed the line with yellow floats to prevent it from snagging in the kelp near the shore. If a sudden squall came up we would be able to get back to the boat. The first step ashore was a momentous one. We stood at the foot of a soggy cliff on an island five miles from Cape Horn and struck out for the house seen on the barren headland a day earlier. When Captain Cook visited this area, he recorded two of his men were caught out at night and perished from the cold. No one knew we were here. There were no rescue facilities. We carried packs containing waterproof matches, oilskins, dried fruit and a flashlight. Our legs were wobbly as this was the first time on solid ground in six weeks. The temperature was cold but after climbing the soggy cliff we began to sweat freely inside our heavy clothing. Then followed a long march over harsh ground. There were no paths. We picked our way through hardy scrub, sometimes over our heads. The peaty ground underfoot was like walking on a sponge. With high rainfall, vegetation quickly rots, becomes mulch and new vegetation replaces the old. A picture sticks vividly in my mind as we approached the cabin. I had fallen behind and stopped to catch my breath. Andy and Bob’s yellow oilskins contrasted sharply with the deep green of the rolling hills. In the distance stood a desolate rust coloured shack. Two young Chileans invited us inside. The timber house was stoutly constructed, had a high chimney and radio antenna. Carcasses of freshly killed meat hung outside the back door. Two sheepskin coats hung on the inside the front door. Floors were bare. There was a central wood burning stove, table and chairs and a tall locker in one corner covered with nude girl pictures faded with age. Adjoining room contained two bunks, a mass of radio equipment, a rack of high-powered rifles, a marine chart of the surrounding 80
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islands pinned to the wall. Sefors Rodriguez and Rodolfo Gardenas of the Chilean Navy introduced themselves. We learnt each other’s names by writing them on a piece of paper and repeating them slowly. With the use of a dictionary (that we had brought with us) and sign language they told us they manned this station for the Chilean Navy as lookouts for Argentinian enemy shipping. Occasionally shots are exchanged. We ate mutton with homemade bread and washed it down with local Chilean firewater called Aguardiente. It was warm, snug and friendly inside. Outside snow was falling. Two groups of men from opposite sides of the world, neither speaking the other’s language revelling in each other’s company in this remotest of posts. It was late in the afternoon. We bade our newfound friends farewell and promised to return on the morrow. As we left, they began sending out Morse Code messages to Puerto Williams, who in turn would inform Valparaiso. On returning to the dinghy, we had overlooked the tide, a serious mistake. The rock to which the line was made fast was underwater. We risked rowing to the first buoy to recover the towline. The area is a labyrinth of channels and islands with harsh terrain and climate. Where the shores are not bare rock they are covered with scrubby evergreen forest, which at 1,000 feet becomes boggy moor, rock and ice. This bleak landscape is swept summer and winter by high winds and persistent rain. Sudden changeability of weather is the most noticeable feature of the area. The next day, 1st April 1967, we struck out for the shore to replenish our freshwater supply and discovered a small mountain stream that trickled down onto the beach. The water was brown in colour and tasted earthy. Again, we stumbled over the boggy moor and were caught several times without shelter in the squalls. Lashed by sleet and wet, we had long ceased to worry about discomfort. This was a hard land for hard people. We had no choice but to adjust and condition ourselves to think before each action. We had already made one mistake in a land with no room for mistakes. We took the Chileans a present of some canned mushrooms, canned bacon and a dozen eggs coated in grease. They gave us a bottle of Aguardiente. Good for stoking a belly fire they gestured. 81
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Their spell of duty lasts five months. We were the only people they had seen in the first three. Snow had fallen overnight with ice on deck when we arose. With the anchor hove short we noticed one of the Chileans running down the hillside yelling and waving. We couldn’t understand so we waved goodbye and set out towards our next anchorage. The weather looked fine with a light westerly breeze but as we sailed past the cabin on the headland the naval officer was shouting and indicating to go back. The weather looked fine, so we proceeded north and entered the Franklin Canal. Without warning the sky turned blue-black and a squall obliterated our visibility as it approached. The channel was only half a mile wide, with jagged cliffs on either side. Taking a quick compass bearing down the channel before the squall struck, we turned and sailed blind under trysail through the snow hoping our bearing was correct. When the squall passed our vessel was encased in ice. We turned back to a small bay north of our last anchorage though it proved to be not as sheltered. Again, we drove headlong into thick matted kelp before letting go both anchors. This provided ideal protection. After a quick meal we ferried our raft and lifeline ashore. In the warmth of the cabin we again enjoyed a meal of mutton, soup and homemade bread with a few tots of Aguardiente. Our friends explained that the Chilean Navy had refused permission for us to use the Franklin Canal to access to the Beagle Canal. They claimed this was a safety measure against the strong currents and dangerous williwaws. However, their motives were also political because our intended route would lead us to an Argentine port whereas their recommended route would lead us to a Chilean port. Our next anchorage was inhospitable Wollaston Island, 20 miles to the north. Anchor watches were necessary through the night. Twice we shifted anchors as the wind changed leaving us exposed to some swell. With the falling tide we began hitting bottom. A safe anchorage was eventually found a few yards from shore behind a kelp bed. It was an anxious night. We were glad to see the last of the Wollaston and Hermite Group. 82
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By midday the weather was clear and we left for Caleta Middle on Wollaston. With clear skies and calm seas, we experienced fine sailing enhanced by the solitude, granite peaks, purple cliffs, snowcovered mountains and deepening colours in the sunset. A boat moving at high speed approached and roared alongside. It was a camouflaged Chilean gunboat equipped with torpedoes and heavy armament on deck. Powered by two diesel engines with a top speed of 45 knots. We ran up the Australian flag. Their bearded crew lined the rails and were speculating amongst themselves while the Captain addressed us in English. We must have looked quite a sight. A small sloop now resembling a canoe with its stripped deck and smashed doghouse manned by three youths. “Do you know you are in Chilean waters? Have you charts? Have you food?” They asked in quick succession. We told him we needed nothing. We were the sloop Carronade two years out of Australia, last port of call Papeete, bound for Puerto Williams in the Beagle Canal. As they roared away we thought of biscuits and ice cream. We longed for something sweet. Andy was tempted to ask for a pack of cigarettes. We entered the Beagle Canal and experienced exhilarating sailing in a region that we believe must resemble the fjords of Norway. There was a direct contrast between the islands round the Horn and the colourful Beagle Channel. We crept insignificantly up the waterway dwarfed by cypress and pine forests with autumn tints of red, brown, yellow and purple. At night we anchored in snug harbours beside silent unforgettable mountains with snow swirling off their peaks. We stopped at Puerto Eugenia, a land-locked anchorage and sheep station. A small farmhouse with the aroma of wood smoke drifting from its stone chimney nestled against the brow of a hill. In the early morning a boat put out from shore. In the quiet of the fjord we heard the gentle lapping of oars. A Chilean gentleman dressed in a tweed coat addressed us in perfect English. “I bring you fresh meat.” He presented us with a lamb. What do you do with a lamb on a tiny timber sloop? A committee of naval craft welcomed us to Puerto Williams. 83
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The commander of the base stepped on board and ordered a vessel to take us in tow. Once alongside, young naval officers began clearing away the decks and furling the sails for us. We were bearded and hadn’t had a proper bath for two months. We could have quarters ashore to bath, clean up and take our meals. Andy and I jumped at the chance, but Bob claimed he had slept in the same bunk for the past two years and preferred it to any ashore. Haircuts, shaves, hot showers and clean clothes. What a wonderful thought. I am quite sure they did not recognise us as the same fellows who sailed in a few hours earlier. The Chileans respect sail and spend part of their training on the barquentine Esmeralda and frequently visit Sydney. In true naval tradition we arrived on the dot of eight to meet a gathering of the English-speaking officers, the doctor, gunboat captain, his navigator, the base commander and his attractive wife. We drank cognac and orange. The gunboat captain spoke English well and had an exceptional knowledge of Chilean waters. Captain Camus told us that even he, on one occasion, had to run for cover in the Franklin Canal. The young navigator was a suave, immaculately dressed officer, who by his actions could never make a social error. If someone needed a match, he would stand up stiffly and, using only his index finger and thumb, unfasten the second brass button of his jacket, reach in with a Napoleon like action and produce an expensive cigarette lighter which ignited with a flick of the thumb. When the cognac was gone, a bottle of Pisco appeared to finish off the night but in fact it finished off the commander who lay prostrate in his chair incapable of intelligible speech. He did promise to telegram our families. At midnight we adjourned to our heated officer’s quarters and clean beds. The naval dentist noticing our smashed fibreglass spray dodger offered his services. At first, we did not take him seriously when he told us to bring the doghouse to the naval hospital the following morning. Carrying shattered pieces on our shoulders we were led to the operating theatre by the naval doctor. 84
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The cabin was laid on the operating table like a sick patient. The dentist using his tooth drill cut grooves across the cracks or tears and inserted reinforcing pieces of stainless wire bonding everything together with pink acrylic resin normally used for making denture plates. The finished job was excellent, however fibreglass particles were scattered all over the hospital operating theatre. National prestige was the sole reason for the existence of Puerto Williams. Before the birth of Puerto Williams, the Argentine town of Ushuaia was the southernmost town in the world. It is all part of the petty jealous war waged between Chile and Argentina. Puerto Williams population was 250 mainly naval personnel and consisted of a few shacks, a timber mill, and a small pier with warships, gunboats, a cruiser and a supply vessel. The two countries even went as far as to divide the water in the Beagle Canal. Chile claimed Cape Horn as its territory and constructed a lighthouse at the base of one of the cliffs. The Argentines sent down a gunboat and blasted it off the face of the cliff. Another was soon erected. Ushuaia’s population was 3,000. Founded by the missionary Thomas Bridges as a haven for shipwrecked sailors it soon became a small town. Its inhabitants are descendants of sealers, whalers, sheep farmers, gold prospectors, retired sea captains and shipwrecked mariners who never returned to their homelands. We found Ushuaia a fascinating town of corrugated iron houses and muddy streets. The town nestles hard up against the soaring peaks of the Darwin Ranges with delicate blue glaciers as backdrop. In Ushuaia we met an Irishman named Manuel Garrido and his stalwart, salt-hardened friend, Oscar Carini, both of whom had been born and raised in the sailing ships of this area. Manuel spoke faultless English though he had never been to an English- speaking country. Oscar spoke only Spanish. Manuel’s father had been a sealer and he, as a lad, had accompanied his father on expeditions as far as Antarctica, often engaging in illegal or sabotage operations. He told us of the time he and his father blew up the fuel storage tanks in Puerto Williams. The charred remains are still visible today. 85
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With the aid of a small boat and high-powered rifles muffled by loaves of bread, they blew up the tanks and escaped by leaving logs camouflaged with kelp to foul the propellers of the pursuing gunboats. On the other side of the concrete pier where we were moored, an old derelict schooner lay rotting. Manuel explained that it had once been used in illegal sealing operations which could only be carried out at night or in the worst of weathers when the patrol boats would not be looking for them. This required great seamanship for the schooner had to come close to the rocks under sail alone, launch a boat, row to the land, capture the seals and return again in the most hazardous weather conditions. Lapataia Bay inside the narrow entrance to the Beagle Channel opened before us as a labyrinth of islands and bays. At the end of the fjord a narrow opening appeared barely wide enough for us to squeeze through. By using a lead-line we wound through a maze of rocks and dropped anchor in what surely must be the most secure, protected and least known anchorage in the world. Our plan had been to go as far as the Garibaldi Glacier and anchor at the foot of a growling cliff of ice. However, where the Beagle Canal branched into two arms the wind funnelled from two directions, doubling the intensity at the fork. Try as we may, tack after tack, we could not gain way. An approaching snow squall ultimately aided our decision to turn back. Our last call was Port Harberton, still marked on the British charts as a refuge for shipwrecked seamen. A lovely colonial home stood at the head of the bay owned by the Goodall family who were British to the core and descendants of the first European missionary to settle in Ushuaia. The Goodalls gave us homegrown lettuces, cabbages, carrots and turnips, fresh cheese and jam made from local wild berries. Tom Goodall’s powerful radio transmitter was used to contact the Falkland Islands. “Yes, John, the boys have arrived. They took three tacks to get up the harbour. They are with us now.” At dinner that evening we observed fine lace tablecloths, bowls of anemones, a houseboy serving steaming platters of mussels, exquisitely cooked mutton and platters of steaming vegetables. 86
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It was one thing to eat crudely in a remote Chilean cabin, quite another to partake in refined dining in the Casa Grande of Fuegias Estancias within a few miles of each other. The Reverend Thomas Bridges, the first settler, came to Patagonia as a missionary and spent much time teaching the Indians farming. He asked permission to form a mission that was not dependent on charity. Permission was refused, so he resigned. Over the years he assisted the Indians and could speak their language. The Argentine Government offered him 50,000 acres of unoccupied land anywhere in Argentina. He chose Harberton and continued his study of the Indian tribes and wrote a dictionary of their language. His son, Lucas Bridges, carried on his work and wrote a book about the Indians of Tierra del Fuego entitled The Uttermost Part of the Earth. Tom’s mother told us tales about the old days and how it was the job of the Indian women to dive for shellfish, the main diet of the people. Mounds of these shells still remain encircling the flat area where their rough shelters once stood. By digging through these mounds it is possible to find relics made from bone and stone that were used in the everyday life of these people. Little else remains of the former inhabitants. During our visit only 20 full-blooded Indians remained in Tierra del Fuego. The Indians wore no clothes despite the biting cold. Reverend Bridges once offered a pair of trousers to an Indian who was naked and collecting shellfish beside the canal. The Indian accepted the trousers, bent down and used them to wrap up his day’s catch. Bridges protested they were for him to wear and not to be used for gathering shellfish, for he surely must be cold. The Indian stood up and looking straight at the heavily clothed Bridges, asked him if his face was cold. Bridges said it wasn’t and then the Indian calmly answered, “I am all face.” Northbound again. In the approach to Buenos Aires we entered the 140-mile wide mouth of the River Plate. Incredibly, we sailed inland for 1½ days before sighting land. For our arrival at the snooty Buenos Aires Yacht Club we wore white shirts and ties. The attire seemed appropriate. 87
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We headed straight to Banco de la Nación Argentina where mail would be waiting. Crossing the Pacific letters were sent or received every four months. At Buenos Aires, the interval was six months. We had mail sent to a chosen bank with instructions on the envelope. “Please hold for Australian yacht Carronade due to arrive soon.” We never asked for the bank’s permission. Letter from home. Dear Des, It’s Mum writing this time. Glad you received the cake and it was still moist. I used the same recipe you remember every Christmas growing up. As you know we supported your decision to sail the world but now we fear we may never see you again. This has saddened your father. In an attempt to lure you home he purchased a Torres Strait Island pearling lugger in the hope you and he will operate it commercially on the Great Barrier Reef. Your father experienced adventure during the War at Guadalcanal and in North Borneo. He misses the old excitement and now lives vicariously through your letters. I identify with the notion travel sometimes breaks the hearts of kith and kin. Mum There were only rich or poor in South America. It was assumed because we arrived by yacht, we must be rich. Befriended by a wealthy Estancia owner, Senor Caesar Augusta Schang, we were wined and dined in Embassies, wealthy homes and attended extravagant cocktail parties. We also discovered if you are rich you can only socialise with rich girls to which chaperones are an attachment. Super glue must have been invented in Argentina because it was impossible to shake these chaperones loose. Having no money whatsoever the only way to repay our gracious hosts was to relay anecdotes of our travels and by presenting them with shell leis from Polynesia, mostly presents given to me by Madeleine. In Punta del Este, Uruguay, Caesar followed and continued as our gracious host. On a night when the port was closed due to storm warnings Caesar, having heard our super glue stories, decided he 88
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would treat us to a night in the red-light district where we entered a darkened bar and were the only customers. Six girls lounged in provocative attire. A fat one, a dark unruly one with teeth missing, one we called Mickey Mouse, an Indian who kept bar tabs, a reasonable looking one in red and a skinny girl, her first night working for the House. Caesar started running off at the mouth telling the girls we were Heroes del Mar then chose a girl for each of us and took care of the payment. Andy got the redhead and I ended up with the skinny new girl. Bob had the good sense to ward off the advances of Mickey Mouse. The next morning Caesar invited his former Catholic schoolmaster to meet the Heroes del Mar on board our yacht. Father Carney was Irish, white haired and tough. If Catholic priests in South America weren’t tough, they couldn’t survive. It was raining so we sat below in tight quarters. Suddenly there was a knock on the hull and my girl from last night was there. She came below and snuggled next to me. In the light of day, she wasn’t as attractive as she appeared the night before. She spotted the white collar of the priest. Her face lit up with unbridled joy. Pointing to her wedding finger she gesticulated how fortuitous it was Father Carney was here and, she said, beaming with happiness, could perform the marriage ceremony here and now. Pinned within the cramped quarters with no room to wriggle out I was extremely uncomfortable. The others were enjoying my discomfort. “Right, who gave this girl the location of our yacht?” Caesar looked uncomfortable. “Ah, so it was you Caesar.” “I’m afraid so. We are all enjoying this at your expense so don’t let this golden opportunity pass. Decide now if you want to settle down with this young lass.” I was glad when we sailed for Rio.
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Approaching the remote cabin. Herschel Island.
Our newfound Chilean navy friends.
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Collecting peaty brown water from a tiny stream. Herschel Is. Tierra del Fuego. Trickle can be seen centre left.
Andy Wall, Bob Nance, Des Kearns in Buenos Aires. (Photo La Prensa) 91
8 SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
In Rio de Janeiro we anchored under Corcovado Mountain and the Cristo Redentor, the statue of Christ with outspread arms. The following morning, we were awoken by a rough Australian voice. “Hey, you Aussies, get out o’ yer bunks.” Next minute the voice was aboard. “Tom Harrison is my name.” His handshake was a steel vice. Hands calloused like rough bark. He was about fifty, heavily muscled, barefoot, unkempt. He was the toughest man any of us had ever met. Tom Harrison, mercenary in the Congo, soldier of fortune, crocodile hunter, dam builder, shearer, wanderer across two oceans. This man in every sense of the word was an adventurer. By comparison we were just kids playing by the seaside. His boat was appropriately named Sundowner. Twenty-four feet long, white with black trim with ungainly deckhouse amidships. It had a small white mast and was gunter-rigged. Rubbish was strewn all over the deck. Below was worse. On his bunk lay a rotten leather suitcase, hobo clothes and a dirty pale blue blanket. We sat down where we could. I almost crushed a photograph of an ugly black girl with the inscription, Belle of Badu. Everything was filthy except the small gas stove, which was spotless. Cans, boxes, sacks, apple cores, half-eaten carrots, a dog-eared photo album, all lay in a heap. On the shelf inside the hatch, a battered sextant case, navigation books, some grimy jars and coffee-stained 92
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plastic cups. Up forward a pile of sails, a ship’s clock and a compass. “I got the gold when we looted the American Embassy in the Congo. Most of the gold is still in my bilge. My mate Hodges did better than me, he stole $65,000 from a corrupt government official’s house in Stanleyville, feigned sick and left with the money in a suitcase.” Tom retrieved the coffee stained plastic mugs from the shelf and insisted we have a drink with him. All South American countries have their particular brand of firewater and in these horrible plastic mugs was Brazil’s Cachaza. We forced down the vile liquid and began to learn more about Tom Harrison. He was previously Tshombe’s personal bodyguard then later served as right-hand man to mercenary leader ‘Mad Mike’ Hoare. A week later Tom woke us early. His hair was cut and his face clean-shaven. He wore a clean blue shirt and new shorts. He told us during the bad weather, a yacht broke its moorings and drifted down upon his boat at night. He stripped off the valuables, sails, chronometers, barometers, then he said, “As fortune would have it, the wind changed, and I set it adrift. I made a present of my ‘earnings’ to a young Brazilian couple short of finance and having trouble fitting out their boat. Few Brazilians have the guts to go to sea, so I thought they needed a break.” Tom also knew I had no money. He reached into his pocket and handed me a wad of cash, “Here’s a couple of quid you can have. When I was in Asuncion Island I had 600 kilos of scrap brass in the bilge as well as the gold looted out of the Congo. I couldn’t sell the gold, but I sold the brass. The yacht club gave me a present to be opened at sea. They told me it was a knife, but it was $500. Then I felt pretty bad about the dud checks I had cashed on the island. You may as well have the rest. Tom Harrison was a man who, one day would loot, and the following give you the shirt off his back. We talked with enthusiasm of Cape Horn. He informed us of his intention of making a rounding. We later learned it was only after our meeting he decided on Cape Horn. It was never his intention. We tried to dissuade him, but he was determined to go. We believe we inadvertently sent him to a watery grave. 93
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Two years later Tom Harrison arrived in Uruguay. He had injured himself and was unable to come ashore for a week after his arrival. After provisioning by the locals (as he had no cash) he sailed direct for the Falkland Islands. A supply ship nearing Port Stanley in the Falklands saw his small yacht anchored near the coast with sheets and boom trailing in the water. It was ten minutes before Tom had the strength to drag himself on deck in response to the ship’s siren. Nor did he have the strength to get his anchor up for them to tow him, so he let it go to the bottom. He worked for several months in the Falklands and left for Cape Horn. No word was heard from him again. The people of the Falklands tried to talk him out of going but be would always say, better a coffin with port holes. In olden times many a gold carrying clipper ship laid their bones at the foot of Cape Horn. We believe Tom Harrison and his little sloop Sundowner with a bilge full of gold joined his seafaring forefathers. We learnt another lesson: Personal pride overriding common sense, can be more dangerous than the Horn itself.
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Bluenose II under full sail. (Photo courtesy Oland’s Nova Scotia)
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9 SCHOONER BLUENOSE
The Brazilian coast and the port of Bahia flew by until we fetched up in the West Indian island of Grenada whereupon I laid eyes on one of the finest schooners ever built, Bluenose II, out of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Lunenburg is a picturesque town south of Halifax and once base port for the famous Grand Banks fishing feet. Today, men who once dory-fished sit in rocking chairs on verandas overlooking the sea reliving the days that were. Some are brash and loud while others betray no hint of the tempestuous life they faced almost daily. No matter which way you look at it, theirs was the toughest life on any sea. They fished summer and winter alike and then would race for home to fetch the best price for their catch. Grand Bankers were built for speed. It was not unusual to see friendly competition among fishermen. In 1919 America issued Canada with a challenge for an annual fishermen’s trophy to be run over five races. The first series held in the autumn of 1920 went to the United States. A group of Nova Scotian businessmen did not take this defeat lightly and asked designer W. J. Roue to create a schooner that would be fast and also a good cargo carrier. Bluenose was born. She spent her first season on the Grand Banks and in 1921 under the command of Captain Angus Walters won the International Fishermen’s Trophy from the American Gloucester schooner EIsie. For the next seventeen years, Bluenose reigned undefeated. 97
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The United States made many attempts to regain the trophy, but in vain. They even built light racing schooners and sent them on a couple of trips to the Banks so they would qualify but still could not toss the champion. In 1938, the last series was held, 17 years after fishing had taken its toll, yet Captain Walters in Bluenose again took the series from his old rival Ben Pine, sailing the Gertrude L Thebaud. No one knows what made Bluenose so fast. Canadians coined the slogan, The wood ain’t growin’ yet that can beat the Bluenose. For years the jealous men from Massachusetts complained that Bluenose was not a true fishing boat, but their claims were empty. They simply could not build a boat to beat her. Neither could Canada. Roue designed Halegonion with the avowed purpose of topping his famous design. He failed. Racing was a spectacular sideline for Bluenose. She was a fishing boat. Her record catch of 600,000 pounds of salt cod still stands. She carried a crew of twenty-six, including sixteen dorymen, who worked from dawn till dusk fishing in weather so cold they soaked their hands in seawater to warm them up. In the back of their minds was the continual fear that the schooner might not find them at dusk if the weather shut in. Many lost dorymen lent weight to this fear. Howard Blackburn was a Glousterman. During a snowstorm he and his dory mate Tom Welsh were lost from the Schooner Grace Fears in mid-winter on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Welch ultimately froze to death. Blackburn allowed his hands to freeze to the oars. They were going numb anyway. He feared if he didn’t let them freeze grasping the oars, he’d never be able to pull back to the boat. After six days of frightful exertion and suffering he reached the Newfoundland coast with his dead and frozen dory mate. He was taken care of by local residents and eventually sent back to Gloucester where he lost his toes and fingers with the exception of half of each thumb by frostbite. In 1939 with the outbreak of war, Bluenose was sold to the West Indies as a banana boat. She ended her days in 1946 blown ashore in a hurricane off Haiti. Bluenose sailed her way into maritime history and into the hearts of her countrymen. 98
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The legend was reborn in 1963 when the brewing firm of Oland & Sons had Bluenose II built. Original plans were used. Same builders, Smith and Rhuland of Lunenburg, and many of the old shipwrights who built her including 82-year-old Captain Angus Walters was on hand to offer advice. January 1968, St Georges Harbour in Grenada on a warm Saturday evening the schooner Bluenose II lay stern to the quay tall topmasts reaching into the sky. The surrounding hills were dotted with lights. The Nutmeg Bar was in full swing and the rhythm of a steel band echoed across the basin belting out the popular song, fire, fire in she wire-wire. I moved my belongings to the fo’c’s’le. I lay in my bunk taking in my new surroundings. I looked anything but a sailor, coming aboard at midnight and in place of the traditional sea bag I carried all my belongings in a cardboard carton and a plastic garbage bag. My bunk was upper forward most in the fo’c’s’le. I was where I wanted to be. In the fo’c’s’le of a Grandbanker. I chased Bluenose because of the memorable times I spent with Sterling Hayden in Sausalito. Hayden was maintopman on Gertrude L. Theabaud during the last of the Gloucester schooner races in 1938. I recall sitting in his railway carriage listening to his description of the last schooner race. Hayden is speaking, reminiscing…. "I see it is high water and a schooner lies to a wharf. Her sheer is proud as it runs up to her bows from a low point amidships. Old men lounge in the late September sunshine, fiddling with pipes and knives, admiring the look of the vessel, spitting and scanning the sky. Against this sky I work at the masthead. I wear a checked wool shirt, one sleeve ragged. Ninety feet from the deck I work, wearing a rigger’s knife homemade from the blade of a file with a bucket of tar dangling near my hands. Gloucester is somnolent and warm. I bask in the glow of the scene, in the crowding of masts, the wheeling of gulls, the lift of a sail in the distance. The ship is the Gertrude L. Theabaud, fitting out for a new challenge match against the Canadian Bluenose. 99
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Best out of five races. No handicap. No shifting of ballast. Plenty of hard feelings. My job is mast-headman on the main. Out of Gloucester a week before the first race forty men and a tall ship bound on a trial run. Pitted against the clock, against some wind as well. Ragged brawling wind. Storm warnings fly beneath a dull grey sky. Out on the Grand Banks no dories will work this day. Boston girls clutch their skirts in the wind. Half past ten, says the belfry clock. Capt. Ben Pine stands by the wheel. You would swear he was part of his ship in spite of his blue vested suit, brown felt hat and a red bow tie. A motor launch tows Theabaud clear of the docks. “Set the mainsail,” Ben says softly. Forty men to the halyards, peak to starboard, throat to port. Twenty men to a side lay back hauling, grunting at first, then gasping. Big new halyards an inch and a half in diameter. The canvas flogs. All over the harbour you can hear it. Plenty of empty seats in Gloucester schools this day. Ben spits in his hands and paces in front of the wheel, feeling the wind and gauging the heft of the ship. Putting pieces together like an artist, working with wood and wind, buoys and rocks and anchored vessels, painting a windblown scene. “Now go ahead on your foresail.” “Now run up the jumbo and jib.” His voice edged now. The decks are a tangle of gear. Ben spits, gauges and measures. The towline is gone and the bow cants fast to starboard. She starts to move through the water. Cordage bites into grooved oak rails. Like an iron-capped lance her bowsprit flies towards a dock office window. A sharp puff rams home in her sails and lays the vessel over. Her rail smokes. Dead towards the dock she goes. Anyone who doesn’t know schooners would swear something was wrong. She goes now. Better than ten she goes. With a thrust of his fist, Ben orders Hackett and myself aloft. I climb until I reach the masthead, heave myself over the hounds, breathing hard, and go to work with the topsail. “Stand by.” Ben’s voice betrays his calm. One final look, arm flung wide for balance, he claws at the wheel, fighting it over. 100
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"Helm’s a lee." For the first time he really yells out. Theabaud slashes into the wind. Canvas booms and sheet blocks dance under booms, straight into the eye of the wind. Not six feet separates her from the dock. She passes across the wind. “Leggo your mainsheet boys.” Ben is right where he wants to be. “Clear that coil and let ‘er run to the knot. The sheet runs snaking out till the knot fetches up in the block. She swings towards the harbour entrance, and all around the harbour spurts of white stab from whistles, a pleasant sound on a southeast day with rain. Half a mile inside the breakwater she begins to pitch. Both topsails are set. Down in the galley they’re mixing hot water with rum, butter and cinnamon. Aloft we hang on. Beyond the breakwater the Atlantic growls. Plumes of spray bounce off lighthouse windows. Jack Hackett’s voice is high and loud, “Oh dyin’ Jaysus, boy, ef she catches one of them seas just right she’ll pitch us clear to Newfoundland.” From below someone screams, “Fourteen, goddamn it boys, fourteen she goes, or I hope to die with a hard-on.” At the same time we see Capt. Angus Walters inbound from Canada, swing his big salt-banker Bluenose, in past the Boston lightship. He straps her down and sends her rampaging up harbour in time for a welcoming luncheon thrown by the governor on behalf of the Commonwealth. The luncheon was a dandy affair. Plenty of dames. Plenty of booze. Plenty of platitudes. Capt. Angus Walters wasn’t there. He stayed by his vessel instead. “Let ‘em spout, I’m getting ready to race.” The first two races were sailed in moderate winds and sunshine. Theabaud took the first one by thirty seconds and Bluenose waltzed off with the second. At midnight before the third race they caught Angus Walters cheating and moving ballast. We knew Walters was a crack skipper but he was also a businessman who wanted to win and to hell with the goddamn rules. For the third race I was navigator. I wasn’t happy about being taken off the masthead. 101
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When the cannon let go with a puff of smoke both schooners hit the starting line going twelve knots and the Canadian pulled ahead. We averaged thirteen and a half to the first mark where forty brawny Gloucestermen lay chanting and straining on swollen manila sheets. The cook with a mug of rum in one hand and his derby in the other yelled, “Haul you bastards, haul.” The Bluenose tore past the plunging buoy two lengths ahead of us and swung hard on the wind. Her long black snout, streaming spray, reached over a steep sea and fell like a maul into the trench beyond. Her scarred old timbers shuddered. Her spars pitched hard and the foremast stay parted and the wire rained down on deck. Angus Walters let out a savage barrage of four-letter words. The Theabaud forged by to windward, slogging her way uphill now through charging white plumes seas. Fifteen miles away dead into the eye of the wind, lay a small white buoy. Visibility was about two hundred yards, less in the squalls. Back and forth the great wind-wagons tacked, sawing away at the base of the course. It was up to me now to call it. I had no confidence. I climbed halfway up the lee fore rigging, locked my legs through the ratlines, and smoked. The harder I looked, the less I saw. Either that or there were buoys everywhere. That’s it, dead ahead isn’t it, Hayden? Cooney the sail maker called to me from his place at the bows. I still hadn’t seen it but directed the helmsman to knock her off a touch in case we ran over the buoy. You lucky bastard, I said to myself. We took that race but had the decency to heave to and cheer Bluenose over the line. Bluenose took the next two by a wide margin. On a late October day in 1938 Gloucester schooner racing was finished forever.” In the fo’c’s’le as I dozed off, I caught strains of conversations. “That was when my old man was rum runnin” …. “We went into Halifax doin’ sixteen with the main boom draggin’ in the water” …. “Ef this weren’t the limit. She shipped a sea clean over the house that time and tore the leg off my oil skin pants as I was ahangin’ onto the main boom” …. “My ol’ man tole me the original Bluenose was tripped up by a smasher and she went over so far the masts were flat on the water, the dories broke clear of the gripes and 102
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when she come up, so help me God, there was a goldern dory hangin’ on the main spreader.” This life will do me I thought. However, an Australian sailing on the pride of Canada did not receive unanimous approval. Wally Zinc whose father fished on the original Bluenose was incensed. "Next thing we’ll have the League of Nations on board.” I would have to prove myself. The majority of visitors on a ship like Bluenose II look in awe at the great masts and complex rigging. Imagining her with sails set and themselves at the wheel. I’ve watched them. They scan the rig, hold the iron steering wheel for a moment, give it a spoke or two in passing, marvel at the height of the masts (but normally don’t appreciate there are two big topsails bent to the mast doublings) and then are impressed by the modern carpeting and pretty pictures and wood panelling in the aft saloon. Before they leave, they usually take a quick peek down the fo’c’s’le hatch with an expression that might read, “I wonder what’s down in that hole?” Were they allowed to descend into that hole they would find a place of character, rough finish, heavy beams, pictures of squareriggers, bunks in tiers and a large mess table. It has the lived-in look, oilskins on hooks, rubber boots in racks, personal possessions crammed into shelves, neatly made bunks, plenty of chatter and yarn spinning. The fo’c’s’le is the very heart, the throbbing pulse of a sailing ship. Very seldom do men sleep in tiered bunks in the eyes of a vessel and I am lucky to have had that chance. The fo’c’s’le is a home-away-from-home for the men who live there. It was very often the only home they ever knew. A seaman’s bunk is not just a place to lie down. It is his private place and by the seaman’s unwritten code no-one would dare interfere with another’s bunk or the possessions lying on it. It gives you a great sense of security to be lying in your bunk, estimating the speed of the vessel by the pressure being exerted forcing you into the clothing rack as you stare at the big beams overhead. Look around the cabin, you see your shipmates after a hard watch, bleary eyed, unshaven. They turned in fully clothed, crusted with salt. But you know these men, though lost in sleep at 103
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the moment, would spring to life at an ‘All Hands’ call, work shoulder to shoulder with you on the bowsprit, fisting heavy wet canvas one minute, only to need both hands the next, to hang on as the bowsprit buries waist deep in the shock of icy water. Finally, sail secured, you turn in again and take a second look at those outstretched men, understanding why the brotherhood of the sea exists. Orders are conveyed by the captain to the crew via the mate and sometimes through the bosun (a man caught between the devil and the deep, neither an officer, nor crew member), but it is these fo’c’s’le dwellers who perform the tasks of setting sail, overhauling the rigging, scraping and painting, cleaning bilges, scouring and scrubbing. For all this however, nature rewards them tenfold. Contrary to what romantics believe, most days at sea are pure misery, but the good days are so grand they compensate for the others. As time passes, we forget the bad and remember the good. As further time passes, we imagine it was all good. Captain Ellsworth Coggins was in command. He had a remarkable record at sea commencing in 1931 when he was barely nineteen, serving as seaman aboard a three-masted schooner. The captain fell ill and died. Coggins then slid up a notch and became the bosun. Shortly afterwards the mate who had assumed command was washed overboard and lost. The man who had shipped as bosun (who had become mate) took over only to become disabled through illness which left Coggins in command. “I went through every post on that ship from seaman to master in a month and a half.” He was awarded master’s papers in sail at twenty-three. Heading down islands in the Caribbean we set every stitch of canvas Bluenose II could carry, and with a brisk beam breeze were ‘honking rightalong’ (as the Nova Scotian vernacular goes). Approaching from the opposite direction was the replica of America, a lovely 106-foot schooner built by an American brewing firm. In these perfect sailing conditions this magnificent spit and polish schooner capable of a good turn of speed, was under power. The age-old animosity was still there. Her crew regarded Bluenose II as a rough fishing schooner and on a previous occasion had refused us permission to inspect their vessel. 104
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On the other hand, we looked upon them as yachtsmen blundering their way round the islands on a real sailing vessel alien to them. As America came abeam Captain Coggins was leaning on the rail by the wheel box, perched like a cock on a hen house roof, his eyes fixed on her bare masts. He turned around, took the cigar out of his mouth, “She looks like a plucked chicken, don ’t she?” Bluenose II was moored to the quay in Grenada when I noticed a man standing on the dock casting a critical eye over our schooner. I cordially invited him on board. We shook hands. Another Tom Harrison handshake. He said his name was Sven Joffs and that he was captain of a racing yacht Ondine, en route to the Mediterranean. I asked if he wanted to see the fancy cabins, the saloon or the engines but he was interested only in the raw sailing ship and its powerful rig. I told him we just clocked sixteen knots down islands with only the four lower sails set. He asked if I minded if he smoked his pipe on deck. He seemed only marginally interested but his eyes suddenly lit up when he asked about setting the two huge topsails currently bent on, and lashed at the mast doublings, ninety feet above our heads. Sven clearly knew his way around a ship. “Would you like to go aloft and have a look first-hand at the topsails?” I asked because I was now maintopman and damn proud of the appointment. Setting the main topsail was my job. Sven made no reply. In one bound he was already climbing the ratlines towards the crosstrees with his pipe clenched between his teeth. We sat together on the crosstrees and took in the commanding view where I opened up to him. “I chased Bluenose because of memorable times I spent with Sterling Hayden in Sausalito. Hayden was maintopman on Gertrude L. Theabaud during the last Gloucester schooner races in 1938.” We did not speak for a while. We sat on the crosstrees taking in the sights of St. Georges Harbour. Sven appeared relaxed with the height. “Dis is a fine sailing ship,” he said in his Finnish accent. I had found a kindred spirit and took Sven’s lead (bait) and explained how topsails are set working aloft. “When tacking, if the topsail is on the wrong side of the mast doubling it is not seamanlike and presses against the peak halyards 105
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so the topman must haul the tack line aloft until it is clear then drop it to the deck so that it leads down the leeward side.” Sven made no sign he was even listening. “Then the clewline will have been slacked from the jaws of the gaff, the topman hooks one of the sister hooks into his belt, grabs the iron at the after end of the mast, climbs up the throat blocks at the crosstrees, then climbs by way of the peak halyard so the sheet can’t get fouled up with the lifts.” Sven’s eyes are now locked on mine. Puffing on his pipe he listens carefully, weighing up, as I describe each procedure. “Resting on the masthead, the halyard is hoisted three quarters up, then the sail is clewed up raising it to masthead height. The topman hauls over the slack. The topsail is sheeted home, the halyard hoisted and the tackline is bowsed taut. The gasket is made up ready for when the sail must be furled again.” When we reached the deck, we again shook hands. “If you ever need a job, here is a phone number in New York where a message can be passed to me.” He handed me a business card. Sumner A. “Huey” Long – Long, Quinn and Boylan – super tanker brokers. I had no idea I been in the company of one of the world’s best seamen. Sven knew exactly how to set topsails. He just wanted to know if I did. Nor did I know that Ondine was the world’s fastest ocean racing yacht or, that one day, I would make that call. It was well into May when Bluenose II sailed north towards Halifax. Between the Virgin Islands and Bermuda we were lounging on deck by the fo’c’s’le hatch, a half empty case of beer against the bulwarks. I stretched out on deck resting my head on a rag beneath the gypsy of the windlass. The rag smelled of linseed oil. The only light is from the fo’c’s’le companionway, delicately outlining the immediate features of the ship. We can’t see the helmsman. Beyond the stern the Southern Cross lies low on the horizon. Tomorrow my old friend you will drop below the horizon. Every now and then someone lights a cigarette, illuminating faces and hands in the night. You catch a glimpse of the face for an instant, then it disappears leaving only the glowing red tip that 106
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becomes brighter each time he inhales. The night is perfect. The ship’s head points towards the North Star. The Atlantic is ours, a tall schooner soaring along with phosphorescent bow wave. About noon the next day there was an ‘All Hands’ call for the jibtopsail. It was a sunny winter’s day and the sun felt warm on our backs. Bluenose was making an easy ten knots. Men sprang to the weather footropes to loose the gaskets. A man a piece, halyard and winch. Way aft along the leeward rail men swayed to the sheet. The sail flogs itself aloft with the mast twisting and bucking under the might of the sail. Already the ship was surging a knot faster under added pressure. The helmsman put the helm up and the vessel slashed into the wind. The main sheet comes in inch-by-inch. Bluenose II charges north. Ours is a great schooner heavily geared with powerful sails tromping on a sea that is alive with leaping white horses and tumbling crests. We are on the port tack. Compass to starboard. I stand to leeward steering. I feel the pulse of the ship vibrating through the four-foot wheel, cast in iron from the Lunenburg foundry and raked aft with its shaft aimed halfway aloft. She runs straight and true as if she’s in a groove. The following morning, 19th May 1968, a series of events exceeded our wildest expectations as to what Bluenose II could really do. It began at midnight with the vessel averaging sixteen knots. The anemometer reads forty knots. At 0300 hours I am awakened by increased pressure on the ship. I was being forced into the shelf above my bunk, so I knew we were really moving. There was a small crescent moon peeping through the racing clouds and the vessel was going so fast the stern caused the seas to break prematurely. At sixteen knots the deadeyes went under as she lay down. The leeward wake was white. The night was black. We logged eighteen knots with the lee scuppers boiling, lanyards half under. The anemometer now reads 60 knots meaning the apparent wind across the deck was 40 knots. There has never been a vessel built that could withstand such treatment. When a 143-foot schooner carrying four lowers and jib-topsail is in such winds, only two outcomes are possible. We drive the ship under or something must fail in order to ease the force on the sails. 107
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The coiled throat and peak halyards were made ready to run, the mainsheet put to the winch ready for crutching the boom when the order rang out. “Forget about the gaskets, the whole Jaysus main just blew out of the boltropes.” Have you ever seen 4,000 square feet of canvas go? To leeward huge sections were flogging themselves to piece. The noise was deafening. All hands ‘muckled onto’ failing pieces of canvas. It was hard and dangerous work. Time and time again heavy canvas was torn from our hands. Finally, we secured it to the boom in ugly bulky lumps. She was one hard looking mess. Daylight came with an ugly grey sky, tumbling sea and wind streaks across the faces of the rollers, indicating how hard it was still blowing. This had been quite a morning, but there wasn’t a man aboard who didn’t look at the vessel with pride and wonder. “She’s a big hooker but believe it or not I just saw her do twenty-plus knots, a new record. We wondered how the old Bluenose would have fared.” Both Captain Coggins and the mate Skodje, said later that they had seen her do eighteen before, but never like this. Their view had been from the stern. They said she was pressed so far down that water was foaming aboard from both sides. Her bow pressed down level with the rushing water. Had something not let go we could have driven her right under. Books are not written by people who played it safe, but there is a fine line between getting caught unawares and good seamanship. I paid off in the Halifax shipping office and took one final look at the lofty wind wagon with her big spoon bow pointed towards the city. At first she was just a replica of a legend, now with more than 60,000 sea miles under her keel and many experiences of her own, one of which I shared, she had earned her own place. Each crewmember invited me for dinner to meet their families, even the Zink family. I met salt-of-the-earth Nova Scotians. “Be the Lard Jaysus, you be right some welcome in this house, son.” We sat on busted sofas in front of log fires and feasted on Down East salt cod, boiled potatoes and veggies.
108
Sterling Hayden
Spike Africa
109
Ploughing into the Atlantic Gulf Stream.
Struggling on the 84-foot main boom with a blown-out mainsail weighing one ton dry. 110
Tall schooner. The Atlantic is ours.
Well I remember the carefree days and wish I could turn the clock back.
111
10 HOMEWARD BOUND
I received the news that Sven Joffs with Ondine was soon outward bound from Greece towards Australia. I made the call from a quaint Lunenburg guesthouse called Boscawan Manor. I sent a message to Sven via the New York Tanker Brokers asking if he had a berth available. Sven sent back a message. “Join vessel in Bonafacio on 2nd September. I will be there four hours only. I will not wait.” That was Sven. Facts only. No wasted words. I had never heard of Bonafacio but soon learnt it was on the island of Corsica. The transcontinental jet lifted off from the shores of Canada towards the Mediterranean where Ondine would be moored stern to the quay. Four hours only. I could not afford to be late because I knew Sven wasn’t kidding. He would not wait. Bonafacio is a playground for the rich. Rich people buy things, including people. People, just another commodity. Money buys beautiful women and Ondine was full of beautiful women. However, they were only available to high paying customers, not us penniless crew. Cash went missing. The girls pointed their fingers at the deck apes, meaning us. Sven knew better. He appointed Nick Hilton to investigate. Nick found the money rolled inside Tampax modules. 112
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When the girl was escorted off, she carried a half empty Courvoisier bottle, took a flamboyant swig, threw the bottle over the side, then climbed into the dinghy. Whoever said, money can’t buy me love, got it right. Imagine taking her home to meet mum, someone said. Owner Huey Long and his guests visited different islands about every 12 hours. They were Type A, stressed, rich businessmen. On the gorgeous Greek island of Santorini we watched Huey and his new girl ride a donkey cart up the torturous slope to the volcano crater where whitewashed pueblo cliff dwellings afford a commanding view of the Mediterranean Sea. Huey bought a bunch of grapes and immediately made the descent. “OK. We’ve seen Santorini, let’s go.” Sailors take soft bags onto yachts. Huey’s passengers arrived with suitcases. Sven hated suitcases. There was nowhere to stow them. Sven scowled like a Rottweiler. “This is a racing machine, not a Goddamn cruise ship.” Sven filled the sauna bath with the offending suitcases. The passengers complained but Sven’s word was law. You didn’t mess with Sven. Ondine was scheduled to make a non-stop passage to Sydney via the Cape of Good Hope to compete in the Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. This would be the final leg of my circumnavigation. In Vouliagmeni, a tall auburn-haired English girl named Susie Hartop boarded with the purpose of hitching a ride to Gibraltar. She asked for Sven by name. She was backpacking across Europe en route to Australia. We stopped dead in our tracks, voices hushed in anticipation waiting for the volcanic eruption. Quickly followed by the girl making a hasty retreat back onto the dock. Good luck getting past Sven, we thought. Sven hates women. She walked determinably towards Sven and sat beside him in the cockpit and began quietly presenting her pitch. The man of stone became slightly animated. The English girl appeared to make positive progress. Was it possible to melt the iceman? Could she turn the tables and uncover a sympathetic side in Sven? She smiled with her brown eyes. Eyes that in certain light gained a greenish tint, eyes that were gentle but belied a sharp and derisive underlying wit. I detected an element of vulnerability, perhaps due 113
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to finding herself in uncharted territory, which in turn caused her to outwardly show a no-nonsense exterior to cover her vulnerable side. Susie was English to the core, tall, lean and tanned with swept back auburn hair. A private person, somewhat aristocratic, reclusive yes, but definitely someone people felt comfortable with, even Sven. To our surprise she moved her backpack into one of the spare cabins and commenced working alongside the crew. She was the first girl Sven ever permitted to travel on any of the Ondines. When Huey and the passengers returned to New York and we traversed the Mediterranean Sea, Susie and I fell into easy banter. She had chosen Australia as the promised land. I was returning to Australia as a land of promise. As the miles and days passed, we were drawn to each other. She had a sledgehammer impact on me. Could she be the one I kept asking myself? I had little to offer except uncertainty, no qualifications, no money and when the journey was done no prospects in the pipeline. She seemed unperturbed, rationalising the futility of trying to predict if love or marriage would last a lifetime. “In the end we’re just ants,” she commented. Sven had his own tea mug. In Argentina Gauchos measure gin by fingers, a drink being so many fingers high. Similarly, he drinks his tea in fingers with a spoon of sugar for each finger. His tea mug was part of his character. Susie washed it separately and put it away with care. A jade-coloured cast china mug about eight inches high, on one side in bold relief were the words Captain Sven, on the other a fully rigged ship with the words, Take Fate as it Comes. I was caught off guard when Susie said, “I’m prepared to face a future with no guarantees and take fate as it comes.” “Do you really mean that?” Her nose raised a touch, determined eyes holding mine, “Yes, I really mean that.” Gibraltar was the end of the line for Susie, but Sven allowed her to stay on board until we sailed for Australia. We were moored under the shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar. On our fourth and last day Susie and I climbed to the top of the Rock, timing our arrival for sunset. 114
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We waited for the lookout restaurant to close and the last cable car to descend taking the last tourists off the Rock. We climbed the wall surrounding the observation area and scaled boulders until we sat atop the very pinnacle. The sun was a deep orange disc setting behind the basalt hills of Spain. We sat hand in hand on a rocky crag looking across the Straits of Gibraltar towards the purple hills of Morocco. Floating above the rest of the world. Drifting. In the dying light the sky was high and blue and clear. Her face was happy, head tilted to one side with orange from the west adding vivid colour. There were tears in her eyes. We had only known each other a few days but believed we belonged together. For both of us the timing was right. “Will you marry me?” I asked in a quiet voice. “Yes.” Neither of us spoke, hiding our fears. Thoughts and emotions sought solace in the vivid colours above the Straits of Gibraltar. A cargo ship was standing out to sea. “My mother will have a fit. Where shall we go? What will life throw at us? Is love sufficient sustenance to feed our ideals?” “Tomorrow,” I said, “we will sail for Australia to enter the Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. Sven wants to do it in one shot. We’ve already covered more than 1,000 miles. This means we still have 11,500 miles to go.” To avoid discussing our separation we joked about joining Ondine with a view to seeing the world, then being disappointed. She was an ocean greyhound built for one purpose, to win races. At sunset, no gin and tonics are served, it’s all business. We joked about Sven being a hard taskmaster and why in a moment of weakness he allowed her to make the passage that brought us together. “Sven is a good and decent man.” Susie said. We made plans to meet in Sydney. She would travel on the Shaw Savill passenger ship Fairsky. Australia subsidised much-needed immigrants for the grand sum of ten English Pounds. “They’ll call you a ten-pound Pommie.” “I can live with that.” 115
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The Rock is cold and grey on this early morning 2nd October 1968. Monkeys on the slopes are preparing for a day picking tourist’s pockets. The crackle and burble of the Detroit diesel rents the air. Two- stroke diesels roar rather than tick over. Sven raises his hand and the machine swings seaward heading south down the coast of Morocco towards Cape Verde Islands. To sail on Ondine is a study of Sven, a pragmatic captain who drives his boat and crews hard. Yet he was fiercely loyal to the yacht’s owner, Huey Long. We passed within five miles of Grand Canary Island and said to Sven, “Look at those lights. Cold beer over there. We could be in within the hour. Get some stores too.” “This is a mission, not a holiday.” That was Sven, no gingerbread. When we hit our first squall Ondine no longer dipped and rose but surged in a smother of foam like a sled across a snowfield. Sven took the helm holding it like a windjammer wheel. He turns his pipe upside down to shield the burning dottle from the rain. He maintains a determined toothy grimace to windward. “Get the jib off.” He said in a quiet voice. The jib was actually a huge genoa. Getting it off was no mean feat. When Sven said ‘off’ he meant he wanted it off within seconds. From Gibraltar to Sydney lay 11,000 miles of open water via the Cape of Good Hope. The words ring in our ears like music. Open ocean and deep water. Beholden to no-one, bound to the boat by the elements, the white capped seas, the wind and the deep sea rain, to the sky above, high and blue and the symphony of sounds to which our ears are attuned. We hear the rush of water beneath the keel as we tramp on the watery hills of the Atlantic. I had tasted life and crossed oceans in a small sailing yacht, hauled topsails and square sails on tall ships, slept in bunks arranged in tiers in an open forecastle. Out here there were no rags smelling of linseed oil. Our aluminium cocoon is sound proofed with air-conditioned cabins. We hear grating of blocks on tracks, the whir and clatter of coffee grinder winches, vastly different from our timid departure from Sydney years ago. We are part of this world, the only world we will know for months to come, a world of wind and sails and rolling water. Each day falls into routine wholly dependent on time 116
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and weather. As the days pass the ship possesses us completely. Checking aloft the modern, efficient rig driving us southwards, trimming sails an inch here, an inch there, for maximum speed. The routine is so strong the outside world seems unreal. There is magic in the words the ship runs free. Money and prestige mean nothing to the man who is secure with the knowledge that he is free. Our wind ship runs free. From the bow looking aft is the world’s fastest ocean racer. She’s a mass of winches and lines, built from aluminum and stainless steel. Above my head our spinnaker strains at her traces. There are noises of strain all over the boat as the needle pips fourteen knots. Both rudders are locked in. She is alive, surfing down the faces of the waves, revelling in the freedom to run free. Open water all the way to Australia. Sometimes she rears her head high and you could see she was enjoying it, putting her shoulder to the waves and laughing out loud and leaping from crest to crest with a great bone in her teeth. Somewhere in the South Atlantic Sven is drinking his morning tea and says to me in passing. “How about that skinny English bird, Susie?” Trying to sound nonchalant, “I asked her to marry me.” Sven stopped dead in his tracks. “What did she say?” “She said Yes.” This was too much for Sven, he turned the dottle of his pipe upside down, mumbling under his breath and shaking his head went forward to check the rigging and set of the sails. I took a merciless roasting from the crew. Dave Parkinson, the son of a Vicar chided, “Don’t worry mate, boys are afraid of marriage, men go along with it.” Awoken from a deep sleep. Dreams cut short. A light somewhere in the passageway and your name is called. “Roll out your watch.” The luminous hands of my Rolex glow in the dark. Eleven-forty. Eyes closed, foul of breath, limbs out of coordination. Lurch and stumble towards the galley. Boiling water hissing in the pot. Goddamn pot leaks. Wish we would get a new one. New pots hard to come by out here. Three men in the galley. Hank, Dave and me. 117
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No one speaks. Half teaspoon freeze-dried coffee. Easy does it. We’ve a long way to go. Rations. Must think of the others. Survival of the fattest has no meaning out here. Pour the scalding water. Eyes transfixed into the rich whirling blackness. Why don’t I give up this miserable life? What price, leather chairs and wood fires, fishing rods and trout streams, pine forests and earth-mold scents? Put in one sugar and stir. Lurch into the darkened saloon and resume customary seat. Curse the angle of heel. Whoever heard of beating into the eye of the Trade Winds? Trades are for rolling downwind, warm and gentle. Eyes still half-closed, head slumped forward. No one speaks. Drain the dregs and wash with seawater and to hell with drying. Shake the mug and replace it in the rack. Eight bells. Midnight. Stumble on deck. Black, black night. Wind and rushing water. Flying fish flapping in the scuppers. Drowsiness suddenly disappears. Seamen’s instincts suddenly come to light. A missed footing or handhold could mean going overboard. Six luminous dials. The red glow of the compass. The sheets are cracked and the ship flies into the night. Hands grip the wheel. You gauge the heft of the wind and the run of the ship. Hmmm! This is the life. Maybe I will stay at sea a little longer. The wind has a fetch that goes around the world in the Roaring Forties and the Furious Fifties unchecked by land. Once clear of the Cape of Good Hope sustained strong westerly winds were the norm and we took them in our stride. On the night 16th November 1968 we drove eastward, midway on our delivery passage from Greece to Sydney. Racing against time but still on schedule to reach port early enough to enter the Sydney-Hobart Yacht Race starting on 26th December. Cape Town lay 2,300 miles astern. Sydney, 5,000 miles ahead. The night was cold under the wheeling Southern Cross. Salt spray occasionally stung our faces. Spray smacked off iceberg-freighted seas that stretched into the blackness to the South Pole. Being flushdecked, we sought shelter from the cold in the lee of shallow deck coamings. If Sven found us sheltering, he viciously kicked us in the ribs. In an instant, shockingly and cleanly in a puncture of power our 100-foot mainmast broke and went over the side. 118
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We had been close reaching under double headsail rig, storm trisail and mizzen. The instant of dismasting occurred when the windward running backstay and lower spreader failed but not necessarily in that order. The spar buckled under resultant compression and broke off four feet below the lower spreaders, leaving only the 28-foot stump. There was no need for the cry of All Hands for those below tumbled topside as if they had the galley stove in their pants. We gaped fleetingly at the void against the sky and stars where our towering mast had once stood and began coping with the tangled mess of rigging on deck. This was not a Sunday sail. We were wallowing just below the extreme limit of icebergs, thousands of miles from shore in any direction. Sven took command of the situation. He seemed to be everywhere at once. We rolled clumsily in the troughs and there was some danger of the spreaders puncturing the hull. We tried unsuccessfully to salvage the broken spar and fittings, so Sven decided to cut it away. Oilskins glistened in the glare of flashlights clearing away the rigging and cursing the chilly rain. Not a single line or block remained, just the stump. We salvaged what we could and lowered the mast into the water by cutting the internal halyards letting it sink into the depths. What did we do then? Nothing for a bit. We went below for soup and coffee. We had plenty of food and water aboard and enough Dacron material for an emergency suit of sails. Tomorrow we’d start to hand sew a jury rig and proceed towards Albany in Western Australia 3,000 miles to the east. We dealt with the masthead as directly as possible. Around its gaping aluminum hole we spliced up a series of wire strops and secured them to the masthead by two hooks. From these we rigged new gantlines and halyards. The stump was sturdy enough however, we did rig two running backstays and the wire luff rope of the storm jib as a new forestay. We were quite proud of our rig capable of carrying full sail in a gale. If anything, we were more comfortable. Life aboard progressed as if nothing had happened. Our cook in his all-electric galley turned out steaks, curries and baked dinners. 119
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The ever-ready sauna bath dried our clothes to a warm crispness for the following watch. The three air-conditioning units kept the boat dry and pleasant below. Seven of us in a vessel normally crewed by twenty-one with all the comforts. On the eighth day, having covered 1,000 miles, we sighted remote Amsterdam Island, midway between Africa and Australia. By coincidence we also sighted the P&O liner Canberra on her route to Durban. By radiotelephone Sven spoke to the Canberra and sent a telegram to Huey Long in New York. Ondine dismasted. November 16. Lat. 41 00 S. Long. 56 00 E. Unable salvage spar. Proceeding under jury rig to SW Australia. Speed 5 Knots. Regards. We presumed with the well-found arrogance that Herculean efforts to fabricate and ship a new spar would be made at the other end. And they surely were. Huey Long had owned three Ondines over the past ten years and Sven had been professional skipper of all three. Their association had been a long one. Each respected and depended on the other. Long always referred to him as being married to the boat. He only went ashore in half a dozen ports in the world. Panama was one of his favourites. We believed if Sven thought there was not a chance of making the Hobart Race he would have said so. Therefore, he simply stated the facts knowing that Huey Long would interpret the message and play his part by ordering and flying out a new mast. This was a challenge for Sven, for the seven of us, for Huey Long, Abeking and Rasmussen, the yacht builders, for transport companies and riggers, a challenge to unite and make ready for the race, now exactly one month away. We altered course for Amsterdam Island where France maintained a weather station. Because we spoke French, Hans Seyde and I were sent ashore in the dinghy to explain our trouble and request some diesel fuel. We still had 2,100 miles to go to our chosen port of Albany. Seals barked like abandoned dogs as we rowed the dinghy. Thick patches of kelp similar to Tierra del Fuego hindered our progress. Ondine appeared out of proportion with her mast stump half the height of the mizzen. 120
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Men gathered at the end of a crude sea battered pier to greet us, dancing out of the way as maverick waves broke around their feet. It was too dangerous to land. Over the boom of the surf we learned permission from Paris to refuel us would take three days. We needed fuel but could not standby for three days. Sven decided we would go it alone. We still had 200 miles of powering ability. This would suffice when close to land. With our jury rig we headed south into the Roaring Forties in search of stronger westerly winds but with added risk encountering hazardous ice floes. We’d been at sea for almost three months and longed for the land. We figured we had been at sea too long because even Sven was talking about what he would do when he got ashore. We quoted from a poem by Arthur Hugh Clough – 1862. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. In the Southern Ocean days were brightened by the great wandering albatross. They wheeled in our wake as we watched, fascinated by their beautiful buffeting manoeuvres, effortlessly gliding along the troughs in search of food. Some stayed faithfully for weeks. Big Al was a magnificent specimen with a wingspan exceeding eleven feet. El Stumpo, had the honour of being named after our cropped mainmast. Square rig lore says sailors who die at sea are reborn as albatrosses. We must have presented a poor substitute for the great skysail yarders of yore or they accepted that any company is better than none. On 10th December we raised Albany, took on fuel, stores, water then stood out to sea for another 2,000-mile slog to Sydney. We only saw the dock in Albany. For years I had been a foreigner in foreign countries and sailing on foreign ships. I was a fifth generation Australian and this was my land. I was coming home to Sydney where I belonged. The local newspaper ran a story on my homecoming. ‘Seaman is Coming Home.’ Dave Parkinson objected to the story line. “Des, I don’t like the connotation of this word seaman, it smacks of the non-commissioned merchantman.” 121
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Sven surprised us dressed in blue yachting jacket, smartly laundered white shirt, tie, khaki slacks and elk-skin shoes. He looked fifteen years younger. No one had ever seen him look so suave as he sprang ashore for news from New York. Meanwhile our fuel and stores arrived along with the inebriated cook who explained that each shop he went to insisted on buying him a drink. We lashed extra fuel drums on deck. Sven did speak to Huey Long by ham radio and learnt the mast would be in Sydney on 23rd December. Flown out in three sections, assembly by a system of sleeves. It would be one-third greater in wall thickness and one inch larger in diameter. “I don’t know how Huey Long did it,” said Sven as we powered down the harbour. Sven still had his tie on. This was not the Sven we knew. We kept Ondine close inshore going through Bass Strait and up the New South Wales coast to avoid the adverse southerly current. On 21st December 1968, US yacht Ondine, 89 days and 13,000 miles since Greece entered Sydney Heads. Two days before our new mast was to arrive from Germany. Four days before the start of the race. It was a clear night. City lights cast shadows across our deck as we made a quiet and unimpressive entry. Sven insisted I helm down Sydney Harbour to mark the completion of my circumnavigation. Sven knew full well what this meant to me. I had set out with a purpose. This night I achieved it. What was gained? Wealth? Hardly. After years of working for no wages to learn the art of seamanship I was stone-broke. I counted the high cost of the voyage a small price to pay for the satisfaction, which is mine, mine forever, regardless of what buffets fate may have in store. Fame? Stouter and bolder fellows years ago exhausted that stock. Of Fame’s modern sister Publicity, there are miniscule favours to be won on that street. Love? Yes. Driving Ondine down the harbour amidst a blaze of shore lights the years are crammed into one hour before we tie up at the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia along with all the other race boats. No time for reflection. There was work to be done for the Sydney Hobart Yacht Race. Our 21-man crew arrived. Most were rich business associates of 122
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Huey Long. Dick Bertram of Bertram yachts. Ted Turner, owner of the 12-metre American Eagle and Founder of CNN. We spent Christmas Day up the mast adjusting rigging. Working aloft we enviously gazed at the sipping of cocktails and Christmas cheer on verandas of homes opposite the Yacht Club. At sunrise 26th December, the morning of the race, we cast off and moved down the harbour looking like a super dreadnought among the smaller craft. We were still tuning the rigging when the start gun went off. We set our new mainsail and huge genoa. In a harbour gone mad with hundreds of spectator boats began the countdown manoeuvring tactics for which we had sailed half-way round the world. We beat down Sydney Harbour, and in the early pandemonium couldn’t determine our position in the feet until we rounded South Head. We set our giant spinnaker and course southwards down the NSW coast. Within four hours we had the fleet hull down below the horizon. At the entrance to the Derwent River a saffron dawn lit the pipe organ cliffs on Tasman Island. Ondine took line honours. The newspapers called us Giant Victor. As we came alongside Constitution Dock packed with cheering crowds, we witnessed a lesson in one-upmanship. Our crew consisted of the seven who delivered Ondine from the Mediterranean plus fourteen wealthy businessmen. The businessmen each owned yachts and drove fast cars. The playing field was level so far. One quest remained – women. It wasn’t how much you paid but how you played the game. Most of the crew had booked call girls to meet them on arrival at Constitution Dock. Huey, the race victor, was being interviewed on camera by TV journalists when suddenly Ted Turner’s girl, a stunning redhead, jumped from the dock into his waiting arms. The TV cameras forgot about Huey’s interview and followed the redhead’s leap. Huey Long won the race but Ted Turner won the moment, a lesson ocean racing is about more than sailing. That evening at the prize-giving dinner we sat at the winner’s table. Speeches were followed by music from the band. Ted Turner was a Southerner. Holding up both hands to get universal attention he dramatically walked across the empty dance floor, opened his 123
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bulging wallet and threw a $100 bill onto the drum. “Play Dixie man.” A lesson the race is not over until the fat lady sings. Ted Turner went on to win the 1977 America’s Cup in his 12 Metre Courageous then presented himself paralytic drunk at the televised victory press conference. During the interview he blissfully closed his eyes then slid beneath the table as the world watched. He defied critics to create 24-hour cable news network (CNN), democratizing information and changing forever the way America, and the world, sees itself. In a television interview Turner said he had four girlfriends, which he acknowledged was complicated, but nonetheless easier than being married. One week later we were back in Sydney and the businessmen had gone home. I sat alone on the end of the dock and watched Sven wheel Ondine in a big arc to commence another non-stop passage bound for Los Angeles and the Transpac Race. Sven looked back. Our eyes met. We both waved. I recalled our first meeting when we sat on Bluenose’s crosstrees half a world away in Grenada. I learnt a lot from Sven and am proud to have known him. I went home for a long overdue reunion with my parents. The first two hours went well. We were genuinely happy to see each other. There were a few adventure stories. Future plans were discussed. When would they meet my future wife? Suddenly we all ran out of things to say to each other. Mother busied herself in the kitchen. Father had pressing work to do. It was a similar story when I went to see old school friends. Genuine interest was shown except I went away with the feeling I was an unwanted distraction to their orderly and structured lives. At that point I knew the true cost of the circumnavigation. I no longer belonged in the society from which I had departed.
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Sven with obligatory pipe, setting sail.
Pile Driving – Indian Ocean.
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Day of dismasting. 1,500 miles East of Cape of Good Hope. Storm jib flying upside down to maintain steerage way.
Ondine takes Line Honours, 1968 Sydney Hobart Ra 126
Lord Howe Island – 1969
Susie - Sydney 1969 127
FULL FLOOD AT SEYMOUR NARROWS
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When you climb a mountain, you can’t stand on top waving the flag forever. You must come down. Susie arrived on the liner Fairsky. I met her at the same passenger ship terminal from which Nat and McTavish sailed to Hawaii for the world surfing championships. We took a taxi to the Cruising Yacht Club of Australia where we rendezvoused with the scrap metal truck and cut up Ondine’s mast stump. Sven, knowing I was broke had given me the old aluminium mast stump. We collected $60 for the scrap. Surprisingly the bailiffs had not yet seized the Tambo out at Avalon. Full circle. We were offered the gardener’s cottage at Tambo free of charge, thereby starting our life where our circumnavigation began. Our cottage was nestled amongst eucalyptus trees and koalas. At that time gold was $35 an ounce. We bought a wedding ring for $30, the remaining $30 was for getting started. $20 for a portable Olivetti typewriter to hammer out a book we planned to write. Nat Young was now the world champion surfer and kindly agreed to a minimum rent for his Palm Beach cliff top house while he went to California to star in a surf movie. I was now twenty-five. Susie was twenty-three. Susie worked for a local real estate agent to support us both. I typed day and night. Our finances fell below $10, insufficient to pay the rent, let alone eat. 129
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We went straight to Barrenjoey House, Palm Beach’s most expensive restaurant and blew the money on coffee and apple pie topped with ice cream and cream. The following day we received a check in the mail from a yachting magazine to tide us over. In three months, the book was completed. In November 1969, type written manuscript under my arm entitled, World Wanderer –100,000 Miles Under Sail, I sheepishly entered the lobby of the Angus & Robertson publishing house on Sydney’s Castlereagh Street; an Australian flagship institution. In 1895 they published the works of “Banjo” Patterson which included Waltzing Matilda, The Man from Snowy River and Clancy of the Overflow. Every Australian grew up with his songs and poems. His works represented Australians as tough, independent, heroic underdogs; ideal qualities underpinning the national character. I left the manuscript with a pleasant receptionist. Five days later I received an invitation to attend a meeting at the publishing house. My manuscript had been separated into sections along with photos, which now covered the large polished table. Sandwiches and coffee were laid out on a side table. I was a 25-year old youth off the streets. To my surprise I was treated with respect, politeness, courtesy and enthusiasm. The book quickly went into print. “Banjo” Patterson had died many years before, but when the publisher’s managing director John Ferguson heard that Banjo’s widow was living penniless in a shack out in the New South Wales bush, he drove his personal car to her house and knocked on her door. “Mrs. Patterson my name is John Ferguson from Angus & Robertson. For many years we published your husband’s works. As a goodwill gesture we would be grateful if you would accept this check. The payment is personal, outside our contractual terms. You will receive a similar check every week for the rest of your life.” Two months later, in early 1970, a vicious battle for control of Angus & Robertson commenced, based on its extensive property holdings. I was witnessing the beginning of the ugly era of mergers and acquisitions. Before the year was out the honourable company was dismantled. 130
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I wonder at what point did a bean counter stumble upon Mrs. Paterson’s weekly payments and strike them off as an unwarranted cost not understanding or caring he was compromising an integral part of Australian history. “Right,” says Susie, “we can’t live on a royalty of 30 cents a copy. We need to look ahead. What have we got going for us?” “We’ve got youth.” I said. “Remember what your friend Sterling Hayden said, the years thunder by, the dreams of youth lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.” "Qualifications," she said with finality, closed the subject and left me alone to figure out how I would achieve that goal. My considered answer was, "I shall study at King Edward VII Nautical College in London for my Ocean Yachtmaster Certificate, hotly followed by my Second Mate Foreign Going commercial qualification. To quote your surf buddies, " How you getting’ there, on a rockin' horse?" Paraphrasing McTavish, “Nah! The Polar exploration ship Nella Dan is soon leaving Antarctica with a quick stop over in Australia, thence to Europe. I will sign on for the passage.” I did sign on Nella Dan in Melbourne as a junior ordinary seaman. We steamed to Fremantle to load a cargo of bauxite used for making aluminium. I found the Danes professional and the captain, known as King Hans, ran a tight ship. I crossed the Indian Ocean inside the hot and noisy stern water tanks. The propeller shaft stern tube ran through the tanks making it difficult to scale rust in the confined areas.. When perfectly clean and prepared we cement coated the surfaces. After fuelling in Durban, we rounded the Cape of Good Hope. I ran the South and North Atlantic on the foremast dismantling the jumbo derrick. Working at that height above the deck in a beam sea made it difficult to move heavy blocks and fittings. Mostly we hung on. The mate refused to let us come down insisting we continue working. At least I got to see the ocean, which was preferable to being confined inside steel tanks. 131
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We discharged our bauxite cargo in Venice. While docking, the Danish crew locked horns with excitable Italian linesmen who cut the ball off the end of the heaving line connected to our mooring ropes. Racist slurs rented the air. “Greasers! Dagos! Wogs!” yelled the Danes. The Italians replied with fists held high while holding their balls. I signed off in Venice and took the train across Europe to the great city of London where I quickly discovered I could not afford to go to school. I went down to Dock Street where they hired seamen for ships. Dock Street was littered with ‘down-and-outs’ lying in doorways drinking cheap sherry or methylated spirits from bottles in brown paper bags. The shipping office was old and dirty with walls painted typical Board of Trade cream and light green. I entered the building and was met by a clerk. “Are you an officer or a seaman?” “Officer.” I said, then immediately regretted blurting it out but decided to remain silent. “Officers over there.” I knew I was in over my head and sat down at a desk facing a bespectacled clerk, “Do you possess a Certificate of Competency?” he asked. “No.” “OK, we’ll ship you out as an Uncertified Third Officer on the cargo ship Chelwood owned by the France-Fenwick Line. Your trading area will be Gulf of Bothnia, Sweden, Norway, Finland and Germany. You can join the ship in its homeport of Sunderland in the northeast of England.” On a mid-winter morning I stood freezing at the base of the gangway looking up at this huge ship. I had no knowledge or experience of cargo ships. This was all wrong. Here I stand Third Mate about to sail out into the North Sea with no cargo ship experience whatsoever. The captain’s name was Smythe spelt with a “y.” He was well spoken, polite and about to retire. The First Mate, I soon discovered had wild eyes and was, I believe, barking mad. 132
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The Second Mate had a drinking problem. In the ship’s bar after four beers he would piss in his chair. His chair was universally known as the ‘pissy-chair’ and reserved for the sole use of the Second Mate. The seamen were a vicious looking lot and I was afraid of them. I now understood why they offered the officer’s position. British home trade shipping had sunk to an all-time low. With the exception of Captain Smythe, the standard of seamen, officers and seamanship witnessed on board Chelwood was deplorable. We loaded a cargo of iron ore. It was my job to take hydrometer readings using a bucket of dock water to measure salinity so that when we entered less dense water, we would not sink below our Load Line, which at this time of year was Winter North Atlantic (WNA). When loading was complete, I was surprised to see only a small pile of ore in the bottom of each hold. Capt. Smythe explained iron ore was dangerous because the centre of gravity was so low the ship became very stiff in a seaway and there were instances of ships suffering structural failures and breaking up as a result. Northeast of Scotland we hit rough weather and hove-to with the wind and sea on the starboard bow to ride out the storm. I discovered reading the water and judging the seas was no different to surfing. It was a matter of hand steering to get the feel of the ship. Then positioning the bow at the right attitude as we climbed the onrushing seas and fell into the next trough with minimum shuddering. The big ship was no longer big. It was just a ship. We carried terrible cargoes of coal, coke, iron ore and gypsum all of which were dusty to load and discharge. With temperatures around -14 degrees we could not wash down. Water immediately froze so our decks remained filthy. This was my first introduction to bad work ethics. The longshoremen belonged to powerful unions and did everything possible to slow down the loading and discharge operations. My job was to put whisky, rum and gin into the grab-buckets. This oiled the work ethic machine and things would run better for a time. I was terrified running through buoyed channels, outside of which, unexploded mines still existed. 133
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Multi-coloured navigation beacons and buoyed channels necessitated vigilant position plotting. Ship traffic was dense. North bound in the Gulf of Bothnia we sailed through the Åland Sea formerly the base port for Gustaf Erikson’s famous P-Line ships. Old Capt. Boulton of Tiare Taporo spent hours telling me stories of the P-Line ships and in particular Pamir which he commanded after World War II. On Christmas Eve 1971 we transited the Kiel Canal with a cargo of coal. Coal dust covered the deck. Temperatures were -13 degrees so again wash down was not possible. From our ship’s bridge we could see inside living rooms of German houses with Christmas trees, family warmth and good cheer. Thoughts of my wife stuck in a cold London flat. The Jacob’s ladder was made ready for the Kiel Canal pilot. As the pilot emerged on deck I noticed he was uncharacteristically German. He wore traditional white gloves but sported a baseball cap and was smoking a cigar. He looked down in disgust at his white gloves covered in black coal dust, “Schizer ship!” he said as he spat on the icy deck. When he entered the bridge, Captain Smythe introduced himself. The Pilot said, “OK, Captain Smith, full ahead.” There was a pregnant pause. Our captain corrected the pilot, “The name is not Smith. It is Smy-the.” The German pilot shifted the cigar to one side of his mouth, “Smith or Smythe, shit or shyte, its all the same to me Cap, Full Ahead.” Red faced, Captain Smythe left the bridge without another word leaving the Pilot alone with the Third Mate and the Quartermaster. I made a note in the ship’s log, “TMO and TPA.” (To Master’s Orders and To Pilot’s Advice) In Maritime Law, regardless whether the Pilot is on board, the Master is still responsible and accountable. The Master has Command. The Pilot has the Conduct. In theory the Pilot acts in advisory capacity only but in practice the opposite is the case. The Captain hands the ship over to the Pilot. The Pilot then issues the instructions. Therein lies the basis for many court cases where the Pilot ran the ship aground. 134
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I was relieved when France-Fenwick moved me across to their new ship, the 32,000-ton Star Pinewood, flagship of the Line. Fitted with special gantry travelling cranes to enable self-loading paper rolls of newsprint. The run was Europe to British Colombia, Canada. Even better news because I knew Bob Nance was working for a tug company called Shields Navigation and we could catch up. Reporting to Star Pinewood in London I met Captain John Potter, known as Pay ‘em off Potter, because he fired people who did not measure up. He was old school and never called people by their names. “Third Mate, do you have a Certificate?” “Yes.” I answered, proudly producing my recently gained Ocean Yacht Masters Certificate, an impressive document gold embossed with the British royal crown. Capt. Potter did not open it. Instead he shook his head and laughed a deep belly laugh. “Son, I’ll give you some advice. Take this home, put it in a drawer and don’t tell anybody you’ve got it. Then go to school and get a proper commercial certificate.” The Star Pinewood was well run in all respects. Even the Third Mate had a spacious well-appointed cabin. During the Panama Canal transit we were known as a ‘six-mule-ship’ requiring six locomotives to drag us through the locks. Several seamen missed the ship but were later sighted alongside the locks in taxis wildly waving girl’s underwear. Pay ‘em off Potter allowed them to board at the next set of locks but told the Chief Steward to dock their pay.
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12 CLEANING TOILETS Following Capt. Potter’s advice, I enrolled at King Edward VII Nautical College in London for my Second Mate’s Certificate. Again, I found myself in a vicious circle. British Merchant Navy wages were so low I could not afford to spend six months in school. London is a tough city to be broke. Supplementing jobs fitting my timeslot were limited. In the mornings from 0330 hours to 0730 hours I cleaned toilets on Leadenhall Street in the posh financial district. After school I dragged a long hessian bag through snooty stockbroker offices on Liverpool Street emptying wastepaper baskets. The class system in Britain was still in effect. People who cleaned toilets and emptied wastepaper baskets were considered the same social level as cockroaches. For all this I earned the grand sum of thirteen British Pounds per week to support a wife, a newborn daughter, underground train fares twice d a i l y , school fees, books, food and rent. Living on tinned spaghetti and four hours sleep a night became our accepted norm. Our tiny London flat was heated by a coin-operated steam-heater. We limited expenditure to a shilling at a time, sufficient to take the chill off the room before going to bed. Other times we remained cold and hungry. Not what we envisioned sitting on top of the Rock of Gibraltar professing love and hope for a bright future. Through my yachting connections, Susie and I were sometimes invited to dinner parties in upper class London homes. Invariably one of the wives would ask, “And what does your husband do?” 136
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Susie would straighten her back, elevate her aristocratic nose, “He cleans toilets.” After one such episode, huddled against the cold walking along Kensington High Street I challenged her. “Why did you tell them I clean toilets?” “Because it’s true. I keep my head high and take refuge in the words of the 16th century poet John Donne, All other things, to their destruction draw, only our love hath no decay.” Not to be outdone, I added a quote from Macbeth studied in my last year of high school. “I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, only vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself and falls on the other.” Susie is grinning. “Pray tell, what is your vaulting ambition?” Now I’m smiling. We gotta get out of this place girl, if it’s the last thing we ever do. We gotta get out of this place girl, to a better life for me an’ you. In the cold night air Susie spreads her arms wide. “Well, my dear husband, look around, we’re paupers on posh Kensington High Street. We’re in the bilges of life. The only place we can go, is up.” Four hours sleep began to take its toll. Susie began studying during the day to coach me on pertinent information she felt I needed to pass exams. There were sixteen bright young cadets in our class mostly nineteen or twenty years of age. At twenty-six I was the oldest. King Edward VII Nautical College was old and run down with classrooms heated by ancient cast-iron steam contraptions. Along the classroom walls stood rows of 20-litre steel drums painted the funnel colours of famous British shipping lines. Evident by faded paint, some had been there many years. There was Cunard Line, Port Line, Blue Funnel Line, Peninsular & Orient Steamship (P&O), British India Steam Navigation Co. China Navigation. Ben Line. East India Company. Shaw Savill. Elder Dempster and White Star Line. Others forgotten. Despite being in business 400 years and tracing their heritage back to collier brigs in the 1600’s, my employer France-Fenwick Line, did not have a funnel drum. 137
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White Star’s drum was significant. White Star originally owned Thermopylae, one of the great China Tea Clippers built in 1868, commanded by Joshua Patten, who unexpectedly died approaching Cape Horn, leaving his wife Mary Ann Patten of East Boston, as captain of the clipper. At 19 years of age she became the first woman to take full command of a merchant sailing ship. Mary Ann, six months pregnant, fought winter gales for fifty days to round the Horn and complete the passage to San Francisco. Her story of indomitable courage was soon known in every seaport of the world. In London it rains, and it rains. Each morning our class would arrive with dripping umbrellas, ceremoniously roll them up and drop them into the appropriate funnel. It was ostentatious but it smacked of tradition, good in my books. Umbrellas aside, I loved the school and its rich history. The year is 1971, a significant year heralding globalisation in shipping. Many traditional shipping companies along with their funnel drums were about to disappear. Some shipping companies failed because they attempted to hang onto tradition rather than reading the writing on the wall. Containerisation was the buzzword and clearly here to stay. Forward thinking companies scrapped general cargo ships and built new fleets of vessels designed solely to carry containers. The instructional standard was excellent. I became immersed in learning. There were eight examination papers, many of which have disappeared today due to electronics. Mathematics, navigation theory, practical navigation, chart work, meteorology, ship stability, ship construction and magnetism. When using the Deviascope in the magnetism class we learnt the wall heaters affected the magnets, so we had to factor iron heaters into our calculations. The first question in the Practical Navigation paper was worth seventy marks out of one hundred. To this day I am at a loss to understand how I did not take into full account the International Date Line and used the wrong day from the Nautical Almanac. Worse, because I clearly remembered being becalmed on the Date Line and we had no problem deciding which day to use from the Almanac. 138
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Failing this first question meant I failed the entire Second Mate’s Certificate. It was mandatory to pass all eight papers. Failure in one meant failure in all. That afternoon I walked down the hallowed halls of this great nautical institute behind a group who were obviously sitting for their Masters Certificates and overheard their snide remarks. “I hear there is one chap in the Second Mate’s class who is so dumb he is doing his first certificate at age twenty-six.” What they did not know (yet) was ‘that chap’ was the only failure in the whole class. Worse, that chap would have to continue cleaning toilets until he got it right. This was a humiliating defeat but sometimes a kick in the arse can be a good thing. I tackled future examinations with such singleminded determination I never failed another exam all the way to Master Mariner.
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Star Pinewood docked at Vancouver Wharves near First Narrows Bridge. As Third Mate I earned $300 per month. As a lowly deckhand working on a tug on the British Columbia coast, I could earn $600 a month and rotate, 2 weeks on-two weeks off. Full salary and two weeks holiday every month. Sounded good to me. However, the door was nailed shut. You couldn’t get a job unless you belonged to the Union. You couldn’t join the Union unless you had a job. Vicious circle. Shields Navigation was the only nonunion company on the BC coast. Bob Nance from Carronade was already working there and arranged a job interview with Peter Shields. Bob Nance lived on Coal Island on board Tzu Hang, the famous yacht previously owned by Miles and Beryl Smeeton. Long ago a man named Cap Lewis developed Coal Island into pristine farmland with lush grass lawns and a sprawling log house with a commanding view over the Georgia Straits. Reportedly, Cap Lewis had a love affair with the farm girl whom it is said he educated in fine manners and social etiquette. Together they had a daughter named Betty. Peter Shields was an orphan child. Through hard work and perseverance, he gained an engineering degree from Vancouver University. Peter met and married Betty. 140
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Her family’s collective wealth was rumoured to be i n t h e millions of dollars. Peter refused to take a cent of the family money preferring his own modest finances and started his shoestring towing company. Shields Navigation occupied a small office on Richards Street where I found myself applying for a job. Across the desk sat a young pleasant faced man. Peter Shields had the Canadian look. A classy Ivy League appearance set him aside from the norm. By any measure he was well spoken, polite and in some aspects, incongruous in the tough tugboat world. “We’ll start you on the bottom rung as a cook-deckhand. It won’t be easy, not because of the work, but because two types of people are disliked on this coast, cargo ship people and yachtsmen. You are both. Because we are a non-union company on occasions union tugs back off and won’t work with us. They label us scabs. During the recent towboat strike union people painted the word Scabs down the sides of our barges.” His eyes search mine, “How is your money situation?” In truth I was still flat broke, with wife and daughter in London. But this was a job interview, so I held his eye and answered. “No problem. All good. Got sufficient funds. Yep. No problem.” Possibly I showed symptoms of, he who protesteth too much. Peter’s face was expressionless. He reached into his inner jacket, pulled out his personal check book and slid it across the table. “Write a check.” He didn’t say how much. He just sat back and watched. I looked at his Bank of Commerce personal cheque book. I wrote a check for half a month’s salary knowing full well it was not enough, then handed the cheque book back. “We’ll put you on our big tug Storm King until you get on your feet. You can stay on board to save on rent.” Crew changes took place at midnight. Arriving in the dark with a small bag of work clothes I was expecting to see a massive ocean going tug, the type of which legends are made. Peter’s big tug, Storm King, was a single screw, 72-foot wooden tug with an old 600 horsepower Enterprise engine, the ones with external pushrods. 141
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The camshafts were shot so Peter changed the propeller to lefthand turning, t h e n asked the engineer to constantly run the engine astern, which in turn, made the tug go forward. Bill Greenfield was Senior Captain. He had a dairy farm and played music to his cows so they would milk. “You will be working six hours, six hours off. But first come to the galley and I will teach you how to make tugboat coffee. He took a battered aluminium pot with a wooden handle and filled it with water. When the water boiled, he randomly threw a handful of Maxwell House ground coffee into the pot. “Now comes the important bit, so watch carefully.” He poured cold water over the top of the coffee grounds that had risen to the top. “The cold water makes the grounds sink to the bottom. The coffee is now ready for drinking. If you want to keep your job, never serve coffee older than twenty minutes.” “But isn’t that a waste of expensive coffee?” “Nope. The BC towboat industry is about four things, fresh coffee, ship handling, pilotage and running the rapids. When you acquire all four skills Peter will give you command of a tug.” Storm King was a clumsy wooden tug with single screw making it difficult to manoeuvre. The Enterprise engine was direct reversing, meaning it had no gearbox. Running astern to go forward complicated things even more. To start a direct reversing engine the wheelhouse control lever is pushed to the first notch. Air cylinders release large quantities of compressed air (A wonderful sound - shugg, shugg, shugg) The air is piped to the engine cylinders where pistons compress the air and fire when fuel is injected. To go astern the engine stops when the control lever is brought to the upright position. Meanwhile the air compressor tops up the air cylinders ready for the next start. The operator listens to the air then gives it a kick. Voila the engine starts thrashing the big propeller astern. Bill Greenfield could make the Storm King talk. He backed in while we connected wire bridles to the towing bollards. The towline leads off the winch drum and is connected to the bridles by a D-shackle. A single revolution of the towing drum is called a turn. The whole layer of turns is referred to as a wrap. 142
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The other end of the bridle leg has a large eye that can easily be thrown over a bollard. The captain atop the wheelhouse station issues instructions to slowly let out towline under brake tension until the barge is clear, about three or four wraps. The brakeman is equally as important as the person on the controls. If the duo is experienced, all the captain has to do is pull away and point the tug in the right direction. The brakeman will do the rest. In tight quarters the captain will leave the bridle shackle at the towing winch so any slight course alteration while manoeuvring will kick the barge one way or the other. The next principle is an understanding of Catenary. If the towline is too short it will break because of shock loading. A spring is needed. Towing wire is paid out until it sags due it its own weight. This sag is known as catenary and acts as a spring. The tug pulls against the sag in the wire (catenary), which in turn rises and falls in the seas. Once full power is applied, the towline catenary assumes a pear-shape. The deepest part being nearest the barge and the shallowest obviously astern of the tug where most power is applied. The trick is getting catenary correct. In shallow water the towline can snag or scrape on the bottom. This is counteracted by a short towline with slack brake allowing wire to strip off the drum by friction. In summary, catenary is a spring to absorb shock loading. Understanding this principle becomes more important as this book progresses. We headed north towards a place called Bute Inlet to load logging equipment. It would be the first in a series of five similar stops. “Can you drive a D8 Caterpillar bulldozer?” asks Bill. In freezing rain, we push the barge up onto the rocky shoreline and lower the ramp. “Let’s see what the new recruit can do, shall we boys?” Bill puffs on his pipe and smiles, “The D8 is up there in the bush. Go get it and load it up the barge ramp.” Peter was right. It was going to be a tough road to prove myself. No mercy would be shown. I climbed onto the massive yellow machine weighing 40 tons, pushed the start button and the engine roared into life. 143
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To my surprise the bulldozer started to move on its own accord in the wrong direction knocking down every tree in its path. I pulled every lever and eventually stopped the monster. Then managed to turn the unit on its tracks, one track pulling, one track pushing. Now the dreaded machine was headed for the water. I was sweating in the freezing rain. Bill was killing himself laughing but lost his sense of humour when he realized his D8 was going for a swim. The tug’s engineer took over controls and drove it up the ramp and parked it close to the barge’s edge. Small world. Engineer Ray Roy had been the engineer on Bluenose II during my time on board. The BC coast is deeply indented by a complicated maze of fjords and narrow channels accounting for the thousands of islands. Typically, large volumes of water are squeezed through narrow channels accelerating the speed. When accelerated water exits the other end of a narrow channel it sometimes forms large whirlpools depending on the volume and speed of the water. Seymour Narrows is a three-mile section of the Discovery Passage. At full flood Seymour Narrows runs at speeds up to 15.6 knots. I listen carefully to Bill. “We’re going to be running Seymours at full flood in the early hours of tomorrow morning. The flood direction is south. We can run twelve knots of current but no more. I usually throttle back to about five knots tug speed through the water. This gives us about 17 knots over the ground with a barge behind. It’s hard running and takes time to build up your nerve. Believe me when 12 knots spits us out the other end the water is really boiling. At first we’ll stay mid channel keeping a close eye on the back eddy which is the water running along the rocky shore in the opposite direction. There is about a foot difference in water level between the height of the back-eddy and the southbound fast running water. These two massive forces work against each other. If you get it wrong with the tug in the northbound back eddy and the barge southbound at seventeen knots the tug will capsize. It’s all about reading the water. That skill can only be learnt by experience and, I’m sorry to say, by harrowing experiences.” Bill lets me study the tide book and the marine chart before continuing. 144
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“I usually slow down so I’ve got some power up my sleeve to pull the tow out of trouble. Some of the guys don’t agree and run full bananas from Separation Head onwards. Once we get under the power lines that cross where the old Ripple Rock used to be, I give her some revs so my towline is not too deep. Depending on how hard the tide is running I pull for the Maude Island side and stay close to the back eddy. Once clear, I turn to port and let the whole tow get swept across to the Quadra Island side. Be careful here because if you make the turn to port too soon you can put yourself into the back-eddy and that can be disastrous. Let’s get another coffee before I explain how to safely run the Skookumchuck Rapids. We’ll be running those next.” I sip Bill’s tugboat coffee. In its defense it is strong and black, but the taste would bankrupt a commercial coffee shop. “There are two words you need to learn. ‘Chuck’ is a local term meaning water and ‘Skookum’ meaning big and strong. Skookumchuck Narrows forms the entrance to Sechelt Inlet. At its peak, whitecaps and huge whirlpools form on the other side of the rapids. On the big tides the ground physically shakes. These rapids are not for the faint-hearted. We must hit slack water to the minute. If we are five minutes late, we wait till next tide. It’s that critical. You should take particular note of that.” Pointing out the entrance to the rapids on the chart, “See this area here. This will be a mass of seething white water and whirlpools. We’ll shorten towline to maintain the bridle shackle about 30 feet behind the stern of the tug. Then we’ll sit beyond the white water and monitor the rapids. Regardless of what the tide book says, as soon as we see the white water settling down, no hesitations and no questions asked, we give ‘er full bananas. I steer the best line that I can, but the brakeman has the critical job. He will keep the brake slightly slack so that wire can strip off the drum if the barge starts to run away. It’s much like playing a big fish with a rod. If the fish looks like it will break the line, or you can’t hold it, let out some line to reign in the fish. In our case the brakeman slowly brings the barge back under control, otherwise the tug gets into irons and we lose control altogether. 145
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Technically 200 billion gallons of water pour through here each day and the difference in water levels on either side of the rapids can exceed two metres in height. According to the tide book maximum current speed is 17.68 knots.” I now knew why Peter Shields put me on the Storm King. It wasn’t to save money, but to learn from Bill Greenfield. “This game is all about local knowledge. Reading the water. It is possible two identical tows could leave Vancouver for Prince Rupert 300 miles to the North, one tow could conceivably arrive twenty-four hours ahead of the other by cleverly reading the water, working the fast water, using the back eddies when the tide is against and many other tricks including channel shortcuts that would be impossible to transit without local knowledge. In this respect Peter is no different. Shields Navigation is a nononsense company devoid of politics and brown-nosing. Peter will give the job to the best all-round boatman that can make the best time and therefore make the most money for the company.” Bill then got to the all-encompassing point. “Now listen carefully, it takes time to build up your nerve. Some of the log barges are huge. If you’ve got 10,000 tons back there on a wire and you’re trying to be a hero you need to know how far you can push the tug and barge and your personal adrenalin level. Some of our guys have duodenal ulcers. They don’t have the stomach for it.” He stops to let this sink in. “It will be up to you to set your personal safety threshold. No one can do it for you. It can only come from inside your gut and from experience. In the airline industry they say there are many bold pilots but not many old bold pilots. It’s the same here. Recently the tug Haro Straits sunk off Point Roberts with the loss of all hands. The bodies were still inside the tug when divers reached them. Haro Straits put the fear of God into this coast. Let that be a lesson. Bob Nance is well respected so I know Peter will give you the same chance. The opportunity will depend entirely on you.” He stops to light his pipe. “If you haven’t got the stomach to run rapids and you consistently damage Peter’s tugs you’ll be gone in a heartbeat. 146
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This survival attitude breeds individuals who don’t respect authority. I remember a remote bush pub at the head of one of the fjords frequented exclusively by loggers and tugboat men. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police warned the publican to control closing hours. One night he closed early. The tug with the longest towline ran its towing wire around the entire pub, started his engines and took the strain. Three other tugs then hooked on to his bow. The publican was told, “Open up the bar or we’ll pull your b’jaysus hotel into the chuck.” Don’t think Peter is on easy street either. He is new to this business and has no personal tug experience. There are twenty thousand islands on this coast with lighthouses everywhere exhibiting different flashing frequencies. Some are called intensified lights meaning directional lights that act as clearing lights for dangers. For example, Maude Island Light at the base of Seymour Narrows, is Quick Flash Red, intensified on 168 degrees true.” Bill quoted that information without referring to any chart or notebook. I took note of that skill. “Every morning we have a conference call with Peter on the single sideband radio to report our position. Many of the tug captains pick obscure landmarks thinking that Peter won’t know their actual location. Peter told me when this happens, he feigns acknowledgement, makes a pencil note of the reported location, then pours over the charts, sometimes for hours, until he finds it. No free ride here, even for Peter Shields. “It will be your job to learn every light, the names of every major island, including ones in critical navigations areas. You’ll have to learn the transits and clearing lines, depths of water, where submarine cables are, as well as the name of every tug operating on this coast so you can call them up if you are both going to arrive in a narrow channel together and figure out how you can safely pass. There will be no substitute for long hours of chart study combined with radar and local knowledge piloting techniques. The golden rule is to never trust a single electronic navigation system. Piloting must be supplemented by local knowledge and line-ups.” 147
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I had never been to British Columbia but felt I had come home. I was enraptured with tugs and what they could do. I found working under searchlights on a cold night exhilarating. Every spare minute was spent with matchboxes simulating tugs and barges and handling techniques. Learning the best lines to take when running fast water, how to work back eddies, the best methods of using radars as tools to run narrow channels, how to operate the brake and slip towline in the rapids. My opportunity for promotion arose faster than expected. “From today,” said Peter, “you will captain the Dolphin Point. You will be towing the Imperial Oil Barge. Bob Nance will be mate, John Brown will be pump man and Fearon Anderson as cook/deckhand/engineer. You could not ask for a better crew. Imperial Oil will supply your schedule. You will make forty stops in two weeks. Major stops will be logging camps, but you will also make stove oil deliveries to pensioners and hermits who live in the remote inlets. The barge is 180 feet long. You will make landings onto docks no bigger than my desk so it will be good training. You already know the dangers and difficulties associated with the rapids. Most of the time you will be in wild country with no help available. It will be a demanding job with little sleep, but experience gained from twenty-four hour a day boat and barge handling. Also beware of grizzly bears.” This was low entry into the oil business, but I had struck gold. Previously we explored remote areas of the world. This was an extension of our days of freedom except this time our chariot was a tug and a dirty old oil barge. Bob and I constantly compared the BC coast with Tierra del Fuego. I had discovered the best of both worlds. Continue my sea career and during my two weeks off every month enjoy a family life. Fearon Anderson was an apparition with flowing red beard and red lumberjack shirt. He had recently arrived in Canada through a marriage of convenience. Raised by his father on a farm in the south of New Zealand, he could neither read or write but was street smart and had a knack of communicating that made people comfortable to be around him. Fearon could approach the CEO of 148
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Exxon Mobil, “OK mate, what the fuck’s going on.” Next minute he would be on first name basis, chatting like long lost friends. Fearon had that knack. Flanked by towering snow-capped mountains, we travelled fjords to logging camps to deliver fuel. In the black of night with rain, snow and slushy mud we lugged oily hoses over our shoulders through the bush to fill fuel tanks on wooden stands. We delivered stove oil to pensioners in remote inlets who cooked us pies, gave us buckets of shrimp and salmon and sometimes moonshine alcohol. It was a social job. We were the only living souls some of our customers saw throughout the year. We were treated like family. The Imperial Oil Barge was corroded. Fitted with noisy air-cooled diesels to run pumping systems and cargo derricks, she had an accommodation area at the stern, housing bunks, a spacious galley and comfortable saloon. When it was cold and snowing, we basked inside by our roaring diesel stove. These were idyllic days with freedom to fish for salmon and explore the wilds of the BC Coast. In remote fjords under towering mountains, we tied to log booms and were entertained by our pumpman, an Englishman known as the Honourable John Brown. John presided over his stinking oil barge as if it was the Royal Yacht. Like a man born to upper class society, Mr. Brown served canapés, pate and crackers, cheese and olives along with homebrew and sometimes Gordon’s Gin to complement the hors d’oeuvres. In Knight’s Inlet on an overhanging tree we hung an empty gin bottle with a note inside which read, “It was good.” I wonder if it is still there? 1973 saw the world’s first oil crisis. Fuels, particularly stove oil, skyrocketed in price. Many of our pensioner customers were frail and old and could no longer afford to heat their log cabins in winter. The Dolphin Point crew met one evening and promulgated the Imperial Oil Pensioner Subsidisation Scheme (IOPSS). We calculated in an average month we delivered 1.2 million gallons of fuel. We identified four pensioners who would benefit from our scheme. Under the IOPSS scheme we filled their stove oil tanks but never charged them. None of the IOPSS recipients were aware of our subsidization scheme. 149
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One evening we arrived five minutes late for Skookumchuck Rapids. We read the water and quickly calculated by the time we entered the rapids we would be fifteen minutes late. I remembered Bill Greenfield’s cautionary words to only run Skookumchuck at slack water to the minute. “If you are five minutes late wait till next tide, it’s that critical.” I weighed up the circumstances. Should we give it a go? Yes, we would go for it. What would Bill Greenfield know? He’s old and too cautious. I pushed the throttles to full ahead. Fearon was on the brake. Fortunately, we had the foresight to dog the watertight doors and engine room hatch shut. I stood at the manoeuvring station on top of the wheelhouse. All lights were switched off to aid our night vision. When I saw the extent of the white water it was too late. We were already committed. “Fearon, standby, it’s going to be nasty.” A giant whirlpool appeared amongst the seething white water. We drove tug and barge, straight into it, crashed over on our beam-ends and skidded sideways. I was forced to abandon the controls and grabbed the mast and hung on. It was all I could do. Fearon couldn’t slack the brake because he was chest deep in water and in imminent danger of being washed overboard. I thought my head was spinning but the whole tug and barge spun in circles as one unit. We seemed to be underwater. In the darkness we could not see the barge. Eventually we burst out into calm water facing the direction from whence we had come. I was disoriented so I don’t recall how many revolutions we made. Engines were stopped and we allowed the tug and tow to drift down the inlet. No one said a word. White faces, fraught with fear, at a loss to understand why we hadn’t capsized. I now understood why Bill Greenfield insisted on exact slack tide to the minute. Most likely when Bill was young and brash, he must have been in this situation. Bill was right. You can only learn about running the rapids by harrowing experiences. 150
Whirlpools in the Sechelt Rapids. B.C. Canada.
Sechelt Rapids
151
Towing Imperial Oil Barge - Bute Inlet, BC Coast.
Logging Camp – Bute Inlet - British Columbia coast. 152
Ocean going tug Commodore Straits.
Paying out towline for ocean towing. 153
14 THE OCEAN-GOING TUG
In order to gain sea time towards my Foreign Going Master’s Certificate I was forced to seek work outside Shields on the big ocean-going tugs. I explained this to Peter in his office. He was embarrassingly supportive. “You should continue your studies. I will make phone calls for you. And remember, my door will always be open to you in the future.” Every Wednesday night Peter played cards with influential businessmen. This led to new contracts and new tugs. In Nova Scotia he purchased Foundation Lillian, a famous ocean-going salvage tug and renamed her Storm Chieftain. Canadian author Farley Mowat wrote a book about these Foundation tugs entitled Grey Seas Under. Shields Navigation continued to grow with new tugs and equipment but was still targeted by Union critics. That is until one morning to the shock and awe of British Columbia inhabitants who woke to discover Peter Shields owned virtually everything marine on the West Coast of Canada. In an unprecedented bid he bought out the two giants, Seaspan International and Rivtow Marine. “Times have changed,” mused Bill Greenfield, “once they called us scabs, now they say…. Yes, Mr. Shields, three bags full, Mr. Shields…. Can I please keep my job, Mr. Shields?” Standing on the dock alongside a huge ocean-going tug conjures up magic, a combination of power and romance. The way they sit in the water speaks volumes about sea-keeping ability. 154
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Haida Brave was in for towline change and I was joining her to learn ocean towing. Her owners learnt vibration wore out towlines, not chafe or prolonged usage. When new, a tow wire is alive and pliable. After six months at sea in towing mode, the wire dies and becomes stiff and lifeless. For the massive Haida Brave towlines cost $30,000. Wire life translates to dollars and cents. When I joined t h e Brave, she had been on the California run for eleven years and accumulated plenty of data to back up the six months change period. Many types of wires were tried, none compared with American or Canadian made. The weather off the West Coast of Canada and California is notoriously rough. I still suffered from seasickness. First day out I would sit by the wheelhouse leeward window. When ill I would slide the window open and let f l y to leeward. Three years later, my 16th year at sea, I sat in my customary seat waiting for the nausea. It never came and I’ve never felt a twinge again to this day. Some say it is the inner ear finding equilibrium. Whatever the reason, relief was long overdue and welcome. Haida Brave was sold and replaced by Gibraltar Straits one of the most powerful tugs in Western Canada. I was promoted to captain. Susie thought it fitting my first real command was named Gibraltar Straits. San Diego and Tijuana sit on a common border but in different countries. In San Diego a breathless ship’s agent knocks on my cabin door with the news my entire crew has been jailed in Tijuana. That night we crossed the Mexican border and bailed the crew out of jail. The drunken second engineer insisted on dragging back a Mexican bar girl he met that night. She was a scrawny girl with too much make-up. She spoke halting English. “Capitan, I wanna you marry me.” I misunderstood. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you but I am already married.” Throwing her arms around the second engineer’s neck she screams, “No, I wanna you a marry me with my darling.” Patiently I explained the law whereby captains could perform marriages was now revoked. Explaining the Mexican stamp in my passport is another story. 155
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We carried newsprint southbound and crude oil northbound. Environmental issues were about to change ocean towing. California imposed stiff penalties and jail terms for captains who spilt oil on Californian beaches. Gibraltar Straits towing gear was massive. Due to environmental concerns, twin towlines and twin towing winches were fitted for safety. Once in open ocean all 3,600 feet of towline was streamed, leaving a minimum number of turns on each drum. Special care was needed when paying out two towlines. One wire must always be deeper than the other because if they touched, twisting could occur with catastrophic results. The fundamental was still Catenary, except this time, the forces were significantly greater. With full towline out we calculated our towline draft was between 100 to 120 feet. We used two shots of three-inch diameter stud link chain to further increase the spring effect. Wheelhouse strain gauges provided continuous readout of towline strain. This was serious towing. Extreme weather was nothing new, but in February 1979 while southbound and abeam Cape Blanco we experienced southeast winds of 100 knots. Cape Blanco lighthouse was reporting gusts to 106 knots. This wind screams at you. Trailing one kilometre behind the barge’s navigation lights soon disappear in the troughs. The Gibraltar sits like a big duck in the seaway. The wheelhouse takes the brunt of heavy water as we explode through the seas. The tug’s red and green sidelights are illuminated in the spume. Both radars are blasted off the mast. We discover flawed thinking in the two-towline system which negated the safety and environmental concerns. One towline is always shorter to avoid contact, meaning the short wire takes the brunt of the shock loading. Clearly this was an oversight. The breaking strain of the wire is 320,000 pounds, meaning the safe working load (SWL) is 100,000 pounds. Engines are throttled back to minimum to maintain steerage. Mild panic sets in when strain gauges recorded 285,000 pounds on the shorter towline, three times more than the safe working load. Highest loads are noted when the barge is out of synchronisation with the tug. 156
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In theory, tug and tow should rise and fall together like a happily married couple. However, seas are not uniform like a 17th Century oil painting; patterns are more random with occasional rogue waves. Defying logic, we increased power. Towline strain gauges immediately reduced to safe levels. Under the circumstances, increasing power seemed technically wrong, but proved right. The tug even behaved more comfortably. Experience cannot be learned from a book. On 4th November 1979, an angry mob of Islamic revolutionaries overran the U.S. Embassy in Tehran taking 60 Americans hostage. From the moment the hostages were seized until their release minutes after President Ronald Reagan took the Oath of Office 444 days later, the Iran Hostage crisis absorbed more concentrated effort by American officials and received more television coverage than any event since World War II. A high-risk rescue operation code named Desert One ended in disaster. The mission was aborted due to three malfunctioning helicopters. One helicopter crashed into a C-130 transport plane while taking off killing eight of the rescuers. Gleeful Iranians broadcast footage of smoking remains of the rescue attempt as a stark symbol of American impotence. Sometime after November 4th in thick fog we docked Gibraltar Straits at Pier 17 in San Francisco. After completing Customs and Immigration formalities, a group of uniformed US Military boarded the tug, burst into my cabin, closing the door behind them. In times of war, ocean-going salvage tugs play an important role towing damaged ships to safety so they can live to fight another day. “Captain,” they said with no introductions, “if the balloon goes up between the US and Iran we intend to take possession of this tug. We need to know technical specifications, radio frequencies, fuel range, horsepower and towing equipment.” “But this is a Canadian tug. Are you telling me if war breaks out within the next few days the border between the US and Canada disappears? Or was there no border in the first place?” 157
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“We ask the questions. You answer the questions. Is that clear?” I was now 35 years old and only recently attained my Master Mariner’s Certificate. I had little knowledge of International Law in times of crisis so decided to co-operate but first, I would get one shot across their bows. “Well gentlemen, we are not at war yet. Therefore, this is Canadian Territory and you are trespassing.” When they left, I phoned Norm Cosulich, Company President, and relayed the story. He listened then issued a simple one liner. “You know what to do.” As an after-thought he added, “But don’t take too many chances.” I assembled the crew for a meeting. The instruction was significant for two reasons. First, no direct instruction was issued therefore, management could not be held accountable for any actions taken. Second, the message written between the lines was clear. Rivtow, as owners of the tug, have put you in charge to make appropriate and safe decisions beneficial to the well-being of the company. You are the captain. Make your own decisions. However, be warned whatever action is taken could have far reaching legal tentacles with severe penalties if things go wrong. That notwithstanding, I felt he was treating me as a captain and not a lapdog or boat driver. Management attitude bought loyalty. One thing was certain, if war was declared, this tug would better serve the Canadian effort than the United States. Hell could freeze over before we would turn the Gibraltar over to any foreign power. If circumstances demanded, we would abandon the barge and sail without Immigration or Custom’s clearance. Enter the word Seamanship. Our objective would be to get the tug out of San Francisco without detection using seamanship. A stealth exit would be necessary. We already had a pilot’s exemption for the Port of San Francisco and knew the California coast intimately. Our two eleven-foot diameter propellers were designed for grunt rather than speed. This limited full sea speed. The chief engineer assured us he could adjust the engine governor to boost full speed to about thirteen knots. Bill Greenfield always said never depend solely on electronic 158
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instruments to navigate. The Port has a vessel management system whereby ships are tracked on radar. A flaw in their system will aid our exit. To maintain radar tracking first the vessel must be identified. If the target (vessel) gets mixed up in fish boat traffic it is impossible to identify and track. Our first move will be to maintain radio silence and shut down both radars. Thick fog will aid our exit. Compass courses and chart plotting, lines of depth soundings and directional foghorns will be our tools for navigation. Open the wheelhouse windows and doors to allow the sound of directional foghorns and clanging bells on navigation buoys to permeate the wheelhouse. Depart Pier #17. Split the engines. Give ‘er hard port rudder then click on the Wagner full follow-up autopilot to help steering in the fog. With engine room telegraph on Full take Alcatraz foghorn fine on starboard bow. When Alcatraz blares in the starboard wheelhouse door, alter course to port and head directly for the foghorn on centre of Golden Gate Bridge. This should position Lime Point foghorn, north side of the bridge, fine on starboard bow. The angle will increase as we approach. The Golden Gate Bridge foghorn is a higher pitch than the others. When directly overhead we know we are in the centre of the outbound channel. Alter course on a compass heading for the San Francisco ship channel, but on no account enter the buoyed ship channel. Instead head inshore keeping the next foghorn on Point Diablo, about one point on starboard bow. In other words, follow the route normally used by fish boats with local knowledge. Disappear inside the fishing feet. When Diablo barks through the starboard wheelhouse door start listening for Mile Rocks to port, quickly followed by Point Bonita to starboard. Meanwhile keep a sharp lookout for the last channel buoy and its clanging bell. When Point Bonita foghorn is abeam this means Southeast Farallon will be dead ahead. Make a hard right up the steep rocky coast making our next landmark Point Reyes, 20 miles to the north. 159
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Subject to visibility stay close to the rocks virtually crushing the crabs. We know the normal ocean current runs south down the Californian coast whereas the Davidson Current runs north. This will provide us with a back eddy close inshore to gain extra speed. When we reach the fishing port of Bodega Bay, restart our radars because we are now indistinguishable from any other fish boat. Head northwest until we reach the International boundary then gumboot it north to Canada. Avoid entering the Juan de Fuca Straits, which are half US, half Canadian. Instead head north along the west coast of Vancouver Island, skirt round the top then run south through the Johnstone Straits and Seymour Narrows to Vancouver, all within Canadian waters. Message to the US Military: “My Ass you’ll take my ship.”
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GOLD RUSH EXPLORING FOR OIL UNDER THE POLAR ICE CAP
Ice smashes beneath our reamer bows. We toil on the periphery of the world’s northern ice dome. Insignificant specks in a land of blue ice. Intruders in the realm of the polar bear, ringed seal and arctic fox. Flat endless and cold. We search for black gold. Far from home. Bewildered by this strange environment. 162
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1980 brought economic recession to Canada that virtually shut down the British Columbia forestry and marine towing industry. Susie holds up my latest pay statement. “It says at the bottom, Severance Pay. Surely that’s a mistake?” I phoned management to check. “No mistake. We’ve terminated all employees with less than 22 years seniority, and buddy boy, you‘re history too. See ya.” “By now Susie and I had three daughters. Where do we go from here?” she asks. “I’ve got kids to feed.” “I hear a company called Dome Petroleum is coming to Vancouver next week on a hiring spree. They want to explore for oil under the polar ice cap. They say the Arctic is the new frontier and their venture is a modern-day gold rush except this time the gold is black.” “But you hate oil companies. You’ve just completed your exams to become a ship’s pilot, an honourable job that would take us comfortably through to retirement. This could move us out of our comfort zone. Since arriving in Canada by any standard we haven’t worked hard; we own a semi waterfront house and a yacht on which we spend most of our summers cruising in the Gulf Islands, lying in the warm sun without a care while the money rolls in.” “I take objection to your sweeping statement.” 163
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“It’s true. You never could sort chaff from hay. Mucking around in the rapids is not work. That’s adventure. There’s a difference. We’ve been in Canada nearly ten years. Life is not mundane but sometimes I miss the excitement of living on a volcano. Remember Sven’s tea mug, why don’t you send your CV to Dome Petroleum and see what Fate has in store for us?” Dome Petroleum held interviews in the Bayshore Hotel on Vancouver’s waterfront. I approached the interview desk with skepticism. No interview took place. They handed me a set of instructions containing the name of my ship and an address where I could buy Arctic survival clothing, plus a plane ticket. “What about the interview?” I asked somewhat shell-shocked. “At Dome we don’t mess around. If you currently run the Gibraltar Straits presumably you can handle a towing and icebreaking supply vessel. Welcome to Dome.” Employment package under my arm I turned to walk away but was called back by the captains. “One more thing. There is no life after Dome.” “Well, how did it go?” asks Susie. “They said there is no life after Dome.” Like a relief valve on a pressure cooker, black gold fever was building up steam. They came from Texas, Australia, South Africa and Germany. Canadian geologists working in Saudi Arabia and South America rushed home to the new frontier. The Dutch brought the four biggest dredgers in the world. They had never dredged in the ocean before, much less in an ocean infested with ice. At home, by the time Dome finished casting its recruiting net, seventy percent of all Master Mariners and Chief Engineers in Canada were now employed by Dome. It was said the explorers brought the tools and qualities of the pioneer. To succeed this team would need commitment, skill, innovation, determination and selfreliance. Oil is a finite resource. It always has been, and it is running out. Previously the economic giants wanted the oil. Now developing countries want it too. They depend on it. There is no viable alternative yet. Therefore, whoever controls energy, controls the world. 164
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A car pulls into what North Americans call a gas station to fuel up. They remove the fuel cap, insert the fuel nozzle and pull the trigger mechanism. Immediately fuel pours into the tank. The nozzle shuts itself off automatically when the tank is full. This high-octane fuel started its journey as marine or plant life about 30 million years ago, got washed down a river and out over the river delta where it was progressively covered with silt. As the silt built up it gained weight. Weight created pressure. Pressure created heat. Heat cooked the plant and marine vegetation and converted it to hydrocarbons. The hydrocarbons migrated upwards until they became trapped in domes. One day someone drilled a hole into the dome and sucked out the hydrocarbons, refined it, then trucked it to this gas station where it now flows into this fuel tank. When the first Arctic convoy of drill ships and icebreakers made its historic passage to the top of the world it was Ottawa’s politicians and world bankers who were delirious with black gold fever. Dome’s Arctic operations were technically run under Canadian Marine whose President, Gordon Harrison, engaged in a bizarre recruitment act of cruising the bars in Aberdeen searching for off-duty drilling crews and supply boat captains. The North Sea at that time was at its peak and the world centre for offshore drilling and marine expertise. Harrison found it hard to convince people that Dome (of which most people had never heard) was big enough to take on the Arctic Project, much less that the prospect of Arctic drilling was even feasible. He persisted and got lucky recruiting captains, superintendents, subsea engineers, drillers, mechanics and electricians off North Sea oil rigs. For me this was a journey into the unknown, a journey with no clearly defined boundaries. All I knew was that oil was dirty. I knew ice was hard and white and melted when you heated it. Dome Petroleum Airways distinctive Boeing 737 (known as DPA) was emblazoned with gold, blue and white logos. DPA sat on the runway at Calgary airport waiting to take us North. The plane was fitted with larger engines and an armour plated underbody in case of emergency landing on ice. I boarded in bulky Arctic Parka and took my seat for the 1500-mile flight to McKinley Bay where the fleet was still encased in ice. 165
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During the flight I hummed Johnny Horton’s song. We’re goin’ North the rush is on. Big Sam left Seattle in the year of ‘92. With George Pratt, his partner, and brother, Billy, too. They crossed the Yukon River and found the bonanza gold. Below that old white mountain, just a little south east of Nome. Sam crossed the majestic mountains to the valleys far below. He talked to his team of huskies as he mushed through the snow. With northern lights a-running wild, in the land of the midnight sun. I recalled writer Jack London’s account of the Man on Trail. In 1890 when gold was discovered in Alaska adventurers and ordinary people alike hungered after the magic metal. 10,000 men delirious with gold fever rushed to Alaska, first camping on the beaches of Skagway, then trudging with heavy burdens up the Chilcoot trail over the mountains to the Klondike goldfields. Many perished in bitter conditions. Jack London wintering in a suffocating log cabin buried in snow describes wiping the rime from the window and peering out. He raises a mug of steaming coffee and silently toasts…To the man on trail tonight. DPA landed on the ice, the landing strip identified by black plastic garbage bags. Pilots presumably carefully chosen because landing on ice was challenging. We walked to our ships across a frozen harbour. The fleet was still locked in. McKinley Bay was Disneyland except the attractions were real. The first thing for new recruits was to have their photo taken under the steel coconut tree on McKinley Island. The tree was fabricated from bits of oil drums and painted appropriate colours. Thirty-eight orange and white ships emblazoned with symbolic maple leaves prepared to go out and search for black gold. Drillships, ice breaking supply vessels, one huge icebreaker, numerous tugs, storage barges, a drydock, a fuel ship and four Dutch dredgers. Four hundred daily helicopter flights meant the sky was full of choppers delivering personnel, food and cargo amongst the fleet. With our ice strengthened towing anchor handling tug sometimes we transported food packages consisting of untreated whole kernel 166
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corn, yeast, malt, barley, hops, sugar, raisins, apples, burlap sacks, cheesecloth and large glass jars. Mix them together and surprise, surprise, they make moonshine. Ships were embedded in ice extending to the harbour floor. Ice deteriorating agents such as explosives, coal dust had all been tried and failed. We simply waited for the ice to melt. VHF radios became extensions of our hands. Supply tugs delivered anchor gear to the drillships for the coming season. McKinley Bay was supplied either by truck on the ice road during winter or by barge down the McKenzie River in summer. Wholesale looting reigned along the McKenzie. When the ice melted, accompanied by icebreaking supply tugs, the drillships ploughed out of McKinley Bay to offshore drilling locations. This act was known as Breakout. We learnt about pear links, Kenter-links and strange cylinders called Rig Anchor Release mechanisms that f i t between the anchor and the drillship mooring wire. Weighing five hundred kilograms, the two halves hydraulically lock together and can be released in emergencies by acoustic signals sent from the drillship. I was familiar with Bruce anchors, but I had never seen a 20-ton Bruce anchor before. We delivered miles of drill pipe and huge steel pipes called casing and strange fittings called tongs, pup-joints and chicksans. In our air pressured silos, we delivered chemicals and powdery substances called Barite and Bentonite. We had no idea what they were used for. Silos of cement called Polar Set were technically interesting because cement gives off heat while it sets. Given the first 600 metres of seabed is frozen permafrost, if traditional cement was used it would melt the permafrost leaving the well with no structural integrity. Engineers invented this new type of cement that would set without giving off heat. Drillships were giant clanking vessels bristling with machinery. Supply boat captains were invited to tour the drill ships. The 1980’s spawned the marine and drilling wars. I am embarrassed to say our attitude during these early marine/drilling days was appalling. “What,” we would say, “we wouldn’t lower ourselves to even walk across a drillship’s decks.” 167
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Marine Office interviewers came straight to the point. “Normally oil and water don’t mix but we think you’re the sort of person who would suit a drillship.” “You’ve got to be kidding. No way.” “Have you ever been aboard a drillship?” “No.” “Do you know anything about a drillship?” “No.” “Do you understand what oil exploration is about? “A little.” “Good” they said in unison, “Then it is high time you made the move and learned. With the advent of offshore oil exploration our marine profession is changing. We must adapt to oilfield people, and by the way, adapt to working in an ocean without water.” There was a pregnant pause while they let this sink in. “With the amalgamation of the two entities, Drilling and Marine, ship’s captains are now embedded on the front lines of battle with drilling superintendents and tool-pushers. Within this new industry the drillship captain finds himself in a compulsory steep learning curve. We believe you are one of the new breed who could adapt. Unfortunately, gung-ho drillers push boundaries of safety and mariners by nature play it safe. Mariners are responsible and accountable for their actions under international maritime laws. Drillers are cowboys who think this is still the Wild West.” “Dome is the Wild West. That’s what the newspapers say.” "Touché” the said. “Do we take your answer as a Yes?” “No.” “Tell you what, we’ll make you a deal. Try a drillship for one month. If you don’t like it, you can go back to the supply ships. We’ll put you on Canmar Explorer III as Chief Mate so you can learn what a drillship is all about.” “Deal.” I said, knowing I would be back in this office in one month’s time. 168
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I landed by helicopter on Canmar Explorer III’s deck and was met by Capt. Peter Baxter, a Yorkshireman with a sense of humour and clearly lots of experience. This particular ship was built as a dynamic positioning drillship (DP). Fitted with twelve thousand horsepower twin main engines and ten thousand horsepower side thrusters. A central computer receives signals from seafloor transponders and automatically keeps the ship on station. However, the Beaufort Sea was too shallow for DP mode so the ship was retrofitted with an eight-point anchor system to maintain position over the well. Capt. Baxter and I attend the morning meeting chaired by the drilling superintendent, Bob Marshall. Crew complement is 108 persons. 16 separate departments. Meeting is professionally run and covers every aspect from icebreakers and weather to materials supply, helicopters, descriptions of complex down hole operations and latest Dome stock price. Also discussed a scheduled visit by the Prime Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau. In bursts Katherine Arkay, apologising for being late. Walking towards her seat she says, “Bob I’m disappointed head office removed the word ‘ameliorate’ from my weekly report. They said they didn’t think the boys in Houston would know what it meant.” Katherine’s position is Drilling Engineer. She works closely with the drill crew, service contractors and the geologists. On the drill floor all night and obviously in need of sleep she had removed her coveralls, but her face was still covered with mud up to a tideline on her forehead where her hardhat started. Her hair was messy and knotted. We are seated in comfortable armchairs. She sits on a coffee table covered by a black plastic garbage bag. Katherine is eccentric. Brilliant mind. Witty. Geology degree. Master’s degree in Environmental Science. Never married. Nonsmoker. Non-drinker. Accepted and indistinguishable from other muddy drillers, typically charges onto the drill floor wearing Styrofoam cups as horns and fronts up the nearest hairy driller and asks, “What do you think of Mozart’s 5th Symphony?” “What’s with the Styrofoam cups.” asks the driller. “Well Jerry, I thought I could get on your good side.” 169
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“I don’t have a good side.” Jerry Sanger was by reputation the best driller in the Arctic but the joke on board said, he was so ignorant, so foul mouthed and boorish, even the other drillers noticed him. “Couldn’t you have at least cleaned your face?” asks Bob Marshall, smiling in disbelief at the apparition before him. She brushes his remark aside. Drilling Engineer Katherine Arkay doesn’t care what she looks like. She is the most devoted proselyte to the unshakable belief that there is no life after Dome. “The good news is Bob I have shot out of my metabolic low and have now entered the day.” Katherine is visibly distracted and begins examining the table on which she is sitting, “Bob, I am tabling my report and you are chairing this meeting, which is vastly different from a table and a chair.” She reads her report: “Made up and ran 178mm liner. Well flowed sometimes. The Slips slipped. (despite not supposed to) Mixed and displaced cement to 14 % returns. Set liner and rotated out. Pulled out of hole (POOH) with liner running string.” Her report actually described bad results of cementing casing in place. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about but vowed I would find out. A telephone call from the shore-based Test Engineer (TE) interrupts the meeting. Rig Supt. “What depth do you want to set that packer?” T.E. 4,033.8 Metres Rig Supt. (tongue-in-cheek) “Why not 4,034 metres?” T.E. “Because that’s what we’ve calculated.” Rig Supt. “Ya gotta be fucking kidding. You mean to say you think we’re capable of setting a packer two miles below seabed with 20centimetre accuracy from a floating drilling ship in constant motion?” When the meeting was over, I went straight to the dictionary to research the term metabolic low and learnt it represented chemical changes in living cells by which energy is provided for vital processes and activities and how new material is assimilated to repair the waste. I went to the drill floor and was introduced to Jim Peterson, who was operating the driller’s console covered with levers and gauges. 170
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Radio Operator Kathy McGuire sits on his knee. I meet roughneck John Kikoak, an Eskimo whose father walked across the ice cap from Siberia to Alaska and married his Eskimo mother. Prior to the arrival of the oil explorers, he hunted seals on the ice. I met the deck crew at coffee time. They were mostly from Nova Scotia and bore the same traits as Bluenose homegrown salt-of-theearth Downeasters. I felt totally at home with them. I mentioned I was placing an order of needle guns, paint, rollers and brushes to repair the ravages of the past winter. Did they want to add anything to my list? Allister Chisholm, wicked grin, announces to the deck crew, “Well boys, I think we need to teach this new lad how the materials acquisition system works.” “Come on, we’ll lead the way,” they said in unison. Using a handheld VHF radio Allister commandeers one of the harbour supply tugs and we sallied forth armed with cutting torches and twenty-pound sledgehammers embarking on what the boys called a shopping trip. Tim Chetwynd was a bear of a man. When he wielded the twenty-pound hammer, padlocks and tack welds offered little resistance. Don Day, who had a baby face but was in fact a wolf in sheep’s clothing says, “OK boys, let’s go shopping.” Over his shoulder Allister says to me, “What you’re gonna see here, my boy, is wholesale looting. The first rule you gotta learn in Disneyland is that there’s no point ordering materials if you can steal what you need.” On our return towards Explorer III Tim points across the harbour, “Hey boys! Look at that huge colourful CANMAR flag flying from the mast on the warehouse barge. Don Day to the breach. “OK, chaps, drop me off at the barge’s gangway. I’ll create a diversion. Meanwhile you boys go to the other side of the barge and steal the flag.” With both feet, I had jumped into a bucket of oil and was now part of the team exploring for oil under the polar ice cap. History was repeating itself. I had never been aboard a drillship but felt I had come home. I would not be attending next month’s meeting with the Marine Department. I was here to stay. 171
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The Canadian public nightly hung on every snippet of Dome Petroleum’s antics and happily rode the swelling wave of Dome Stock. The stock price varied daily, dependent on whether a certain well or Arctic drilling island would successfully complete by season’s end. This in turn depended on encountered technical difficulties such as Arctic weather, ice conditions or late freeze up. We monitored TV broadcasts and compared information stated by newscasters with what we witnessed from our wheelhouse windows. If the newscaster announced that we would not complete Tarsuit Island this season the stock price would tumble. On site we would look at Tarsuit Island and make an informed calculation. We see a different story. We will complete this season. Time to buy Dome stock. Dome share prices marched relentlessly upwards. 100 original shares bought for $3.80 were now worth $120,000. Our Vancouver house overlooked beautiful Deep Cove surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The home was hard fought for so when the Dome Stock question arose, Susie convened a meeting. She had long since discarded clumsy communication methods which precluded indirect sideways half commands filled with open-ended interpretations casting out the possibility of more than one right answer. Opting for the jugular vein stating simple conclusive phrases, then driving the points home. I was being grilled. “If we invested in Dome Stock could we make a lot money?” “Yes.” “If we invested in Dome Stock could we lose a lot of money?” “Yes.” “Do we know anything about the Stock Market?” “No.” “Given their existing debt could the almighty Dome collapse?” “Maybe.” “We’ve struggled to this point and already receive a percentage of your salary in Stock, do you want to risk going back to cleaning toilets?” 172
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“No.” “That’s your answer. Don’t buy Dome Stock.” Mariners developed slowly over 2,000 years since man first went to sea. Mariners tend to be conservative and slow to accept new ideas. Today’s mariners either rose through the hawse pipe working up from ordinary seaman, earning qualifications in increments or through the cadet system where industry entrants tended to be better educated. (What the British refer to as a higher class) Mariners are stuffy. To bear witness on a ship’s bridge stuffiness is exactly what the officer of the watch exudes. Conning a ship is serious business requiring caution, care and expertise. The marine department was right. Work commenced at a furious pace. The ship’s day rate was $750,000. Clients demanded value for money. I was thrust into this great steel ship bursting with machinery and equipment. During my first week I was alarmed by Capt. Peter Baxter’s cautionary comment. “You must carefully monitor what the drillers are doing. They move heavy weights without consideration for the ship’s stability. If unsupervised we could capsize.” Explorer III had already exceeded design limits of carrying capacity, yet we needed to load more weight. Drillers wanted to trip out of the hole and stack two miles of drill pipe vertically in the derrick. Our holds were already full prohibiting loading more weight below the centre of gravity. If we loaded weight above deck, we ran the risk of capsize. Hamstrung on physical and allowable limits, we could bring in a supply boat and discharge unwanted weight but at our charter rate we had to convince a drilling superintendent with no knowledge of stability why it must be done. We hit upon a solution. Barite is a dense powder used as a weighting agent for drilling fluids and has a specific gravity of 4.50 meaning five times heavier than water. If we introduced a slurry of barite into our double bottom ballast tanks, we could increase the physical weight in the tanks five-fold without increasing volume. The added weight lowered the centre of gravity to counteract additional weight in the drilling derrick. My first empirical rule learnt on Explorer III proved invaluable in years to come. Ship’s stability could be estimated by observing ship’s behaviour when a crane transferred a weight across the deck. 173
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Learning how the Blowout Preventer (BOP) and other Sub-Sea Equipment worked was key. A physical dive to the sea floor would circumvent laborious study. With this in mind I visited the diver’s container where six TV screens positioned in a semicircle were playing a pornographic video. “Morning gentlemen, I would like to go for a swim under the ice. I want to see first-hand what the blowout preventer and all the subsea drilling equipment looks like on the sea floor.” “What the fuck do you think we’re running here, a holiday camp?” I said I would accept the risk. Reluctantly (very reluctantly) they agreed and began a detailed briefing. Divers are meticulous by nature because their lives depend on it. This was no ordinary swim. The ocean above will be covered in ice and water temperature will be -1.9 C. “You will go down in the diving bell with one other diver as standby. You will wear a full diver’s hardhat and neoprene diving suit. The bell will descend to about 70 metres depth and will stop just above the BOP. From surface we’ll pressurize the interior of the diving bell to equal ocean hydrostatic pressure. Our diver will guide you. At this point be careful because suddenly the hatch at the bottom of the bell will fall open. We’ll control the bell internal pressure so seawater cannot enter. It will look strange seeing water at the hatch as if held back by magic. At that point we’ll start hot water running through your diving suit and switch on the internal communication system. You’ll be able to speak to us from inside your hard hat. Our diver will stay in the bell. You will exit the bell. After that you’re on your own. Outside water temperature is -1.9 deg. Celsius. Stay close to the riser pipe and be careful not to get your umbilical cord tangled in the guide wires.” Doubt crept in. “Are you sure you want to do this?” It was a squeeze for two divers in the bell. When we reached a depth of 70 metres they began to pressurize the inside of the bell and, exactly as they described, the hatch fell open revealing seawater held back by magic. I was surprised by the weight of the hard hat. My head could barely support it in open air. Hot water ran through my suit. 174
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We tested all systems including communications, then they said. “Off you go.” I had an uncomfortable feeling lowering myself into the unknown. It was an eerie feeling being alone on the sea floor. The Arctic Ocean water was light green colour, a reflection from the ice above. I swam over and held onto the riser pipe that connects the wellhead and BOP to the ship above. The Blowout Preventer is a chunk of iron weighing 140 tons standing 40 feet tall. They call it a Stack because it resembles a stack of hydraulic rams. The view gave me a different perspective of the drillship. The hull above was brown and ugly. The surrounding ice cover was magnificent. Some small fish passed my hardhat window. The same hardhat window provided a unique view of how the subsea drilling system works. From the depths, the view above reminded me of a big mosquito. The body of the mosquito was the hull. The legs were the anchor wires and the mosquito’s probe, was the connecting piping sucking oil from the victim, Mother Earth. They called the neoprene suit a hot water suit, true to a point, but icy water still penetrated giving a sensation of freezing and warm at the same time. The standby diver partially flooded the inside of the bell to make re-entry easier. When he drained the water, my head fell forward. The diver assisted removal of my hardhat because I was drained of energy. On reflection what was I doing on a drillship wearing dirty orange coveralls, hardhat and steel-toe boots, drilling holes in the seabed. Had I taken a wrong turn in life? The world was running out of oil they said. Canada needed oil to meet its objective of becoming energy sufficient by end of the 1990s. Jack Gallagher, the founder of Dome Petroleum, had an idea. If most of the world’s oil is found in river deltas, why shouldn’t there be oil in McKenzie River Delta? Gallagher took his idea to the Prime Minister’s office in Ottawa. The world was running out of oil, he paraphrased, and oilproducing countries were unstable. Pulling out geological maps of the Beaufort Sea he laid them on the Minister’s desk pointing out globular shapes representing rocky strata beneath the Beaufort seabed. 175
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The potential, he said, was enormous. And, he explained, drilling further offshore made more sense because in the traditional river delta oil bearing regions of the world, the Mississippi, Orinoco, Niger and the Euphrates, the thickness of the oil-bearing sands increased as you moved offshore. It looked just like that in the Beaufort, he said. But, of course, Gallagher pointed out, the deeper offshore you drilled, the more expensive it got. Drilling in the Beaufort would be particularly expensive because the Arctic drilling season would be so short. This was federal oil and would produce billions of dollars of tax revenue, he explained. It seemed only reasonable that there should be generous tax incentives to explore this hostile region, particularly when you remembered that exploration costs were such a small proportion of the enormous overall development costs. Billions would be spent but many more billions would be earned for the federal government while at the same time the very desirable objective of becoming independent from uncertain and unstable world oil markets would be achieved. The major oil discovery at Prudhoe Bay on the north slope of Alaska aided Gallagher’s quest. He fired imaginations of bankers and politicians alike. He set up frontier exploration operations creating an atmosphere where the word impossible did not exist, where imaginations ran wild in a money-no-object ambience, where a marvellous air of expectation prevailed, where employees floated on a continuous high and where a team of adventurers transformed Gallagher’s dreams into reality. Dome was given a green light for Arctic drilling, providing they completed government environmental studies within two years. Gallagher could not wait. He took a monumental gamble and committed $100 million to purchase two drill ships and four icebreaker-supply boats. He was on his way and determined not to let anything stop him. In a promotional speech he targeted the US Manhattan’s historic voyage when it transited the Northwest Passage to test the feasibility of transporting oil from the North West Slope of Alaska to markets in the south by ship. He said it demonstrated bold leadership and clear authority to advancing man’s capacities. 176
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He went on to emphasize that Humble Oil, who operated the tanker were confident, thrusting and marching men who spent little time dithering with desk feasibility studies and cluttering their minds with doubt. They simply accepted the advice that commercial shipping was feasible through the Northwest Passage and set about to prove the advice was correct. Gallagher too, had no wish to waste time dithering with feasibility studies or clutter minds with doubt. This gung-ho attitude carried over to impulsive and impatient spending in their desire to forge ahead and extract hydrocarbons from the Arctic. He said when technical difficulties arose, they would solve them as they occurred rather than engage in tedious time-consuming studies. It seems Gallagher was right. It quickly became apparent there was oil under the Beaufort Sea. However, the great frustration of exploring with drill ships was the extreme shortness of the season. Therefore, this justified shooting from the hip when making decisions. Ponderous analysis was an unaffordable luxury. Swashbuckling Recklessness was born. Gallagher wasn’t ready to establish Canada’s sovereignty or explore her northern resources without a return. He argued Dome could not carry the ball for the government in the Beaufort without generous tax incentives. The result of his persuasiveness was a tax measure known in government circles as the Gallagher Amendment. In simple terms, if they spent $1, the government gave back $1.10. If they found not one drop of oil, investors would come out ahead by this adroit navigation of the tax system. I was a simple mariner, a small cog in a big machine, aghast that any thinking person could believe the federal government’s newly formed National Energy Program was a clever idea. It opened doors for reckless spending. We put the system to a test. While encased in ice we ordered a lawnmower to see if anyone was monitoring spending. Ten days later the lawn mower was delivered to the ship. Slogans emerged. Dome couldn’t find oil if they drilled into a super tanker.
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Gallagher created an atmosphere of independent spirit. Amid the smell of raw jet fuel, the rotor blades of the Sikorsky S 61 helicopter whack the cold air as it lands on our helideck. Prime Minister Trudeau, Energy Ministers, Cretian and la Londe, along with Canada’s banking elite, arrive for a tour. That day our wildlife report read: Today observed a few frogs, some cranes, a 90 degree turn and a wildcat. Instructions were received to rendezvous offshore for a promotional documentary being filmed by the Canadian Film Board. Good for the shareholders they said. It was a sideshow with a solitary drillship in drilling mode. Other ships hanging around providing substance while colourful icebreakers ran up and down breaking blue and white ice. Capt. Clive Cunningham sits at the controls of Dome’s new icebreaker Kigoriak. His VHF radio bursts into life. It’s the film director. “OK Clive we’re coming in for close up filming now. Hold your course and speed.” Clive waits until the helicopter is alongside his bridge wing, clicks the ship into autopilot, casually walks outside, turns his back to the cameras as if bending over to inspect his shoe, drops his trousers and moons the cameras. “Gave them an Arctic Moon, didn’t I,” says the amiable 46-year old British captain. Clive was a recruit from the days when talent scouts cruised the Glasgow bars with instructions to hire the best at any cost. His slow drawl and quick wit gave the unacquainted the impression of being dangerously laid-back and frivolous. “Sorry chaps, I won’t be breaking ice this afternoon. I don’t want to upset the soufflé in the oven.” Clive arrived with the first fleet and is the head guru, a Dionysius in blue denim, incongruous on his space-age bridge, known for having the crotch worn out of his blue jeans and famous for his illicit alcohol stills. In the boardrooms of Dome Tower his innovative design suggestions are noted and frequently utilised when the latest futuristic icebreaker rolled off the drawing board. Rising young stars emulated his laid-back approach. Clive was arguably the best, possessing an uncanny knack of making a ship move in ice where others fail. 178
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Willie was a round-faced Eskimo with considerable mechanical skill from a village called Old Crow in the Yukon. Old Crow consists of a few shacks and an airstrip. They guaranteed Willie that he would be home for Christmas. By the 23rd December he was getting worried. “Don’t worry, Willie, we’ll get you home tomorrow,” they reassured. When tomorrow came the only aircraft available was Dome’s executive Lear Jet. Two uniformed pilots flew Willie as solitary passenger in the Lear Jet to Old Crow, where the whole village turned out to welcome the conquering hero. Explorer III is drifting. Waiting to go on drilling location. Second mate and two seamen take the zodiac dinghy for a run through the ice floes. “Let’s scare shite out of them boys,” says Capt. Onslow Keeping and chases the zodiac with the drill ship. As the huge ship bore down on the trio, far from being scared, they casually hauled the dinghy onto an ice flow and when the ship’s bow was almost upon them, turned around, dropped their pants and bent over for triple Arctic Moons.
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17 ODD BEDFELLOWS
Oil and water don’t mix. When mariners were thrust together with drillers there was a clashing of cultural gears. Darwin’s Theory of Evolution is the widely held notion that all life is related and has descended from a common ancestor. Complex creatures evolve from more simplistic ancestors naturally over time as random genetic mutations occur within an organism’s genetic code. The beneficial mutations are preserved because they aid survival known as natural selection. Imagine a mariner trudging through the jungle whereupon he encounters a beast known as the Hairy Driller, belonging to a tribe with less than 100 years development. Typically, the hairy driller is bandy-legged, wears mud splattered coveralls, divorce papers sticking out of back pocket, ornately embossed hardhat, gold puzzle ring on each hand, wad of chewing tobacco in mouth, vile streams of tobacco spittle arcing to the ground below. The word Mahfarker is used multiple times in the same sentence. At the completion of each basic sentence the driller shakes his head, looks at his navel and leaves a final Mahfarker dangling the air like an echo down an empty well. Dress him up in a three-piece suit - an oil executive. The mental stance of the driller is somewhere between inveterate gambler and eternal optimist. Like the bold gambler, the oil seeker finds the odds stacked against him. The odds against drilling a successful wildcat well are longer than rank outsiders at horse races. 180
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Apart from the technical ability, therefore, the prime requirements of the successful explorationalist are supreme selfconfidence and the ability to bounce back from disappointment, and perhaps most important of all, luck. Should the drillship captain or drilling superintendent be in charge? First obstacle. Those who own the oil call the shots. Second obstacle. The oil business is a game where no side wants to relinquish Power. The ugly side of Power is people building empires and protecting themselves at the expense of lives, equipment and the environment. To us mariners it was a simple matter. The drilling man controls the drilling. The marine man controls safety of the ship including evacuation. If a blowout occurs the drilling man must concentrate on saving the well and the environment, and should not, simultaneously, try to evacuate personnel from a ship in imminent danger. Capt. Peter Baxter put it succinctly. “Listen here, you oilfield oaf, as far as I’m concerned, you have a drilling rig sitting on top of my ship, therefore I am in command.” Oil drilling tradition is less than a hundred years old but its trademark banner of nothing is impossible must be respected. Workers must be commended for hard, gruelling manual work on the drill floor and dealing with dangerous forces both on the rig and below the earth’s crust. Until recently the education level was considered less than good with the generic term ‘good ol’ boys’ attached. However, we shouldn’t be deceived by appearances. An illustrative story about a young recruit to the drilling industry who at the end of his first month of employment included a cowboy hat and cowboy boots in his expense account. The company refused to pay for the cowboy hat or the boots. The following month he submitted his expenses with a footnote. “The hat and boots are in there. You find them.” Anyone who bemoans today’s lost work ethic should witness a crew change on board a drillship for an experience they would find inspirational. Replacement workers, many of whom have flown half-way round the world, must arrive to begin work. There is no time to settle in, work begins at once at a full and hectic pace. 181
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Culturally the drilling industry operates on a different mindset called upward delegation. Roustabout notices problem. Roustabout calls Driller who looks. Driller calls Toolpusher who looks. Toolpusher calls Rig Superintendent who looks. Rig Superintendent calls Town. Town calls Drilling Manager where the buck stops. Drilling Manager issues a directive that shall be followed without question. God has spoken. I spent many hours with Renee Thompson, a geologist grudgingly accepted in a macho man’s world. Every five metres of hole drilled a cutting sample is taken and inspected under a microscope for possible hydrocarbon bearing sands. Geologists have the power and responsibility for ordering a coring sample. This involves pulling the drill string and replacing the conventional bit with a diamond coring bit and a core-barrel, a long hollow pipe that accepts an intact coring sample. On Arctic drilling sites coring means lost drilling time equal to half-million dollars. Geologists are heroes if they core hydrocarbon sands and almost join the unemployed ranks if they core shale or mud. Renee Thompson had five Arctic drilling seasons under her belt. With infectious grin she holds her ground with mud-splattered oil workers. “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?” She related her story of Christmas Eve spent on the Single Steel Drilling Caisson (SSDC) when heavy winter ice flexed its muscles. “It was the period of 24-hour darkness. Around 21st December, the temperature began to climb from –40 deg. C to –6 deg. C. The wind picked up and the ice started to move. It was awesome to see this vast sheet of ice moving towards the rig. As it hit the caisson accumulated rubble fields would break off and fall back onto the ice sheet. The sounds were like shredding Styrofoam or the squeaking of dry snow. Beyond the wall of darkness, we heard deep rumbling, what I would imagine the sound a million animals would make stampeding on a plain. At times the breaking and squeaking would cease. A tension crack would appear near the edge of the rubble field. You could feel tension and force behind the vast sheet of ice as it tried to obliterate the obstacle in its path, meaning us, the SSDC. 182
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Then the only sound was a deep rumble followed by a snapping crack as two segments of ice buckled upwards. Steam started to rise in the cold air from the exposed water. The slapping sound of the water was soon drowned out as one ice segment was driven underneath and forced onto the rubble field to be broken up. I stood out in that blustering wind as long as I could physically stand the cold totally absorbed by the sights and sounds. I tried to examine geological samples but was distracted by the rumble of ice braking against the bow of the SSDC. I tried to hurry through the samples so I could go outside and take another look at the ice movement, however the last four samples I examined, represented a positive change in lithology, so I continued my indepth investigation.” I’m hanging on her every word. Concentrating. “In times of emergency an evacuation Colour Alert System is activated. During my viewing of these samples, Yellow Alert was announced. In the midst of cleaning and tidying, Red Alert, closely followed by Black Alert, which is the equivalent of sounding Abandon Ship at sea. A massive chunk of multi-year ice measuring three miles by eight miles with twenty-foot keels had broken off the main pack was now heading towards us, with a force greater than SSDC’s maximum global design load. Alarms went off shrilly blasting though the quarters. I grabbed coats, mitts, boots, my survival suit, and my woman’s personal survival kit, my purse, an extension of myself. I ran back for photos of my children. The crew looked groggy, perturbed at having been woken up. The first helicopter roster list was read. A skeleton crew of fourteen would stay on board to work the ballast pumps if the unit is knocked off the berm (the sand island on which it sits) SSDC contains 200,000 tons of ballast water so she would capsize or sink. All we could do was sit and wait in our sweltering survival suits and make glib remarks trying not to think about our possible fate. When the helicopter arrived, the wind was a sustained 62 knots. Ropes were strung up from the accommodation area to the Helipad. We fled one by one. I saw concern on the face of Capt. Colin McLeod as he supervised the evacuation. 183
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The scene became surrealistic. Being at the end of the line I could see the others hanging on the rope illuminated by the harsh rig lights. I passed an Eskimo named Charlie, whom I knew and continued on. After being hit with the force of the wind I wasn’t going to play Miss Woman’s Lib. My hardhat blew off and disappeared into the blackness. When I reached the helipad, I crawled across the helideck holding onto the safety net ropes. Two sets of strong arms grabbed me and pulled me into the helicopter. All around were flashing orange lights and I was in a slow dream state as I buckled my seat belt. The Sikorsky S-61 was batted around during the flight back to Dome base.” People like Renee Thompson were pioneers holding the keys of learning in cold oceans engineering. As I sat in her laboratory to view a series of ocean cores, she dissolved away the carbonate fraction from each sample with hydrofluoric acid. “The only substance to survive this arduous chemical purge are pollens and spores, microscopic last remains of ancient life. Pollens and spores may reveal as much to a trained paleontologist as a few hairs under a fingernail can tell a forensic scientist. The astounding durability of these germs of life makes them an ideal tool with which to search for oil and gas in the geology of our sedimentary basins.” I’m concentrating, watching her eyes, listening, trying to understand. “In any piece of sedimentary rock,” she explains, “a microscopic search will find several identifiable spores and pollens, trapped there by sediment over time. From this information, within limits, I can deduce what life was like when the rock sample was formed and can date rocks accurately. Dates are what I want because when we found oil in the Beaufort we also found puzzling scars on the seabed. Scars gashed into the soft ocean sediments when icebergs grounded. What Dome wants to know, because it may want to put a pipeline or a wellhead on the sea floor, is the exact time when scars were inflicted. In the last 17,000 years the Arctic geography has changed due to water rising as glaciers melted. If the scars are recent the company will have to bury pipe to save them from iceberg damage. 184
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However, if the scars were inflicted thousands of years ago, the water depth has increased enough to prevent today’s ice from touching bottom so the pipe may be buried less deeply.” Discovering when iceberg scars were made is just one answer to one question. From her inspections of pollens and spores up to 100 million years old she has been able to give Dome some impressive information. For instance, she can predict whether oil rather than gas is likely to be found in the strata. In one sample taken under the Beaufort Sea she found dozens of organisms that are found only in oceans, meaning the evidence is overwhelmingly in favour of the rock being marine in origin. Hope that oil is present. If pollens from hopeful zones are amber colour this tells Thompson the geological oven was the right temperature for making oil. If temperatures and pressures had been too low this pollen would be a greenish yellow. Only methane gas could have been formed from this organic matter. Conversely if the pollens were black and oxidised to carbon, the oven was too hot. Oil formed would have broken down further into dry gas or carbon dioxide. One scientist with a microscope can play a surprisingly important voice in deciding where to sink a $60 million wildcat well in the icy waters of the Beaufort Sea. Author’s interpretation of oil exploration: A big electric drill (and I mean really big) drills a hole in the sea floor. As the hole gets progressively deeper it is cased with steel pipe. Cement is pumped down the wellbore and squeezed up the outside of the casing making it secure and gastight. If oil zones are discovered while drilling the exact depth is noted. When the drillers finish drilling, a “gun” is sent down the hole with explosive charges to blast holes through the sides of the casing allowing oil to enter the wellbore. Oil is forced to the surface by the earth’s formation pressure where it passes through a choke valve measured in 1/64th of an inch. From this measurement Reservoir Engineers calculate the estimated number of barrels of oil. If the reservoir is huge it’s called an Elephant. The owner of an elephant makes trillions of dollars. 185
Drillship on top of the world
This photo was my inspiration for the highlighter pen cover sketch. The colours are representative of Arctic sunsets in late October, just before the onset of winter and 24-hour darkness.
186
Integrated SSDC unit with MAT
Mating of the 270,000 Ton Ex-super tanker with the underwater steel island “MAT” (1,100 feet x 400 feet). Loaded displacement including the MAT is 492,000 tons. The two units held together by 11 inches of high-density foam and frictional force plus 400,000 tons ballast water to create a global load ice resistance of 70,000 tons. 187
Ice rubble field off the bow of the SSDC.
Anchor handling supply vessel taking refuge behind a rubble field 188
The reason Arctic oil exploration was so difficult is because all drilling took place within the Active Sheer Zone . Ice in constant movement often times created impenetrable ridges of pack ice.
The Beaufort Gyre is a disc of ice 1,200 Kms in diameter constantly turning clockwise and grinding against the Landfast ice. 189
18 FEARFUL ICE
Sea ice forms from salty ocean water. Icebergs and glaciers form from fresh water. Sea ice grows, forms, and melts in the ocean. (Glaciers are considered land ice, and icebergs are chunks of ice that break off glaciers.) Ice created our problems. Ice limited the duration of the drilling season. Ice was dangerous to ships. Ice was unpredictable. In the Beaufort Sea, the main problem facing the explorers was how to maintain station and continue drilling in heavy ice that was in constant motion. Dome Petroleum discovered their conventional anchored drill ships could only withstand a horizontal ice load of 170 tons which limited their drilling season to 3 months per year. To achieve their objective of year-round drilling they needed ships/units that could withstand horizontal ice pressure of 50,000 tons. They purchased the 270,000-ton super tanker World Saga, removed the bow section and stern propulsion sections, then ice strengthened the hull by adding two longitudinal bulkheads and filled these compartments with concrete. The unit was designed to sit on an underwater island (berm). The system worked on the principle that ice rubble fields would ground out on the 5:1 slope of the berm, thus transmitting horizontal ice loading pressure downwards to the sand island and not to the unit itself. 190
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The negative side was sand berms were prohibitively expensive, so they built a steel island called the MAT (1,100 feet long and 400 feet wide) to replace the sand berm. The two were mated to form one unit. Integrity was maintained by a total of 400,000 tons of ballast water and friction from hi-density foam between the two units. Engineers calculated a design global load of 50,000 tons - a quantum leap from 170 tons. The unit was to be named Single Steel Drilling Caisson (SSDC). The design called for sufficient deck space for consumables for three oil wells without shore side support. Freeze-up normally occurs around 15th October each year. Sea temperatures steadily drop in the first part of October. When the seawater temperature reaches -1.8 to -1.9 degrees C, freeze-up is imminent. The tell-tale signs are a slowing in the movement of the waves like an old person trying to get out of bed. When sea energy can no longer lift the waves due to formation of ice crystals, the ocean remains flat with minor undulations. Actual freeze up happens quickly. The ocean takes on the appearance of a rainbow as if someone spilt gasoline over the surface forming a spectrum of colours. The observer must now be vigilant to catch the moment when the rainbow colours disappear and the ocean instantly turns to a solid sheet of white ice. This white sheet of ice grows one inch in thickness per day for about five days. Then growth tends to slow down. Growth continues through the winter and reaches maximum thickness by about May the following year, typically reaching 2 metres thick. This is known as first year ice, characteristically white in colour. Ice matures over the next few years, consolidates, grows harder and thicker. Salt leaches out until it has a brackish taste, forming multi-year blue ice. Complicating matters was a disc of ice 1,200 kilometres in diameter known as the Beaufort Gyre which revolves and grinds against the Landfast ice creating a Shear Zone. All of Dome’s drilling locations were positioned within this shear zone. Herein lies the main obstacle with Arctic oil exploration. A progressive Alert System allows for safe evacuation if the drillship is overwhelmed. Drilling superintendents must constantly advise captains of the well closure, time known as ‘T-Time.’ 191
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In order for captains to make intelligent decisions regarding Ice Alert Status they must have a thorough understanding of the drilling equipment used to connect and disconnect from the sub-sea wellhead. The Alert System is clear. When conditions reach a certain level, don’t question the system, get the hell off location. Waters get muddy when money is factored into the equation. With clients paying $750,000 per day, commercial considerations put pressure on drilling superintendents and captains to stay on location as long as possible. The ‘Impossible’ occurs when hazardous ice reaches evacuation status simultaneously with a serious down-hole drilling problem (such as lost circulation) which prohibits evacuation. I needed to understand emergency evacuation procedures and was therefore grateful to learn from two relieving captains, Onslow Keeping and Peter Baxter. I met Onslow Keeping when he entered the ship’s bridge. I was at the far end, so I had some time to evaluate him before we officially met. I was sizing him up. His handshake was firm. I was taken by his openness but had an uneasy feeling he was also sizing me up. As the days passed, he said little. I was inspecting the inside of a ballast tank when I noticed someone else in the tank. It was Onslow. “What are you doing in here?” I asked. “Just looking around.” He wasn’t looking around. He was checking to see what I was doing. At other times, with clipboard in hand while calculating weights and centres of gravity of drilling consumables for the daily stability calculations suddenly he would be there, just looking around. Inspecting safety equipment on the drill floor. Suddenly he would appear. Checking. A week passed. I received a call on my hand-held VHF radio. Could I come to his office for a meeting? I entered a luxurious office fitted with expensive carpets and adjoining meeting room. He signalled me to sit down in one of his easy chairs. The coffee table was covered with papers. “I’ve been watching you and I think I can trust you.” I was mystified so said nothing. 192
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“Look at them papers on the table. What do you think they are?” “They look like high school textbooks and exam papers.” “That’s exactly what they are. I’m doing my high school diploma. I grew up on a tiny island off the coast of Newfoundland. It was nothing more than a rock sticking out of the sea. I never went to school. I taught myself how to read and write.” “How did you get your Master’s Certificate?” “A lot of hard work and I knew my way around a ship. I’ve had a hard life. I’m 45 years old. Sometimes I feel older. I forget things. One thing I never forget is the feeling of hunger. Sometimes on our tiny island we had no food and the weather was too rough for ships to deliver food. I remember the feeling in my stomach when even a rat would have been a delicacy. Hunger still haunts me.” I began to see Onslow in a different light. “I have one regret. I wish my father was alive today to see his son captain on this big ship. He wouldn’t believe his eyes.” Onslow was a deeply proud man. “Now I’ll tell you why I asked you here. What do you think of Capt. John Markham, master of the icebreaker Robert Lemeur?” “I sat next to him northbound on Dome’s jet. I thought he was polite, well-educated and modest. Yes, I would use the word modest. I have observed him breaking ice. I consider him to be a very competent captain. Why do you ask?” “I think the world of Capt. Markham but someone higher up is trying to get rid of him. I am asking you to write my letter to management defending him. I will tell you what I want to say. You put it into words because I am not capable of writing such a letter.” Together we wrote the letter on the coffee table amongst high school textbooks. Henry Ford once said, "Quality means doing it right when no one is looking." John Markham was unaware Onslow Keeping was saving his job. On Explorer III’s bridge Onslow found himself facing an impossible situation. On one hand, the serious downhole problem of lost circulation, which prohibited evacuation, combined with hazardous ice conditions that under our Alert Status system demanded immediate evacuation. 193
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It was a world of uncertainty coupled with a think-tank process where decisions evolve by the ever-changing circumstances. A casual listener to VHF radio conversations would not know Onslow had respect for Capt. Clive Cunningham, master of Kigoriak, the Arctic’s most powerful icebreaker. “You’re a windy fucker, Clive.” Onslow would say over the VHF. The reason he liked Clive was because his directives and suggestions were always debatable. Onslow, trying to hold onto firm conviction in a no-win situation. VHF held upside down, he’s talking to Clive. Typical of Newfoundlanders, Onslow pronounces the word ice, as hoice. “Don’t worry Onsy,” says Clive, “We’ll take care of you. We know you’re scared.” “I ain’t scared of the likes of you Clive, you prick! But I am scared of the hoice.” Capt. John Markham of Robert Lemeur, “Onslow, we like the sound of your mellifluous voice.” “Now John, don’t use them big words with me. Shut your mouth and keep breaking the hoice. Surveying the ice scene Onslow, leg cocked over the arm of his chair, bites his thumbnail. He embodies the fragility of human spirit and strong allure of challenge yet somehow manages to combine the two aspects of human nature into a non-negative quality. For the second time in my life I was looking at a man who embodied the word Pride. Andy Wall would have approved of this man Onslow Keeping, who indeed, knew his way around a ship, but at the same time, had standards, values and above all humility. “Attention helicopter standby crew, MQF Sikorsky 61 is inbound from Tuk, estimating our deck at one-two past the hour. Standing by for deck clearance.” Radio operator Cathy McGuire announces this over the public address system. Some 60 speakers make up our public address system. They are strategically located throughout the ship so that no matter which corner of the honeycombed ship we occupy, Cathy’s pleasant voice will find us. 194
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The day dawns clear and blue with threatening ice to the North. The helicopter rotor blades are still turning as Roger Legere, the ship’s ice monitor and myself (dressed in exposure suits) duck under the rotors and jump into our designated seats. We don headsets so we can converse with the pilots. Roger readies his iceplotting map on his clipboard. We instruct the pilots to fly 020 degrees magnetic for ten miles then swing west in an arc to about 270 degrees magnetic then back to the drillship. Our job is to spot hazardous ice, plot and evaluate drift direction. Icebreakers are deployed along the drift line to protect the drill ships from being pushed off location. It’s a balancing act juggling commercial considerations against damaging the delicate nature in the Arctic. The ice below is multi year - hard and dangerous. The gorgeous blues and greens seen in their natural settings are stunningly beautiful. We cast those thoughts aside because today is all business. The scene is not encouraging. Multi-year ice extends uninterrupted to the horizon. The icebreakers chip away at impossible odds. Drillship: Canmar Explorer III. Date: Tuesday 23rd August 1983. Position: Lat. 70’19 ’23 North, Long. 135 ’26 3 1 West Location Code Name: Arluk E-90. Beaufort Sea, Western Arctic. Ice Alert Status: 2 Drilling depth: 1500 metres with 13¾” casing run and cemented. Personnel on board: 96. Air temperature -19 deg C Wind chill factor -65 deg C. At noon fog sets in along with 25 knot NW winds. Shrouded in fog there is an eerie feel to the ship as if there was no wind at all. Silence is broken when the ship heaves to the gentle swell and 1,500 metres of drill pipe rattle in the setback. We sit in a void surrounded by grey blank walls. Somewhere beyond our bridge we hear the deep throated burbling of Polar Nohab and Wartsila diesel engines. 195
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Wise cracks and chitchat is silent. Five icebreakers, Kigoriak, Robert Lemeur and Suppliers I, II and III, attempt to break up a floe measuring five miles by three miles of solid blue ice moving inexorably towards us at 0.8 knot. Captain Peter Baxter paces back and forth on the bridge puffing on his pipe listening to the icebreaker’s VHF radios. Kigoriak is handicapped, down on one engine from a blown turbo charger. The new Robert Lemeur, after only two months of ice breaking operation, is alarming its designers and builders by flexing in the middle and showing stress cracking despite her two-inch thick shell plating. The other three icebreakers were never designed to break multi-year ice. At 1300 hours Ice Alert 3 is declared. Peter Baxter, with Yorkshire accent, Oxford shoes, colourful ski sweater, smoking his pipe with gaseous clouds of smoke filling the bridge, paces and quotes his favourite slogan. “Cheer up chaps, things could be worse. So they all cheered up and sure enough things got worse.” Radio etiquette in the Beaufort is non-existent due to isolation. High-level comradeship exists. Voices are identified and conversations merge. "Kigoriak, this is Supplier, y’there Clive?" "Yeah! Can’t see a fuckin’ thing in this fog." (The reader should be cognisant to the fact when there is 10/10 ice cover, radars cannot distinguish between coastlines, ice chunks, vessels or anchor crown buoys.) Bud White, Supplier III. "She’s some Jesus thick can’t see what we’re breaking." "Supplier II, that you in front of me Ian?" "Fooked if I know. This chunk’s too big to push. By the way you remember those two girls we picked up in Edmonton? Yours was the one with the big front. I’ve got her phone number here if you want it." Every pen on every bridge and radio room scribbled down the telephone number for Dial-A-Prayer. 196
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The cultured English voice of Capt. John Markham cuts in with proper radio etiquette, “Explorer III this is Robert Lemeur” (pause). “Robert Lemeur - Explorer III. Go ahead.” Answers Peter in an equally cultured tone. “Peter, I don’t feel we can hold out much longer. Even if the ice drift swings to the west and the fog clears, I don’t think we could save you.’’ The two Captains chat on, two old friends, much written between the lines. Both sailed together as youths in Southeast Asia. Both met their wives on the same night in Malta. Both served in the North Sea on supply vessels and semi-submersible drilling platforms. In times of stress it is a comfort to lean on a friend. It is not the exchange of words but the underlying bolstering of one’s being when most needed. 1630 hrs. Ice Alert 4 declared. The anchor handling supply boats are ordered in to standby the eight mooring systems. 1715 Hrs. Alert 5 declared. Ship is overwhelmed by hazardous ice. Time to evacuate. Anchor handling is where reputations are won and lost. Stars and prima donnas are created by performance. Competition is fierce. Praise for the victors. Scorn for the losers. The fog is thick. Radars cannot distinguish between drillship, icebreakers or ice chunks. Supplier II, with her computerized ARGO Navigation System, locates the anchor crown buoys for the anchor handling boats. Deep blue ice chunks as big as our ship loom out of the walls of the fog. Drilling Manager, Bob Marshall, informs u s t h a t t h e Lower Marine Riser has been disconnected and the guide wires severed. The well is secure. Bob is distinguished by oil patch standards, has a grey moustache and enquiring knowing eyes. He looks people straight in the eye but says little with the unnerving result that recipients of his stare tend to blurt out more than intended or politically good for them. Bob, cool on the outside, who knows on the inside. The anchors are brought in and disconnected one by one. 197
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Ships are pushed beyond design limits. Willie’s unemotional Teutonic voice crackles through the airwaves. “This is Supplier III. Peter, I have to inform you we have a f i r e in the engine room.” Supplier III backs off and Supplier II takes over No. 7 anchor. It is tough dirty work breaking out 20-ton anchors buried 50 metres into mud and permafrost. This is the reason all rig anchors are lifted by wires attached to the crown of the anchor. Otherwise they would be impossible to retrieve. In the aft winch house third mate, Peter Johnston leaves his intercom on by mistake. He and seaman Don Day discuss in lurid detail the sexual attributes of female crew. As the last anchors are racked, huge blue ice foes loom out of the fog. The ship reels under the impact. The anchor handlers are beset. Time has run out. Explorer III is swept sideways as the full force of ice pushes us away like a leaf in the wind. We make it by the skin of our teeth. Credit must go to the combined efforts of the drillship and icebreaker captains working in conjunction with drilling superintendents. I believe their roles are under appreciated. In this case disaster was averted. Logbooks record matter-of-fact entries. “Vessel evacuates location.” The global picture is more complex. Imagine smiling Jack Gallagher having coffee with the energy boys in Ottawa. Canada’s banking elite patting each other on the back while lunching in their opulent dining rooms. Imagine, when Breaking News releases graphic footage shot from helicopters, oil spewing everywhere with no short-term solution to stop it. Canada’s pristine Arctic covered with crude oil. Arctic birdlife paralysed on the beaches in pools of black oil. The great symbol of the Arctic, the polar bear, covered in the same black oil. In a heartbeat, Dome’s Disneyland would fold like a house of cards. We would go home with a one–way ticket. Financial and environmental disaster would prevail. People, as valuable resources, cannot be stressed strongly enough.
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19 FRESH MANURE ON THE BOARDROOM CARPET
The government is hoping successful drilling results will bring energy self-sufficiency for Canada. Only a handful of the world’s banks have ever singlehandedly lent one company more than one billion dollars. Few banks are large enough. Few companies are sufficiently creditworthy. Yet three of Canada’s major banks, the Toronto-Dominion, the Montreal and the Commerce each made loans over $1 billion. Citibank, the largest bank in the world led a $2.1 billion consortium loan. All to Dome. The Arctic Adventure took on an element of the bizarre when a man named Bill Richards marched into the arena. The dazzling star had risen to become Dome’s president through unceasing work and a mind of machine-gun rapidity. Dubbed the Boardroom Gunslinger he once came to the city direct from his ranch outside Calgary and held a meeting in his elegant office with fresh manure on his cowboy boots, soiling the boardroom carpets. This cowboy mentality, wealth, fame and power went to Bill Richard’s head. He decided to takeover Hudson’s Bay Oil and Gas Company known locally as HBOG. This proved to be the beginning of the end. 199
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HBOG had noble lineage dating back to 1670 when it was called The Company of Gentlemen Adventurers Trading into Hudson’s Bay. They had massive oil and gas reserves with lands nestling alongside Dome’s own properties and a rich annual cash flow. Richards believed if they could take control, that cash flow could be diverted directly into Dome’s corporate coffers and kept out of Ottawa’s clutches. In theory, clever stuff. If successful, the HBOG acquisition would be the biggest takeover the world had ever seen. Newspapers summarised the takeover as a military campaign with two distinct operations. The first was a brilliantly executed commando assault. The second, a disastrous encounter resulting in months of trench warfare that sapped Dome’s resources and saw the humbling of a seemingly invincible warrior. Hudson’s Bay was 60% owned by the US oil giant Conoco Inc. To get its hands on Conoco’s controlling interest Richard’s planners needed to get control of Conoco Oil, the tenth largest US oil corporation. The prospect of trying to force unwanted attention on Conoco seemed farcical. Conoco however, proved surprisingly vulnerable. For all the brilliance of the assault on Conoco, the acquisition of little more than half-interest in Hudson’s Bay now placed Dome in a vulnerable position. Even before its attack on Conoco, the company had a staggering $2.65 billion in long-term debt. The purchase price of Conoco’s Hudson’s Bay interest was financed entirely by four Canadian banks so that Dome did not put up a nickel of its own money. Unfortunately, negotiations coincided with an unprecedented interest rate hike to 23%. Bad luck and no one saw it coming. It became clear to Dome’s planners that the company would have to take over Hudson’s Bay entirely or perish. To lay its hands on the handsome cash flow it required 100% control. It could then sell off parts of the acquired empire to lighten its debt burden, but it could not do this until it was the sole legal owner. Dome sought the money first from Canadian banks but was turned down. Undeterred they arranged another loan through a consortium of 26 banks headed by Citibank of New York which had long been after their business. 200
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It remains a mystery why executives could not see what was staring them in the face. By trickery they turned the tide by not putting a dime of their own money. It was now the banks displaying reckless behaviour driven by greed. Just when they believed they were sailing into protected waters a new menace appeared. Ottawa tabled a new budget in the House of Commons with a torpedo aimed directly at Dome. Effective immediately, a key tax loophole previously available to investors in share exchange deals and vital to Dome’s arrangement with Hudson’s Bay was bolted shut like a watertight door. Richards and a group of senior people few to Ottawa and began a siege on the government that was to last a week. Dome Petroleum tried to sell off assets to reduce its debt but encountered severe difficulties as the world’s economy slipped more deeply into recession. Only a handful of key executives knew a financial time bomb had begun ticking in the Dome Tower. The once strong and proud warrior, the symbol of Canadian entrepreneurship and daring, was overwhelmed by burden of debt incurred by the Hudson’s Bay Oil and Gas Company takeover. If they collapsed, the domino effect could precipitate a tsunami of bankruptcies across Western Canada. However, the real danger came from the bankers, of which it had forty or more around the world. They could move summarily to call a default if a payment was missed. The company had cross-default provisions in its banking agreement meaning a default clause under all of them. In 1982 the interest rate level reached 22.75%. Dome was paying $1 million dollars per day to service its debt. Prime Minister Trudeau and Finance Ministers were faced with a difficult decision. The government had to weigh the unpopular course of bailing out a company that in the public’s view had already received too many favours from Ottawa, against the certain damage the collapse would do to the economy and confidence in Canada’s banking system. A deal was reached where banks would lend $1.8 billion providing the government backed the loan. Dome’s fuse on its $7.03 billion debt was lengthened, albeit temporarily. 201
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To us mariners there was something radically wrong with a bank system that cannot afford to stop lending money to a bad debtor. Planners were pinning their hopes on a location named Uviluk P66. This could be the Elephant they said. Jack Gallagher attended on board Explorer III for the critical meeting. Katherine Arkay characterised Gallagher as innocent impracticability in his reasoning whether to test now or drill on. She said Gallagher was a persuasive innocent optimist who, at the risk of losing the hole by drilling on, was inadvertently creating a renewed air of expectation. We tested Uviluk P-66 at 3 am. Ice flowed past the ship like a river of molten lava. Assembled on the drill floor a buoyant optimistic group dressed in insulated coveralls. Hopeful faces displaying tired but sparkling eyes. A discussion was in progress on the strategy for opening the choke to test the well. Morning dawns, cloudless and clear. Colour floods the eastern sky. With high spirits in high latitudes the driller opens the choke valve 10mm. Shuts the valve after two hours. Repeats the process for another for two hours. Some oil flows but not the elephant everyone was expecting. “Sorry folks, show’s over,” announces the drilling engineer. Spirits drop momentarily, but oil-drilling mentality says the spirit must never lose heart, maybe gas on top means oil below, if that zone is no good, the next zone might be, eternal search coupled with eternal optimism. Gallagher ploughed a new furrow in the Canadian public’s field of dreams. His dream became my dream. Ambition surfaced with a burning desire to command something big. When opportunity knocked, I eagerly accepted an invitation from Gulf Oil to interview for the captain’s position on their new drilling caisson Molikpaq. As DPA taxied down the Tuktoyaktuk runway, I had a strange feeling of detachment. Eskimos were still using underground fridges inside the permafrost to store seal and whale meat. The orange coloured tundra was in bloom resembling cooked crab shell. I saw caribou and reindeer, muskeg and sand piper birds picking at delicate lichens and mosses as we whisked through the skies in our insulated cocoon with plastic meals and Time magazines. 202
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I looked down on the same Arctic that lured Franklin, Amundsen and Peary. What I saw before me in all its splendid sunlit savageness was mine, mine by right of discovery. Robert Peary 1909 In the beginning Dome employees wildly bought stock. Some derived cash by mortgaging their homes. Some became millionaires. Some lost their homes. It was a matter of timing. They knew and accepted the risks because it was part of the infectious game. A car bumper sticker emerged for those who squandered their hard-earned cash. Dear God! Please let there be another oil boom. I promise not to piss it away this time. Our last tour group to visit the Arctic comprised Japanese businessmen who reportedly lost $400 million investing in the Arctic venture. There was a clause in their contract that said they would be repaid in oil, or failing that, the first repayment would commence 50 years in the future. While having lunch, the Japanese tour group made the mistake of leaving their cameras on the ship’s bridge. When they returned to Japan and developed their films, all they saw were hairy backsides (Arctic moons). In a bizarre twist management sent a team out to Explorer III to sell Dome Stock. Prophets selling shares in a sinking ship. We asked questions. They had no answers. Our ship felt hollow. The spirit was gone. They left empty handed. Mid-flight we received the news there were no contracts for next year, no redundancy packages, no golden parachutes, just shutdown. The American oil giant Amoco had bought bankrupt Dome for a reported $5.1 billion. What went wrong? Some say Dome developed a dangerous belief in its own invincibility. Some said it wasn’t cow dung on the boardroom carpet, but they got too big for their boots. The federal government, while it had no direct responsibility for Dome’s undoing, certainly created through the National Energy Program, the political climate in which Canadian oil companies were encouraged to become raiders, eagerly snapping at the heels of the multinationals. 203
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Ottawa did not force them to become predators, but it certainly opened the door for them. Clearly the banks behaved with greed and reckless foolishness, out hustling each other for Dome’s business. The popularly held conclusion was management and its Board of Directors who authorised the takeover of Hudson’s Bay Oil and Gas must carry the biggest blame. In their unrestrained desire for growth they were blind to the dangers to which they were exposing the company. They acted freely and recklessly when they embarked on a wild adventure without parallel and in the full expectation of glory, they fell ignominiously. It could also be said the swashbuckling attitude attracted people who were more concerned about adventure, rather than finding oil or in the well-being of Canada. Quote from a report entitled ‘Distinguished Exit’ At 8 pm, 16th September 1983, in the plush 56th floor boardroom of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in Toronto, Jack Gallagher endured one of the blackest moments of his life, a humiliating defeat of monumental dimensions. He signed a document, forced upon him by bankers and bureaucrats that would allow them to wrench away control of the company he had built with parental devotion for over thirty years. Gallagher was vilified in the newspapers across the country as a blundering business incompetent. His loss of personal fortune was scarcely without equal, having lost $118 million within the last 12 months. After the document was signed people began drifting towards the doors. Gallagher stood up and asked everyone to stay a moment longer. He wanted to express his thanks for all the hard work they had put in to help Dome with its problems. His speech was quietly gracious, upbeat and optimistic and, in the circumstances, totally unexpected. The takeover of HBOG was widely criticised. One key point escaped notice. The original name for HBOG was The Company of Gentlemen Adventurers Trading into Hudson’s Bay. No reference was ever made to the fact that Jack Gallagher was the quintessential gentleman adventurer. DPA touches down in Calgary on the runway of real life. 204
First task for Arctic recruits is to have photo taken under the steel coconut tree.
Calberta Parka insulated for -50 C.
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Anchor handling in ice. Hard not to be a tourist because of the vivid Arctic colours.
20 Ton Bruce Anchors clogged with frozen permafrost mud.
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Robert Lemeur, built as a one-tenth scale model of the proposed Arctic Marine Locomotive Class 10 (AMLX) super ice breaking tanker. High pressure water jets lubricate ice to aid ice breaking.
18,000 HP ice breaker Kigoriak breaking down an ice ridge. Note that hot exhaust gas turns to ice crystals.
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Enormous problems operating a drydock in ice. Ballast tanks are full but drydock stuck in ice.
Clearing ice after re-float operations. Front-end loader dwarfed beside residual ice.
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Artist’s impression Mobile Arctic Caisson Molikpaq. Bell-shaped caisson deflects moving sea ice upwards thus reducing global ice pressure. The design of the caisson was based on the prevailing sea ice conditions, which cause large horizontal loads on fixed structures, specifically ice loads acting on the exterior faces are transferred to the sand core which is designed to then transfer loads to the underlying sand island.
Strength is also gained vertically on the berm by the applied force from water ballast tanks.
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20 HARD AGROUND
I needed clothes for the job interview which if successful would represent the pinnacle of my career. I explained this to a charming blue-haired lady in the Calgary Salvation Army store. “Then we must find the very best quality for you,” she said as she walked towards the pre-owned clothes section. We found a navy blazer, serge material, originally expensive. The old lady pointed to the price tag $2.50. I agreed to the price. Next, grey trousers, smart and conservative for $2.00. “Yep.” A button-down white shirt newly pressed for $1.00. The white business shirt was to be complemented by a smart navy-blue tie with red diagonal stripes, the type worn by US Presidents at their inauguration. “Perfect.” The tie had a price tag of $1.00 but she quoted the price as $1.50. “Why so expensive?” “This is an Yves Saint Laurent tie. Very classy, very expensive brand name.” “I’ll give you $1.25 for it.” “Absolutely not. This is Yves Saint Laurent. That is why we are charging 50 cents more.” The total came to $7.00. 210
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As she opened the door she said, “You will present well in the Gulf Tower tomorrow. Good luck.” Gulf Tower was impressive. Huge glass revolving doors opened into the warmth of a tall lobby of sheet glass and slate grey marble walls set off by stainless steel trim. Designed presumably to denote an atmosphere of big business. I took the elevator to the 23rd floor dedicated to Beaudril Ltd, short for Beaufort Sea Drilling. Smaller glass doors opened onto plush red carpet and a reception desk behind which hung a dramatic framed colour photo of their flagship Kulluk in ice during a test program. In contrast to Dome’s interview that lasted thirty seconds and ended with the words, “There is no life after Dome,” I was treated with professional courtesy typical of staid corporations. There were endless forms and contracts to sign. Yes sir. They would take care of me to the grave. Life insurance. Medical. Excellent salary. Bonuses. Benefit after benefit. “Welcome to Beaudril,” they said. I would be working opposite Capt. Rick Plecas, whom I liked and respected. Rick exuded management style. We reported to the Drilling Department. This worried us. Beaudril Marine was run by Capt. Keith Jones, a common name, but he takes the name out of the ordinary. Even drilling superintendents wore limited edition T-shirts with the logo. “Jones’ Navy.” Jones had a way with words for management and ordinary people alike. He previously ran Gulf’s worldwide tanker fleet, pinches his secretaries’ bottom, blurts out crudities, is oblivious to his extrovert qualities, is respected by his captains and crews and gets productivity because he looks after his boys one hundred percent. Jonesy bought his boys Perrier water which horrified management when they learnt four icebreakers with 19-man crews drank more Perrier than the entire provinces of western Canada. Capt. Plecas and I were not part of Jones’ Navy. We fell under the drilling department. We had no backing from the Admiral, out in the cold, so to speak, to fight our own battles. For us ex-Dome people, adaptation was the buzzword. Gulf was not the wild west and definitely not swashbuckling. In its stead a well-oiled machine purred quietly and efficiently. Gulf Oil Corporation was a multinational wanting answers. Wanting to get 211
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their hands on the oil beneath the seabed. Wanting their bottom line to read Profit. Gulf wasn’t boring. It was different. That is not to say Beaudril didn’t have its characters. I listened to a story related by a female cook who received a phone call from the captain of a drillship whilst she was on shift in the galley requesting her to come to his cabin. She was an attractive, blond haired girl from Whitehorse in the Yukon. Her ancestors dated back to the previous gold rush. She described her experience in lurid detail: “My brain seized when he opened the door. In front of me was a rock-hard penis sticking out from a nude man wearing a fireman’s hat, fireman’s boots and holding a fireman’s axe over his shoulder. I wanted to run but my feet were riveted to the floor. I was in abject fear and fascination at the same time.” Capt. Plecas was concerned because we would be operating through the Arctic winter with no support. It would be imperative to source a good marine team. We knew who to headhunt. Allister Chisholm and Tim Chetwynd for starters. Both were fine and resourceful seamen but definitely not good little cogs. I recommended them for watch keeping positions on Molikpaq. Beaudril argued they didn’t possess the correct qualifications. I argued the case. Surviving unassisted through an Arctic winter is not going to be a walk in the park, I said to Rig Manager, Al Ward. We’re in uncharted territory. Emergencies will arise. When and if Molikpaq and its personnel are in dire peril, these very people will be needed to organise evacuations and preserve lives. These two, I emphasised, had balls and determination, a touch of the Orangutan, yes, but were street smart and capable of taking appropriate action to assure survival in an emergency. Hats off to Al Ward who backed this argument and agreed to hire them. Next, Keith McLaren and Traf Taylor from Vancouver. We had our team. Three Vice Presidents from Gulf Oil Houston toured Molikpaq. They arrived with soft travelling bags handled by the helicopter standby crew. The VP’s were ignorant, obnoxious and condescending during their visit. Ignorant and obnoxious was OK. Condescending was not. Later when the VP’s retrieved their bags in Tuktoyuktuk they appeared unusually heavy. 212
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In fact, they could hardly lift them. Their bags were found full of scrap steel and oil soaking granules similar to kitty litter. Their gold hardhats had been hack-sawed down the middle then reconnected with duct tape. The VP’s cried most foul. Our jobs were on the line. The incident played out like a Shakespearean tragedy. Fair is foul, and foul is fair, false face must hide what false heart doth know. I was asked to conduct an enquiry into the matter. Far from ‘false face’ the rapscallions roar with laughter, holding their bellies while tears ran down their faces. Allister Chisholm is bent double, head between his knees, body convulsing. He holds his hand up like a stop sign. “Imagine …. imagine the looks on their faces when they opened their bags…and then… no wait, listen … and then we threw in some old broken hacksaw blades …. stop it you guys…I can’t stand it anymore.” My submitted report concluded no one on board Molikpaq had any recollection of steel or any other products reportedly being inserted into VP’s bags. Nor could anyone recall gold hardhats being dissected using hacksaws. Rick and I worked opposite each other, two weeks on, two weeks off. In drilling mode, we reported to Drilling Superintendents, Al Shaw and Len Edelman. As time passed, we agreed Al Ward had chosen these people well. They were seasoned professionals, tough at times, but had a good way with people. Were we captains hard aground at the pinnacle of our careers? We found ourselves in unfamiliar territory in the role of reverse seafarers. Traditionally ships head towards moving or fixed dangers. Molikpaq was permanently fixed in the path of oncoming dangers. As the moving ice passes it forms a bow wave, giving the impression that the caisson is self -propelled. It took us time to adapt to this apparent movement through ice like a regular ship. This coming winter would be our first experience working in twenty-four-hour darkness isolated from the outside world except by helicopter. 213
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For 2,000 years the polar bear walked amidst myth, legend and superstition. Eskimos could not pause to study his habits or behaviour. Nor could early explorers. A polar bear in the Arctic is a dangerous bear because there is nowhere to escape. They shot him with high-powered rifles and in one recorded case, used machine guns from a helicopter. The polar bear continued as one of the least known creatures of the animal kingdom. He strides across the top of the world, both loved and feared, the unchallenged Lord of the Arctic, arbiter of five million square miles of snow and ice from Siberia to Alaska and across Canada to the islands north of Norway. He is master of all things. At ease with the brutal cold, the unending winter darkness and the grinding crushing icepack. The polar bear rules with dignity, moving from one feast of seal meat to the next with a retinue of white foxes who follow close behind to feed on the remnants. Polar bears roam wide-open spaces. It was virtually impossible to study or photograph their habits in the wild. That is until good ol’ Gulf Oil came along. At a cost of $300 million they kindly built a polar bear observation platform and plunked it down on the polar ice cap at a location most frequented by the magnificent polar bear. This polar bear observation platform was in fact the revolutionary hybrid Arctic drilling caisson named Molikpaq. Gulf’s generosity (tongue-in-cheek) extended to providing a heavily insulated and sound-proofed boutique hotel on top of the platform where crew and visitors lived in comfort. National Geographic and the World Wildlife Federation were ecstatic. For the first time they had a window on the habitat of the polar bear in the wild. A typical male adult weights half a ton. His paws are a foot wide and when he stands erect, he can look an elephant in the eye. His muscles are long and flowing. He glides across the ice with fluid grace. His silky fur is yellowish-white, golden at sunset, snow-white in a blizzard. He holds his head high like a haughty patrician. From our ice shield I watched bears lie in wait on their bellies with black nose covered by his front paw waiting for seals to surface. When an unsuspecting seal surfaced the bear swiped him clean out of the water with his massive paw. The average weight of a seal is 350 pounds. When the seal thuds onto the ice the bear starts chewing 214
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the warm flesh until he is replete. With his chest covered in blood, guts and congealed fat the bear leans forward putting his chin and chest on the ice, then with his back legs propels himself forward like a wheelbarrow until the blood and fat has been cleaned off. Meanwhile the bear’s inseparable friends, the Arctic Foxes, pick at the remains. He appears irritated by the foxes’ presence because they show disdain rather than fear. But this is the natural order of the wild. Rarely do bears appear to be hurried. They pause and consider. If they are perplexed, they yawn. If they have nothing else to do, they take a snooze lying with their head resting on one incurved paw. Sleeping or awake they assume dozens of postures from comic to bizarre. When they want a better look, they rear up on their hind legs and peer ahead. One expects them to cup a paw over their eyes like a frontier scout. Twenty-four-hour darkness occurs from about 28th November to 28th January. During the last days (before the sun disappears) it rises and sets in the south. It took time to get our heads around this. The sun should rise in the east and set in the west. Right? Our vista was a giant purple theatre where sunsets lasted ten hours creating a band of orange and pink on the southern horizon. Within this gorgeous purple realm roams our beloved polar bear. What sort of a man would slaughter you with a machine gun from a helicopter? What would the perpetrator of this heinous crime have told his mates when he arrived home? I shudder to think.
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Molikpaq, (centre) an insignificant speck embedded in the polar ice
Our working world in surrealistic Arctic colours.
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Summer Reverse Seafaring: A stationary object (Ship) appears to be steaming forward by producing a bow wave and wake like a ship. The word ‘penetrate’ is used to denote this apparent movement.
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Winter reverse seafaring: Given the chance the caisson could slide off the underlying berm and disappear into the depths, we faced the dilemma if helicopter rescue was not possible, our only option was to go over the side in the dark to an unknown fate where survival would depend on inner reserves, and a great deal of luck.
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Flaring off in a test program in 24-hour darkness. (Photo taken by manual Nikon F camera from open doors of a Bell 212 Helicopter in -40 C. Wind chill factor -85 C.)
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Man’s footprint upon the pristine Arctic.
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Susie being ‘chased’ by an icebreaker.
The realm of the polar bear.
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21 SEA MAN TO SAND MAN
The Arctic holds the world’s largest remaining untapped gas reserves and some of its largest undeveloped oil reserves. Gulf Oil invested $750 million in a state-of-the-art drilling system operated under the banner of Beaudril Limited. Over the previous twenty years Gulf discovered a billion barrels of oil but there was still no single discovery that would make Beaufort Sea development possible. Gulf with venture partners Husky, Norcen, Mobil and Bow Valley planned to locate Molikpaq at a site named Amauligak and drill five directional wells with the fervent hope of discovering the elephant. Molikpaq and Dome’s SSDC were at that time, the two largest drilling rigs in the world. New technology called directional drilling had enabled steering of the drill bit even to the point of drilling horizontally. This meant multiple wells could be drilled from a central point without moving the unit. I was fortunate to be appointed Marine Superintendent in charge for the Molikpaq field move to Amauligak. The move procedure sounded simple. Pump out ballast water. Pump out sand core. Connect tugs and tow to next location. Ballast unit and set down on prepared underwater berm. Refill caisson core with sand. Commence drilling. Hope to find the elephant. 222
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Reality was not that simple. In advance we prepared a comprehensive operations manual entitled, Molikpaq Lift-off and Set-down Procedures, covering sand pump out, water pump out, tugs and towing arrangements, stability calculations, routing, ice and weather limitations along with contingency planning. The manual was submitted in advance to Noble Denton London, representing Underwriters, for their review and approval. Three hundred people were involved in a technical capacity. Half a billion dollars in marine equipment comprising Molikpaq, three massive ice breaking tugs, with a total of 62,200 horsepower, three other tugs, two general purpose vessels, a construction barge, the two largest dredgers in the world, jointly engaged in something that had not been done before. Did we have all contingencies covered? What about insurance risk and liability? In the control room I heard the unmistakable sound of a Sikorsky S61 helicopter rotating on our deck followed by the receding sound as it lifted off for the return flight to Tuk Base. The S61 discharged one passenger only. Capt. Mike Jacobs from Noble Denton entered the control room and introduced himself. He exuded an openness that is rare today. He was polite and well-spoken with an air of experience. He had never been on Molikpaq, yet from the outset seemed very much at home in the control room. I pour two coffees from the everready pot, a throwback from Bill Greenfield. “At last we get a chance to meet.” I said as an opening comment. “I have been chosen as Marine Superintendent in charge for this move. It is clear to me you have done many rig moves. I’ve got the cart before the horse, normally people start on the bottom rung of the ladder and work up; I’m starting with the largest drilling rig in the world. Therefore, I would appreciate any advice you have to offer. I understand the ballast system, stability calculations and vessel characteristics. I know how to tow and how to set the unit down at the next location, however, I have never tackled anything on this scale before. I thought I should level with you on that point.” Capt. Jacobs is transfixed on the ice stretching to the horizon. I wondered if he was even listening. 223
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“Until a few weeks ago I had never heard of Noble Denton and I still have no clear understanding of their role. I am aware of the huge amount of money at stake along with associated risks. I would be grateful if you would explain your involvement.” Mike Jacobs commences a speech I have never forgotten. “In theory we are given hot coffee and a grandstand seat to observe offshore engineering projects.” He holds up his coffee mug. We clink mugs. “That’s the perceived job description but it’s a myth. Technically, and this will sound like a bit of a mouth full, I represent the Noble Denton Group who work on behalf of Underwriters to evaluate operational risks by means of technical review and on-site attendances. Our technical guidelines stem from extensive research and development from our worldwide network of experts. They represent the current development of industry practice and are standard reference documents used by most oil majors when preparing tenders for marine transportation and offshore installation activities.” “How is the job description sounding so far?” “Complicated.” “Noble Denton leads the way in site-specific approval of mobile offshore drilling units such as Molikpaq, as well as jack-ups, semisubmersibles and drill ships. As far as this rig move is concerned, I am attending in the capacity of Marine Warranty Surveyor. The textbook definition of a Warranty Surveyor is an independent consultant acceptable to Insurers with the appropriate marine and engineering resources to make technical judgments on approvability of high-risk marine operations. We are involved because of a warranty in your insurance policy. In the course of the move I may issue recommendations if I think Underwriter’s liability is being prejudiced. Now here’s where you personally enter the picture. Threepiece-suits from Lloyds in London will be monitoring this operation due to high risk. I am the Underwriter’s eyes and ears. If I issue a recommendation it must be complied with whether it is material to the risk or not. If it is not complied with and you have an accident because you ignored my recommendation, the Insurer is 224
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discharged from liability from the date of the breach of the Warranty meaning, you personally are in a shit load of trouble.” He starts to laugh. “Have I missed something?” “No. Now I’ll tell you what we really do. Firstly, this is a rare pleasure to discuss one mariner to another. Normally we are the only mariners on board and frequently find ourselves in a position of having to explain diplomatically to an oilman in Houston or a tobacco chewing drilling superintendent why their suggested course of action is a stupid idea and why the rig move cannot proceed. Ninety percent of our warranty work directly concerns combating cowboy mentality, which is defined as the commercial urge to go ahead when conditions are not consistent with sound engineering principles and good marine practice. Capt. Dick Redman from our London office gained notoriety in the North Sea in the dead of winter. When moving a jackup oilrig, weather limitations restrict lifting legs off the seabed to below two metres sea state. The weather was over the limit. He was under pressure from the Drilling Superintendent to move because the oil company was losing $60,000 a day while not drilling. Without a word Capt. Redman left the control room and was closely watched as he physically climbed down one of the legs to the angry sea below. He judged the peak and trough and climbed down so his feet were level with the base of the trough of the wave. Holding fast to the ladder he disappeared under an icy wall of water. He reappeared back in the control room, shivering and dripping wet to confront the drilling superintendent, “Are you satisfied now that we are over the limit?” I can’t count the times I’ve received phone calls, “Boy, do you know how many United States Dollars this deeelay is costing me? Ah don’t give a rat’s ass about your weather, just move the Mahfarker, ya hear me, Boy.” Mike was sending a clear message. Standards and professionalism aside, the attending surveyor’s job is about holding ground, not bowing to commercial pressure. He switches gears and bombards me with questions. “When approaching the location if you have a problem with a tug that is vital to final positioning or if hazardous 225
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ice approaches while positioning for set-down, what are your contingency plans?” His manner and methods were designed to help the rig mover crystallise his thoughts in the event something went wrong. It was also my first lesson in how to be a Warranty Surveyor. Capt. Plecas and I had no support from Beaudril Marine. In their view we fell under the category of oilfield trash. Rick’s loyalty never wavered. We stood shoulder to shoulder no matter what was thrown at us. Hard to find that kind of integrity in today’s world. Most people want to stick the knife in. Support came from Jim Guthrie, Beaudril’s base manager. Over the next two years his unwavering support greatly assisted us through nine full-scale emergency evacuations. Our agreed procedures called for the three biggest icebreakers as tugs. However, we faced a disgusting example of self-centred agenda whereby every time we put in a request for the agreed tugs, our efforts were deliberately derailed by the captain of Gulf’s other Arctic drilling-rig, deliberately declaring Red Alert and automatically getting all the tugs back. Beaudril Marine were interfering and endeavouring to take over the move with their marine superintendents. The Dutch dredging supervisor offered one of his dredgers as a towing vessel. He saw himself on the cover of his company magazine with a massive publicity stunt to advance his career. Capt. Jacobs and I climbed the stairs to the helideck in our insulated coveralls to survey the scene. In splendid colours our marine fleet was hanging around, ready to go to work, but no towing vessels. Steam was rising from the massive caisson. “Tough game,” says Mike, “what are you going to do?” Removing my gloves, I loosely gripped the steel handrails allowing cold to course through my veins. I reflected on the 20-year journey, the study, the hardships endured. This raw fresh morning belongs to me. Others might own Molikpaq on paper, but today, on this helideck, ownership means control. I was in command. This was my chance. Failure was not an option. If achievement carries the baggage of responsibility and accountability, is ambition a blessing or a curse? 226
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If we can accept that power, once experienced, is addictive, are we captains any different from the owners of the oil? Today’s helicopter delivers a letter from Susie. My dear husband, Your children have been right little sods this past week. Your eldest daughter was so difficult getting ready for school I drove her (still in her pyjamas) to the school gates and dumped her in front of her friends. Last night I tried putting all three in the same bath. Your youngest pooed in the bath panicking the other two who ran screaming bloody murder throughout the house. I’m ready to abdicate. Susie The cold felt good and the way was suddenly clear. In the land of ice, I would fight fire with fire, the outcome be damned. Storming into the radio room I said to the radio operator, “Eric, shut down the phones and the radios and send the following message. Please be advised the Mobile Arctic Caisson Molikpaq is in all respects ready to move. Awaiting arrival three tugs as per agreed procedures and Underwriter’s recommendations. The meter is running. Rgds. “What if Vice Presidents phone in?” “Fuck ‘em. Don’t answer.” “I’m starting to enjoy this move,” says a delighted Eric. The phones and the radios ran hot. Unanswered. The meter was indeed running at $2.4 million per day. Corporate and commercial considerations overrode egos and self-interest with the sudden arrival of the tugs whereupon de-ballasting commenced with the activation of ballast pumps to achieve neutral buoyancy. Neutral buoyancy is the point where the caisson no longer has weight on the berm and starts to float. Keith McLaren, Allister Chisholm and Tim Chetwynd manned the ballast control room. This was also their chance to prove themselves. They had written their own ballast program. 125,000 tons of water was to be pumped out from designated ballast tanks 227
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but the unit must be kept at even draft. Heel and trim curves were calculated and displayed in two separate control rooms. This reduced the caisson draft by 15 metres, however it failed to clear the sand core. Inside the caisson the next stage was to pump out sufficient sand so we could be towed clear. “Let’s take a look over the side of the caisson.” I said to Mike Jacobs. We climbed the ice wall and looked down slab sides resembling a dirty wall of a giant dam. “Christ, it’s a big mother,” says Mike. We scurried back to the control room, closed the door on reality, and sought refuge in an array of electronic devices. Our original thinking believed sand removal was somebody else’s problem. Soil engineers and dredging experts were on board to take care of that. However, the dredge out system equipment failed miserably. Sand became our problem. This was not a kid’s sandbox, but the principle was the same. Our job was to pump out 100,000 tons of compacted sand. Experts said, add water, this will turn the sand into slurry. Then simply pump it out. Pump from the centre, they said, and sand will automatically slough inwards. Dream on. Jetting water assisted the pumps but we only managed to pump out inverted cones. Sand compaction was underestimated. The supplied pumps proved hopelessly inadequate. We had become sandmen. Our world revolved around sand. We were neither afloat, nor aground and vulnerable to both ice and weather. We also became scapegoats for the $20 million added rig move costs. Given sand sloughing angles would not be as predicted when fully de-ballasted, we still failed to clear the berm. We used the 23,200 HP tug Terry Fox to tow the caisson in circles to literally screw it off the sand pinnacle. Sudden 50 knot winds open vast expanses of water to the west increasing seas to a surprising magnitude. The caisson was specifically designed to combat ice. Rough seas were never considered. In this case the bell-shaped design exacerbated wave effect by catapulting waves over the entire structure, even engulfing the helideck and accommodation block. 228
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A plume of sand half a mile wide extended leeward. The sand core revealed water movement within the core zone. In the control room we assumed the foundation was undermined by scouring due to wave action. We took a calculated gamble and free flooded the ballast tanks to gain weight on the sand island underneath. “Weather conditions have already exceeded allowable design criteria, you’ve got serious subsidence and possible foundation collapse, what is your plan now?” prodded Mike Jacobs. “Historically,” I answered, “a review of marine disasters concludes it was not the action taken which ultimately led to disaster, but the fact it was usually implemented too late. We must declare Red Alert and evacuate all non-essential personnel.” Mike seemed satisfied with my response, but I had an uneasy feeling he was sizing me up much like Onslow Keeping did. Red Alert was declared and evacuation of non-essential personnel commenced. Fire, boat and evacuation drills were weekly events. The smoothness with which the evacuation was conducted proved their value. Helicopter pilots from Beaudril, Exxon-Mobil and Dome took part in the evacuation. We continued to tow Molikpaq in circles, gradually eroding the sand pyramid until we were free. We towed to the new location and secured within a pre-laid mooring system, ballasted down and positioned on the new underwater island within the one-metre accuracy required by the drilling program. We were now ready to tackle our first Arctic winter. The geology looked promising. Gulf Canada Resources were pinning their hopes on finding the elephant. Caisson design was still in the experimental stage. The physical structure had never been tested. Engineering design teams stayed on board to monitor 500 sensors spaced throughout the caisson. Sometimes the journey teaches us about our destination. Maybe this game is not about power. Not about big salary. Not about ambition, although ambition coupled to hard work and perseverance can lead to promotion. My position provided the opportunity to rub shoulders with world leading marine and engineering specialists. Reward enough. 229
1.5 billion tons of ice on collision course. SLAR (Side looking airborne radar)
The days leading up to the April 12 Event. Molikpaq came close to disaster when its design limits were exceeded by extreme winter ice pushing against the structure. 230
22 APRIL 12 EVENT The April 12 event examines how the world’s largest drilling rig, in drilling mode, came close to disaster when it’s design limits were exceeded by extreme winter ice pushing against the structure. Amauligak location was to prove historic for Gulf. After 30 years of oil exploration they finally made Canada’s largest oil discovery to date. During our winter of 1985-86, five wells were drilled at a cost of $100 million dollars each. Flow rates recorded an astounding 34,950 barrels per day. Gulf was ecstatic. Test results established Amauligak as the lead project for Beaufort Sea development. Molikpaq is a man-made structure octagonal in shape. This particular design incorporated a bell shape so that ice acting horizontally would be deflected upwards by the bell-shaped sides. The base sits 21 metres below surface on a man-made sand island. The centre of the structure is hollow and filled with sand (250,000 tons of sand to be exact). Designers based resistance on known prevailing ice conditions, which cause large horizontal loads on fixed structures. Ice loads acting on exterior faces were also designed to transfer to the sand core, then to the underlying sand island. Additionally, resistance was gained vertically on the sand island by the applied force from 125,000 tons of seawater in the ballast tanks. Ice within the Sheer Zone is always in constant motion however in an unprecedented case, normal ice movement stopped for 34 days, lulling us into a false sense of security during this period of inactivity. 231
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Daily we landed helicopters on the ice and drilled exploratory holes using ice augers connected to heavy duty electric drills powered by Honda generators. We recorded an average thickness of 10 metres, equating to an ice mass in the billions of tons. Multi-year ice was already in solid contact with the caisson under pressure from the polar pack stretching all the way to the horizon. From its visible geometry we calculated the ice at the foot of our bellshaped caisson was 12 metres thick. Design engineers waited anxiously to verify if their pressure resistance calculations were correct. Given the real chance the caisson could slide off the underlying berm and disappear into the depths, we faced the dilemma that if helicopter rescue was not possible our only option was to go over the side in the dark to an unknown fate where survival would depend on inner reserves and a great deal of luck. Our supplied evacuation equipment consisted of ship’s lifeboats, life rafts and escape slides, unsuitable for ice conditions but better than nothing. We built a steel platform with handrails that could accommodate 40 people and be lowered by crane to the ice below. We lashed life rafts inside the handrails that could be inflated on the ice then used for shelter and heated by body warmth. Clearly polar safety technology lagged far behind. Waiting for the unknown is what men fear most. Our Arctic contest would begin soon. The combatants were the polar ice pack representing nature and our prototype-drilling caisson representing today’s cutting-edge engineering. The absence of ice movement for 34 days left us with a sense of reacting to a threat we could not see, but knew full well, would raise its head soon. Surprisingly, drilling operations were still going ahead. Gulf was faced with economic pressure from clients paying $1 million per day demanding value for money. With ear shattering noise at 0730 hours, April 12th, 1986, ice movement commenced. Red Alert was declared. Non-essential personnel were evacuated throughout the morning until eighteen essential personnel remained. Our Sikorsky S61 helicopter remained on standby with rotors turning and doors left open for immediate lift off in the event Molikpaq was pushed off the berm. 232
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Emergency hot refuelling was approved. The chopper did not have to shut down its engines to refuel. In hindsight it was the bell-shaped caisson which saved the day by forcing the ice upwards. Blue ice blocks as big as apartment buildings screeched up the caisson sides and fell back onto solid ice. Movements were in five- metre convulsions. The atmosphere was surreal with ice screeching, accentuated by the noise of the S61 rotating on the helideck. Each of us mentally calculating how fast we could run to the helideck and jump into the open doors of the chopper before the whole structure disappeared into oblivion. As children we remember playing by the seaside building sandcastles. We patted our sand masterpieces and found sometimes they turned liquid resulting in collapse. Sand gains its strength by friction. Individual grains of sand bind against each another. As children by patting the sand we were creating low frequency vibration thus allowing water to be injected between the sand molecules so that each grain of sand became free-floating. Simply put, by removing friction sand behaves like a liquid. And that is exactly what happened. An unintentional science experiment conducted on a grand scale. In the control room we had no idea one Hertz convulsions generated by one billion tons of multi-year ice being crushed in cycles against the outer face of the caisson increased the pore pressure in the sand core turning it to liquid slurry. These intense vibrations lasted fourteen minutes at which time the massive ice sheet failed and split. We were free. Recorded figures suggest if the vibration had continued a few minutes longer the entire sand core would have lost sufficient integrity to cause Molikpaq to slide. Sandmen again. Sand at the very heart of our survival. Towards evening, Molikpaq was penetrating the ice at approximately one knot. Remember this is reverse seafaring where a stationary object appears to be steaming forward by producing a wake just like a ship. The word ‘penetrate’ denoting apparent movement. Alert status was reduced to Yellow. We could now visually inspect the core area. In times of Red Alert, entry to the core was prohibited for safety reasons. 233
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Not understanding the seriousness of the situation we were about to discover, I was overly casual when I asked the watch keepers to pop down and have a quick look at the core and make sure everything was all right. When the watch-keepers returned I again casually asked, “Everything OK?” “Yes, everything is fine,” they said, “except the whole core has dropped two metres.” I informed the geotechnical soils engineers of our finding. Minutes later Brian Rogers and Dr. Volker Neth burst breathlessly into the control room to explain their analysis of what happened, or what could have happened. “The caisson design pressure limit was calculated at 70,000 tons. In this event resistance was progressively degraded by fluidisation of the sand core. We estimate pore pressure briefly reached 100,000 tons at 0828 hours. Molikpaq was close to limiting equilibrium condition at 0829 hours when pore pressure reached 30,000 tons in excess of maximum design load. The question arises how fast the unit would have moved laterally. Answers are speculative but two alternate scenarios can be considered (i) Molikpaq might have moved slowly with each load cycle or (ii) would slide with a velocity near that of the surrounding ice cover. Under the first scenario loss of the structure would have required a further 50 minutes of intense vibration. Under the second scenario, the leading toe of the caisson would have reached the edge of the berm within ten minutes.” In the control room marine crew and geotechnical engineers sat in stunned silence. Each trying to grasp the magnitude of what just happened. This was uncharted territory. Fascinated by the power of nature, we had stupidly climbed the ice walls to marvel at the power of ice, oblivious to what was occurring within the core. The reality of what could have happened was starting to sink in. The April 12 event, while providing engineers with valuable data was another example of cutting a fine line between securing Canada’s energy future and environmental disaster. 234
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In June of the same year, while flaring off excess crude oil during the test program, the flare boom, for reasons unknown, extinguished itself, releasing pressurised crude oil out onto the ice forming an oil pool as big as four football fields. By morning the oil pool had drifted a mile from the rig. Company and environmental agencies were informed and appropriate reports filed. Frenetic, exhaustive meetings produced a plan of action before panic set in. It was decided to set fire to the crude oil. Easier said than done. If you put a match to a home barbeque coal nothing happens. You need some sort of helping agent before the coals will light. Crude oil also needs an igniter. By helicopter we sling loaded six drums of jet fuel to the perimeter of the oil pool and set them in a line fifty metres apart. The bungs were removed to allow the jet fuel to flow onto the surface of the heavier crude oil. Wearing long rubber boots we rolled the drums across the ‘football field’ to create and even film of jet fuel. We threw in a marine distress flare as an igniter. Flares contain phosphorus and will continue to burn even underwater. We had ignition. As a precaution, our helicopter had been parked well away with rotors turning in case of emergency. However, the intensity of the heat caught us unawares. The air temperature was -15 C. Our team dressed in blue Arctic parkas with tunnel vision hoods ran towards the helicopter in blast furnace heat. One minute we were huddled against numbing cold using the buddy system to monitor each other’s noses in case they turned white, heralding frostbite. Next, rivers of sweat coursed down our bodies inside insulated layers. The helicopter was a Bell 212 similar to those used by the Americans during the Vietnam War. The doors were open and we leapt in. The chopper lifted off then set down another mile across the ice cap. Based on the simple scientific principle that heat rises, when we returned to the burn site there was no trace of oil. The fire burnt every molecule. The underlying ice had barely melted.
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23 CLUTCHING DEFEAT FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY
On the 14th September 1986, Gulf Oil, delirious with black gold fever having found the Elephant, decided to perform an extended flow test of the reservoir by pumping formation crude oil from Molikpaq to the anchored super tanker Gulf Beaufort. The extended flow test confirmed 16,000 barrels per day, the highest stable flow rate of any previous well in Canada. That same day, Gulf Canada was planning to announce shipment of “First Oil” at 0900 hours Eastern Standard Time. The Canadian stock market was expected to react with the news. Dome swashbuckling spirit had been suppressed for several years but resurfaced with this proposed announcement. I suggested to Allister Chisholm, Tim Chetwynd and Traf Taylor that it might be fun to intervene and steal their thunder. We quickly prepared a one-gallon tin, filled it with Amauligak crude oil, then labelled the tin with the words FIRST OIL. September is the period of long daylight hours and ice cover was relatively clear. At 0200 hours, seven hours ahead of Gulf’s planned announcement, nine hours ahead of the stock market reaction time, we launched the fast rescue craft carrying our one gallon can of crude oil. The colour was dark green signalling a fine light crude that could almost burn directly in our automobiles without refining. 236
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Amidst magnificent perpetual Arctic colours, accompanied by jocular VHF radio communications on a restricted private marine channel, flanked by Beaudril icebreakers, some fifty marine people took part in this historic occasion. We docked the fast rescue craft alongside the tanker’s gangway. I climbed up to the tanker’s deck to personally deliver “First Arctic Oil” to Captain John McIntyre. Upon return to Molikpaq we issued our own Press Release to Gulf Marketing and Public Relations Department. “History was made today at 0200 hrs. Central Arctic Time when first Beaufort Sea oil was delivered to the super tanker Gulf Beaufort by the Molikpaq marine crew.” In retrospect I can’t believe we did that. At 1645 hours, 18th September 1986 the tanker retrieved the last of her anchors, turned to starboard, blew the appropriate whistle signal, then headed west to deliver 320,000 barrels of 30° API crude oil to the port of Chito in Japan. Unfortunately, Gulf ’s discovery coincided with a world crash in oil prices. They promptly announced Arctic shut down and Amauligak was abandoned. Time to pack up our tents. The mothballing plan called for towing the fleet to Summers Harbour, a land-locked safe haven in the Central Arctic. Food, fuel and some tools would be given to the Eskimos. The doors welded shut and the fleet abandoned for an indefinite period. It was not a happy time. The life had gone out of the job. Attitude was poor in every department. Fights broke out. An order came from senior management in Calgary to dump excess drilling consumables into the Arctic Ocean. Under company policy the captain reports to the drilling superintendent whilst drilling is in progress. However as soon as re-floatation commences the captain takes command and has sole and final authority for safety of the vessel and personnel under the Canada Shipping Act, its provisions and laws. Mike Jacobs was attending on board in a double barrel capacity, Claims Surveyor for tank repairs and Warranty Surveyor for the move to Summers Harbour for shutdown. “This dumping business 237
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might have serious repercussion down the line. It might be a good idea to document what is going on,” cautions Mike. Quick calculations. The silo capacity for drilling chemicals was 6,000 tons. This translated to about $2.5 million. Assuming about 30% residual capacity we would be dumping products valued at $750,000. On 27th Sept. 1986 at midnight, command was transferred. Technically a very late handover, but again we must not forget those who own the oil don’t like to relinquish power. Unaware that the application for a dumping permit had been refused, we demanded to sight the dumping permit. We were told the dumping permit was in the system and on its way. Ironically if the captains had been handed the command at the correct time they could have applied for, and most likely been granted, an Emergency Dumping Permit on the grounds that #12 ballast water tank was flooded from a large gash through the shell plating caused by one of the icebreakers propellers coming into contact while de-ballasting was in progress at the Amauligak site.
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Traf Taylor and Tim Chetwynd running First Beaufort Sea crude oil ahead of the Press Release.
Running First Oil. Molikpaq flaring off in the background.
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‘First Oil’ delivery. In perpetual daylight conditions, 0200 hours, 4th September 1986, handing over the first gallon of Amauligak crude oil to Capt. John McIntyre, master of the super tanker Gulf Beaufort.
Shutdown in Summer’s Harbour, Central Arctic. Ships abandoned and doors welded shut. 240
24 BLOODY FAREWELL DRINK We abandoned the fleet in Summers Harbour. The doors were welded shut. Progressively people went home for the last time. In the control room on the final night we lamented that it was not possible to raise our glasses in thanks to Dome and Gulf with a farewell drink. “Well boys,” says Allister, “I know an Eskimo village on the other side of this island where a bottle of whisky costs $60. Tim and I could take the fast rescue craft.” Without hesitation we launched the fast rescue craft. Under searchlight Tim and Allister started the engine and weaved their way through the ice foes. I estimated two hours for the round trip. Five hours later one of our cranes lifted two apparitions back on board. Blood was everywhere. Tim had fallen and hit his head on the emergency anchor when they hit a chunk of ice. The bottle of whisky was blood stained with only four fingers of whisky left. Mike and I took the near empty bottle to the control room and poured two drinks into coffee mugs. We clinked mugs. “To the end of an era.” Mike asks, “What will you do now?” “We will be stationed in Calgary until oil prices rise.” I switch off momentarily to allow myself some fanciful thinking. Could I aspire to fill Capt. Jacob’s shoes? Mike smiles. “I read you like a book. You want in. You want to become a Noble Denton surveyor.” “Yes,” I said, “I’m inspired by people with standards. I believe your calling is my calling. What are my chances?” “When you are ready, call me. I will make appropriate phone calls. on your behalf. 241
25 GOOD LITTLE COGS
The most powerful icebreaker in Canada is not a ship but the greeting, “Did you see the game last night?” The game is ice hockey, a fast contact sport played on ice. Players hit a piece of rubber with a stick for a few minutes, then to the fan’s delight, throw their gloves on the ice and engage in a massive first fight. The referee breaks up the fight. The gloves go back on and they recommence to hit the piece of rubber around the ice and bump into each other, starting the fights all over again. At the end of the night fans measure satisfaction by how much blood was spilled on the ice. If you want to get ahead in a Canadian corporation, your morning greetings should include the phrase, “Did you see the game last night?” Discuss the game and promotion will follow. Drilling superintendents and captains were now stationed in Gulf Tower in Calgary. I was beginning to understand the expression ‘fish out of water.’ Oil corporations are efficient machines. Each good little cog knows his or her place. In our small central office, we were schooled in corporate policy. Rick and I were job level 14 entitling us to one oil painting measuring not more than 12” x 16.” Using the supplied coupon, we could pick up our painting from the basement. 242
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During our inauguration ceremony we noted a massive vacant corner office in the glass tower with a view of the Rocky Mountains. Corner offices are allotted to Vice Presidents. Without asking we moved in, spread our stuff around then headed for the basement where we demanded the biggest painting they had in stock. “Sorry you are Level 14 and only entitled to paintings measuring 12” x 16”. “Stop right there,” we said, “We are the Captains of the Molikpaq and we have a corner office. We’re taking that painting over there.” We learned in the good-little-cog-world the Corporation is vulnerable. It assumes because they have Rules, those Rules will be followed without question. We had discovered a flaw in corporate structure that made no allowance for people who are by occupation, not good little cogs. When a ship is in imminent peril the person in charge must be capable of independent and decisive action. Lives and the environment depend on these individuals. Pirating a corner office then decorating it with a pirated VP sized painting is consistent with this philosophy. Second discovery was under corporate structure, the act of occupying this massive corner office meant no one questioned it. In our luxurious office we prepared for the anticipated dirty tactics related to the dumping episode. We meticulously gathered our evidential documentation including incriminating dumping instructions and Official Logbook entries, laid them out neatly on our meeting table, coffee in hand, feet on table, hands behind heads, we waited. However, we were unprepared for the vengeance and vitriol when the cabal stormed into our office after our blood. Their mission was to hang us out to dry as scapegoats. The charge, according to them, was that both captains falsified Official Logbooks to cover up the Arctic dumping crime. Their quest backfired because, as Mike Jacobs cautioned, we had every detail covered. Management decided instead to vilify the Drilling Manager, whereupon the entire Gulf staff was assembled to hear a speech delivered by Vice President Gulf Oil Corporation, Houston, Texas. 243
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The VP compared the drilling manager to the atrocities of Hitler and the evils of the Holocaust. The assembled audience, while appalled, were at a complete loss to understand the Holocaust connection. His speech was ill thought out and a disgusting display of chopping off a scapegoat’s head. The VP then explained the oil glut was at its peak. Crude oil had dropped to $10 a barrel. According to the Oil Majors the price of crude would never rise again above this threshold. The Arabs could produce oil for 55 cents a barrel, he said. It was true we had discovered commercial reserves under the polar ice cap, he said, but it would take an expenditure of $5.6 billion to put oil on stream and a further $55 per barrel to produce it. It was a theatrical sideshow full of motherhood and apple pie platitudes. The VP waved his unlit cigar like a magic wand, moving it from right hand to left, while taking a few theatrical chomps. Occasionally he flicked imaginary ash off the end. Forty minutes later the drilling manager was vilified. The Arctic shut down. The cigar never lit. The final curtain had dropped on the giant stage play at the top of the world. When the management team left the podium, an employee well known to the rank and file, stepped up onto the stage, took the microphone and mimicked the VP. He brought the house down with his exaggerated cigar movements along with a brilliant spoof on the VP’s accent. He made fun of every platitude spouted that afternoon. It was an awful afternoon. Summary of Court findings by His Honour, Judge R.M. Bourassa in the case between Her Majesty the Queen and Gulf Canada Corporation: "This Court is unable to answer the fundamental question of how and why these offences occurred. The key to that evidence remains in the hand of the Defendant, in particular, the Drilling Manager, and apparently the decision maker throughout. That these events occurred at all is surprising in the light of all the Gulf Corporation trappings of concern for environmental protection, 244
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waste management programs, environmental advisory groups, awareness briefings, reporting structures and the like. It is open for the Court to make inferences that flow reasonably and naturally from the facts. In my view the contravention of the Ocean Dumping Control Act was a deliberate and informed one. In my view the considerations distil to one matter: The Defendant had surplus materials and wanted to get rid of them conveniently and quickly. Dumping at sea commenced where I believe the Defendant knew a permit was required. Without a shadow of a doubt the Defendant’s (Gulf) Drilling Manager knew that such dumping in the absence of a permit contemplated an unlawful act yet he suffered the dumping to continue. Issues that deliberately flout the law and respect of the law, the harm to be wary of, and to protect against, is the process and the system itself rather than the quality of water in the ocean. In this case there is no harm to the environment but there is harm inflicted upon the process of environmental protection." A fine of $400,000 was levied against the Defendant. The fine was less than petty cash, nevertheless it demonstrated Corporations are not outside the Law. It is a fine line that divides Rule of Law with the commercial necessity to succeed in a harsh environment. In today’s world people like the Drilling Manager have become dinosaurs who collide with modern thinking, computers and detailed procedures, that must be blindly followed and cannot be modified or ignored. Insiders were predicting years, not months before oil prices recovered. Make-work projects, drinking coffee while waiting for an uncertain start up had little appeal. Time to move on. The moment I submitted my resignation letter required under corporate policy, the warmth and good cheer dissipated. The atmosphere became colder than a well digger’s arse. Security guards escorted me from department to department where I signed release documents. Each person said the same thing. “You fully understand you are giving up all your rights to a pension, insurance and privileges.” 245
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Each meeting took place in a cold unemotional atmosphere. Each time a limb was cut off. Corporations like to control employees. Was this their psychological method for punishing a sheep for leaving the fold, or was it just part of the game? Flanked by security guards I took the elevator down to the lobby where I surrendered my security passes. When I physically exited the building, the security guards turned and left without a word. If you’re gonna play the game, boy You gotta learn to play it right You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em Know when to fold ‘em Know when to walk away. Know when to run Every gambler knows The secret to survivin’ Is knowin’ what to throw away. Kenny Rogers. Huddled against blowing snow I stood alone in the street and looked back. Gulf Tower was not a hostile glass tower but a faceless tower nevertheless and I was no longer a member of an exclusive club. Never look back, always look ahead. Tomorrow is a new day. I will phone Mike Jacobs in the morning. Canadian poet Robert Service best summed up the Klondike gold rush when he said, “It wasn’t the gold I was after. It was finding it.” For those of us who played parts in the giant stage play at the top of the world, Robert Service’s words ring true, but for Dome and Gulf, they wanted the gold.
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MOVING THE WORLD’S LARGEST OIL STRUCTURES ON THE OCEANS
Dedicated to Marine Surveyors across the world, who use sound engineering principles and good marine practice, to keep ships safe and clients alive, physically and financially. 248
26 CAPT. JOHN KILLICK
Singapore. Across the polished table sits Capt. John Killick, the man at the helm of Noble Denton, South East Asia Operations. I had done my homework on him and was already aware that, despite Noble Denton employing a team of engineers and mariners many of whom are world leaders, the man interviewing me decided it was a good idea to install fridges throughout the Singapore office and fill them with beer so surveyors could consume beer in the early morning and continue throughout the day if they wished. Peering at me with a pair of half glasses perched on the end of his nose, “If you want to be a Noble Denton Surveyor, you must be unemployable.” His piercing eyes never left mine. My first thought. “Christ, he wants me to be a vagrant and live under a bridge or culvert and drink methylated spirits wrapped in a brown paper bag.” “By that I mean you must be able to hold your ground in dealing with oilfield cowboys. If you believe you are right, you must stand on the platform of right. I am of course talking about moving the world’s largest oil structures on the oceans, which is what we do here at Noble Denton.” “Jack-up oilrigs average 400-500 feet in height and are difficult to move. They pose the greatest risk for Underwriters. Insurance 249
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policies usually include a warranty clause requiring owners to carry a warranty surveyor on board during field moves. In most policies Noble Denton is named as the preferred marine specialists. Warranty implies sound engineering principles and good marine practice will be adhered to at all times. After initial training we will put you forward as a hands-on rig mover meaning you will be responsible for the safe execution of the move in all respects. Much weight will sit on your shoulders. Are you with me so far?” “Yes.” “Your phone could ring at any time. You must be prepared for the unexpected. Singapore is the hub of our Asian operations within a rectangle bounded by Russia in the North, Australia in the South, Hawaii in the East, India in the West. On average you will travel through three countries a week.” British adventurer Bill Tillman advocated travel with objective. I allowed myself some fanciful thinking. Was this job a series of allexpenses-paid package tours? “You will meet challenges requiring you to draw on inner strength. We want men who make shit happen, even the seemingly impossible. You must possess a knack for breaking down overwhelming projects into chewable pieces, find solutions and appreciate lessons learned even in failed attempts.” Capt. Killick turned his head to look out his office window. I recalled the story when he was stationed in Rio de Janeiro. On occasions he would drink beer with the great train robber Ronny Biggs at the Lord Jim Pub on Ipanema Beach, two blocks from his office. This triggered an uneasy feeling that his summary job description was a masterpiece of understatement, inference and brevity. Fear crept in. Fear he was actually saying, Hey, Pal, do you like roller coasters? If so, I’ve got a spare seat up front. Wanna ride? Did I mention there might be a tunnel or twelve; a few sections of track missing; perhaps not. I exited the building onto bustling Singapore streets commencing a career phase that would challenge for the next 16 years. 250
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Supertanker OKHA connected to the SALM Buoy by twin hawsers. Sea of Okhotsk – Eastern Russia.
SALM buoy connection showing twin polyurethane coated hawsers. The compression bend at the fairlead caused the twin 1,000-ton SWL hawsers to break at 6% of their designed breaking load with resultant losses of $21million production revenue.
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27 LOCKED IN A SHED ON THE RUSSIAN TUNDRA
Janette Tan, Noble Denton secretary extraordinaire, hands me the Field File. “This is your first assignment. Eastern Russia in the Sea of Okhotsk. You will be visiting your old rig Molikpaq, now converted to a production facility and owned by Sakhalin Energy. Your travel instructions and plane tickets to Sakhalin Island are in the file. “Off you go.” The Sea of Okhotsk is subject to severe weather extremes. Following collapse of the Soviet Union and economic liberalisation, Sakhalin experienced an oil boom. I was then briefed by Tony Stafford, recently seconded from London. On a shelf behind Tony sat a white hard hat and a German war helmet worn when riding his Fat Boy Harley Davidson. “Molikpaq is producing oil to the supertanker Okha. Twin mooring lines are connected to a floating buoy known as a SALM Buoy, standing for Single Anchor Leg Mooring. Oil flows via flexible pipelines to a base on the seabed then via floating hoses from the buoy to the tanker. The connecting twin hawsers each have a breaking load 1,000 tons. Recently both hawsers failed simultaneously at 64 tons strain. Sakhalin Energy is losing $1.5 million a day in lost production revenue. Your brief is to find out why the hawsers broke at 6% of their designed breaking load and offer a solution. Call me if you need help.”
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My flight takes me from Singapore to Seoul, thence to Vladivostok and finally to the island’s southern town of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. Temperature is minus -6 degrees C. Train windows remain open during the 16-hour train ride north. I am given a cardboard box of disgusting food to eat on the train. The seats face each other. My fellow passengers wear overcoats and have steel capped teeth. The man seated opposite (with noisy throat hoicking) spits all night, landing his vile spittle between my feet where it immediately freezes to the steel floor. The icy mound grows by the hour. Women wrapped in rags and drab overcoats flag the train through rail junctions, swinging oil lamps to indicate the line is safe. From my window seat I note a single naked light bulb in the centre of each town as we rattle through. Snow on each house roof averages about a metre, a telltale sign the houses have no heat. I arrive in a place with no name, climb into the back of a Russian army truck covered in frozen mud and sit amongst soldiers, mud, rags and tools. At the heliport I jump off the truck to see an isolated set of wooden shacks sitting on the tundra. In every direction frozen, featureless wilderness, connected in the distance to lifeless grey skies. No vegetation, just frozen mud. Western helicopter service facilities operate state of the art workshops performing surgical operations in spotless conditions. The Russian Mil-8 helicopter currently being serviced was filthy. Engine pieces sat on truck tyres in the mud. My travelling bag is immediately seized and disappears. On the frozen Russian tundra with no habitation within hundreds of miles I am locked in a crude shed measuring two metres by three metres. It is constructed of vertical wooden planks with two-inch gaps between the planks. The wind whistles through the gaps. Temperature is -6 degrees C. I complain and asked to be released. “Nyet,” they said, Nyet, meaning no. Why was I locked up in an empty shed with dirt floor and nowhere to sit? At best it was suitable for chickens. With exceptional foresight I presumed I was considered a security risk. 254
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Risk? Look around. Two isolated shacks and a workshop in the middle of the tundra. What threat could I possibly pose? I had entered a logic-free-zone. No matter how much I complained the answer was always, “Nyet.” “I need to take a piss.” “Nyet.” I distinctly remember Capt. Killick made no reference to being locked in sheds on the Russian tundra. I imagined site attendances dressed in white coveralls, white hardhat with logo proudly displayed, jotting down a few technical observations on clipboard, snippets of jocular conversation, then returning to an air-conditioned office to file my report. A helicopter landed and disgorged the incoming Russian rig crew. Wages on Molikpaq were higher than Russian standard pay scales. The incoming rig crew had just been paid. On arrival the Mafia extorted the difference in cash. Released from the shed I board the Mil 8 helicopter. In flight, unsecured steel tubular pup-joints roll around the floor. Basic safety procedures in Russia were not yet in effect. We arrive at the Sakhalin Energy site comprising Molikpaq and the supertanker Ohka. At first glance I saw the solution was so ridiculously simple, I thought this might be a practical joke. The SALM Buoy was fitted with a massive top swivel bearing so the connection point always aligns itself with wind, current or ice flow. The top of the rotating section was fitted with a fairlead arrangement on one side and hawser connection point on the opposite side. The twin mooring hawsers led from the bow of the tanker then angled through the fairlead located on the periphery of the buoy. Both had failed where bending took place through the fairlead. My recommendation would be to install a piece of stud link chafing chain from the connection point, lead it across the buoy with sufficient length to exit the fairlead on the opposite side, then connect the hawsers external of all fairleads. This will eliminate any and all bending stresses. Job done. Recommence production. I was worried about the simplicity of the solution, so I phoned Tony Stafford to discuss the best method of wording the report. 255
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“With production loss currently sitting at $21 million, issuing a one-line report saying, ‘insert a piece of stud link chain,’ doesn’t sound like a value for money report in my view.” “Tell it the way it is,” he said. “Tony, I understand this is my first job, but if we consider the cost of downtime, surely we’ve got to say more than that?” “Alright, we’ll get London to prepare an engineering study and issue a joint report.” Below is a concluding paragraph from a twenty-page report prepared by London engineers. The hawser is of parallel filament construction comprising twenty individual nylon ropes laid parallel to one another inside braided sheathing. When the heavily coated polyurethane hawser takes a bend, the outside strands are in tension and the inside strands are in compression. In this case compression fatigue caused the failure when the inside (slack) individual fibres chafed against each other and eventually broke the fibres. In effect because the filaments are in parallel, they fight each other when put into repeated compression. All evidence points towards the fact this type of hawser cannot take a bend. The engineering report solved the political issue by describing how the hawsers failed but the insertion of a piece of chafing chain enabled oil production to continue. I was transferred from the tanker to Molikpaq to wait for the homeward helicopter. With childlike joy I planted my feet on the helideck, my former refuge to seek solace, my place to think and let the cold clear the head. I decided to visit my old office. The Russian drilling department was accommodating and friendly. I sat down at my old desk and memories flooded back. The first field move with Mike Jacobs, terrified faces during evacuations, the April 12 Event where Molikpaq came close to failure. The day we ran first Beaufort Sea oil. I see Capt. Rick Plecas. Allister Chisholm, Tim Chetwynd, Keith McLaren. Al Shaw, Len Edelman, Jim Guthrie. Where are they now? The M8 helicopter hovered above waiting for deck clearance. I hoped the shoddy maintenance witnessed on the tundra would be 256
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adequate to get me safely back to Sakhalin Island. When I arrived home, I said to Susie. “I’ve got it.” “You’ve got what?” “I discovered what my job is all about.” “Pray, do tell.” “We dispense simple seamanship, a skill that is in short supply and disappearing fast.” “That’s it?” “Looks like it.”
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28 THE UNEXPECTED
In the 70’s a new type of ship was invented called a Heavy Lift Carrier Vessel (HLCV). Essentially a self-propelled barge that partially submerges to allow large float-on cargoes such as jack-up rigs to be loaded then carried to destination as deck cargo. This is known as ‘dry towing’ and has proved to be a safe and cost-effective means of sea transport. My next brief was to ride the heavy lift carrier Swift northbound from Singapore to Hanoi. Swift was crewed by Russians. The French jack-up drilling rig Ile du Levant was the deck cargo. The rig was crewed by a French drilling team who were not mariners. I say good night to Noble Denton’s office manager Janette Tan, and take the elevator down from the 19th floor Goldhill Plaza and head by taxi to Joo Chiat Road for a daily walk as part of my exercise, but mostly to savour atmosphere. Ahead I see a sign nailed askew to an old shop-house. I can read it without slowing my walk. FATT CHYE WANG Geomancy Palm Reading Career Prospects Card Reading Change of Bad Luck Marriage Coordinator 258
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Capt. Killick said I should be prepared for the unexpected. Fatt Chye Wang was a man who had all his bases covered. At sea a man with his bases covered was a man ready for the unexpected. At sea perhaps I was that man, but on land I registered a shortfall. I wondered if it was possible to be totally together at sea and on land. I doubted it. There were various degrees. You were probably one or the other. That meant I had to be more careful on land. On land how can you prepare for the unknown? And if you are prepared for those eventualities you have been robbed of expectation of not knowing what was in store for you. Life is about unknowns. I knew I walked a calculated tightrope balancing professional expertise against a predilection for living on the edge. Once clear of Horsbough Light, gateway to the Singapore Straits, we headed north at thirteen knots but soon slowed off the Vietnam coast when we encountered two opposing weather systems. Monsoon winds from the Mongolian High were being squeezed against a Low over the Philippine Island of Luzon. The squeezed isobars accelerated wind strength. For the next three days, wind and sea continued to build. Wind speeds increased to 60 knots with 8metre seas. Swift is now going backwards at one knot with engines on full power. I am stationed on the rig (cargo) and the only marine person on board. The rest are industrial drilling people. I figure we are safe so long as the carrier maintains power. I shudder at the thought of lying abeam to these onrushing seas. Murphy’s Law rears its ugly head. Over the VHF in heavy Russian accent the carrier captain announces his engine condensers are choked and they must shut down for approximately four hours to remedy the situation. For safety we evacuate rig personnel onto the ship. From the carrier’s bridge we survey the grim situation. Our jack up rig with a leg height of 440 feet overhangs 50 feet either side of the carrier’s deck. Prior to stopping engines, we decide to add ballast to the low side of the ship to attain half a degree list to increase freeboard on the weather side. I struggle to associate engineering and stability calculations with the streaked walls of water rushing at the ship. 259
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I’m scared. Convinced when we stop engines and lay beam-on to the seas, the drilling rig and my career will skid off the deck into the angry sea. I am absolutely convinced this will happen. The Russian captain eases the power back slowly and rings, “Stop Engines.” The ship’s head falls off and she settles beam-on to wind and sea. What happened next? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In 8-metre beam seas the combined unit rolls less than half a degree. I am dumbfounded. However, the heave (vertical movement) is massive. Like a giant weightlifter, the ship’s back lifts 24,000 tons every nine seconds. We feel the G Force with each lift. The moments and stresses on the ship’s structure are enormous. We sit like a duck. The angry sea doesn’t exist. The coffee in our cups hardly moves. None of my previous schooling dealt with this situation. From Hanoi I phoned Adrian Seakins, one of Noble Denton’s brightest engineers to report my experience and requested an explanation of this phenomena. His structured explanation is technical but relevant in today’s maritime world. Simplistically, he said, the angle that the vessel will roll to is greatly affected by the ratio of the wave period to the natural motion response of the vessel. Worst-case scenario occurs if the period of the ocean waves is same as the roll period of the vessel then the amplitude of the roll will be maximum. (Ratio of 1) The wave period of deepwater ocean waves with a maximum height of around ten metres is in the order of 12 to 13 seconds. The roll period of our specialised ship in these beam seas in its loaded condition is somewhere in the vicinity of 30 seconds. This means the response period is nowhere near a ratio of 1 and therefore motion response amplitudes will be much lower. In your case, reducing roll to almost zero. The large heave effects were caused by the vessel being lifted up and dropped a significant distance, six metres to be exact, in the same 10 to 12 second period. Acceleration induced at the bottom of the heave motion accounts for the G forces being experienced.
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29 WHO REALLY DISCOVERED AUSTRALIA? Capt. Rob Janse, formerly a Smit International salvage specialist received his assignment to approve a tug capable of towing a $100 million oil structure from Dae Woo Shipyard in Korea to the Arco Field offshore North Java in the typhoon season. After inspecting the tug, he emailed clients, “The only good thing about your tug was the Dutch coffee.” Rob was reprimanded for lack of diplomacy. “It is not what you know technically Rob, but how you convey that knowledge to the client. Perhaps better wording could have been, “As requested, the undersigned surveyor attended on behalf of Arco Oil Company in order to ascertain the suitability of the subject towing vessel to tow an FPSO integrated oil structure from Korea to the Java Sea in the typhoon season. Our findings indicate the tug has insufficient bollard pull and its surveyed condition is considered unsuitable for its intended purpose.” “Vy? Der tug vos a piece of shidt,” was Rob’s response to criticism and as an afterthought, “And you Limeys with your fancy words are full of shidt too.” Typhoons normally form East of the Philippines, cross Luzon Island then gather ferocity as they transit the South China Sea. They can move in two directions depending on the month of the year. Recurve through the Taiwan Straits creating havoc in Okinawa and Japan or slam into Vietnam and Hainan. With the world weather patterns changing, super-typhoons were forming with wind speeds of 300 kilometres per hour. Rob was right, a good tug was needed. Arriving in Perth Capt. Janse confronts the Immigration Officer who asks, “Where is your Visa to enter Australia?” 262
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All attention is focused on the big man with the booming voice as he takes his queue and bellows. “Ha! Vy shood I goot a Fesa? Dis is Dutch Territory. Dirk Hartog left his discovery plate in dis ‘ere state 150 years before your prissy-assed Englishman Cook ‘discovered’ Australia. Big funkin’ mistake when dey change der name from New Holland to Australia.” Surveyors are issued with two passports for one reason. If you had an Israeli stamp you were automatically barred from entering Muslim countries. In Australia, Janse’s second passport was used for sport. At the critical moment before the riot squad arrives Rob nonchalantly slides his second passport across the counter containing the appropriate Australian Visa, then spreads his arms wide and bellows, “If you ain’t Dutch…You ain’t much. Haw. Haw.” I was beginning to understand what Capt. Killick meant when he said, “To be a Noble Denton surveyor you must be unemployable.” Capt. Janse was definitely not a good little cog, but he made shit happen. Maersk had their own specialised marine team assigned to look after their worldwide interests. Captain Nils “Slurp” Karlsen was senior rig mover, nicknamed Slurp by the way he drank his schnapps. Our brief was to emplace Maersk Giant, one of the world’s largest jack-ups, in Bass Strait with the fervent hope of discovering oil reserves that could save the Victoria economy from bankruptcy. Capt. Karlsen was already somewhat inebriated when he and I boarded Singapore Airlines night flight to Melbourne. Once airborne Slurp ordered another vodka, then passed out. By coincidence the captain of the aircraft was also named Karlsen. When the seat belt light was switched off the PA system burst into life. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Karlsen speaking. A very goo….” Somewhere in his sub-conscious Slurp heard his name being called. Like a jack-in-the-box he sprung from his seat to face startled Business Class passengers. “No! No!” pointing to himself. “I am Captain Karlsen.” An hour into the flight a frightened stewardess whispers in my ear. “Your friend is dead in the toilet.” “Don’t worry, Ma’am, that’s just Slurp. He’s not dead.” 263
30 MISSION IMPOSSIBLE The year is now 1989. Burma is still closed to the outside world. Aung San Suu Kyi, the rightful Prime Minister, is under House Arrest. From Rangoon airport we drive towards the city centre in a modern Japanese car. We pass an American DeSoto truck, circa 1950, whose engine water pump has long since been discarded and replaced by a water drum on the truck roof to drip-fed water to the engine cooling system. The journey to Rangoon is a time warp. Burma is hidden from the world’s choking industrial engine with no pollution and no noise. Burmese people go about their daily lives with dignity seemingly oblivious to the oppressive regime of the military junta. I asked the driver if we could route via Aung San Suu Kyi’s house. The driver turned white with fear but in polite Burmese fashion did not want to disappoint. “You promise you won’t take any photos.” University Avenue was virtually a country road which skirts Rangoon’s Royal Lakes. We came upon a dilapidated English mansion facing onto the lake and in need of fresh paint. The once magnificent gardens are in a state of neglect. The house appears to be abandoned but we know ‘The Lady’ is inside under house arrest. “It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it.” Ang San Suu Kyi. 264
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Soldiers are seated behind rows of sandbags, machine guns pointing at the house. Why do people like Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi suffer for others to gain freedom? Burma’s ruling Military Junta was afraid because she was not afraid. She spoke for what is good inside all of us. She supplied inner strength and inspiration to a suppressed nation. My brief read: “Trident is owned by Myanmar Oil and Gas Enterprise (MOGE) and recently sold to a US contractor. She sits well offshore in the Irrawaddy River Delta. The legs have penetrated 120 feet into the seabed and are solidly silted into the earth’s formation. We believe it may be impossible to get them out. You may have to sever the legs at seabed using explosive charges.” I was appalled by living conditions on Trident. Burma, once an Asian Tiger, was now reduced to a beggar. The crew lived in deplorable conditions. Soap was prized. Cheap paper and pencils recorded events. Communication was by Morse code. Supplied food was rice with a few scraps of meat. The rig manager U Myat San, is pleasant and well educated. Saddened that Burma doesn’t have the financial resources to explore for oil with their own drilling rig. In his mind Trident represents the aspirations and prosperity of Burma. Dormant for years and now sold. When free of the seabed she will be towed to Singapore for refit by new owners. I asked how ordinary people viewed the Military Junta. Myat San spoke freely about the oppressive regime. “It’s easy to counter oppression. When ordinary people see the military in the streets, they stare at them with distaste like they were viewing a leper or a cockroach. This makes the military feel bad. When ordinary people look down on them, they feel inferior and embarrassed. The message conveyed through eye contact is that we are all Burmese people and should respect each other. The mind is stronger than the gun.” We discuss logistics for removing stuck legs from the seabed. New owners claimed it would be impossible to pull these legs free. We wanted to prove them wrong. The water depth is 250-feet. At the base of each leg is a circular tank called a spudcan, which has a much larger diameter than the legs. Normally this is not a problem but in this particular case the ‘hole’ above the spudcan has 265
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filled with Irrawaddy river silt and has consolidated like concrete. The weight of the column of silt sitting on top of the spudcan exceeds the buoyancy lifting capacity of the rig. If you imagine a steel shaft sitting on your shoe, there is a limit to how much your leg is capable of lifting. From my surveyor’s point of view these circumstances provided a golden opportunity to break every rule in the book and learn the true engineering limitations of this American designed drilling rig. If we break the legs, never mind. In order to pull legs on any jack-up the barge is jacked down so that normal floating draft is exceeded. This provides additional buoyancy force. Given we have free reign we ignore the policy of submerging (a maximum) of one metre above floating draft, to quote the Toolpusher, we jack the mother down until she nearly sinks. Despite the enormous pulling force, this proves to no avail. The legs are stuck fast. Next we attempt to jet the legs out. Each leg is fitted with a pipe running full length down to the base of the spudcan. High-pressure water is pumped to the underside of the spudcans. Normally this is sufficient to break suction. This also proves useless due to the weight of the column of silt acting from above. Phone call from Houston. “Looks like it will impossible to get them legs out. We’re ordering you stop the boulle-shit and blow the Mahfarker legs off at the seabed. Ya hear me boys.” “Houston couldn’t find their arses with both hands in the dark,” says the American Toolpusher. Myat San is more polite, “There must be a way.” Time for innovative thinking. We decide to employ a simple engineering principle and build a lift pump consisting of a length of oilfield casing (a steel pipe about thirty feet long and one foot in diameter). The apparatus has no moving parts. At the base of the pipe we weld on a nipple where low-pressure compressed air from surface can be injected into the lower part of the pipe. This device disturbs the silt with aerated water so that silt particles are drawn upwards inside the pipe. Because the pipe is well below sea level when the silt particles reach the top of the pipe they are carried away by the current. 266
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In effect we built a huge vacuum cleaner to suck out the three columns of consolidated silt. For three weeks we jetted at the silt columns with the deck constantly jacked down level with the ocean. By the end of the third week legs began moving inch by inch. Success meant not having to rebuild the legs, a saving of more than $1 million. Houston was ecstatic. “Ahh tole you boys that Mahfarker idea would work.” Most engineering achievements derive from simple ideas. Myat San, the Toolpusher and I, felt most pleased.
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31 SWISS CHEESE DRILLING A simple engineering idea
It took 12 years before Capt. Killick’s summary job description proved accurate. I now specialised in jack-up rig moving and had settled into my comfort zone. Jack-ups are the choice of most oil majors but are still the most difficult units to move. Life became a blur, living between airports, heliports and offshore destinations in the Java Sea, Bass Strait, Gulf of Thailand, Bombay High, Irrawaddy Delta, Bay of Bengal, South China Sea, Northwest shelf of Australia, Philippines – one operation after another coupled always with the same anxiety of punch-through. Punch-through can occur when legs are penetrating the seabed and one of the three legs suddenly crashes through a thin crust layer causing the rig, which is typically 500 feet high, to crash over on its side until hull buoyancy stabilises the unit. Historical data suggests by the time equilibrium is achieved it is too late; catastrophic leg damage has already occurred. The primary advantage of the jack-up rig design it offers a steady and motion-free platform in the drilling position and mobilises quickly and easily. When the unit reaches the drill site legs are lowered to the sea floor securing the rig in position. Preloading then takes place where the weight of the barge and additional ballast water is used to drive the legs securely into the 268
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seabed until they meet refusal. (like pile-driving a building’s foundation) Prior to going to a new drilling location, a seismic soils study is carried out to determine if there is risk of punch through. Lurking danger hides in the form of a thin hard crust within soft seabed. Preloading legs ensures no further settlement will take place after drilling operations commence. The drilling barge is finally raised above sea level to a predetermined height, known as air gap, so that waves act on the slender legs and not on the barge hull. On the 28th November 1999 at Anding-A location, offshore East Malaysia, I was attending on board Harvey H. Ward with leg height of 460 feet. The unit was returning to Anding-A platform following a previous attempt in April in the same year when rapid penetration was experienced on the bow leg, resulting in extensive leg damage. It was to be placed in the same spud can holes and on the same heading of 225 Degrees. The move was expected to be problematic during the leg penetration and preload phase where a soil study indicated complex structure and a high probability of punch-through could result in further leg damage. Complicating matters was a difference of opinion amongst geotechnical soils engineers leaving the rig movers in uncertain territory. One of our principal roles as Warranty Surveyors is to protect Underwriter’s interests. In this case by limiting damage risk by punch through. While preparing to go on location I happened upon a ridiculously simple idea. If soils analysis identified a thin crust with potential punch-through why not position the rig over the proposed leg locations and drill multiple holes through the thin hard layer to weaken the integrity and eliminate leg resistance at that point. In principle my idea was that simple. Rig owners and Underwriters agreed in try the idea. The experiment was successful, potentially eliminating, or at least drastically reducing risk of leg damage. The procedure has since been adopted across the world and is now known as Swiss Cheese Drilling.
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32 AHH! INDONESIA
Garuda Indonesia, flight GA308, Singapore to Jakarta. Nonchalantly walking down the isle of the Airbus A300, I spot a small Indonesian girl, third window seat from the back, starboard side. I glance at my seat number and calculate my seat is at the window directly opposite her. We make eye contact. She smiles. I smile. Once airborne the stewardess fumbles and giggles uncontrollably over the English safety briefing. She serves aerated water. The same stewardess spills a glass of Coke over the passenger next to me. The eye contact Indonesian girl from across the isle sends a handwritten message attached to the in-flight shopping guide. She has circled the photo of an expensive watch. The note reads, “Could you buy this watch for me?” I shake my head and smile. She shrugs her shoulders and smiles back. Out the window I marvel at the green rice paddies of Java. Jakarta office. “We’re sending you to Banjarmasin.” “Where’s Banjarmasin?” An exasperated Capt. Dick Cooper looks skyward and rolls his eyes. “What sort of people are we hiring these days? Banjarmasin, you ignorant boy, is directly across from Java and situated on the south coast of Borneo. It is the Venice of Indonesia. 270
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You will be travelling by small boat 250 miles up the Burito River through the central jungle region. You will arrive at a coalmine. You will inspect two tugs and two 6,000-ton coal barges. You will then make the return journey, except this time, you will evaluate the bends in the river and make an assessment whether you consider coal transport to be safe on the Burito River.” Dick hands me the field file. “Underwriters are concerned because large floating villages are located on the bends. If the tugs lose control, these big barges could wipe out entire villages.” I travelled the Burito River by day in the company of an agent and a liaison officer. The scenery was magnificent, but the jungle was steaming hot and rife with mosquitoes and waterborne snakes. At night we slept on mats in villages mostly on river bends. This afforded an opportunity to observe currents and study risk factors. The river was narrow and the current strong. Some villages housed a thousand people. The tugs were dreadful wooden vessels in deplorable condition. The towlines were nothing more than ratty frayed pieces of polypropylene rope. The barges were huge and menacing. My report stated the proposed system in its current configuration was unsafe. It would be safe, however, if proper tugs with proper equipment and properly trained crews were utilised. On high risk bends I recommended a stern tug be in attendance to assist with steering. In my naivety I missed the point. Lip service would be paid to the report findings, then ignored. The ratty tugs would run the river and likely tragic loss of life would occur at some stage. A Singapore registered chemical tanker was stolen in Indonesia. The field file said, “Find it.” It did not say what course of action to take, when and if the ship was found. A good place to start was Tanjung Priok, the crowded anchorage off the port of Jakarta, a vast anchorage with every craft imaginable from cargo ships to traditional Indonesian sailing Pinicis. I chartered a small motor launch and cruised the anchorage with ship’s drawings in hand. Sometimes you just get lucky. On our first 271
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pass, there she was. We quietly motored under the bow. The original name in raised welded letters on the upper portion of the bow was still there but had been painted over in black to blend in with the hull colour. White paint letters proclaimed the new name of the ship. I issued a simple report stating the vessel was found. In Singapore I met with the ship’s owner. He said he would hire Indonesian lawyers to handle the matter. I said that was like putting Dracula in charge of the blood bank. Indonesian lawyers would exacerbate the situation and once the case was in their hands, there was a strong possibility he may never see his ship again. Discarding all professional and accepted norms, I advised the ship owner the best way to get his ship back would be to send a team on board at night and steal it back. Overcome the existing crew, start the engines and steam out of Indonesian waters back to Singapore. Forget the Law. It doesn’t apply in Indonesia. I have no idea if he ever got his ship back. Petromer Trend Oil Company (Indonesia) reported a few items missing. Could we please send a surveyor to investigate. The items missing were from two brand new oil production barges that were towed from Batam Island near Singapore to Irian Jaya. Noble Denton had approved the tow with an estimated 15-day towage. Seven weeks later the tow arrived with ‘a few items missing.’ When I got off the plane in Sorong I was met by Petromer Trend representatives. Together we boarded an open native boat powered by a single outboard engine for a 60-mile trip up a jungle river to the company site. When the sun went down it became dark, very dark. A blanket of jungle vines barely cleared our heads. The engine broke down and the ‘captain’ sat immobilised staring at the motor. Clearly he didn’t know anything about engines so we took matters into our own hands and cleared a fuel blockage and continued. I was taken to see the barges and fell into hysterical laughter. All that remained were barge skeletons. Every fitting, pipes, valves, generators, wiring, shelves, lights was missing. Anything that did not constitute the barge plating was missing. Where generators had been removed even the securing nuts, bolts and washers had been stolen. 272
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The tug’s logbook was a mess. Tongue-in-cheek, I questioned the Indonesian tug captain. “Captain, I notice a few items missing. During your seven-week trip, which should have taken two weeks, did you notice anything unusual? Better still, let me spell it out for you, did you notice anyone systematically stripping every fitting off these barges?” The tug captain assumed a thoughtful and serious pose, “Maybe at sea during the night someone backed another barge onto our barges and used a truck to take the stuff off.” The captain looked visibly pleased with his explanation. I lost patience. “That’s rubbish and you know it. Come on captain, you were in charge the whole time, where did the stuff go?” The tug captain thought hard. Then he had a sudden brainwave. His face lit up. How could this small matter have escaped his memory? “One night when the barges were anchored at Tanjung Priok, off the Port of Jakarta, there was no security guard. The stuff must have disappeared on that one night.” His chest swelled with that logical explanation. My report read: “According to the tug’s logbook the captain made nineteen stops within the seven-week period. I believe he and his accomplices systematically sold parts and fittings as they progressed across the Indonesian Archipelago.”
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Loading the 1,700 ton Enron Tapti Topside Module onto a barge.
Noble Denton engineers Dr. Bader Diab and Adrian Seakins ordering spectacular breakfasts from the Bell Tower Suite at the Taj in Bombay. 274
33
PLANT YOUR CORN EARLY, BOY
Our destination is offshore Ganges River, Bay of Bengal. From Visakhapatnam we fly over India opening the helicopter windows at an altitude of 7,000 feet. Our nostrils are assailed by a pungent stench like a rotten armpit. Well offshore we land on the Reading & Bates rig D. K. McIntosh. Spoilt Westerners who bemoan today’s working conditions and lack of incremental salary increases could take heart from the story of Gurung, a Nepalese employed as a cook’s helper working in the D. K. McIntosh. Gurung is from the village of Naima in the Himalayas. He doesn’t know the elevation but said he can see Mt. Annapurna (Elevation 26,604 feet) from his home. He walks for two days to the town of Pokhara, takes a nine-hour bus ride across the border to northern India to Gorakhpur where he endures a 38-hour train ride West to Kanpur, taking him south through Allahabad, Jabalpur and Hydrabad. When he reaches Madras, he overnights on the tiled floor of the railway station. The following day he flies by helicopter offshore where he earns $32 a month. Take away travel expenses his net pay is $8 per month. 275
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Bombay in the early morning I see trucks collecting dead bodies with rigor mortis from the side of the road; a tiny child wrapped in newspaper is held by a child beggar with no arms or legs. No educated native, wrote the Quaker reformist, thinks he has properly done Bombay unless he has seen the seething hell of Bombay’s Falkland Road where thousands of Indian prostitutes solicit clients from steel barred cages. Many are children kidnapped from mountain villages. Decorous in the extreme, overly painted, grotesque girls cling to steel bars. I ride the Tamil Nadu Express from Madras to Vijayawada amid a colourful sea of Saris, tea vendors and Chepatti food sellers. Rows of people crap beside the railway lines. I read signs in the Madras railway station. Starvation is purity. Second class ladies toilet. Outside the station master’s office I see a sign: Do not pay bribes to anybody in this office. If somebody asks for a bribe or if you are a victim of corruption from this office, you can complain to the chief vigilance officer in this office. My assignment in northeast India for Cairn Energy is to be stationed on the bridge of an anchored super tanker as Marine Coordinator for 38 ships operating in the bay. VHF radio in hand, South Indian coffee beside my chair, I direct traffic. It’s fun. Just when I was becoming comfortable in the job, I receive an urgent message to come ashore to meet with the Installation Manager who explains his problem. “My car was involved in an accident when I hit a sacred cow while on an illicit alcohol run. I need help drafting a credible accident report.” Jointly we wrote the following. A young girl unexpectedly emerged from behind a water buffalo and fell off her bicycle, which careered into a motorcycle, which in turn caused the Oil Company Vehicle (OCV) to take emergency avoiding action whereupon it hit the sacred cow. On the super tanker I am again requested by Cairn Energy to tackle an unusual assignment concerning worker productivity in the Refinery. “Our problem is,” they explained, “after marriage, the new wife must move in with the boy’s family. Currently women are 276
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refusing to marry into the local village because after back-breaking work in the rice paddies they must spend another three hours carrying heavy water urns on their heads for distances up to a kilometre. We want you to solve the marriage problem by installing a comprehensive water distribution system in the village so that young women will be encouraged to marry local village men.” The only available vehicle was the jet fuel truck, the very same OCV that hit the sacred cow. In the course of six days we laid a system of blue PVC water pipes, with valves conveniently positioned throughout the village, so that families could enjoy water on tap. Wiping sweat from my dusty brow I recall, yet again, Capt. Killick’s words. Your principal role will be moving large oil structures on the oceans.” Oh! Yeah! Why am I standing in this hot, dusty street smelling of cooking and sewage, solving marriage problems in a primitive Indian village? Instructions were received from Enron Corporation, an American energy giant, to proceed to Bombay to load the Tapti Deck, a 1700ton topside module, onto a barge for transport out to the Tapti Oil Field in the Bombay High. I teamed up with Noble Denton engineers, Adrian Seakins and Dr. Bader Diab. I would handle marine aspects. Engineers would cover the calculations. The modularised Tapti Deck sat on bogey trailers fitted with 400 hydraulically operated wheels. In order to load the unit onto the barge two forces must be counteracted. First, the tidal range meant the barge would be in constant movement (up or down) during loading. Water must be pumped, in or out, to ensure alignment with the jetty. It stands to reason as the module moves across the deck complicated forces come into play. Engineers counteracted by adding or subtracting water in the barge tanks on the opposite side of the barge. The pumping process continues until the unit reaches the halfway point, then the procedure is reversed. I was glad not to be an engineer. Adrian and Bader stood centre stage amid 26 pumps like orchestra conductors. Starting this pump and stopping that pump was a complicated display of co-ordination. If any of the pumps broke down, we were in serious trouble. 277
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Enron was in serious financial trouble. The company employed 20,000 staff and was one of the world’s major natural gas and electricity companies with claimed revenues of $101 billion. When the shit hit the fan, the press referred to the Enron scandal as an institutionalised, systematic and creatively planned accounting fraud. Enron suffered the largest Chapter 11 bankruptcy in history. Previously Enron was considered a blue chip stock investment. They owned or operated 38 electric power plants and 40,000 miles of pipelines worldwide. When our three-man team arrived in Surat, northwest India the city was under siege from the Plague, clearly another oversight on the part of Capt. Killick. Perhaps he too thought the Plague occurred only in medieval times. Surat was so incredibly foul, so polluted and stinking that India’s claim to be a superpower could only be a dream in the distant future. I was given a security pass containing my photo and my signature, yet I had never filled out any forms, supplied any photos or signed anything. The contractors were Palestinian mafia who deliberately delayed operations, cheated and robbed Enron blind. Our client was a first-time-out-of-America, Louisiana dinosaur. A tobacco chewing, street smart good ol’ boy, probably a good drilling man, but when it came to dealing with Indians or Palestinians he was a babe in the woods to be exploited. He was in over his head and sinking fast. He desperately needed help. Amid Enron bankruptcy proceedings we completed our mission without incident. Our appreciative client held a farewell dinner at the Sheraton Hotel. He paid the bill with an Enron credit card which did not include a tip. The Indian waiter complained. “Excuse me, Sir, aren’t you going to give me a tip?” “Yeah. I’ll give you a tip, boy.” said the good ol’ boy from Louisiana. Adjusting the wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth, he looked the expectant waiter in the eye, spat a stream of tobacco juice into his drinking water glass, and said. “Plant your corn early, boy.” Homeward bound the good ol’ boy instructed us to stay in the best goddamn rooms Bombay had to offer. 278
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Enron would pay. We’d earned it, he said. We headed for the Taj, one of the world’s top listed hotels. Amid spectacular opulence we breasted up to the reception desk and asked for the three best rooms in the house. The desk clerk was apologetic. “Are you sure you want the best. Top floor suites are very expensive?” “We’re oilmen from Enron,” we said, “we want your most expensive suites.” At age 52, I was the oldest of the trio. I got the Bell Tower Suite at $1,200 per night. This circular spectacular suite occupied one corner of the hotel and was filled with expensive antiques. The master bedroom was situated in a loft accessed by a spiral staircase. In 2008 this same Bell Tower Suite was fire-bombed in a daring terrorist raid that caught worldwide attention. Dr. Diab took the suite next to mine with three bedrooms and a long balcony. Adrian occupied the other end of the floor in a long triangular room with tall glass windows offering a commanding view over the Gateway to India. The following morning dressed in posh Taj supplied dressing gowns we met for breakfast in the Bell Tower Suite where three attentive waiters delivered spectacular breakfasts on trolleys covered by white starched linen. For a single night our joint expense account exceeded $3,800. I was beginning to appreciate being a Noble Denton surveyor.
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Heavy Lift Carrier, Mighty Servant 2 - Offshore China, bound for Argentina. We had to remove one stern buoyancy pod to facilitate loading the Saipem construction barge, Castoro 5.
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35 LI SHAN MISSED THE MARRIAGE BUS
China South Eastern Airlines flight from Tsing Tao to Shanghai. In Business Class, commotion breaks out in the galley. Flight attendants in smart navy suits, brilliant white shirts and bright red scarf ensembles are working franticly to scavenge the good food from passenger’s plates to fill airline travel bags to take home when the flight is over. Meagre remains are served to the passengers. The Italian Pipelaying Barge Castoro 5 is scheduled to be loaded onto a heavy-lift carrier vessel Mighty Servant then sail for Argentina. The carrier is anchored at Thousand Islands, offshore Shanghai, a distance of forty miles as the crow flies from our hotel. To get there we must take ferries connecting three islands. Fritz, the Dutch Loadmaster and I are staying at the Lu Ting Hotel, which we dubbed the Looting Hotel because of the prices they charged. The immigration office is closed. We are not permitted to leave until next morning. It’s freezing in the morning with ice and mud in the streets after last night’s rain. I buy two mandarin oranges from a fruit seller. I offer two Yuan, but she will not take the money. She says they are a gift. Faith restored in Chinese vendors we take a trishaw to the Immigration office to get our offshore passes. God, haven’t these people ever heard of heating appliances? The definition of bliss is finding a radiator. 281
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In our trishaw taxi the temperature is –10 degrees C. After years of living in equatorial Singapore cold has penetrated my bones. One tooth is aching. Lips are cracked and bleeding. My laptop sits in my lap, possibly the first one to come to this island. We meet our clients at the Hotel of Daishan Silk. The hotel is connected to a silk factory and presumably built for the benefit of silk clients. We check in. Its freezing in the lobby. The front door and the windows are wide-open letting in more cold wind. We’re offered coffee. I take mine black with plenty of sugar. My jaw is cramped. I can hardly speak from the cold and my tooth is really hurting now. The coffee helps. I sight a small bottle of Courvoisier Brandy sitting on the shelf behind the coffee shop bar. Airline-type housed on a small cannon carriage. “How much?” I ask. The receptionist writes on a piece of paper. Asking price is 50 Yuan for the brandy and 20 Yuan for the plastic cannon, about $8 the lot. The girl who speaks a few words of English explains, “But you musta buy the brandy and the cannon together.” “I will take the brandy bottle. I don’t want the cannon.” She telephones the silk factory owner. Three families run this island of half a million people. Primitive China where ordinary people are serfs. The boss says no, the cannon goes with the bottle. Four girls work in the hotel, two in the lobby and restaurant, two to service the rooms. The lobby girls sleep in bulky sweaters and big quilts on rollaway beds behind the counter. The reason I know this I found them still sleeping the following morning when I came down for breakfast. They jumped out of bed, brushed their hair with their hands and were ready for another day, another 24-hour shift. Li Shan reads my palm. “Eeyoh,” she says examining the creases, “I see you get big salary. Gimme money.” The girls drink steaming lemon juice. Thirty-year old Li Shan has missed the Chinese marriage bus. I ask her where I can buy my wife a 30-year anniversary present. She looks at me in utter amazement. “You never give presents to the wife, only your girlfriend.” Remember the distance is only forty miles. On the third morning we have a new driver who is the son of a Mafia boss. He speaks no English and we don’t like the look of him. He drives too fast through 282
Li Shan missed the marriage bus
narrow alleyways. Ordinary people scurry clear of our recklessly driven taxi. The driver takes a left turn on the wrong side of the road and crashes into an old man on a bicycle and knocks him to the ground. Our driver immediately gets out of the car and begins shouting. The old man shouts back. We get out of the car and help the old man to his feet and back onto his bicycle. We apologise in English for knocking him down. It was our driver’s fault but because his father is a powerful man on the island, he shouts at us as well. We are ashamed. In English we shout, ‘Fucking pig.’ Our driver abandons us at a dock crowded with fishing boats sheltering during the winter season. Without agents things go faster. At the ferry counter we point to Zhoushan on the wall map. I say in English, “Two tickets, please.” Apparently, the girl behind the ticket counter could not read maps. She kept jamming a sign of Chinese characters under our noses. Pen and paper was produced and more Chinese characters written for our benefit, the root cause of our problems in the first place. Two tickets were issued but it was a shot in the dark because we did not know if we had boarded the correct ferry until we reached our final destination. At Zhoushan Island, another ship’s agent takes us to lunch at a restaurant called Tun Si Hun. The building is covered in white tiles with brass Chinese letters across the top. Fritz and I go inside. Yep, you got it, no heat. There are nine Chinese waitresses. They start laughing and giggling and pointing to the Dutchman’s pipe. The agent orders Chinese beer. There are only three of us but the table is groaning with food. Two waitresses are dedicated just for pouring beer. First serving is stringy red pieces of dried beef, dried fish and a plate of tiny shrimp and some green vegetables. Assuming no more food was coming I started eating everything because I was hungry from the cold and the walking. Shark-fin soup arrives. I’m already full. Noodles and vegetables and ginger beef, coriander with dry bean curd shreds, more bean curd, more beer, two whole fish called Yellow Fish probably because they were caught in the Yellow River. A navy warship is waiting to take us out to the Carrier anchored offshore. The trip is slow against a strong river current. The swirling water is brown and thick with silt. Windows and doors wide open. 283
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Total travel time Singapore to offshore China is six days. In contrast, the Italian pipelaying barge Castoro 5 was successfully loaded onto Mighty Servant. 2 and ballasted to transit draft within twelve hours. Specialist mariners and engineers make the loadout process look easy. The carrier is a self-propelled barge with traditional ship’s bow. Buoyancy pods at the stern stabilise the carrier while the hull is submerged to float on the ‘cargo’. Without stern buoyancy the hull would fishtail underwater much like throwing a kitchen plate into a lake. As it sinks it sashays from side to side. The pipelaying barge is positioned on the carrier’s deck on prelaid wooden cribbing. Precision on the cribbing is achieved by using guideposts welded to the outboard side of the submerged deck. Ballast water is pumped out. The hull rises until it becomes a unified ship. Welded seafastenings are installed. The ship then sails to its offload destination. During the return trip I receive a new message. “Because you are already in China your next assignment will be a loadout of seven Shields barges to be dry-towed to Vancouver on board the heavy lift carrier vessel Swift. It was coincidence that I should be in China. Bob Shields, son of Peter Shields, sent a written request to our Singapore office. “Your Captain Kearns is a former associate of Shields Navigation and we would be pleased if his schedule permitted him to look after our requirements.” I was delighted with the opportunity to re-establish contact with Shields Navigation. Their representative was Dave Donnelly. Our talk, of course, was of tugs and barges, fast water and running the rapids. Loyalty has a long arm. Peter Shields treated employees like family, with decency, fairness and trust. I felt I owed Peter a debt of gratitude. He provided me with the opportunity to gain commercial towing experience which later opened the doors to Noble Denton and the role in which I now found myself; loading Shields barges in China for transport across the North Pacific to Vancouver. I say to you now, Peter, I was stone-broke that day you slid your personal cheque book across your desk and told me to write a cheque. I have never forgotten that kind gesture. Thank you. 284
36 SPRATLY ISLANDS CONFLICT
“We’re sending you to Vietnam. Spratly Islands this time.” says Tony Stafford as he hands over the Green File. “This assignment will be tricky. You will be towing a Vietnamese jack-up rig with Russian tugs. In the heart of Saigon, you will meet with government representatives in the old American Embassy building. I strongly recommend you read the cautionary note in the file.” I opened the green field file and read the note pinned to the inside cover. “Captains assigned for the Spratly Islands rig move are advised to make contingency evacuation plans in the event conflict breaks out during attendance. The Spratly Islands area potentially holds 17.7 billion tons of oil and natural gas reserves compared to 13 billion tons held by Kuwait, placing it as the fourth largest reserve in the world. The South China Sea is a locus of competing territorial claims. The dispute is ongoing between China, Vietnam, Malaysia, Philippines, Taiwan, and Brunei, all claiming ownership. Vietnam is exercising sovereignty based on International Law. China is ignoring International Law and increasing its presence with military might. Less than a year ago a naval battle raged between Chinese and Vietnamese. Chinese troops killed 64 Vietnamese soldiers but failed to tear down the Vietnamese flag proclaiming Vietnam’s ownership of Johnson South Reef.”
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The year is 1989, seven years before US sanctions would be lifted. Vietnam’s doors were still officially shut to the outside world. Russian, Vietnamese and French were spoken. No English. I flew on Hang Khong Airlines with tyres worn through to the white canvas. Ripped and torn fabric passenger seats. Stewardesses in Ao Dais welcomed passengers aboard and were never seen again. Not even coffee was served. On that flight besides myself, one Chinese businessman and ten bar girls being deported from Singapore for overstaying their visas. Skimming along the runway of Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airport I see old semi-circular concrete bunkers behind which, is a graveyard of old warplanes. This airport had once been the busiest in the world. During the Vietnam War, fat bellied troop carriers, helicopters, fighter-bombers and forklift trucks all moved thousands of tons of war materials. Reduced this day, 10th February 1989, to a control tower and an old wooden terminal building without air conditioning. The airport could handle a maximum of 40 passengers at one time. Paperwork was by hand. I was arrested on arrival and taken in a barred police wagon to Thanh Loc Hotel reserved for people whose paperwork was not in order. $60 for the hotel and $100 for the Police, Immigration and Customs fixed the paperwork. At the time I did not appreciate the magnitude of this assignment. The sheer audacity of towing a jack-up into the Spratly Islands was brilliant in its simplicity. We towed Tam Dao to the Spratly Islands where the word sovereignty was in dispute by no less than six nations, positioned it on the seabed in a location overlying potential oil-bearing deposits and commenced exploratory drilling. Vietsovpetro and their joint venture partners dispensed with red tape, leases and/or seismic studies. We just did it. Thirty years on, the Spratly Islands territorial dispute is worsening. China is flexing its muscles, building sand islands, setting up military bases and threatening passing ships (including US warships) with military action. Spratlys today offer a unique juxtaposition between Might is Right and the international law on The ‘Right of Innocent Passage. 286
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In principle, freedom of the seas stresses freedom to navigate the oceans whereby all ships enjoy the right of innocent passage through a territorial sea. The law assumes an innocent traverse without anchoring or calling at a roadstead or port facility. In a high-stakes game, the US Navy deliberately taunts China by sailing through newly constructed illegal naval bases. The Charter of the United Nations clearly states any threat or use of force against a Sovereign State in any manner is in violation of the principles of international law. This begs the question if both China and the US are engaging in illegal activities how does that apply to the law on the Right of Innocent Passage? In Saigon I entered the dilapidated US Embassy building. It was dank, dark and eerie having been abandoned for the past 14 years. The French drilling contractor, Foramer, had cleverly taken advantage of cheap rent in this prime location. Fluorescent lights in sluggish elevators were full of black bugs. Hallways were filthy. I found my way to a dusty office on the 5th floor to attend a procedural meeting for an up-coming ocean transport. After the meeting, on a whim, I took the rubbish-strewn stairs to the rooftop where once helicopters landed every few minutes. No one can convince me atmosphere does not linger. I was alone but could clearly hear the last US helicopters taking off in defeat from this historic rooftop and the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) marching in to claim this symbolic prize in their new unified Vietnam. On 30th April 1975, Communist tanks burst through the gates of the Presidential Palace and the NVA, who were nothing more than ragged peasant victors, brandishing AK-47’s, paraded down Tu Do Street with the misguided notion this was Liberation Day. They were told there would be no rich or poor, no exploiters or exploited. The South Vietnamese say happiness died on their Day of Liberation. Next I took a taxi to Vung Tau where a western visitor was a rarity. Our client Vietsovpetro wanted me to have a favourable impression of Vietnam so they hired Miss Phuong, the English teacher from the local school, to act as interpreter. The local ship cargo surveyor acted as chaperone. The inimitable Mr. Qui was engaged as beer drinking partner and tour guide. 287
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Twice daily Miss Phuong changed into a new Ao Dai. She was elegant and articulate and on one occasion insisted on treating me to lunch without cargo surveyor at her favorite childhood restaurant. I’m early. I sit at an aluminium table on a tiny stool and order weak Vietnamese tea. My surveyor’s eye sees steam rising from a soup barrel. A family run business, cooking arrangement is a cart on wheels outside the restaurant; wife dressed in green suit, clearly in charge; husband with no shirt responsible for cooking; daughter and son dressed in T-shirt and blue jeans, wait tables. Walls are painted light blue with dark blue skirting boards. Green and white checkered floor tiles. Framed official certificate of membership as Viet Cong with a photo of the man I recognised as the husband. In the corner sits a Buddhist temple illuminated by red light. Joss sticks burning above with sweet smelling smoke swirling towards the ceiling. On a sturdy shelf a glass jar of snake wine, homemade rice wine with real snakes as additives; one snake coiled clockwise, the other coiled anticlockwise. I see Miss Phuong gliding across the room with firm determination. Her course set straight for me. Her white Ao Dai tight around her breasts and the translucent material exposing her bra and underpants. The flowing material is slit above the waist revealing a small triangle of midriff flesh known as the triangle of desire. On her own initiative she orders lunch and a glass of snake wine for me, which she explains with appropriate gesticulations, blows your head off. The food arrives. Rice paper laid flat, lettuce leaf, two sprigs of mint, rice noodle in strings, small Chinese spring rolls, beef slivers in peanut sauce. Wrap this up like a cigar then dip into mixture of oil, chili and a few drops of soy sauce. Miss Phuong is stunningly beautiful. Chopsticks immobilised above the plates, we raise our heads from the food. Eyes meet, holding, searching, lingering, lingering too long; understanding, accepting what could be in another world, another time. My mind is on fire. Killick was spot on when he said, “You will meet challenges requiring you to draw on inner strength.” My taxi arrives. The airport beckons. 288
37 LOGIC FREE ZONE
Seconded to Abu Dhabi for a two-year contract. It had been quite a week. Despite eight months in progress and sixty-four passport photos, my employment pass had been refused yet again. The reason given was because the office fire extinguishers were out of date. On this particular morning I drove my Range Rover across the desert towards the Oman border. When I arrived at the military site I was greeted with the same logic. “What’s that in the back of your car?” asks the security guard. “My wife’s vacuum cleaner.” “You can’t come in here with that.” “Why not?” “It’s a threat to National Security.” Minus Susie’s vacuum cleaner I arrived at the site and asked to see the damaged fibre optic cable so I could file my report to Underwriters. “That fibre optic cable is Top Military Secret. You can’t see it.” Patiently I explained, “But you put in an insurance claim for a damaged fibre optic cable. I must see it.” “You can’t. It’s secret.” When I arrived home, Susie, arms akimbo, is blocking the front door. “And where is my vacuum cleaner?” 289
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Trying to maintain a straight face I said, “It was seized by Security at the Military Base. It was considered quite dangerous.” “I don’t care if His Royal Highness Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan himself took it. I bought that vacuum cleaner years ago in Vancouver when we had no money. They don’t make vacuum cleaners like that anymore. The modern ones are rubbish. I want my vacuum cleaner back. Is that clear?” In Abu Dhabi I was asked to advise Judge Hamdan how to rule on a damaged cargo claim in the court case, United Arab Shipping vs Dubai National Insurance Company. At the Civil Court building the signs are in Arabic but I eventually found my way to the Judge’s chambers. In the western world his Lordship would see one person at a time in sober and reserved circumstances. I had to fight my way through crowds of people dressed in rags to a large room reeking of body odour. Present were lawyers in robes, Arabs in immaculate white dishdashes, Pakistanis in dishcloth headgears, prisoners with shaved heads chained together hand and foot, and an old Bedouin dressed in rags, clutching a dirty piece of dog-eared paper. Everybody was shouting at the Judge. Judge Hamdan seemed not to notice as he methodically handled each person in total calm. The three prisoners received no trial. The Judge simply meted out punishment. The police carted them off. He dealt kindly with the old Bedouin. Pakistanis were given short shrift out of the building. He didn’t even speak to them. I was last. Knowing there was no point using the Koran, Judge Hamdan asked me to raise my hand and in cultured English asked, “Will you do your job with honesty?” “I will.” I said. No trial took place. After reviewing the evidence, he and I ruled 70% against United Arab Shipping and 30% against the Insurance Company. Case closed. 290
38 DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
The assignment sounded simple enough. Install Power Barge. Plug barge into the city electrical grid. Return home. The power barge Estrella del Mar was fitted with seven Wartsila 18,000 HP engines driving generators capable of producing 72 Megawatts of power, sufficient to supplement the entire electrical needs of the Dominican Republic. It was a long flight. Singapore Airlines direct to New York followed by American Airlines to Santa Domingo. The American Airlines flight attendant is wearing a rumpled uniform and chewing gum. I’m alone in Business Class but she uses the plural when addressing me. “You guys want sumpin’ to drink?” She slouches as she walks down the aisles, hands in pockets, seat belt twisted when she demonstrates safety features to passengers. Characterised by rapid speech and leaping in the air like jack in the box she issues the I-94W Visa Waiver form then serves one chocolate chip cookie on an empty plate. American Airlines flight attendants could benefit from attending Asian airline training schools. Estrella del Mar was too high to go under the main thoroughfare bridge in Santa Domingo except at low tide. At low tide a second obstacle reared its head. The barge had less than a foot overhead clearance. If we ran aground the barge would crunch under the concrete bridge. 291
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We sat down with sharp pencils and calculated transit times literally to the minute along with blind trust the tide tables were correct. Tides are the rise and fall of sea levels caused by the combined effects of the gravitational forces exerted by the Moon and the Sun and the rotation of the Earth. We settled on what we called the 18 by 18 plan, which called for passing under the bridge at the exact time when the tide was 18 inches above Low Water on the way up. That would give us 18 inches clearance under the bridge. Risky, but results were expected. The country desperately needed the additional 72 Megawatts of electric power. I routed my return trip via Fort Lauderdale to visit Andy Wall for one of our traditional five-year reunions. I brought along a bottle of Ron Brulo Rum from the Dominican Republic. Only a few are produced each year. Each bottle is numbered. Andy studies the classic bottle shape and notes ours is #397. He opens carefully, throws the cork over his shoulder, pours three fingers in each glass, adds an ice cube, sniffs and observes the amber liquid through the light of the glass. We toasted to the day we set sail from Tambo in Pittwater, 20 miles north of Sydney, on a voyage that set the course for our life’s journey. On the oceans we followed the sun’s progress when it burst over the horizon waiting for the right moment to take an angular measurement between the lower limb of the sun and the horizon to determine Longitude. At high noon we recorded the exact instant the sun reached its zenith to calculate Latitude. When coasting by night we observed flashing lights from scarred bold promontories where whitewashed stone towers cradled nests of lamps and lenses whose lights swept through an arc of more than twenty miles. Beneath these baleful eyes stark headlands stood revealed, from which we took magnetic bearings, applied variation and deviation to get true value, then marked our position on the chart using a pencil and a set of parallel rulers. 292
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Andy never addressed me by first name. He always began, ‘Kearns you bastard.’ He reverts back to old ways, “Kearns you bastard, there’s something I’ve always been meaning to ask. You remember the night before sighting Cape Horn, I took the usual daily sun sights, a sight of the moon and several evening stars. From these I laid a course that enabled us to pass between Ildefonso and Diego Ramirez. I was completely confident. Bob always said never trust a confident navigator. You and Bob religiously checked my navigation. Yet on that night, that crucial night, the most dangerous night of our lives, neither you nor Bob checked my chart work. I’ll lay odds you didn’t even look over the doghouse to see if anything was ahead more than once or twice during your watch. What I want to know is why did I have such confidence and why did you have the same confidence?” Andy had unquestionable loyalty to his friends, a natural concern for others and a deeply troubled conscience at times. The Argentine’s attack on the Falkland Islands was a personal affront because he had earmarked the Falklands as a safe haven in case of World War III. During the Falklands invasion he would sit in front of a television set like an armchair general and command the British Forces in their efforts. Argentina had invaded his turf. We talked of mid-ocean dinner times when Andy would reach into our modest library, open a page of Rudyard Kipling’s poems and randomly read aloud. What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow Maker He never finished a poem. He’d turn a new page then read another. Its north you may run to the rime-ringed sun Or south to the blind Horn’s hate, Or east all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or west to the Golden Gate. Through the amber Ron Brulo, we jointly speak to Carronade with appropriate words from Rudyard Kipling’s poem, The Long Trail. 293
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Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, As she lifts and ’scends on the long trail The trail that is always new? That was our last reunion. Andy Wall, humanitarian, sailor extraordinaire and the best friend I ever had. Andy married Pam Kruger, a sailor his equal. In 2008 at their mountain home in North Carolina, Andy was sitting in front of the fire reading for the fourth time his favorite stories of Jack Albury by Patrick O’Brian when he died with his book on his lap in front of the warm fire he had just made. Pam carried the torch for Andy. Her childhood desire was to find an adventurous husband who would sail her around the world. In Fort Lauderdale Andy sailed into her life. As Pam says, “It’s not every woman who can say she had her honeymoon aboard the tiny thirty-foot sloop crossing the Atlantic.” She recalls that first passage was the happiest time of her life. In 1985, the Wall family, now complete with daughter and son, circumnavigated in their new 39-foot sloop, Kandarik. Six and half years later they sailed back into Port Everglades. They never told anyone where they were going. They lived privately, quietly and modestly, always keeping their family (and their boat) the most important part of their lives. As the years passed Pam became the ‘go to’ person for anything to do with ocean sailing and the cruising life. A gallant, spirited lady, she has become a byword across America. She still presents Seminars across the country to packed audiences.
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. Jack-up rigs in drilling mode. The legs are driven into the seabed by adding water ballast into the barge tanks. The barge is then jacked up above maximum expected sea state. The drilling apparatus is then cantilevered out clear of the barge.
Black Marlin transporting a Transocean semi-submersible. drilling rig. 295
If you can’t tow a ship, cut it on half and transport it as deck cargo on a semi-submersible heavy lift carrier. Photo Capt. Brian Dawson
Philippines - Bohemoth ready for transport on Mighty Servant 1. (Photo Capt. Mike Negus) 296
Dr. Tony Denton. Chairman - Noble Denton Group. CBE, FREng. FIMechE. FRINA. I considered Tony Denton a mentor. Every year he would visit our Singapore office to audit the surveyors. I always came away from his grilling feeling wiser for his counsel. He was awarded a CBE for services to British Engineering and was destined for a knighthood but his acrimonious divorce from his Baroness first wife (who was a friend of Maggie Thatcher) reportedly blocked his knighthood. When Lloyds declared bankruptcy in the early 90’s they called in their Markers and Denton, being a Lloyds’ Name, had to pay up. He sold his Rolls Royce as well as his home to raise the cash. Notably, amongst Tony Denton’s achievements was Statoil Statfjord-B Project which supplied oil and gas to Norway. He was responsible for the tow of the 825,000-tonne concrete platform. A total of 40,000 people were involved in the project. I thank Mike Jacobs for the introduction to Noble Denton and am grateful for the opportunity to develop new skills in the challenging work regime within the Noble Denton worldwide group. I was also acutely aware there is no room for complacency, any mistake will be catastrophic and I will be gone in a heartbeat, erasing any and all good work previously achieved. 297
39 THE LAW IS AN ASS The opposition Expert Witness was blatantly lying. I leaned towards our lawyer and said, “He’s lying.” “Yes,” the lawyer agreed, “I’m a lawyer and it took me years to come to accept the general principle that whoever tells the biggest lie and gets away with it, wins.” The case in Arbitration is between World Marine Japan and Jaya Offshore Singapore. Jaya chartered the tug Java Regent and barge Petrogas Bali to World Marine to transport logs from Russia to Japan. Java Regent was equipped with a ridiculously short towline and a laughably undersized stretcher (made from polypropylene that doesn’t stretch), towing a lumber barge from Russia to Japan in winter where the expected weather was extreme. Whilst towing the stretcher broke, the barge ran aground and subsequently declared a Constructive Total Loss (CTL). The Japanese Government was claiming $1 million dollars compensation for wreck removal. At Noble Denton diversification was the buzzword. Take our marine expertise to the law courts and tell them how to do it. Yes Sir. We were the boys for that. A formidable two-pronged approach, mariners and engineers charging into the arena riding white horses and flying the flag of right, a dichotomous branching covering sound engineering principles and good marine practice. 298
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It took a matter of minutes to sum up the cause of the towline breakage and loss of the barge and cargo. Our investigation in this case focused around one question. “Why did the stretcher break?” Our conclusion: The stretcher in question had a breaking load of 83 tons. The required breaking load was 278 tons. Therefore, the stretcher was only one third as strong as it should have been for this particular towing configuration. The towline was too short meaning shock loading was automatically introduced which exceeded the breaking strain of the stretcher causing it to break. After three years of Arbitration hearings and $2 million in combined Claimant and Defendant fees we find ourselves in an oak panelled boardroom belonging to a prestigious British law firm. Seated around the table were two Arbitrators, eight lawyers, one Queen’s Council, 8,000 pages of testimony and yet, incredibly, the parting of the stretcher still remained a mystery to the Arbitral Tribunal. To use a lawyer’s expression, we had plumbed the conceptual depths and found ourselves lost in the woods. Pawns in an intellectual exercise that had nothing to do with the law, who is right or wrong, it was just a game, an intellectual joust between lawyer and lawyer, expert witness and expert witness and the client-bedamned. One lawyer was Cambridge educated. The opposition obtained his law degree from Oxford. Throughout the hearings each would chide the other with quips. (wink, wink) “Old chap, I hate to have an intellectual joust with an unarmed man.” To which the other lawyer would typically reply, “Well, old chap, it is a pity you didn’t have the benefit of a good education,” a backhanded acknowledgement they both belonged to the same exclusive Cambridge and Oxford Club, another segment of the game. Arbitration was introduced as a technical dispute settlement process. Strictly speaking Arbitrators should be sourced from the technical sector to exclude expensive lawyers who by nature are not technical people and tended to drag out the process. In the past the traditional response by both Claimants and Respondents has been to run out and find a ‘good lawyer’. 299
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To the benefit of clients on a budget, Arbitration is now the alternative and widely accepted as the modern, effective and proven method of dispute resolution. It resolves disputes arising from technical issues and argues points on the basis of facts and common sense. By definition Arbitration is a private, consensual process for the binding resolution of civil disputes in a judicial manner, and that, the participants when submitting points of claim, must state material facts and not law. By that it is understood they must not state evidence by which facts are to be proved. In other words, if there is a technical dispute the last thing you need is a good lawyer which brings us back to this case. Both Arbitrators were lawyers, which may explain why after 8,000 pages of testimony they still failed to understand the function of a Stretcher or how Catenary works. The first thing we learnt at Shields Navigation was how Catenary works. It took a few minutes. We were also at a loss to understand how this Arbitration process got into such a mess. Why were eight lawyers present? What was the function of the Queen’s Council? The above notwithstanding, we lost the case, meaning there is some truth in the phrase, ‘The Law is an Ass.’ Were we technically correct but legally wrong? Morally right but legally wrong? Technically or legally right? We mounted our white horses and returned to the office to discuss with management the ad hoc way we considered this case had been conducted. “Well that’s the way lawyers are,” they stated. Perhaps next time we will be on the other side and asked to lie to support our Client.” They dismissed the matter with non-committal shrugs. Did they really mean that? Would we stand up in court holding the flag of Right and state Noble Denton Guidelines, which today set the world standards, are a load of crap. Did they really mean put our hands on the Bible, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help us God, then commence lying. 300
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Was this an erosion of everything we stood for? In the new world was our integrity for sale? The idea that whoever tells the biggest lie and gets away with it wins, has a ring of truth. Let’s visit the 1834 Memorandum, which describes qualities and qualifications of a marine surveyor. ‘The utmost care and discrimination have been exercised by the Committee in the selection of men of talent, integrity, and firmness as Surveyors, on whom the practical efficacy of the system and the contemplated advantages must so materially depend; the Committee have in their judgment appointed those persons only…who appeared to them to be most competent to discharge the important duties of their situations with fidelity and ability, and to ensure strict and impartial justice to all parties whose property shall come under their supervision.’ The International Institute of Marine Surveyors to which we all belong, clearly states in their Code of Ethics. A Surveyor member will discharge his professional responsibility with integrity and shall at all times advise or report in a fair and factual manner without prejudice or favour. Message to the new Corporate World: My integrity is not for sale.
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40 MARINER’S COFFIN
Singapore basks on the Equator. The white man wilts in the oppressive heat with unappealing rivulets of sweat coursing down his body while his native brothers appear cool and composed. Singapore, where ice melts in the gin and tonics before they reach parched throats. Where the ear is assaulted by the tongues of many races and the wailing of the Muezzins from the mosques calling the faithful to prayer, and the nose by the myriad smells of hawker food stalls, incense and the dreaded stench of the fruit called Durian. In World War II if the British had strewn this wondrous weapon in the path of the advancing Japanese, they may never have crossed the Causeway and taken Singapore. Singapore, where God flicks a switch and the heavens erupt and where we daily risk life and limb navigating over the drainage ditches that line the streets. Singapore, where the expatriate wives complain, it’s all too different, and too too hot, darling. Singapore, the tiny nation where commerce was, and is, the raison d’être and all religious festivals are celebrated with equal fervour in the hope merchandise will change hands. In the marine office of Noble Denton’s Singapore headquarters captains Dawson, Janse, Murphy and Kearns jointly study Shell Oil’s application for transport approval for their $400 million new-build, Galaxy III from Singapore to the North Sea via the Cape of Good Hope in winter as deck cargo on Mighty Servant 3. 302
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We captains are faced with a dilemma. Galaxy III is the world’s largest jack up drilling rig which we consider too big for the world’s largest heavy lift carrier vessel Mighty Servant 3. We are caught between a rock and a hard place. This meant the size and capability of heavy lift transport ships had not kept pace with the size of ‘cargoes’ for which they were destined to carry. Collectively we reviewed the loadout procedures and noted with an unsupported leg height of 170 metres (560 feet) if we apply 100year weather extremes the leg stresses and dynamic loads in the leg guides will exceed allowable design limits, meaning the transport of Galaxy III via the Cape of Good Hope in winter was prejudicial to Underwriters Liability and therefore not approvable. Our report to rig owners, Santa Fe, reflected that conclusion. Noble Denton engineering department in London took over our assignment and declared the Galaxy III transport approvable. Rob Janse shot off one of his famous one-liners to London. “Yesterday I couldn’t spell engineer, today I are one.” Our joint reaction was indignation: “Pinstripe suits living in the dark ages, not accepting that UK is now Third World and Singapore is First World. Some still refer to Singapore as Malaya, thinking that Coolies still take rice to the go-downs in wheelbarrows, and that we surveyors wear pith helmets and khaki jungle garb and drink Stengars at sunset from the verandas of our rubber plantations.” Engineers calculated that for the carrier vessel Mighty Servant 3 in its current configuration the maximum allowable leg length was 140 metres (460 feet) but cutting off the legs was not practical. Their recommended solution was to improve the carrier’s stability by adding independent tanks temporarily fitted to the sides of the ship to increase the vessel’s overall beam. Based on transport analysis for the Cape of Good Hope in winter they reviewed and adjusted 100-year weather returns down to extremes likely to be reached or exceeded once every 10 years and one year for the worst date in the proposed winter period. These values were labelled ‘adjusted extremes.’ The duration of exposure had been calculated taking into account dates, vessel speed, significant wave heights and currents likely to be encountered. 303
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The duration of exposure in their view justified a reduction to 10year extreme weather criteria. The resulting motion responses and wind loads to be counteracted were factored into transverse and longitudinal forces, inclusive of a reduction of 15% to allow for the static weight of the rig and friction between the rig bottom and soft wooden cribbing on the carrier’s deck. The calculated forces were counteracted with sea fastenings consisting of welded steel D-chocks and flexible plates, called bend plates, to immobilise the unit on deck in a seaway and not skid over the side. A squall is ripping through Mandarin Gardens as I carry my bags to the front door. I let myself in. To anyone within earshot I announce, “I’m home.” Susie puts the kettle on and makes tea. We sit facing each other. She toys with her Royal Dalton teacup. Patches, the family cat squirms on my knee. We sit in silence. I needed to make sense of the day when a large nail was driven into the mariner’s coffin. I try to connect coherent thoughts. Susie waits for me to speak. Her stare is unnerving. I wasn’t in the mariner’s coffin yet, but I felt I was nailed to the wall. “If the world’s largest offshore structures are still moved by seamanship then the word seamanship is better understood in its three constituent parts, sea, man and ship. Previously mariners set limits and performed tasks gained from experience. They formed empirical criteria or guidelines based on collective experience gained over hundreds of years. Those guidelines were reviewed, scrutinised and revised from time to time and eventually promulgated as standard industry practice. Despite today’s electronics the basis for moving giant oil structures on the oceans still depends on seamanship. In some cases, as simple as, what can wind and tide do for me? Yet now, engineering knowledge, combined with computer capability has allowed engineers to quantify by scientific means those same numbers and values. The difference being, engineering numbers are trusted, mariner’s empirical numbers are not. Galaxy III transport approval in London proved just that.” That’s what I wanted to say to my guiding light. What I actually said was, is it time for me to retire? 304
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41 BOAT BUILDER
My vision of retirement was sitting on the veranda of a clapboard house high on a hill overlooking the sea. The house would be named Home Waters. Surf would roll into the indented bay below. When a life, a voyage or a career ends, only memories remain. Work provides purpose in life and defines a part of who we are. When I talked of retirement someone said, “We understand how a person can be tired, but how can you be re-tired? The word doesn’t make sense.” My watch needs movement to keep the mainspring wound. Myself too. Why not go full circle? I threw myself into founding my own marine surveying company with a site office located in Royal Langkawi Yacht Club, Malaysia. News that the once lovely yacht Cariad had been abandoned by her Japanese owners and now lay rotting near Bangkok reached British businessman and yacht enthusiast Stuart Williamson, who vowed to restore her back to life. Cariad was the largest and oldest gaff ketch in the world. In the late 18th Century Queen Victoria wished to see Great Britain superior in International Racing. Lord Dunraven also wanted to win and commissioned a fast ocean racer to be built by Summers and Payne in Southampton. Cariad, which means beloved in Welsh, was born. In 1898 she won the Vasco de Gama Cup from Lisbon to Bombay. 306
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I was appointed Project Manager for the restoration. This challenge surfaced by chance, affording me an opportunity to leave behind something tangible for future generations to appreciate. I was privileged to manage a team of diverse people performing tasks and achieving standards beyond their wildest imaginations. Our project was about ordinary people stepping up to the mark when opportunity knocked. Some came from dirt floor villages. For others it was their first experience being treated with human decency. Of the 151 people involved only a handful were boat builders. The rest became boat builders. Half a world away in Italy the famous yacht Lulworth was being restored under a $21 million budget. Our budget to achieve the same objective was $2 million. We knew full well our workmanship would be compared and judged under the same microscope. I was not a boat builder however boat builders aren’t necessarily the right people for classic yacht restorations. Clearly you need skills, but more important, is the capability to improvise and be creative. We scouted shipyards from Burma to Singapore and finally selected Phithak Shipyard & Services (PSS) in southern Thailand because of the attitude of the four-person management team. Whatever we wanted, we got, no questions asked. PSS owned hardware shops throughout Thailand so they could easily bring in materials we needed. Our liaison person in the yard was named Oh who had earned a Doctorate in Industrial Engineering from Lamar University in Texas. Oh said, after living in America for eleven years she returned to her native Thailand because President Bush got re-elected for his second term. She was a bright, sharp lady who became our direct link between the project and the shipyard. This restoration was a 111-year journey in time, a look into a bygone era, a look at work carried out by craftsmen 100 years ago. Our brief was to rebuild and duplicate the craftsmanship from the last century. For our start-up team we wanted individuals who wake up in the morning and run to work because they wanted to be a part of rebuilding a piece of maritime history. 307
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First on site was Australian shipwright Mike Howett, a seasoned wooden boat builder whose experience included living in the forest to learn which trees would be suitable for wooden boat construction. Mike’s dedication to the project bordered on religious. What will look eye sweet? He would say. What will work in terms of construction? How can we do it better? You only get one of these jobs in a lifetime. We built a wooden ramp up to the deck and called it The Ramp of Opportunity. Each of us who daily walked up that ramp was being given that chance to achieve our personal best. So many were part of the story of Cariad’s restoration. Each contributed something as unique as the history. Canadian Jory Lord walked into our office one day and declared himself part of the team. He started design work from a single photograph (Beken of Cowes 1896) plus two pencil drawings, dated 23rd September 1895, signed by A.E. Payne, the naval architect. Jory once owned a classic yacht that was sunk by the conning tower of a submarine in the Juan de Fuca Straits. The sinking was denied by the US Government because subs were banned in these waters. Jory fought and won in the courts and became one of the early Greenpeace activists. Ked was from Bangkok. She began as the project webmaster. She was also there when the derelict Cariad was mobilised. She was there amongst the guns and the mafia deep in the forests of Laos to negotiate timber contracts. Half of the people in Thailand are nicknamed Lek. Our Lek was the engineer who kept Cariad’s engine running during the long delivery via Singapore to PSS yard. Lek was seizing his first real chance in life. He thought nothing of working through the night till daylight if the job required. Part of our initial team included Aoy. She tapped rubber trees from 2 am to 6 am each morning, put in a full workday then went home to cook and care for her children. Aoy guarded our tools and materials. If tools were not returned she would punch, and sometimes kick, the offender in the stomach. We needed a cleaning lady. Two applied. During the interview we were aghast at the apparitions who sat before us clad in rags. 308
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One was overly painted with make-up. We said we only wanted one cleaning lady. “We come as a pair - two or none.” they said. We asked for ID cards so we could record their names. Sheepish grins. They had no ID cards. Both were illiterate. During their first day on site they saw a strong youth jack hammering cement out of the keel. They elbowed him aside. “Young boys don’t know how to work,” they said. For the next two weeks, with Thai smiles, they jack hammered cement with that terrible bonejarring machine. A thin youth named Nazri applied as general labour. He cowered in the corner and his eyes never lifted during the interview. He wore a balaclava like a terrorist and hid behind the back of the interpreter, reportedly terrified of me. Australian Warwick Hill had the most interesting CV laying claim to having castrated a wild camel. Luigi Gargiulo was our mast and rigging consultant. Born in Sorrento, Italy, he was a sailor, boat builder and naval architect. Using modern computer programs Luigi recreated the design parameters of hull and rig. From historical data he noted the original mast height and sail area was reduced shortly after launching in 1896. Luigi was able to pinpoint the reason why. The original rig size with 20 knots of beam wind resulted in 20 degrees of heel. Luigi calculated with modified scantlings the heel angle could be reduced to 15 degrees. Lord Dunraven must have drawn the same conclusions by sailing Cariad in 20 knots of beam wind. Bung was our AutoCad engineer. The computer is today’s leveller. The western world needs to wake up. People like Bung could produce work equal to western naval architects for 10% of the cost. Remember Lulworth’s budget was $21 million. Ours $2 million to achieve the same results. Bung was a sharp arrow in our quiver. Déjà vu. The word spread like wildfire. By the time we finished casting our recruiting net most of the region’s best boat builders were now employed on our project. Twenty-one steel workers and twentyeight carpenters, along with their tools, arrived in fleets of pick-up trucks. Without briefing or time-consuming meetings, they started work in earnest. They knew what to do. 309
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Before any antique is restored it must be dismantled. We removed the hull interior, all the planks and 90% of the iron frames under the watchful eye of the Thai King Rama IX whose photo was perched above our materials containers. Our workshops were painted yellow in support of the Monarch. Sadly, when we finished dismantling the derelict, there wasn’t much left. Mike Howett said, “but the spirit is still there.” The hull was of composite construction, meaning, teak planking over iron frames. Each iron frame had to be removed and copied individually. Then we got lucky. The keel was found in sound condition. Replacement could have been the final straw for Stuart Williamson to stop funding. We applaud his resolve. In January 2007 our team travelled to Luang Prabang, a World Heritage site in central Laos to search the region for Thakien Thong planking timber. Timber brokers laughed when Mike Howett laid out his requirements. ‘All timber must be Legal with Government Approved Certification. Minimum 100 years old. Forest growth. Preferably gully grown. Straight grain, no knots, no pin borers, no heartwood, minimum sapwood, quarter sawn and back sawn to our specifications.’ Mike took a five kilometre trip into the forest guarded by men with AK 47’s in search of the perfect timber. Drag the logs out with elephants and mill our own timber we naively thought. South to Vientiane where we met shipyard owner Phithak and Oh who introduced us to timber brokers Dai and Tai. With guns on the front seat of our 4 x 4 we bumped our way through dusty bush roads deep into the forests and were shown exactly what we needed, high quality Thakien Tong logs. “Brilliant, just what we need,” said Mike. The Government paperwork would be done in a week. Phithak paid the cash deposit. Then we waited. Finally, we got word. The wood was at the mill. But when Mike arrived there was no wood, no Mr. Dai or Mr. Tai and the money was in someone else’s pocket. Our search for perfect boat building timber was not starting well. On a fast learning curve, we drove northwest to Tha Li, a border crossing so hidden it was almost secret. The consisted of a small bridge over the Heuang River, a tributary of the Mekong. 310
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Twenty-four hours a day, 18-wheelers crossed from Laos into Thailand loaded with rare and illegal timbers whereupon the Thai timber mills took over. The lumber was sawn to specific sizes then receives government ‘legal stamps’ with paperwork to match. This time no money would cross the Laos border. It would stay in Thailand where we had control. We signed a contract with a broker named Vichit for 40 cubic metres of Thakian Tong timber, paid a deposit with a guarantee when the wood crossed the border we could reject if the quality was unsuitable. To safeguard, we ordered minimum 80-centimetre width slabs, meaning 100 years of age. Through Jory Lord we hooked up with Jeff Mills, a teak specialist living in Bangkok. Jeff was dying from a brain tumour and emphysema. He said he would work for free if we carved his name into the finished boat. He introduced us to Somsak, who owned 4,700 teak logs stored in a pond. Jeff supervised the milling of the logs into quarter sawn and crown cut sizes then oversaw our beautiful Burmese teak loaded onto the truck bound for PSS Shipyard. We started with a shell and soon the project took on a life of its own reminiscent of a Philharmonic Orchestra, except there was no First Violin to lead the orchestra and no baton-wielding metronome wearing tails. Percussion heralded not harps or drums, but steel being fabricated into complicated frames. Each was set in place to return the wineglass shape. Enter Brass, not horns, trumpets, trombones or tubas but ten-man teams forming and securing huge planks to compound curved surfaces. Top mauls drove home silicon bronze bolts coated with oakum and red lead. Gently raise an imaginary Percussion baton and we hear the throaty throbbing of the British classic 8LXB Gardner engine, purring. Woodwind next. Except this time, when the carpenters finished their fine woodwork and laid quarter-sawn teak decking, we could clearly hear flutes, oboes and clarinets. With the fashioning of the masts and spars the Saxophone permeated every crevice of our newly formed vessel. 311
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For me personally the music reached its crescendo with the staccato ring of caulking mallets, a blend of sounds that reached the sublime, conjuring an artistic experience that nobody who heard it, will ever forget. When the job was done and we walked the new decks, it was sweet music, violins, violas and cellos.
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The following photographic account details what we achieved in fish boat shipyard in southern Thailand.
Beken of Cowes photo 1896.
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We were greeted with a shocking sight. Iron framing corroded beyond repair. 100 years in the sea had taken its toll.
New Takhian Tong planking in progress. (Photo Mia Gillow)
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The job begins to replace 100% of the steel frames. Steel replacement was done frame by frame.
5,500 silicon bronze bolts secured planking to the frames.
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Aft deck - before and after.
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Luigi Gargiulo’s AutoCad design drawings. 100 years ago, designers only had a pencil, a ruler and a set of French curves.
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Mainsheet horse was AutoCad designed and built by our engineering and carpentry teams.
The mainsheet horse installed .
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Mike Howett on his timber search, deep in the forests of Laos guarded by AK 47s.
Mike checking bowsprit fittings 319
Fitting the new rudder. (Photo Mia Gillow)
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Thai carpenter Mana, working with Mynah bird on his shoulder. (Photo Mia Gillow)
Gardner 8LXB - Classic British Engine.
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A clear reminder we are only a tiny part of the history. In pouring rain, a handshake on completion. Shipyard owner, Khun Phithak, knew full well a project like Cariad could make or break his shipyard. He took a chance on us. The personal partnership worked.
Lord Dunraven shakes hands on the same deck, different centuries. 322
Launch Day, 15th October 2008. (Photo Mia Gillow) And what about you, old girl? 112 years young, raced with Aristocracy, survived two World Wars and the Great Depression. Thousands have stood your decks. When we found you in the Gulf of Thailand the end was near, but in all those years no one killed your spirit…. To you Cariad, we raise our glasses and be upstanding… 323
8 pm. Krabi Boat Lagoon Marina, Thailand.
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Youth by Joseph Conrad… ‘I remember my youth and the feeling that will not come back; the feeling that I could last forever, outlast the sea, the earth and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small and expires and expires, too soon, before life itself.’ The restoration of Cariad and 130 subsequent small craft refits is my retirement. Across the hardstand I take a hard look at the space previously occupied by the powerful steel schooner St. Michel, owned by 80year-old Joachim Campe. Old age did not weary him. Three years ago, he set out on yet another circumnavigation. We’re expecting him back soon. I see Capt. John Coffin, Master Mariner and formerly CEO ship builder in Shanghai, where in his last 26 working years he built 260 large bulk carriers. Age has not eroded his humility. He now teaches people how to sail. Sitting on the corner of my mahogany desk made from old Cariad planking, I run my hand over the oiled wood and feel maritime history running through my fingers. I recall days at sea, our Seth Thomas clock ringing out eight bells every four hours, eight sharp distinctive chimes, not intrusive, pleasant. I turn off the office lights and exit. I glance down at my 54-year old Rolex. It’s 8.15 pm but I know lately my watch runs slow, so the real time is a few minutes more. My walking stick fits firmly into my right hand as I walk slowly towards my pick-up truck.
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SUSIE
Autumn in Devon, 2010. What’s that I hear? Laughter emanating from a hospital room. Walk down the corridor and open the door. Susie is bent double. Hysterical. Sitting by her bedside, our three daughters, now in their 30’s, also hysterical. I am the brunt of their jokes. Every aberration I made while they were growing up is being examined and ridiculed. “Do you remember when dad said, let’s leave our marina berth under sail. He hoisted the mainsail in a cracking breeze for a show and tell departure, then promptly crashed into the dock because he forgot to untie one spring line? “Oh yeah, and then he said, shut-up you kids, I’m a professional, I’ve been doing this all my life.” The years flowed past like a river deepening its path with time. I look squarely at the woman before me and see the girl sitting on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, the girl who softened the heart of Sven Joffs, the man of stone, the girl who had the guts to charge at life with dubious guarantees, the girl who held her head high even when her husband cleaned toilets. 326
Like a lighthouse on a headland she flashed brightly when most needed. She was always there for me. She lived vicariously through each marine assignment. She learnt by osmosis, the names of the ships, the semi-submersibles, the tugs, names of the captains, details of accidents and probably, if pushed, could recite report numbers. My brain is racing like an overheated hard drive. Shuffling life events into files. Facing mistakes, many hurtful and real. Oh, if I could do it all over again. My biggest regret was acting irresponsibly when I imagined I was a big shot in the offshore oil business. It was a time of family unity when we relived our lives through memories. Susie with mischievous grin, “Those buggers in the Oman Desert stole my Canadian-made vacuum cleaner. I take great pleasure knowing it is impossible in the Middle East to get replacement dust bags for that model.” We take a moment to reflect upon the dignified lady. We recall the time in the Hawaiian Islands at 10,000 feet altitude we hiked from the top of Haleakala volcano, across the moonscape of the crater floor, attempted to sleep in freezing conditions in the open, then continued at 4 am because hypothermia was setting in. At the Kaupo Gap we began our descent through rich vegetation to the ocean below. It was a grueling 26-mile hike. Our collective vision is of Susie effortlessly striding ahead. We call out, “Susie where do you get your strength?” Without breaking her stride or even looking back she yells, “Because I’m British,” and continued to stride across the lunarscape with us lagging far behind. For 72 straight days we maintained a bedside vigil. Leukemia finally won. “Are my wings ready?” asks Susie. Four sets of outstretched palms point towards an empty painted wall. “Yep, hanging on the wall. Ready.”
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