The Color Blue

Portable toilets are horrid things, and I don't think too many people will
argue the point. The funniest company name I've seen is still "Honey
Bucket," a name ubiquitous in the NW to portable toilets, but one which
positively dumbfounds the viewer when seen for the first time by
"out-of-towners." Well, I was dumbfounded the first time I saw it. I only
bring this up because the seas south of Thailand are the most brilliant
shade of blue imaginable when you look into their depths, but if I were
forced to pick the closest blue I've seen to describe it, it would be the
chemical solution used in portable toilets. Yes, the seas south of Thailand
are actually "Honeybucket Blue." I'm sorry Thailand, you deserve a better
mind than mine to sell your charms. Viewed to the horizon these waters
actually have a lavender tint, the horizon itself has a purple stroke to it,
and when churned, beneath the foam, the sea turns an oxidized aquamarine. I
know, my description is lacking (or perhaps it should lack more), but from
the deadlight of my quarters it is quite striking beneath cumulous-blanketed
skies with scattered columns of tropical rain on all quarters.

While I spent the last two days with needle guns and chipping hammers, this
morning The Wrestler and I carried 14 rod ends (part of the turn-buckles
used to fasten the containers to the lashing bridges) from the forecastle
all the way aft to the lashing bridge on the stern. They're about 72 inches
long and weigh roughly 50 lbs. so we tied them to a cart, threw a leash on
them, and as he pulled I pushed and steered and we rolled them back to the
stern, carried them down the stairs to the fantail, and then he passed them
up through the ladder hole to me. We were soaked to the bone within seconds
of starting this process in the monsoon rains, however, and the decks were
awash with running water as our slow, 20 second, 10 degree roll amplified
the flash flooding. We were forced to time our way along the hatches- if we
had timed it wrong we would have a small creek hit us in the face. It was
totally absurd.

Then we made our way down through the 110 Fahrenheit port side tunnel
(literally a tunnel under the main deck) to cargo hold 6. To access the
hold you climb into a hatch and descend multiple ladders, stairs, and more
ladders until you are standing on "the tanktop," which is, interestingly
enough, the top of the bilge tanks. There is a "duct tunnel" which runs the
length of the ship along her spine, but the tanks are used for ballast and
are to port and starboard of the duct tunnel. We were dealing with "rose
boxes," which are large collector boxes for runoff inside the cargo holds.
I'll leave it to your imagination as to how they came by the name of "rose
boxes." The pump that takes all the runoff from the cargo holds' rose
boxes, for some reason, is not a self-priming pump- which means that when
the pump loses its prime (it gets air in the line and won't draw), the deck
department gets to thread fire-hoses down through the hatch, along the
multiple ladders, stairs, and more ladders, and fill them back up with water
while the engineers and the captain tries to figure out where the air is
getting in.

So you have the engine department, the deck department, and the licensed
officers- all of us on radios- working together to fill the rose boxes, run
the pump, and try to figure out where the problem is. To complicate the
process, the repeater system for the radios doesn't work, so if you're down
in the hold with a firehose (like I was before my watch) you can't hear
anything from the bridge, and if you're in the tunnel at the valve (like I
was after coffee) you have to repeat everything being said on the radio in
the hold for the crew on the bridge (and vice versa).

After my shower and lunch, while on my second watch for the day, I listened
to the radio chatter as the work continued. The guy who didn't "burn out"
(who hasn't earned a nickname, yet), Bozie Bosun, and Peaches Warrior
Princess were all down in the holds with hoses, The Wrestler was turning
valves and repeating everything on the radio, the Old Man and Chief Engineer
and Chief Mate were at the switches and computers at various locations in
the ship... All hands, all day, for a hole or failed gasket (as of now still
yet to be located). All my coveralls are soaked (one with water, the other
with sweat), my waterproof boots are wet inside from when they filled with
water (and sweat) running down the inside of my clothes...

And the sea, in her depths, is a brilliant shade of blue. What a friggin'
day.

We arrive in Singapore Wednesday morning at 0200 hours and we'll swing on
the hook while a small passenger boat shuttles us to and from shore.