Into the "Stream"

There are colors of blue that exist nowhere but in the Atlantic ocean, far from land.  Each mile the color changes, and I find I can sit and stare at it for long periods of time- which is good, considering that is what watchkeeping, in large part, consists of: staring at vast expanses of water.

Sleep deprivation doesn't help, either.... when you work from 8 until 12, do a watch from 12 until 4, work an hour, grab a bite to eat... well, I'll have from 5:30 until 11:45 to shower and sleep, since I didn't last night... the combination leads to super-spaciouliciousness.

Steering a ship is kind of like a video game... keep it within the parameters and you won't get mercilessly mocked by everyone.  Seems simple enough, but there is no feedback from the helm.  It exists completely within an intellectual realm where subtle cue's from the physical world do not exist... so look away for one second and holy hell has broken loose.  And that's just going in a straight line.  "Checking the swing" is the art of stopping a turn without overshooting it.  "Chasing the helm" is the art of fouling-up "checking the swing," which leads to frantically steering to either side of your mark (think of a dog chasing it's tail and you'll be close) trying to recover. Either way, you're an artist, I suppose.

Most AB's hate steering.  From the perspective of the Deck Department, it breaks down like this:  It is boring if you've done it a lot, pilots and mates are "princesses" and "cry like spoilt brats" and try to blame the deck ABs when they mess up, rivers work you like an uphill donkey and give you nothing in return... but I haven't done it a lot, I haven't had a pilot breathing down my neck, the mate I'm working with is relaxed, and I have yet to go up a river.  I think it's cooler than shit to steer 60,000 tons of ship across the friggin' ocean and I can't imagine not thinking that.  So, as I've noted in previous posts- I'm the OS, I don't know shit... I'll get back to you on it in the coming months.

Another observation:  The horizon always looks like a smooth line that separates sea from sky, but when you stare at it long enough through some high-power binoculars from the top of a moving 12 story building, the horizon looks like a jagged tear, not unlike a paper towel ripped from the roll and then observed under a microscope.  Yes, that is the best I can do right now... what do you want, poetry?  It ain't smooth, it's lumpy with waves.  Ah.  I'm moving on.

Charleston, SC

Steered into Charleston Harbor, relieved at 0400 then went aft to tend dock lines.  Hit the sack at 0530, then got up at 0730 to run crane for "stores" (taking on ship's supplies).  Knocked off at 1030 to get some much needed sleep, but couldn't fall asleep.  Got up at 1200 and ate then tried again on a full stomach- it worked.  Turned out by 1500 to run the crane then pull in the dock lines.  Opened the Starboard side side-port hatch, lowered the boarding ladder, put the docking pilot off on a tug, then went forward to get schooled up in the forward watch and emergency anchor-dropping routine.  Back in my room, wired for sound, needing to sleep because at midnight I start my shift... on a side note- I think I saw my friend's father's three masted, gaff-rigged charter boat out extracting cash from wayward tourists... that gig looked really comfy from the bow where I stood, covered in rust and grease and stinking like a dumpster fish, looking down at the masts (he still hasn't put on the topmasts- pretty sure it's his boat).

I had no cell service while in Charleston.  The stink of it?  I just needed to go into my menu and reset it... so my list of shore-side catching up in Savannah just grew.  Had cell service long enough to hear Clay's message that he may not be able to meet me, get 10 sentences into a conversation with Laura, and get exactly one text message before all wireless phone service got swallowed by the the sea.