Weathering Hurricane Harvey

I flew down to San Francisco to “hit the union hall” and bid on jobs at a port I believed to be more favorable to my current job hunt than my homeport of Seattle, when the president asked me to do the union a favor and take a job aboard a US navy Ro-Ro on the Mississippi for the duration of Hurricane Harvey.

Most of these ships are managed (I use that word generously) by a company I hold in very low regard.  I have yet to take a contract with them where they’ve acted in good faith- I’ve had wages withheld, reimbursables pointedly not reimbursed, airline tickets home not provided, and every dollar I’ve earned has been begrudgingly paid with a reluctance that would seem hostile even to a payday loan shark.

But I took it over my own protestations of all previous ill-treatment.  I boarded a red-eye a very short time later and by morning I had arrived in the heat and the humility of Louisiana to consort with wasps, spiders, and the motley gang that made up the crew.

What looks like a really big ship is really two identical ships, side by side.

For four days I stood a silent watch with a relaxed and likable third mate...  Walk to the bow and check the lines.  Walk to the stern and check the lines.  Drive the “mule” through all the cargo decks, A-E, and make sure all was well.  Investigate fire and bilge alarms, close watertight doors, admit new crew, make sure the house is secure, and monitor the vhf channel from where the tugs on standby were most likely to hail.  Read my kindle.

The Bridge.

Looking down the deck of cargo hold 3 E.

Macro of Louisiana wildlife.

Ships at anchor on the Mississippi swingin' in the wind.

For a brief period of time, the “voyage” was perfect.  Military Sealift Command had restricted crew to the ship, which meant every hour not working was OT.  The watch was low stress and pleasant.  We knew we were leaving at the beginning of the week- we even had our tickets.  We were being paid, and getting seatime for, a full-operational-status ship.

And then the storm hit.

The company claimed we weren’t due payment for being restricted to the vessel.  They claimed the ship was in reduced operational status and we were to be paid accordingly (less, of course).  They shredded our return flights and didn’t replace them with new flights back to our ports of departure. Rumors of protracted conscription began to circulate.

In short- they kicked a hornets nest.  The storm was unjust proclamations and paper hornets.  Stinging everyone.  Pissing us all off.  Indiscriminately.

There is no amount of reasonable explanation that can convince me their employment policy is not “Do Whatever It Takes To Piss Off The Crew.”  Nothing.  I believe my own lying eyes.  This is their modus operandi.

For the .001% of the budget they might save by shaving $50 off what they should be paying that one ordinary seaman on the crew, for example, they expend a grossly disproportionate amount of energy and ill will to do so.

No… not merely ill will… it begins that way, but through extended exposure to their bad faith and malicious intent, morphs into outright hatred and frothing at the mouth vitriol.  They are loathed and detested as an entity by one and all.  Their demise will be greeted with joy, should it ever arrive.

I believe Military Sealift Command is being ill-served by this unnamed company, and that makes this company a sandspur in the heel of national security.  A pustule and protuberance on the bottom-side of the fleet.  A polyp on the rectum of wise tax-dollar spending.  Nobody wins when you run part of the national security apparatus like this, not even them, but they persist in being detestable.

For an additional 3 days, I reverted to a day man and policed the cargo holds for trash and listened to my fellow sailors, officers and crew alike, kvetch about the mistreatment.  And I watched movies in my quarters.  And I slept.  A lot.

My quarters for the week.

Finally, the storm broke and new tickets were issued.  We were paid off and given our discharge papers- the company sticking to their word and screwing us all the way down the gangway.  But we were down the gangway, and at that moment that’s all that seemed important.

I stood on the dock and looked at the alligator that hangs out around there and realized it’s probably the same big ‘ol girl that was there last time the company screwed me in 2015.  That, and that it’s the last time I’ll be seeing that alligator, this time for certain.

Don't fall in.  She's about 8 feet long.

Just when I thought I’d escaped the last of their mistreatment, however, I had one more joyful surprise to cap off a frustrating week: The hour-long hired bus ride to the airport had no air conditioning.  In Louisiana.  In August.

I, and the crew, was soaked through with sweat by the time we arrived at the airport.

So now I am back in San Francisco, waiting until the long weekend is over and I get to file a grievance at the union hall on behalf of the crew.  Of all the bad experiences I’ve had since going to sea, the vast majority of them have come at the hands of this company.

And of all the storms I’ve encountered in the past, the storms that hit their ships - the ones they create - are the least agreeable of all.

Give me 45 foot waves and 90 knot winds, any day.  Please.  Just don't send me out with those bastards again.