For The Curious

This is what vacation looks like...

Home!

A picture says it all.  216 sea days, now 6 months on the beach...

Really!?

Delayed.  Grrrrr.

WWW.theInternets.com

The Labrador Current brought us cold air and water the color of olives that
churns a deep spinach green and black- a frigid but nutrient rich soup
feeding the critters that feed the critters that feed the 6 whales and 3
herds of dolphin I saw today on my last day on watch for this voyage.

Right now we're approaching the final waypoint where we begin our slowdown-
it's an hour before taking on the pilot and I'm too stoked to sleep.

My phone rumbled about an hour ago alerting me to a text from Timberly
Cricket and heralding in the news that I am once again inside the world of
the internets... I'll enjoy browsing while at the airport later today, but
before that can happen I have to help dock a ship.

I'm going to try sleeping again.

A White Whale!!!!

250 nautical miles from the nearest Azores and 800 nautical miles from
Newfoundland's closest shore the calm water became a deep jade green that
churned a lighter green of the same hue. Green water denotes a high algae
and chlorophyll-based plant content and the food chain was evident as we
moved into the warm Atlantic Current and bands of yellow water - a plankton,
phytoplankton, and krill soup - filled the sea from horizon to horizon, the
micro-animals grazing on the micro-plants.

It didn't take long to see a flock of gannet circling over water churning
with either tuna or mackerel, surrounded by hunting dolphin who leapt in and
out of the roiling mess, taking their meal with them one mouthful at a time
as they went. And I saw dozens of pilot whales, their smoke-on-the-water
spouts standing out against the yellow and green streaked ocean. It was
like watching that series "Earth," the Oceans episode... minus the fantastic
up-close and personal videography, of course- the story, however, is
identical.

That was yesterday. Last night a breeze whipped the water into motion and
the microscopic plant and animal life was smashed into their smaller
chemical components, known as smithereens, which then drifted down to the
ocean floor to become the limestone of tomorrow. Indigo blue water and
whitecaps, 40 knot winds from the SE, and a cloudless sky greeted me at
watch this morning... and being 450 miles closer to Newfoundland, of course.

The most plentiful whales in the ocean are ghost whales- which are the
hundreds of whales you think you just saw after actually seeing a real one.
Every whitecap becomes a plume, every shadow a dorsal, pectoral, or tail
fin... and when the water is choppy, like it is today, I don't even bother
to look for them. So imagine my surprise when I train my binoculars on what
I assume is a raft of grass coming down the starboard side and instead focus
in on a white pilot whale with black spots on its tail, lazily swimming just
below the surface, noncommittally breeching for air and for all intents and
porpoises more manatee than anything else.

So add a white whale to my list of things Forrest-saw-at-sea.
Two more days and a wakeup. My bags are packed, my room is mostly ready for
the next sailor, and I am so antsy it does no one any good to even try
talking to me. I am also dead-set on finishing off the last of the 7 lbs.
of coffee I bought when on the east coast last, back in February, and my
highly-caffeinated, no overtime working, restless self is going to unpack,
then repack, my stuff again today. Just because.

Two more days and a wakeup. I have designed a small boat to build, planned
how to sell my existing boat and what its replacement will be, designed
another container house (duh- the damned things are staring me in my face
all day), planned getting my truck batteries charged, boat batteries
charged, grass cut, driver's license updated, union dues paid, new drug test
card, my USCG licensing updates updated... all in my head. Every day.
While staring at the Atlantic.

Two more days and a wakeup. NYC, ETA 0400 zone time, May 20.

Six and a Wakeup.

Last night I watched the earth's shadow eclipse the waxing crescent moon -
one minute the bright scythe hung low in the sky and then the blade of the
moon began to grow thinner and thinner. By the time it had dropped to the
horizon the eclipse was full and that Cheshire grin had turned completely
dark. The moonset was accompanied by the setting of Jupiter- who did not
quit the job when it was almost complete like his lunar counterpart- and
once Jupiter had set fully the guiding constellations left filling the sky
were Gemini, Canis Minor, and Auriga- as has been the case since leaving the
Suez. By the end of watch they'd fallen below the horizon, too, and I
handed over my watch with Leo on the bow.

I posted about how Crux (no longer visible) is so easy to confuse with the
union of Vela and Carina- I just realized that this union of constellations
I call "the pseudo-crux," like the actual Southern Cross, is not visible
above 25 degrees north latitude, either, to which I must say "Oops. My
Bad." I hope nobody actually went out on a starry night to check... but if
you did, you're most welcome.

I watched the Rock of Gibraltar and the looming hills of Africa slide past
in the fog this morning as the shipping traffic miraculously flowed around
us on all sides like bubbles of mercury- always moving yet never touching.
I consider the Light on the Isla de Tarifa to be the actual gate post to the
Atlantic on the European shore- it is the point furthest to sea on the
Strait, and around that point the land climbs immediately north and away
from the shipping lanes. I watched a small sailboat with a reefed main and
no jib run around that point, rolling in the following seas and flying
before 30 knot winds, before tacking and setting off on a beam reach up the
coast with no small amount of jealousy- and like most sailors, I was highly
critical of his unbalanced rig (reef it again and fly your storm jib, you
dolt) but envied his predicament, nonetheless.

The flint water that churned green glass-in-the-sun on the Med side of the
tide rips in the mouth of the Strait became flint water that churned a
robin's egg blue on the Atlantic side, and the following winds whipped up
swells where only ships and whitehorses tirelessly roam... no fishing boats
to bedevil us, three sailboats in total (one large cat with no canvas up)
out to play in the wind, and we behemoths. Oh, and one Tug- Bella- rolling
like a drunken whore, refusing to answer our hails, and abusing her unequal
power of being the overtaken vessel by placing herself fully in our way no
matter what our heading... her captain amused me to no end, particularly
because my watch partner- the Worst Mate Ever- became so frustrated by her.
It truly is the little things in life...

Six days and a wake up! Tomorrow I will start the actual packing process.
The Atlantic swells are mild so I won't be tightening lashing rods anytime
soon with my Wonderbar (tm) and singing in my finest German accent (to the
tune of "Oh Christmas Tree," as I am known to do) "Oh Wonderbar, Oh
Wonderbar, Oh how you make me wonder...." So pack I shall.

And oh yeah... you're welcome for that.

Whistling up... OT?

At the end of my 2000 to midnight watch there will be 8 days and a wakeup
remaining before I am back on the beach. I will have been at sea for 216
straight days, working a 56 hour work-week (before overtime), 7 days a week,
and I will have averaged 5.14 hours of overtime a day- which means I will
have worked (on average) 13.14 hours every single day since October 14th,
2012. That is 2832 hours. Which is equivalent to seventy-one 40 hour
work-weeks... but who's counting, right?

It is amazing the difference a day can make. Transiting the Suez I was in
shorts and a teeshirt, as I have been since March 17th when we last came
through, carrying my ever present water bottle and hiding in the shade. A
single day out of Damietta and I had dug out my wool base layer. Today I'm
wearing my hat and fleece and I'm still shivering... I had just gotten my
body regulated to working in 100 degrees, 99% humidity, in the shade
temperatures and the sunny 60 degrees now feels positively arctic. I
suspect no one in Seattle will feel my pain, but my peoples down in the Low
Country will know exactly what I'm talking about.

So I'm starting to throw away work clothes and the detritus of life that
gathers in drawers, cabinets, corners, under and over furniture nooks,
window sills, refrigerators, et cetera, in preparation for the end of my
incarceration. I am gifting any and every thing (memory foam mattress pad,
cotton sheets, carhart foulies, boiler suits, playboy calendar- gifted from
the last bosun, of course- water filter, quart of honey... you get the
picture) firstly to the Fisherman, aka my brother-from-another-mother,
secondly to Gipetto's apprentice, the most courteous but physically
diminutive Philippino AB who is, through no fault of his own, everyone's
favorite mascot, and finally to the trash- b/c everyone else on this ship
can kiss my ass.

Late tomorrow or early the next day (I haven't bothered to look, actually)
we pass the Rock, so in two days time we'll be maneuvering the last of the
European fishing fleets and crossing the Africa-Europe ship traffic in the
Atlantic. Tonight will be all about weather predictions, I do predict...
usually it's a conversation had sooner before hitting the Atlantic but this
mate I'm watch partners with is a bit... um... well. If you can't say
something nice, right? I'll ask the Chief Mate when we relieve him and get
the skinny, but a good storm would require a massive lashing gear tightening
spree and I might be able to get more OT- which I want, of course. So I've
started whistling. A lot.

Bring on the OT!

Transit Number 6

Hmmm.... Where could this be?  Hint: that might be the Suez light.

Dolphin and Gannets

Yesterday the indigo water was mostly calm (force 3-4) and the weather
extremely clear. Herds of dolphin, each about 50 strong, leapt, flipped,
and played in the waves and I realized it is almost impossible to watch them
without smiling. I also saw pilot whales and another unidentified whale,
but none were close enough to discern any other details.

Last night I watched Sirius set ahead of us as Antares followed Scorpio
skyward back astern, chasing close behind Libra (as always) up the dome of
the sky. The Southern Cross is still above the horizon and probably will be
for another few days, but Miaplacidus has fallen below the edge of the world
for good, now, as we move up in latitudes. Later, during security watch, I
witnessed great, fat-tailed meteors light up the northern celestial
hemisphere and shoot across the sky in front of the Little Bear, each
lasting between 1 to 7 seconds and crossing from horizon to horizon, east to
west, on the same transit as the ship, albeit through much different
atmospheres. You know it's a good night of watching "falling stars" when
you resort to just repeating the same wish over and over again,
automatically, each time a streak lights up the sky.

Today the sea was choppier than yesterday, following at force 6, and a dark,
dirty, and moody green the same hue as our faded bedroom paint at home (only
Laura will know the color, but it's kind of a NW moss). Off the shore of
Jabal Zuquar and Hanish al Kubra Islands were gannets riding the thermals
and diving at tremendous speed deep into the water after flying fish.
They're a big white bird with a wingspan of almost four feet accented with
black wingtips and edges, a black face with a long, bright yellow beak, and
a short, wide, flat body with stubby, black tail feathers. They're fast and
fun to watch- I was quite happy they were taking advantage of the thermals
around this floating tower and passing within ten feet of the bridge wings.
They would glance curiously at me as they stole silently and effortlessly by
and then I was disregarded as "not food" before they carried on with their
work day.

We should be picking up our first load of Egyptian flies for the slaughter
tomorrow night!

Moon

The Gender Equalizing Canoe

The Chief Cook (who looks remarkably like the Southpark character, Chef, and
is one of my peeps) and I saw what looked like 3 dolphins off the port
bridge wing, yesterday... except the largest of which was almost fifty feet
long! I don't know what kind of whale it is, but the general consensus is
they were some subspecies of pilot whale. Pilot whales are also known as
"blackfish-" because they're black, duh- but these super-dolphin were
typical dolphin gray, had the same bottle shaped nose, the exact same tail
and fins... they differed in only three visible ways- their incredible size,
longitudinal markings on their bellies similar to humpbacks, and their body
shape was almost barracuda-like... they lacked the beam at midships a
typical dolphin has.

I visibly crossed an ocean stream known as the "Equatorial Jet" which is
known for feeding warm water toward Sumatera. It looked similar to a Strait
of Georgia tide rip- it was a line of chop extending as far as the eye can
see amid a dead flat Sea of Bengal, but as we crossed it, our set (lateral
force on the bow by wind and water forces as determined by Doppler) shifted
from 1.8 degrees port to 1.9 degrees starboard. It was probably running at
about 4 - 6 knots.

We are back in blue waters, the water ranging in hue and color from electric
coolaid acid blue to scared-inkless squid-black, churning a pale powder
blue. A large number of flying fish have been skating off our bow and
leaving fine, perfectly straight lines in their wakes across the flat water,
the longest of which I witnessed fly a good quarter mile before kerplinking
out of sight.

But that was yesterday. Now the wind has built and a chop has fetched up as
we make ready the ship for me, the master helmsman, the extraordinary
ordinary, to steer us into Columbo City (cue the clap track). Actually,
this can be a tricky port with a foul current and it is difficult to pull
off nonchalance when you're working your ass off, but that's just a
disclaimer should I blow it... I'm actually going to kick its ass. Again.

Hundreds of out-rigger canoe fishing boats are out on the water, not as
colorful as the "Aladin's Slipper" fishing boats of Sumatera, but not dull,
either. I see outrigger canoes from Egypt to Singapore, and on from there
the famous proa's and canoes of the South Pacific continue to cover an area
from Sumatera all the way to the Marquesas, as far north as Hawaii... and
even if you want to be a quibbler and call the Aleutian Islanders open sea
outrigger canoes "kayaks" because they have a protective deck, the world is
covered with out-rigged canoes. They are the world's most common boat.

Just so you know- canoes are considered male boats by South Pacific
seafarers and boatwrights. This ship I'm on is definitely a "she," but when
I look at all these ocean going canoes they are clearly "he's." Don't ask
me why and what makes the distinction, but it is definitely so.

And that's what I got for now... time for me to go steer a ship into port.

ZD cixelsyd a si DZ

Each time I steer and stand watch leaving and entering Singapore I am
astounded by the number of ships. In the Sinki, itself, there are hundreds-
at night, when the city is lit up and the downtown is beckoning like a
siren, another skyline faces it from across the water- a skyline of ships'
houses, lit up every bit as brightly as the shore and as equally dense.
Launches, pilot boats, divers' skiffs and numerous other workboats zip
through "Sinki City" like rush hour traffic. 24/7, 365.

When you leave the harbor you steam out of the channel heading almost dead
south, then round a prominent point into the Straits proper, then proceed up
the "Traffic Separation Scheme," or TSS, past numerous anchorages every bit
as large and congested as the Sinki. After a few hours of this I am left
dumbfounded at the amount of shipping traffic, but it stands to reason- the
Straits of Malacca are the route that connects all of SE Asia (1/3rd of the
world's population) to the nations surrounding the Indian Ocean (the next
1/3rd of the world's population). At the narrowest point the Straits are
only about 20 nautical miles wide. At the apex connecting the two
manufacturing and service colossals, China and India, sits tiny Singapore,
6th largest economy in the world (I'd verify that, personally, but I'm
denied the Library of Alexandria aka "Google"). Talk about location,
location, location.

We are currently underway, making way, on a heading meandering out of the
mouth of the Straits of Malacca. The jade hues of the Straits are giving
way to water the color of ink, the chaotic skies have morphed into gray
stratus and cumulonimbus clouds that spit heat lightning and spray the ship
down with just enough precipitation to increase the humidity drastically but
not to cool the temperature one iota. And the mood on the ship, in light of
the draconian refusal of any and all overtime, has torpedoed anyone's desire
to get along with one another.

Let the bitching commence!

I have been instructed (by a dubious source) that I should investigate the
architecture of Sumatera - apparently, the roofs are inspired by an old
custom of using decommissioned fishing boats to protect houses from the
rain. I'll investigate and with luck I'll be pleasantly surprised. I have
to say, and this I've seen with my own eyes each time I come through here so
can attest to its validity, the Sumatera fishing boats are gorgeous!
Sweeping bows, dramatic sheer, houses and hulls painted bright colors, net
outriggers made of simple bamboo- lovely to see!

I have been engaged in a silent and protracted battle of Wills with the
Great Dane. The battlefield is the board where our course, heading, and
magnetic compass info is written (amongst other bits of information) on the
bridge. Our drafts fore and aft, our air draft (highest elevation), ETA,
and clock, sun, and drills information all gets updated on this white board-
as described in another post back during my first trip.

The Great Dane is using the old convention of referencing GMT (Greenwich
Mean Time) and keeps putting the ETA (estimated time of arrival) in terms of
LT (local time)... which is incorrect- LT is our current time in the current
time zone, not the destination's time zone. I keep changing it to the
recognized conventions of UTC (the coordinated universal time), not GMT.
And instead of LT, I change the time to DZ (designated zone), which is the
time in the time zone of our arrival, as modified by ZD (zone description, a
numerical reference to UTC).

It might seem confusing, but it really isn't. UT is short for "universal
time," merely a phrase. UT0 is astronomically derived time. UT1 is time
adjusted for the relative movement of the geographical pole. UT2 is UT1
adjusted further for seasonal variations, and UTC (coordinated universal
time) is really the internationally agreed upon measure of UT2, at the Prime
Meridian (zero degrees longitude).

LT (local time) means "the time relative to right here in this time zone I'm
standing in."

DZ (designated zone) means "the time relative to that specific time zone."
Ie. Our arrival to Sri Lanka will be 2330 DZ (relative to Sri Lanka's time
zone), which will be 0100 LT (relative to where we are now).

ZD (zone description) is a numerical expression relative to UTC.
Singapore's ZD is expressed as "(-)8 ZD," or "eight hours before the UTC at
the Prime Meridian (zero degrees longitude)."

So when you see the phrase "ETA to ZD (-) 5.5 is 2330 DZ, or 0100 LT" there
is absolutely NO ambiguity or interpretation necessary. That tells you the
time UTC by a simple subtraction of 5.5, the time in the referenced time
zone, and the local time.

There are, however, two more time related terms that get used on the bridge.
"New Time," and "Old Time." When retarding or advancing clocks the time
change happens all at one moment- one O'clock magically becomes twelve
O'clock right at one O'clock. Being a ship on the watch system, with all
her hyper sensitive sailors ready to howl at the slightest provocation of
their collective hair-trigger sensitivities, however, it becomes necessary
to divide the time of clock changes into thirds so the change doesn't affect
just one watch, so even though the navigational calculations change all at
one moment, the ship's clock changes each 4 hours (in the case of a one hour
change) by only 20 minutes. I call my relief at 2300 each night, but is
that new time or old time? That happens at new time, even though when we're
heading east it is 2340 old time and 2220 heading west.

How is it that I come to know this? Nobody told me... I saw various bits of
it reference here and there. I asked about it and got incomplete and
incorrect answers, as is usual in life. I looked it up as soon as an
opportunity presented itself. The overall picture came not all at once, but
spread out over 4 hour periods, twice a day, day after day, week after week,
month after month...

In other words, I've had lots of time to ponder Time. And research it. And
lots of time to wage my silent, protracted war with the Great Dane. And one
day we might even mention it to one another- but I won't be the one to start
down that dead end road... because I knew I won this war even as it started,
way back when.

Next, Sri Lanka