A maritime Christmas carol: "Something must be done"

They have taken another ship hostage in the Gulf of Aden,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

But hey, we make more from piracy than those Somali highwaymen,

This wonderful show must go on.

They are torturing our crews for months on end!

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Fortunately they are all Third World Seamen,

This is how the West was won.

We will take five years to orchestrate a response since

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

And when the music becomes noise, we will not wince

Do we have anything personally at stake? Anyone?

What about the insurance costs, my friend?

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Hell, the consumer will pay in the end,

with all due surcharges under the sun

The crew have been working for days without a break,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Meanwhile, tell them to change their rest periods to fake

those time sheets, I want them redone!

Another accident because of fatigue, it is said,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

This Registry's manning certificate doesn't deserve to be read!

Psst- switch our ships to this Flag anon.

They have arrested the Captain for no reason again,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Stop paying his wages and if he complains

Tell him his contract is undone.

That Class surveyor is saying that this ship is unsafe!

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Get an interim cert and get out of this place,

The next port is less bothersome.

The ITF crew-wage raid is all over the place!

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Pay the cash, sail the ship and manage the disgrace

then get the money back from the seamen- or blacklist those sons.

The crew with no shore leave for weeks are half dead

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Tell them to cooperate and bend till they break,

P& I will pay for that one.

Our ship's been detained with an old magic pipe!

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

But why are your pants on fire tonight?

Claim 'error of servant' - the Chief's the felon

Clerical work is out of control across the fleet,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

But these new checklists must be filled in all neat

Remember, they apply- in triplicate-  to everyone.

The crew are demanding their wages, what cheek!

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Pay them a quarter and let them temporarily hold their peace,

With a hundred ships, we sit on millions every month.

The oily water seperator is again on the blink,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

Sail out quietly and report it later, methinks

Pretend it went kaput on the run

That Captain will not sail with a hole below the waterline ,

(Industry chorus: Something must be done, something must be done),

The man is really a big pain in the behind

Look for a reliever at once!

Ashore we have got fat year end  bonuses again but

on our ships (something must be done, something must be done)

Let them eat cake and send them an email saying,

"Merry Christmas, everyone!!!"

E-cliché™

First, a warning: these plans are copyrighted and trademarked. Intellectual property rights and all that, you know. (As you will see later, one doesn’t need to have much intellect at all to have intellectual rights.)


I have developed unique communication software that can be custom tailored to meet individual management requirements for quick and cheap communications between ships and the office. It will work with any email client or interactive voice response (IVR) system, thus granting a wide variety of suspects in the office the ability to respond to most communication originating from ships in 1.4 seconds flat- or your money back! (Conditions apply). The software will, whether the ship communicates by email or IVR, reply and disconnect within those 1.4 seconds, requiring-for email- a maximum of two keystrokes by the suspect, sorry, operator. Voice is even easier.

This bespoke path breaking patented software is appropriately named E-cliché™. Interested parties can contact me for an incredible introductory offer made later (while stocks last).

E-cliché™ involves a onetime keying in of up to 256 stock replies- email or voice- into the user’s computer terminal. These 256 represent the most commonplace clichés Masters are fed by managers. Anyway, after keying in, each of these banal utterances will then be allotted a unique identification number. (We will, at ridiculously cheap rates, arrange unemployed cadets to do the data entry grunt work).

That is all; the user is now all set to use E-cliché™!!

Whenever an email or phone call comes in from the ship thereafter, the user will- Step1: Click on the email or pick up the phone, and Step 2: Either key in or speak the number corresponding to the programmed stock reply from the ‘list of clichés (LOC)’. (A small laminated colour with the LOCs will be provided free of cost to each user).

Incidentally, when using the IVR, the hapless Master at the other end will not hear the user’s voice saying, for example, ‘one’, or ‘two’, or “two hundred and twenty nine”: instead, the Captain will simply hear an automated response that corresponds with the E-cliché™ chosen, and a surprisingly husky female voice will read out to him the full form of the selected cliché. The system will then disconnect immediately before the Captain can speak again.

Feedback from the industry at the Beta testing stage has resulted in us feeding a few stock responses into each system even before installation. These are based on the most common platitudes used by ship-managers. The user’s manual we supply recommends the use of these preset clichés appropriately: for example, the number ‘one’ is preprogrammed to respond with “seafarers are our most valuable assets”. We suggest that this be used as soon as possible after a ship is hijacked.

Other scenarios and suggested preset responses:

Scenario, Master’s message:”Awaiting critical spares since last October. Please advise.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #5: “Arriving at next port.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Help!! Pirates are threatening to secure my genitals with cable ties, keelhaul me and throw me into the meat room with ice in my underwear!!”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #18: “Follow latest version of Best Management Practices.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Crew is putting on weight. We need to renew twenty year old gym equipment. Please sanction funds ASAP.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #101: “This Company believes that everybody should grow together.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Third Mate requests immediate relief before sailing this port. As you know, his entire family killed in home fire last week. FYI, vessel sailing tomorrow”.
Preset E-cliché™ reply #2: “We are endeavouring to find suitable relief. Please bear with us.”

Scenario, Master’s message:”Ref last mail, strongly suggest no deductions be made for Third Mate’s repatriation from his wages, on compassionate grounds.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #3: “Amount to be deducted follows. We are about people, not profits”.

Scenario, Master’s message: “Officers and crew are refusing to work because wages have not been paid for two months. Kindly advise.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #8: “Teamwork is indispensible.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Chief Engineer regrets unable to attend company seminar two days after signing off since daughter’s school admission on same day.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #255: “These seminars are very useful as they provide an opportunity for seafarers to give feedback to top management.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Please advise plan re: longstanding small holes/cracks in shipside plating below waterline that are presently cement-boxed.”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #111: “Safety is paramount in our organisation.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Reference your email dated April 1 regarding crew shortage, regret all officers and crew inform me that none of their relatives want to join this company”.
Preset E-cliché™ reply #222: “If it weren’t for seafarers, half the world would freeze and the other half starve.”

Scenario, Master’s message: “Help! This may be my final email! The pirates are threatening to shoot all of us this evening if the ransom is not paid immediately!”
Preset E-cliché™ reply #10: “Press Ctrl+Alt+Del”


It is easy to see that the E-cliché™ will revolutionise ship to shore communication as we know it and simultaneously increase productivity exponentially- one can even reply to phone calls while playing golf without interrupting one’s swing!

I intend, after the inevitable successful upcoming official launch of the E-cliché™, to immediately launch my next venture, the E-Seminar. This will be followed by another hot idea: a postgraduate diploma level programme that I am now developing with input from practicing ship managers; this is tentatively called the E-Shaft™.

Meanwhile, I am working closely with regulators to develop a modular E-cliché™ training programme that will soon be mandatory for all ship managers. The two day course will take one day each for in depth training in the two steps of the E-cliché™ software. Day 1 will teach only Step 1 (how to click on mail in your inbox or how to pick up the phone). Day two will cover Step 2- the use of preset clichés and the LOC, with wide-ranging additional scenarios practiced and discussed extensively.

Now, a special, amazing offer. For a limited time only, readers of this column can buy just one step of E-cliché™ and get the other one free! Book now- quoting reference number ‘420’- to enjoy this fantastic offer at an unbeatable price!

Before it is too late.
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Unstable equilibrium

“Two percent of the ship’s beam,’ the logistics manager told me once again with what he thought was authoritative finality. “That is enough GM and stability for any ship, including this one”.


“Two percent!” he exclaimed, clearly getting carried away. “On this ship, that is less than forty centimeters. That should be your minimum GM.”

Our feeder container ship had just berthed, and the man himself had come aboard before we started discharging, huffing and puffing and threatening to blow my house down because I had shut out cargo at the last port since we were fully loaded. A freshly shaved 27 year old almost fresh out of business school, he had been incandescent with rage on the phone then; he could not believe that the widespread- and regular- under declaration of container weights in the trade could actually reach a stage when I would refuse to load any more since we were down to our marks- and our stability was borderline, to boot. The fact that I had- at the same loadport- disregarded his two percent hogwash out of hand had not improved his temper; I had also refused to take out any more ballast to accommodate cargo; our GM was low enough, we were a small, low powered ship and we would be going through the South China Sea in typhoon season. I couldn’t have cared less about the two percent mumbo-jumbo.

The manager was so angry now, standing in my cabin six days later, that I could almost see aftershave evaporating off his heated skin, and I could certainly smell it. So I sat him down, popped him a coke (something stronger being against the D and A policy and all that) and, without speaking, handed him a sheaf of computer stability printouts and my own calculations from the load port.

I then called the Mate on the walkie-talkie and asked him to commence discharging the containers, and make sure that- as the logistics department had planned- two shipboard cranes would start discharging simultaneously, picking up the heavy containers from the top tier.

Meanwhile, our man the manager appeared visibly flummoxed because he couldn’t understand why such elaborate calculations that I had now given him were necessary when a simple ‘two percent of the ship’s beam’ calculation could be done in two point eight seconds. He spent a few minutes pretending to understand the cheeky printouts, shuffling the papers impatiently. “Two percent,” he said again, much like the village moneylender quoting daily interest rates to a destitute farmer in a remote Indian hamlet.

The ship started listing. It went on going till it was about 10 degrees to starboard. It then seemed to stop, but then continued for another couple of degrees, stopping at about 13. Obviously cargo work had commenced and two heavy containers were being simultaneously discharged.

The effect of a list, as we all know, is more dramatic the higher you are on a ship, and the Master’s cabin is invariably high, just below the bridge deck. It may have appeared to him as if we were capsizing, because the logistics manager darted to the bridge-front porthole in my cabin. “What is happening?” he asked, obviously alarmed. “Why is she going like that?”

I sat him down again and explained, very briefly, the principles of stability to him. I also told him that the unfavourable shift in the centre of gravity with two shipboard cranes- effectively thirty metres up from the keel and picking up 35 tonnes each on a small vessel with a low displacement- was considerable. (That he seemed to believe; he ignored the wxd/W calculation I was trying to explain and instead went very pale as the ship rocked a bit, looking as if he believed that the ship’s centre of gravity had been raised to approximately 2 percent below the level of his scrotum.)

I also reminded him, while he was conveniently frozen, that the ship’s cranes were designed to work up to a fifteen degree list, at which point they would cut out, leaving us with two hanging loaded containers and the usual lopsided view of the world. I told him bad weather had an even worse effect. I reminded him that bad weather was called bad for a good reason.

The ship rocked and righted itself as the containers were discharged. The logistics manager regained some colour, finished his coke and left quickly. We never had any cargo related problems thereafter.





Another small Ro-Ro ship quite a while ago. Me, the Chief Officer. Captain, who I found out later had a fishing licence and dispensation to sail as Master (Nope, this was not a flag of convenience, but a well regarded open registry). On my first loaded voyage from Singapore to Penang, he told me that I should take out all the ballast we had aboard. “Make it zero,” he said, in a tone that brooked no dissent, and made me wonder, naughtily, as to what he told his wife when he wanted more children.

Puzzled and unaware of his dubious credentials, I asked him why he wanted the ballast out, especially since our GM was low with heavy deck cargo. “We don’t need ballast,” he declared dismissively. “We can get ballast anywhere”.

“Captain, then why do we have ballast tanks?” I asked him.

He cursed in an unfamiliar language. “Make the ballast zero!” he repeated, before stalking away regally.

I re-did my calculations, went against his instructions and kept one double bottom tank full. We were halfway to Penang anyway by now.

A few hours before arrival, the Captain summoned me to the bridge when we were going through a squall that was accompanied by a moderate swell. “She is rolling uncomfortably and is tender,” he told me. “And we have the swell on the beam. Can you fill up some ballast?”

“One ballast tank is full, Captain. I did not pump it out. We should have no stability problems; we do not need to ballast more,” I said, “especially since we can get ballast anywhere.”

“So you did not listen to me?” And, when I remained silent, he added, angrily, “Don’t do it again.”

They gave me command of my first ship soon thereafter. I think it was on the Captain’s recommendation; he wanted to make sure that I could never sail with him again.
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Chaos Theory

The phone rang a couple of years ago at six in the evening. “Captain, this is Chaotic Shipmanagement,” a voice told me. “We are sorry that we have had to prepone...”


“Is that an actual word, prepone?” I wanted to know.

“We apologise,” the voice went on, ignoring the sailor as usual, “but you will have to join tomorrow instead of next week since we have royally screwed up as usual. Therefore, we have booked your flight from home to Mumbai so early tomorrow morning it is actually tonight. Your flight out of India is in the afternoon, after your medicals that you can go do directly after landing in Mumbai, and other formalities, ticketing and videoconferencing with the Superintendent that have to be done before 1PM his time so he can have a martini with his lunch.”

“What?? No way. Please find somebody else, since I am too old to rock and roll and too young to die after being run ragged like this.”

“Please oblige us this time, Captain, because the owners, they...” I tuned out the rest of the spiel, almost decided that I would not join. It had happened too often.

But a sailor and a dog never learn.

In Mumbai next day, I dumped my gear at the office and went for my medicals in that well known hole in the wall place where I was sampled, x-rayed, blood, HIV tested and subjected to other unmentionable things within minutes. I also found out, once again, what a high speed strip dancer’s life must be like, only my performance was in three different rooms seemingly simultaneously (I had to appear all elegantly dressed between the rooms to boot). Non-seamen should really try this sometime. Excellent for blood circulation and raising one’s heart rate appropriately, though it can be argued that the same effect can be had more easily by munching on potato chips while watching a Monica Bellucci movie.

Next, return to Alcatraz- the office-for videoconferencing. The Mumbai honcho of Chaotic came in and sat down off camera as a technician got everything ready. The honcho wasn’t part of the movie, but he combed his hair anyway.

I took out a small scribbling pad I always carry in my top shirt pocket just in case the Superintendent has something useful to say.

“No, no!” the honcho told me, holding out what looked like a full ream of A4 size photocopying paper, alarmed that I wasn’t taking the proceedings seriously enough. “Take this.” I politely declined, and wondered to myself if I could have a rum and coke instead to get me going.

The Superintendent appeared on the big screen. “Captain, I have here the signing off Master’s handover notes that I want to read to you point by point....”

“Can’t you email them to the office instead?” I asked him, “I can read them on the flight instead of wasting your time now.” And mine too, I muttered under my breath.

“Great!” the greatly relieved man said, with the look of somebody who has saved fifteen minutes of time that seemed to be hitherto running out. “I will leave you in the able hands of Chaotic Mumbai then. The ship is arriving in Aden in three days.”

End of conference and round two to me. Or so I thought, until I found out that Chaotic had booked me on a round the world trip to Aden, where I would arrive concurrently with the ship. (Mumbai-Delhi-Singapore-Sana’a-Aden, with twelve hour halts for allegedly connecting flights everywhere including at Delhi). Very nice of Chaotic. Join the navy and see the world.

There should be a law against this.


There should also be a law against useless pre-joining briefing of Masters, done mostly to tick those nice boxes in some checklist. Frankly, those briefings are an ordeal, like those dodgy company seminars that mariners are uniquely inflicted with. I would rather go through a TSA body cavity search at a major US airport. Twice.

Chaotic used to love those conferences too, and could not understand why I refused to attend, especially after they had bent over backwards and got all their other seafarers to contribute 500 Rupees per head for dinner. I told them it was the principle of the thing, but they were not happy at all, and rewarded me with a few junk ships over the years. (To work on, not as presents).

I was caught for a seminar once, though, and flew to Chennai in peak summer to attend that critically important meeting. Or at least I thought it was important, because it had a theme and all, much like a hoity toity wedding in Delhi.

Chennai, as you know, is unbearably hot and sticky in summer. So there I was, bags dropped at a cheapish hotel they had booked me into after the flight even though I was paying, standing sweating in the lobby of another (much better) hotel after a long, dusty, hot and humid auto rickshaw ride. Soon, a Chaotic minor functionary (the same one who had called me at 6pm a year ago) with a frown on his face stepped up to me.

"Captain, you are not wearing a necktie!!”

How observant these people are, I thought. No wonder they are going places.
“Err, no, I am not,” I told him. “I fear I might asphyxiate while I am dehydrating.”

He ignored me as usual. “Here, take mine,” he said, whipping off his glaringly psychedelic tie and putting it around my neck, like a coy Hindu bride garlanding her husband-to-be at their wedding.

I hoped, as I walked into the conference room, that everybody had sunglasses on. That tie was a killer.

To add to my misery, they served us- can you imagine, in that land of delicious South Indian coffee- they served us some lukewarm and insipid instant. The only thing missing was the three-in-one sachet.

Never mind, I told myself, taking an aisle seat towards the back of the hall in case I had to make a quick getaway, beggars can’t be choosers. Most of the other seagoing officers seemed to settle down around me. One can always recognise sailors at these dos- they are the ones looking the most uncomfortable in their formal clothes and jackets and too tight collars. I bet they go home and jump straight into overalls just to feel comfortable once again. But I digress.

Soon a man I had never seen in my life got up on stage and told me that all of us were part of one big Chaotic family. Soon another man I had never seen in my life told us that we were his best assets, and that he would stand by me no matter what. All very heady stuff, although I much prefer such declarations to come from my wife.

Sitting comfortably for the first time in five hours since I had left home to take the flight to Chennai, sweat evaporating in the air-conditioning, collar button surreptitiously undone, amongst declared family and with compliments washing over me like gentle ripples on Marina beach, I felt really good. I had just leaned back and closed my eyes when something growled in the aisle in front of me.

Alarmed, I snapped my eyes open, just in time to see a Chief Engineer elbowing a Master next to him and whispering aggressively in his ear.

“Boss,” the Chief said. “Sleep if you must, but at least don’t snore!”
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Words of Mass Desperation

I almost dropped the cat when I read the headline: ‘IMO approves theme for WMD 2011’. Turns out I had panicked needlessly: WMD was World Maritime Day and apparently had nothing to do with weapons of mass destruction, although one never knows with the IMO and its regulations.


Anyhow, the theme for next year’s WMD, I am told, is “Piracy: Orchestrating the Response.” Hmm. Orchestrating, eh? Like music? Maybe they will ask me to play the Fifth of Beethoven while Rome burns and people throw grappling hooks from fast boats onto the railings of my ship.

Wait a minute. It is just July 2010; we are barely halfway into this year, and they are talking about the theme from Shaft, sorry WMD, for next year already? Have they given up on this year, the “Year of the Seafarer” so soon? Hmm again. Maybe seafarers are not entitled to a full year and are being given just half of it; maybe the IMO is calling it “Half the year of the seafarer” now, like Half-Pant Rao, (the gent so named because he has been seen in nothing else but shorts since 1989.)

IMO is making an action plan for next year, the story continued as the cat squealed its protest at the indignity of being dropped. (Cats, as can be seen, demand more dignity than mariners are given). The IMO plan is to “increase pressure” at the political level, including at the UN Security Council, to fix those pesky Somalis once and for all.

Increase pressure. Sounds like a case of constipation to me. But why are we waiting for six months until next year to do this? Why can’t we increase pressure this year? Like right now? Or perhaps after the monsoon break, when everybody is freshly shaved and bathed and all the Armanis at the UN have been sharply steam ironed? Could we do that, please? Maybe we will save a few hundred seafarers from being taken hostage by, err, increasing the pressure today instead of next year.

Finally, the IMO threatens to “strengthen the protection of persons and ships sailing though piracy-infested areas by constantly improving guidance to the industry, promoting even greater levels of support from navies and providing care for those attacked or hijacked by pirates and support to their families”.

Wow. My family are indeed blessed; they will be taken care by a UN body if my ship is taken. (Maybe they will get those fat foreign exchange UN pensions too, do you think?) In addition, I will get guidance, like manna from heaven, probably in neat and impressive folders. Things are looking up. Maybe I can throw the guidance at the pirates- a guidance missile?- in self-defence, if all else fails.

So much for the UN and the IMO. However, there is a bigger issue here, which is that I seem to find sweeping grandiloquent statements made by various maritime industry bigwigs tremendously funny. Or maybe I just like pricking balloons to let the hot air whoosh away.


So, some examples of my own version of Mad Magazines infamous “Snappy answers to stupid questions” follow. (I actually intend to try one or two of these as soon as I am filthy rich and do not need a job anymore):


“Remember, there is no ‘I’ in teamwork!”
(Yeah, yeah, and there is no ‘U’ there either, so sit down quietly, will you?)

“You cadets are the ambassadors of the nation”
(Good. The way seamen are being criminalised, we can all use diplomatic immunity)

“You need to set an example to others and work with dedication”
(Can’t I just work because I want to do a good job and earn decent wages?)

“Seafarers are our biggest and most valuable assets”
(Ah, obviously the seafarer shortage continues. And excuse me, but must you sound like Pamela Anderson before the implants?)

“Seminars give us an opportunity to get to know each other so seafarers and managers can exchange ideas”
(You mean seminars are good because we can both let off steam while you are being paid and I am not, don’t you? And what is wrong with exchanging ideas on the phone instead? At least I don’t have to ruin my vacation doing so.)

“The Indian maritime history goes back to 2500 BC”
(So what is new? Tell me what we are doing for the industry today instead, past glory being somewhat like youth: never recovered.)

“The seminar was excellent and gave us floating staff a chance to interact with the management.”
(I really need this job)

“Safety and zero deficiencies should be your topmost priority”
Be careful. Port State Control will screw you and fine us, so for heaven’s sakes don’t get caught.)

“The purpose of this seminar is to strengthen the company’s safety management system”
(The purpose of this seminar is to bill the Owners and make some money. The system will be actually strengthened at work, not in a fancy hotel)

“There is a lot of potential in India for the maritime industries”.
(What? You haven’t made any money here yet?)

“This company remains committed to the environment. We are taking the lead in compliance with new regulations.”
(Rape seems inevitable, so we are trying to enjoy it)

“Remember one thing: you are the institute’s best assets and its foremost advertisement; make us proud!”
(Don’t mess up, and if you do, don’t tell them who trained you.)

“Keep up the good work and always keep the Indian Flag flying high”
(I have completely run out of something useful to say)
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Pilot Study

Many moons ago, when I was in college and Mumbai was Bombay, I bought an olive green T-shirt from a hole in the wall shop in Colaba. Emblazoned on it was the invitation: “Join the army! Go to exciting new places!! Meet exciting new people and kill them!!!”


Perhaps because I had flat feet and would have been rejected by the infantry anyway, I joined the merchant navy instead. At least I got to the exciting new places and exciting new people part. Unfortunately, pilots have added too much to this excitement in recent years.


Scene 1, flashback to about eight years ago. Japan Inland Sea. Daytime, good visibility, hundreds of fishing boats everywhere. Knackered feeder container ship. Knackered Master (me) and knackered crew. On last leg of a ten day, eleven port marathon in Japan and Korea. Inland sea pilot on board, as sometimes happens in Japan. Age of pilot about eighty five, as often happens in Japan. Or at least he looked it. Thick glasses, thicker three piece suit. Glued to Radar. Radar on 12 mile range. He is plotting everything he can see, which is the entire Japanese fishing fleet- or so it seems. The fishing boats are stretching the ARPA’s computer memory; CPA alarms are going off as if it is World War III. Binoculars slung around neck give the pilot the look of an Admiral out in the Pacific about to attack Pearl Harbour circa World War II.

One smallish fishing boat about four points on our starboard bow breaks away from the pack and heads straight for us at terrific speed. Range about two miles. Pilot still playing computer games with the ARPA; he is not programmed to see anything different unless the ARPA tells him so. In this case, it doesn’t, so he doesn’t.

Me, idly, picking up my own binoculars, “Pilot, fishing boat on starboard bow on collision course, I think.”

He looks at me and bows deeply. “Thank you,” he says, and sticks his head in the radar visor again. Boat is now maybe a mile away, still heading for us at full zip. I can see, now, that there is nobody on deck.

I curse. “Five short blasts,” I tell the duty officer, which, when they start, startle the pilot so much that he shakes violently and I wonder if he is having a cardiac arrest. (I can imagine the headlines, “Pilot blasted by blasts. Master arrested. Criminalisation of another seafarer!!”) The boat is perhaps half a mile away now; one of those constant bearing cases but it is still at full zip, and boy, those Japanese boats can be fast. Still nobody on deck.

“Pilot, I am taking over,” I tell him, and order the helmsman to go hard over to starboard. The ship starts swinging. Boat is now two cables away. Pilot finally looks out of the porthole. He finally sees the boat and immediately panics, but very smoothly, in the way that only Japanese pilots can. He is shattered too, as he realises that the ARPA, like a young wife, has betrayed him. He now goes out on the port bridge wing and starts screaming at the boat, which, by now, has just crossed our bow and is going clear.

Suddenly one person comes up on the deck of the fishing boat from God knows where. He sees the pilot screaming and bows at him. Deep bow.

The pilot stops screaming and bows back at him. Deep bow. They exchange more bows. And then some more. The ARPA is forgotten.

I put the ship back on course and hand her back to the pilot, wondering if these bows are similar to those made before Seppuku. You know, the Japanese samurai ritual of suicide by self-disembowelment. I think those guys bowed deeply too, just before they fell on their swords.


Scene 2. A couple of years ago. Departure Southampton Docks. Me with a coffee in the pilot chair waiting for the pilot. Filipino Third Mate fussing around lethargically on the bridge preparing for departure.

Walkie-talkie crackles. Excited AB, “Bridge, Pilot on board!”

Me, “Aye, Pilot on board. Please bring him up to the bridge. And everybody on departure stations now, please. Take in the gangway”.

Three minutes later the wheelhouse door swings open and a blue eyed blonde with wavy shoulder length hair sashays in. “Good morning,” she tells us in a breathless voice. “I am the pilot.”

And with that simple statement, she throws the ship into a paroxysm of masculine efficiency the likes of which I had never seen before and never saw again. Third Mate smartly at attention and efficiently plotting positions in the river without the GPS, a feat I never knew he was capable of. The Indonesian AB, hitherto well known for his indolence, crisply repeating helm orders and spinning the wheel with a panache worthy of the quartermaster of Star Trek. The Bangladeshi Second Mate landing up on the bridge freshly bathed, cleanly shaved, in crisp uniform and reeking of some godawful cologne, ostensibly to arrange the charts. Hell, even the Indian Chief Officer, on stand-by for’d and therefore disappointingly (for him) removed from the action, put on his (imagined) sexiest drawl on the walkie talkie, until I told him to cut it out because I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying.

Me? I was the quintessential professional, of course, as one would expect. I must confess, though, that I had a momentary pang of politically incorrect apprehension, absolutely misplaced as it turned out, at the idea of a female pilot taking a large car carrier out to the Solent in developing fog, a following current and a freshening wind.

I must also confess that I wondered, since this was a fortnightly port of call, whether a Master/Pilot exchange of information could legitimately include the pilot’s phone number. And I still like to think that when the pilot advised me, “We can single up now, Captain,” she was actually hinting that I get a divorce.
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Kafka's people

 'The persistence of  Memory' by Salvador Dali

Surreal, that's what this is.

Don't laugh, but the Philippines Department of Labour and Employment reportedly announced last week that an antipiracy course would now be part of the requirements for all Filipino seafarers. DOLE Secretary Marianito Roque told reporters that the training would be provided to about 260,000 Filipino seafarers. Roque went on to claim that this would also help the department to “increase the level of qualification of the capacity of a seafarer.” and that individual companies are to pay for the training.

Hmm.  Did he really say more than a quarter of a million Filipino seafarers? Mind boggling, the implications of that figure. Sounds like a multimillion dollar business opportunity for somebody, running antipiracy courses. Multiply 260,000 by even 150 dollars as course fee and you get around four million dollars. Hell, that is the ransom payout for a couple of ships. And what, pray, will the course content consist of? Let me guess: a module on 'how to recognise a rocket propelled grenade launcher while crapping in your pants', perhaps? Another module on how to plead for your life in basic Somali? Or how to fill up an ‘ideal hostage’ checklist? Something like that, I presume.

Here's what I think.  One, how soon will India ape this Filipino absurdity? (Our stalwarts must be cursing that the Philippines beat them to it). Two, everybody seems to have given up on actually fighting Somali piracy and winning. Three, everybody and his mother in law in maritime education will want a piece of this new lucrative business opportunity. Four, shipowners may try to use the 'trained antipiracy crew on our ships' claptrap as a marketing tool with prospective charterers or to reduce piracy insurance premia. Five, the seafarer will continue to get jacked and hijacked. Six, this training will be used as an excuse not to take other steps that may actually be effective. Seven, any dimwit will tell you that this will go the ISPS way so why is this nonsense even being pursued at all? Eight, an Indian manager will say, soon enough, that Filipino's make better crew because they are anti piracy trained: I think that is approximately when I will throw up.

As for “increase the level of qualification of the capacity of a seafarer,” I have seen hundreds of Filipino seafarers reporting to me with joining papers and photocopies of course certificates as thick as dictionaries and qualifications that look impressive as hell on paper. Few live up to what the dictionary suggests. I expect this antipiracy hokum to be even worse, because it is more unreal.

My wife will say that I am jealous because everybody else is making money, and maybe she will be right. I really need to get with the program, I think, which is why I now propose some new courses that we in India should start asap. We are the global leaders in conducting futile courses; how dare somebody else vie for that hallowed spot?

So, with much thought and without much further ado, I propose that the following courses be rolled out immediately in India. (I have thoughts on many others that I will divulge to interested parties on payment of a small fee):

Garbage Management Course: This approved course will teach seafarers how to pick up, segregate and collect garbage for disposal as per the rules. Included will be modules on shallow breathing techniques while carrying putrefying stuff, computer based training on stencilling 200 litre drums with approved labels and practicals on new brooms sweeping clean. Not included will be training on the disposal of management, regulatory or other official garbage of any kind; that will make the duration of the course too long.

An anti criminalisation course: This one will train seafarers in one of the most critical aspects of their profession, and I am therefore surprised nobody has thought of it so far. From making seafarers aware of the latest rules that are supposed to guarantee them fair treatment, the course will move (quickly, before anybody asks too many questions) to other modules like ‘Keeping a stiff upper lip while being blamed for nothing and everything’, “Keeping mum under pressure”, ‘Approved daily routines in gaol’, ‘Checklists for Alcatraz’, ‘Involuntarily extending contracts’, ‘ Appreciating local cuisine behind bars’, a long module on ‘What not to expect from employers after being arrested’ and  a very short one on ‘What to expect from the Government of India when ditto’. Others may include operational and Company specific training on ‘Reporting from the slammer” and ‘Proven CYA techniques’. This course will be approved by the Administration. Anybody asking ‘What administration?’ will be thrown into jail at once.

Finally, to complete my Kafkaesque soliloquy and business plan, I am seriously contemplating patenting and rolling out a postgraduate management course for the shore based maritime industry. This two year full time course will target international and national regulators, industry body representatives, shipowners and miscellaneous shipmanagement, insurance and such personnel. Incidentally, I plan to collaborate with a premier management institute in India to ensure excellent content, infrastructure, delivery and hype. Details will be announced later, but the working title for the degree that will be awarded on satisfactory completion of the programme, mainly because I like the acronym this makes, is ‘MBA (Shipping Hypocrisy In Toto)’.

A midterm internship is compulsory, and will require that each student demonstrate that he or she has shafted a mariner at least once.

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Call of the Wild

I used to think it happened only to me when on ‘leave’ between ships. I assumed that the slightly sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever the office called was unique to my metabolism, which asked, “Are they calling me back already!?’. Later on, I was relieved to hear from other mariners that this was normal and so was I, or as normal as a seaman can be anyway.


By the way, ‘leave’ is actually a euphemistic term for unemployment, don’t you think, given that I am not paid when I do not sail? (Begging your pardon, and please ignore this aside, potential employers. My sense of semantics is not appreciated by most anyway.)


Say what you will, but you cannot really blame the poor seaman for getting as jittery as a virgin bride gets as the day of reckoning approaches. With one difference: In his case, experience has reinforced his apprehension; ever since he was a trainee or a junior, a phone call has invariably preceded sudden and overwhelming bedlam.


From a mariner’s point of view, a typical pre joining scenario goes something like this:

1. Telephone call from company, (hereinafter called the call of the wild). You are required to be in the Mumbai office ‘immediately’. Seaman tries to flim flam and buys as much time as possible.
2. Hullabaloo at home. Wife upset. Kids confused. Seaman trying to simultaneously get his act together to go to work, lend emotional support to the family, handle his own conflicting feelings and complete the inevitable last minute stuff that needs to be done before departure. (Actually, we know that the turmoil is not helped by prolonging the inevitable; that only seems to make things worse. However, we never really learn. I much prefer sudden departures to prolonged ones, as I would a sudden death to one that lingers.)
3. Check in to Mumbai flight. End of Stage One. Switch to business mode even as one tries to come to grips with the wrench of leaving home. Are they safe? Do they have family and friend support if something goes wrong? Will the dog still be alive when I return? You know, stuff like that.
4. Arrival Mumbai. Rush to office or hotel to dump bags. Eventually rush to office anyway.
5. Assembly line process starts. Pre joining briefing (which is usually as scanty as your briefs and half as useful), go for medicals. Auto rickshaw to alleged doctor.
6. Everything from your heartbeat to your faecal matter is tested in fifteen minutes of controlled, impersonal and crudely systematic assembly line mayhem. This is how cattle must feel at the abattoir, one thinks. No seaman is alarmed by all this, though. He has done this before, and often, and survived. In fact, some of us even manage to pull up our zippers between the urine sample and the ECG.
7. Auto rickshaw back to office. Quick stop for a cold drink somewhere, mouth is too dry. Could be dehydration or distaste.
8. Assembly line almost complete. Ticket, Agents details, Ships name (Please ensure it is the one you had been briefed about). Result: one number mariner processed and ejected.
9. International flight. Time to start thinking about the ship one is joining and start gearing up for taking over. Provided one is not stopping en route for further briefings with the Owners, of course, which often adds to fatigue without adding to useful information.




In the last many years, my reluctance to sail, and therefore a honed instinct that tries its best to delay the inevitable, has created much friction at home. The shortage of officers has not helped: calls from manning agents (or Ship management Companies, as they like to be called) within a week after signing off from one ship have the potential to ruin one’s weekend for sure. So much so that I once started avoiding taking such calls. This is when the friction started at home, with a typical conversation with the wife going something like this:



Wife to me, “Capt. Persistent from ‘Run of the Mill Ship management’ Mumbai is on the phone”
Me to wife, “Tell him I am in the bathroom with diarrhoea.”
Wife: “I do not lie; you should know that by now. You talk to him or I will just tell him that you don’t want to talk to him.”

Me: “Gandhi was a great and honest man, but his wife must have had a tough time with all his experiments with truth.”

Wife: “Hmpff!”


This behaviour of mine is unprofessional; I am the first to admit. After all, a Master cannot hide in the toilet forever. However, I maintain that my conduct, unbecoming as it unfortunately is, is nonetheless more becoming than that of a Chief Engineer friend of mine, who simply disappears whenever he is expecting the call of the wild from his employers.



This gives rise to many bewildered managers. I recall one incident that happened many years ago, when the manning guy called me up from Bombay (I was in another city) to enquire about this Chief’s whereabouts.

Manning head, post pleasantries: “Where the @#$% is Tripathi?” (Name changed in case Tripathi is still doing this somewhere else)
Me: “How do I know? Ask his wife in Bombay”.
MH, annoyed: “I did. She says he left by train for your city yesterday to meet you.”
Me, genuinely bemused now: “Well, he may have reached this city, but he sure as hell hasn’t reached me.”
MH: (unprintable) hangs up.


A month or so later, I joined a ship and there was Tripathi, the Chiefest of all the Engineers, down at the gangway come to say hello.
“What happened, Chief?” I asked him later. “You sparked off a major inter city manhunt.”
“Yeah, they asked me a week later where I had been, after I resurfaced” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I told them that I had disembarked en route at yet another city to meet some friends.”
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Mixed nuts

Almost thirty years ago, the last recession was just about to begin. Fresh after my Second Mate’s ticket, I got a job in a foreign company completely by accident. The ship was in Houston, the Chief Officer had to sign off, the Second Mate broke his leg and I was in Mumbai, ready and willing though hardly competent. Anyway, they flew me First Class to Zurich (boy, had this Cadet from a straight laced Indian company finally arrived, I mistakenly thought). It was only on the second leg to Houston, squashed between two large Americans, that I realised I would be flying cattle class for the rest of my life, unless somebody broke a leg and Economy was full from Bombay to Zurich again.


It was an odd ship, as you will see. A European Master, and officers and crew from more than a dozen countries, and then some. A little apprehensive (since all foreigners, to me, were crazy), we sailed for Durban with the Captain and me keeping six hourly watches. I did quite well, though I was flummoxed at the beginning by the Captain drawing a course seemingly at random but long enough for the next few hours, asking me to ‘stay on the line’, and going away (He did this all the way to Durban). There was no attempt to tell me what all the ships and oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico were doing whilst handing over watch. Perhaps this was because I displayed remarkable competence, but I doubt it, since I had called him up on my second independent watch at sea puzzled by the clouds showing up on the radar screen. I thought they were uncharted land and that we had discovered some new country, like Columbus. I did notice, at the time, that he did not share my enthusiasm at this discovery at around three in the morning.


Anyway, we made it to Durban in one piece, although two days before arrival, I went up at midnight to relieve him and found him sleeping in a chair near the radar.


This was tricky. Life was more formal then: one did not simply tap a watchkeeping Captain on the shoulder to wake him up in those days. It was clear to me that some greater officer like subtlety was required. Therefore, I rattled the coffee cups loudly as I made my Turkish brew. That did not work, and neither did whistling loudly almost in his ear. Perhaps the beer cans in the bin next to him had something to do with it.


He did wake up an hour later, harrumphed, went to the chartroom and drew his customary line in the sand. He then wrote something in the logbook and went away. Later, I read what he had entered in the logbook. It was this:

“Captain sleeping on watch. Fined one case beer.”



There is a small postscript to this story. Soon after we berthed at Durban, this same gentleman called me to his cabin. In front of him were two piles of around two thousand dollars each and a telex from the company. He told me, in his usual guttural voice, “This is telex. This is shorthand. And this (pushing one pile forward) is for you. Same same for me.”


I went to my cabin and counted the money. My last wages before this ship, a stipend really, were two hundred rupees a month. This was a rags to riches story! So I lit a cigarette with a one dollar note and a shaky hand.


Those crazy foreigners had got to me in the end.



About three years later, I was a Second Mate on a bulk carrier with an Indian Master who seemed to have a running feud going on with the Third Mate. To be fair, things were going swimmingly until the Captain insisted that he be called ‘Sir’, and so the Third asked him, “Why? Have you been knighted?” Things went downhill pretty quickly from there.


Three months later, the Captain’s wife and six year old daughter had joined the ship, and we were approaching Gujarat. The Captain had a habit of leaving his daughter on the bridge, who was fond of going for a walkabout everywhere on the wheelhouse and twirling, turning, pulling and pushing any knobs or levers that she found en route. This had been going on for more than a month.


Whilst on watch, we got used to keeping an eagle eye out for unplanned alterations of course which the little angel instigated. She had a good ROR sense though; she always made broad alterations of course which were clearly visible to other ships in the vicinity, even though it must have scared the bejeesus out of some of them. Funny things happened on our wheelhouse, though. Wipers came on, the Christmas tree was lit up with puzzling lights being randomly switched on, radars were sometimes found switched on or off and so on. Hinting to the Captain that this was a little untoward proved useless; he simply ignored us.


The engine room also got used to sudden engine commands in the middle of nowhere as the telegraph was repeatedly rung. Fortunately for all, it was not a bridge controlled main engine. I suspect, though, that the sudden and rapid blowing of the foghorn at all hours of the day or night on that ship is probably the cause of all my blood pressure problems even today.


The Third Mate finally lost it when the little lady altered course twenty degrees to port with a ship a mile away. When I took over watch from him, he told me that the courses we were steering were unknown to him. He had also logged down appropriately in the deck logbook: ‘Courses to Master’s daughter’s orders’.


She was never brought up on the bridge again. The course recorder must have heaved a sigh of relief.



Then there was, much more recently, the Second Mate I sailed with who I nicknamed Lord Emsworth, because, like the P.G. Wodehouse character, he was besotted with all his pigs back in the Philippines.


Wodehouse couldn’t have done justice to my Lord E, though. Until I put a stop to it with a heavy heart, the Second Mate would whip out a bunch of photographs of his pigs at every opportunity and show them to anybody who happened to be in the wheelhouse during his watch. I admit his commercial piggery back home was top class, but one doesn’t want an officer of the watch telling one how beautiful so and so pig is when one goes up to have a dekko at the chart and the traffic, or to have a cuppa.


The other officers did not seem to mind, although I saw the Chief Officer giving the Second Mate funny looks from time to time. The Chief told me later, “Cap, the Second not married. No good.”



Along with Lord Emsworth and the pictures of his Empresses of Blanding, we had an Indian Jain as a Fourth Engineer aboard that same ship. Very strict vegetarian and a pretty militant one to boot. The Filipino cook used to be reduced to jelly whenever the Fourth’s name came up in Mess Committee meetings; obviously a crazy foreigner cannot be expected to understand what a strict Jain will eat and what not, and which ladle is not supposed to be used to stir which curry, and complicated things like that.


So, anyway, I go ashore in Philadelphia and I see, through a restaurant plate glass, our Fourth Engineer sitting at a table. He is digging into a huge beef burger.

Alarmed that he did not realise what he was eating, I entered the den of iniquity and went up to him. “Fourth, do you know that you are eating beef??!!”


“Yes, I know”, he says, smacking his lips. “But it is not an Indian cow.”
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Hysteriactomy

Navigating can be a bit like making love, sometimes. One often does not know what the hell is going on, which just adds to the fun. Usually.

I swear on all that I hold dear that these events are true. As for the embellishments and dramatic poetic licence, well, as Ken Kesey and the Talmud say, some things are true even if they never happened.


Middle of the night on the M.V. Hysteria, at outer anchorage at South Asian port, pilot boarding time 8 hours away, engines on half an hour’s notice.

0200, Voice on VHF: M.V. Hysteria, this is the pilot boat. Pick up anchor.

2nd Officer: “Pilot boat, Hysteria. Is the pilot boarding now instead of at 1000 as scheduled?”
“Hysteria, Pilot Boat: Yes, yes. Call Captain immediately and proceed full speed for pilot”.
2nd Officer: “Pilot boat, Hysteria. Waking up everybody, getting engines ready and picking up anchor”.


(Usual chaos on board. Crew going from 0 to 100 in 3.8 seconds.)


0208: “Pilot boat, Hysteria, Captain speaking. What time do you want me at the pilot station 5 miles away?”
“Captain, pilot waiting for you. You must go Full Ahead now!”
“Pilot boat, there is the small matter of six shackles down in the water...”
“Captain, you must hurry or you will miss the tide”
“Pilot boat, better the tide than the anchor. I am picking up anchor ASAP and will proceed at maximum safe speed to the pilot station.”

Chief Engineer, who has come up sleepily to the bridge: “Cap, please remind the pilot that this is not a Ferrari”. Cap keeps quiet, because the Chief is a burly man.


0215:”Hysteria, this is the pilot boat. Full Ahead!”
Captain: “Pilot boat, Hysteria. Picking up anchor. Will call you back after anchor is aweigh”.
“Ahh, Captain, maybe we have to berth you at the next tide.”


0237: “Pilot boat, Hysteria. Anchor is aweigh and proceeding to pilot station at full speed. ETA 25 minutes. My course now is 070”.
“Hysteria, this is the pilot boat. Two three five.”
“Pilot, this is Hysteria. What???”
“Captain, Turn around and steer 235. Your pilot is coming from another outbound ship now at a position three miles astern of you”.
“Pilot boat, Hysteria. Am now turning around to starboard and reducing speed. Will keep clear of anchored ships (six of which are bearing between 225 and 265 a mile away) and pick up pilot”.

(Another voice on VHF): “Hysteria, this is your pilot on outbound ship”.
“Yes, pilot, Hysteria”
“Stop Engines!”
Captain: “What??”
“Stop Engines!!!”
0239: “Pilot, Captain from Hysteria. There is a five knot current here and I am less than a mile from ships at anchor, have just started turning around on full helm as advised and you want me to stop with the current on my beam in the middle of my turn?”

“Yes, Captain. Stop Engines. Pilot will board you in fifteen minutes.”


(Silence from the Hysteria, which is brought around stemming the tide until the pilot boat approaches a good forty five minutes later and then turned again to make a lee for the boat. Pilot boards. Colourful Master Pilot Exchange of information. )



Location, the North Sea, in the Traffic Separation Scheme off Texel, one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. “Hysteria” overtaking a small coastal vessel on her port quarter slowly, about six cables off. Master shaving on the bridge, Chief Officer on watch.

Chief Officer raps and throws open bridge toilet door. “Sir, please come quickly”
Small coastal vessel is now four cables off, has altered course and is heading straight for the Hysteria.
Her name is M.V. Cuckoo, the Chief Officer informs the Captain.

Captain goes to VHF wiping the lather off his face. Rattles off instructions to Chief Officer en route: Sound five short rapid blasts. What are all these other ships closeby doing? Tell engine room we may be reducing speed suddenly. What course are you steering? (this, to the helmsman). I have taken over watch now, 0528. How far is she now?

Picks up VHF handset. Cuckoo, Cuckoo, this is Hysteria. (Voice drowned by first flatulent blast of foghorn)

Chief Officer: (second F Blast) You have taken over, aye. Four (third FB) ships crossing, 045 (fourth FB), calling ER (last FB, thank the Lord). Three cables.

Captain: (to helmsman after quick look around) Zero five five. Cuckoo, Cuckoo, this is Hysteria. Please go back to your original course and maintain your course and speed!

Lazy guttural voice on VHF: Hysteria, zis is Cuckoo. I am altering course towards you since I am bound for Port Chaos.

Cuckoo, this is the Hysteria. The alteration for the TSS for Port Chaos is eight miles away. Right now, I cannot go more to starboard since there are other ships very close by. Please go back to port and maintain your course and speed until I overtake you and am well clear!

Angry guttural voice: “Hysteria, this is Cuckoo. Why should I alter course? You are overtaking, YOU keep clear of me. I cannot change my destination just because you are overtaking me.”




After a fair amount of zigging and zagging, collision with the Cuckoo is avoided. Post this close shave, Master hands over watch, and goes and completes another close shave in the loo in three minutes. Returns for a post rattled coffee. Takes over and alters course to cross a traffic lane to head for the Hysteria’s destination, a small Belgian port.

More zigging and zagging between other ships and fishing boats.


VHF crackles. Sexy female voice.

Sexy Female voice: “Hysteria, this is Raising Heartbeat Coast Guard”.
Captain: “Sexy female voice, this is...” (pause) “Correction, Raising Heartbeat Coast Guard, this is Hysteria”
SFV:”Hysteria, are you crossing the traffic lane?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am, as reported to VTS five minutes ago.”

SFV: “Roger, Hysteria. Be advised that you are in contravention of Rule 10 of the Collision Regulations which require ships crossing traffic lanes to do so as nearly as practicable at right angles to the general direction of traffic flow”.


“Raising Heartbeat Coast Guard, this is Hysteria. I am well aware of that rule, and have altered course momentarily to keep clear of a fishing vessel on my bow. At the moment, I am seventy eight degrees to the general direction of traffic flow instead of ninety. Will be altering again in three minutes to comply fully with Rule 10. Meanwhile, am complying with Rule1, which states that a ship shall not collide with anybody or anything”.


Undaunted SFV: “Hysteria. I cannot see any fishing boat. Be advised that you are in contravention of Rule 10 of the Collision Regulations which require ships crossing traffic lanes to do so as nearly as practicable at right angles to the general direction of traffic flow”.

Raising Heartbeat, Hysteria. The fishing boat is like God. Just because you cannot see it does not mean that it doesn’t exist.




My favourite? Brand new Third Mate, with Certificate of Incompetency hanging in cabin for ink to dry. Hysteria exiting TSS off Horsburgh, Singapore Straits, approx time 2100. Master hanging around bridge, although the averred Third Mate has the Conn. Third Mate chain smoking Marlboros, dropping ash everywhere.


Master idly sees VLCC in ballast crossing from port to starboard some miles away. Third Mate is cool, displaying a Zen like calm not unusual to many seafarers when they do not know what they are doing.

Hulk gets closer. Bearing does not appear to be changing. A bright, cloudless, moonlit, star studded night and the faraway loom from Singapore almost convert night into day, so the bulk of superstructure of the VLCC, along with her navigation lights, are all very clearly visible.
Master checks ARPA, VLCC is 4 miles off, will pass ahead of the Hysteria but by less than a half a mile when right ahead. Subsequent CPA is 2 cables. Third Mate remains in Zen calm mode. He must be really good.


Master knows he will have to take over. Fortunately, he also knows that the Hysteria is just clearing the TSS, has huge sea room and there is no other problematic traffic for miles.


Therefore, he asks the Third Mate, pointing to the VLCC which, by now, is close enough so that her navigation lights, her superstructure lights as well as the entire hulk of her silhouette can be seen clear as a wall. In fact, the considerable distance between her forward and after masthead lights is clearly evident, and is perhaps ten degrees apart in bearing at this close range.


So, the Master says, Third, what are you planning to do about this one?


Third Mate, still unconcerned, explains patiently to the Master: “Cap, these lights are two fishing boats. That one (pointing to the forward mastlight of the behemoth) is one boat, and that one (now pointing to the VLCC’s accommodation, aft masthead light and starboard sidelight all bunched one atop another) is another boat.”

Getting more confident by the minute, the Third Mate goes on, “I altering course to port soon. I going between the two sets of lights. Right in the middle.”


Checkmate.
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The Sitting Duck Defence

(Anti piracy measures for dummies )


I have found a way for seafarers to tackle Somali piracy and emerge winners every time. The recommended and modified Saltshaker plan (aka Sitting Duck defence, version1, copyright 2008) is reproduced below. Subject to your approval, of course. Please be gentle.


Prior to the vessel entering pirate waters, a new flag to be hoisted on the main mast: a replica of Michael Bedard’s “Sitting Ducks” (see above). Note the bullet holes behind the duck that ducked.


At the first sign of the pirates closing in, alarm bells to be rung and crew mustered on the bridge. The new ‘pirate attack contingency plan’ to involve one selected athletic crewmember who is an excellent swimmer standing by with walkie talkie.


Meanwhile, the Master tries his rusty and shaking hand at evasive manoeuvres; he may even attempt a Williamson’s turn and log it down in triplicate as per the relevant manuals. (Be careful when coming on to the reciprocal course, though, as you may hit a pirate boat, which is against good seamanship). Another officer sends out the appropriate distress signal (and logs it down for fear of being hauled up for a non conformity later. Come what may, the paperwork must always be in order.)


After sufficient time has elapsed to dispel pirate suspicion that this attack is too easy, suitable lee to be made for the pirate boat and said athletic crewmember to be sent on deck to receive the gentlemen. Engines to be simultaneously set for maximum speed, autopilot engaged, after which the Master and the rest of the crew go into stealth mode and make their way to preplanned locations simultaneously as per the stamped and approved ISPS anti piracy contingency plan (more later, unfortunately).


The athletic crewmember welcomes the pirates on board and reports on the walkie talkie, “Bridge, pirates aboard” to keep up appearances and look seamanlike. He then escorts them to the bridge from inside the accommodation.


The pirates are not too puzzled at finding the bridge empty; they should be used to people disappearing from their sight in fear. In any case, they start fanning out everywhere as per their own approved and stamped ISM manuals, while our sole crewmember goes to the bridge wing and looks around and up as if trying to find the Officer of the Watch (OOW) on the monkey island. He can’t see him easily, so he goes right to the extremity of the bridge wing.


He then jumps into the water and swims like hell away from the ship.


Meanwhile, the rest of the crew have abandoned the ship by liferaft or lifeboat or similarly jumped overboard even as athletic crew was escorting the pirates. Note: It is preferable that at least survival craft is in the water (of sufficient capacity blah blah and complying with all the irrelevant regulations in this case) else, things can get slightly hairy, especially for non swimmers. It is also recommended that due care be taken while abandoning the vessel at her maximum speed, which is not normally recommended. However, beggars cannot be choosers, especially if they are sitting ducks).


Anyway, the ship is now proceeding at flank speed with confused pirates on board searching hither and thither for the crew. Somewhat like those ‘Speed’ movies which are so popular. Shall we call this one Speed 6?


Remember that the crew (and at least one survival craft) is in the water. Crew are picked up by, or make their way to, this craft, where they wait to be rescued by one of the numerous navies cluttering the seas in the region who should be able to do something simple, like receiving a distress message and acting on it. If they take too long, the crew polishes off the survival rations (and logs it down). Athletic crewmember gets double rations on the quiet.


It now gets interesting. In case there are any pirate boats with armed pirates in the water along with our survival craft, what can they do?

a) Kill the crew? What for? The ransom they get is for the ship, which seems to be, literally, on its own trip. Might as well save the AK47 ammo.
b) Rescue the crew? Likewise. Like the dog that chases a car, what will they do with the crew after they have caught them?
c) Try to chase and board the ship themselves? Let them.


As for the pirates on board the hijacked ship, well, either they have the expertise to navigate and work the engines or they do not. If they can navigate, they lower the duck flag, proceed to Eyl remembering to go astern before dropping anchor as per their ISM manual, and make their usual demands (Easier on the owners, too, they don’t have to pretend they are paying ransom for the crew, or handle pesky relatives demanding the return of seafarers in one piece).

If the pirates can’t manoeuvre the ship, they leave the duck flag up and wait for the fuel to run out, or the ship to hit something or, alternatively, they jump into the water themselves. By the time they figure out that nobody is on board, they should be miles away from the crew anyway. Meanwhile, coalition navies make plans to rappel down dramatically from helicopters or otherwise board the ship to apprehend the pirates: the usual commando stuff they love to do but don’t seem to do enough.


Wait a minute! Hey, maybe the navies cannot do that at all! Because, is the ship technically hijacked or is it abandoned now? If the latter case, are the pirates salvors? And if so, is salvage likely to be higher than ransom? And if so, the plot has really thickened, has it not? (Note to myself: Consult maritime legal experts. Consider alternative career path in Somalia. Remember to take all safety precautions while boarding ships at high speed. Remember you are not young anymore.)


Flash of inspiration again. What if I modify the plan and have the Master and crew abandon ship even before the hijackers come aboard? What would happen if crew abandoned ship whenever they saw a suspected pirate boat approaching? And why are the Rules of the Road silent on the critical subject of ‘Responsibilities between lifeboats being lowered and pirate boats coming hell for leather for you?’ (I hope they keep short rapid blasts out of this rule, we are all jittery enough as it is)

The possibilities are endless.


In conclusion and after repeatedly going over this plan, I do believe that it is foolproof and workable. I am now going to take it to the relevant authorities for necessary approval. I request the IMO to pause in making their usual rules and resolutions, dig up their dusty ISPS regulations (there they are, at the bottom of that dusty pile!), and start modifying the ISPS code asap and accordingly, incorporating my practicable plan.


Let us have something that works, for a change. Nothing else has.












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One Pressure Cooked Mariner with fries, please

With reference to the Command of a ship, one of the greyest legal areas I can think of is the relationship between a pilot and a Master, and indeed between a pilot and the navigational watch. It can be stressful, ambivalent and confusing at the best of times. Relatively newer practices and codes, including checklists and logs for ‘Master Pilot exchange’ have done little except generate more paper in an attempt to, well, CYA.

I have been witness to a near miss with a nearsighted pilot and a near moronic Chief Officer, who saw the boat fifty feet away and did not inform the pilot, because quote Cap, the pilot on the bridge, it his job unquote. Though this may be an extreme example, it highlights the confusion. What is a pilot? Well, traditionally it was advisor or “Servant of the vessel”- which put most of the liability on the Master, and therefore the Owners.

If this wasn’t confusing enough, we now have the Cosco Busan ruling against the pilot. This, in my view, changes, well, everything.

Let’s take a step back to try to understand the ramifications. Ignore the hype surrounding Capt. Cota’s alcohol, depression and prescription drug related issues. Ignore the dead birds and the oil spilled, even as you wonder how many birds have been killed and how much oil (not to speak of blood) has been spilled in Iraq. Ignore his 27 years experience or his recourse to the Fifth Amendment. Ignore his pancreatis and migraines and CPAP machines and apnea- remember this is a country which is used to finding specks of dirt on it’s Presidents’ and Presidential Candidates’ shoes, and so a marine pilot is, like the birds, fair and easier game.

Ignore the hoopla and come to the root of the matter. Which is, answer this question
“What is the legal role of a Pilot and/or the Master on the bridge of a ship in US waters?”

“Search me” is my answer. Perhaps somebody in the room has a better one.

Not an idle question and answer session, this. People are going to jail for these “crimes”. Criminalistion of the seafarer is fait accompli; it just got expanded to include pilots. However, at least we mariners are entitled to know the areas we are individually and collectively liable in, and which one of us will go to jail for what, and who will do what and to whom, and so on.

Or is that too uncomfortable a question?


Come to think of it, many other such grey areas exist in a Masters day to day working life. Idly thinking about this, and paraphrasing, here is a random compilation from my own experience. I hasten to add that these grey areas are usually exploited to create pressure, one which unfortunately many of us mariners succumb to. And, actually, so is putting a mariner in jail – not for a criminal act, but for an accident- a pressure tactic.

If we mariners had any sense, we would, similar to airline pilots, refuse to sail, or operate, from the very moment there was a possibility of lower safety, or when any of the myriad rules were broken. Our threshold of acceptable risk is just too high in today’s blame game world.


This would mean ships held up in port or delayed at sea, longer voyages and lower profits, higher costs for garbage and sludge disposal and maintenance of critical machinery (how many times have the engineers been less than happy with the separator’s performance and struggled with it daily?). It would mean turning the profit and loss statements and balance sheets of companies on their collective heads. It would mean a hundred changes to practices, stores and spares, manning and manning certificates, safe ports and terminals, pilotage and weather routeing, safe speeds and bunker and water reserves.
It would also mean a lower chance of a jail term, so, gentlemen, maybe it is time to prioritise.

But apologies, I digress and transgress.

Anyway, here is my promised grey area compilation of pressure tactics. Some suggested responses are in brackets, though to save time and stay ahead of the curve, perhaps you should take out that suitcase first, if you are sailing. Else, enjoy.

Trust me, all these incidents happened in firms many of us would consider ‘standard’.

I repeat, too, that these are paraphrased- even slightly exaggerated. But these incidents are essentially true. Actually, I must confess that one or two of the suggested responses are more than just ‘suggested’. One lives and learns and hopes...


· Charterer’s rep: “Captain, I have sailed in these waters for a long time and nobody reduces speed in thick fog and zero visibility, and nobody even doubles watches or uses the foghorn. However, and psst, you have overriding authority.” (Suggested response: That is indeed excellent. Why don’t you take over from me and crash at 25 knots using your overriding authority instead of mine?)

· Manager: “It is very difficult to get good junior officers these days. Though I understand you are always in fog and narrow waters in one of the busiest traffic density area in the world, why don’t you manage with this useless and dangerous guy for sometime?” (SR: Ok boss. But since I am doing all his work, and since the manning certificate is a joke, why don’t I sack him instead and you give me his wages in addition to mine?)

· Superintendent: “During your next port stay of ten long hours, I am coming down to Port Chaos. We will call Class and do six surveys. We will also do a ship inspection, an ISM audit and have four beers in the evening. Meanwhile, don’t forget the cargo, stores, sludge disposal and crew change and such small routine stuff, and stop people even dreaming of going ashore”. (SR: Great! Since we will also ‘do’ the crew, -and since I hear it is a peaceful berth and a wonderful place for stopping the ship so everybody can sleep till we comply with the mandatory rest periods, we will do that too. Will you inform Operations or should I?)

· Superintendent: “That equipment is critical for the survey. I don’t know why the Chief is saying it has been knackered for months and has been mentioned so in his handover notes four months ago... It was working fine last month when I was there.” (SR:Then you should have done the survey last month)

· Owner’s representative: “What do you mean a Flag State Inspection has stopped the ship because of holes in the funnel?? Why didn’t someone point them out to the Superintendent when he visited last month? How can they expect us to renew plating before the ship sails. Can’t you make an arrangement with them and get the ship moving? How come you didn’t report these holes when you joined a week ago?” (SR: Yes, I probably can make an arrangement, but in case I get jailed in this country reputed for strict laws and low corruption, will my contract and wages be on till I am released, at least? And apologies, next time I will go directly to the funnel of any ship with a toothcomb as soon as I step on board)

· Dry Dock Superintendent to Chief Engineer: “Chief, there is a lot of oil around in the water from the yard just outside the dry dock. When are you are afloat, can’t you lower your bilges a bit?” (SR: Yep, and maybe my pants too?)

· Operations: “Captain XYZ always loaded five hundred tonnes more cargo than you. Can you explain why you are loading less?” (SR: Lemme try. We are unfortunately limited by deadweight. Also, you see, he was often sailing with the loadline well immersed, because he also had problems taking out the ballast. Can I send you photocopies of the official log book where the Chief Officer has logged down sailing drafts? And if so, do you want the same officer’s statement confirming this, or will my word do?)

· Manning Superintendent/DPA who has not sailed for a decade and a half: “Captain, the charterers are complaining that you have informed them, based on calculations, that many containers are under declared in weight, and hence you may have to shut out cargo. If you do that, we will spoil relations with them, which we must avoid at any cost. Can you send me a full report ASAP right now, even though I understand it is past midnight over there?” (SR: Sure. Make sure the secretary you have arranged to assist me is blonde with blue eyes, please?)




Come to think of it, some of these incidents are quite funny. Maybe I can write a book next time I am behind bars. As the management types say, in every adversity there is an opportunity.

Mariners seem to be getting a lot of opportunities these days.



First published in www.marexbulletin.com