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Looking every bir rhequeen oft he harbor, the Marjorie B. McAllister charges across rhe Upper Bay, pushing a hill of war er before her.
Th e Bruce A. McA lli ster wirh her e/evaring pilorhouse fully ex/ended.
Returning to the wheelhouse, I faced abo ut three hours of unbroken silence. What came closest to a real tirade was administered to me by a fellow I could best describe as a blue-collar Ed Koch, almost identical in voice and appearance, gifted with the same endless stream of homespun Jew ish wisdom. He was one of several captains who had been on thi s same run for years, confronted with innumerable new hands and, of course, well versed in the ways of the blue scow. Armed with a trident of wisdom-humanity, business and garbage-he attacked with zeal the root of any probl em that arose. When thi s captain told me, over loud hailer, to " pick up the slack," as I stood halfway between two slack lines, I should have known which one to tend to--or, in this case, that both needed to be taken up and where I started didn ' t matter. It 's a mi stake that is as easy to make, from a new hand 's point of view, as it is infuriatingly stupid to an ex perienced captain. My confusion was met with a louder order to " Pick up the slack! " Sensing the urgency in hi s voice, I thought even more of the importance of doing this properly-" If he ' s ti cked off now, he' ll be livid if I start mess ing with the wrong line." Anyone can see why the captain wo uld want to beat me senseless. Instead, he cut short my hesi tation with a deafening "My GOD!- PICK!- UP!- THE!- SLACK!" At thi s point the scows began to drift a bit and one line came taut whil e the other went completely slack. I quickly took up the slack line. There was no reprimand . Then the other line went slack , and I took it in . We continued until there was no more slack. I later learned that thi s is standard procedure to make up a tow that behaves more or less as a unit. Going Deepwater Of course, not all tugs spend their days ungl amorously wedged between mounds of refu se. Many tugboatmen prefer the work, though , because it' s steady and predictable. There will always be garbage and there will be lots of it. But I j umped at the opportunity to move to an offshore boat. My first was 11 8 feet overall, 4200 horsepower twin screw, with Kort nozzles, flanking rudders and an elevating pilothouse-several generations more adva nced than the garbage boats. Many of the offshore boats transport fuel barges, which is a very different kind of work. In this there is
much less room for error. When a scow needs to be shifted , it can be pushed about endlessly, wedged against and piv oted on a pi er, scratched and dented without a single eyebrow raised. As the scows are tough, the oil barges are pri stine and delicate. Some to wing companies have lost contracts when a scratch appeared in the pa int on the side of a barge. Though it ' s a more tense bu siness , it' s hard to say whether or not the work is reall y more interest ing. The crew ex periences short periods of intense work when mooring and maneuvering or chang ing into and out of pu sh gear. These mane uvers have to be well-timed and full y coordinated. In between these periods of acti vity on deck can be long stretches when the barge is on the wire and there's fru stratingly li ttle to do . There is always chipping and pa inting, but the boat is only 11 8 feet long and the stern is constantl y awash and the foredeck soaked in spray, so not much ex terior work can be done. The confinement is magnifi ed by the small size of the crew (usually five) and the ever-present heat and noi se from the tug ' s oversized engines .. But just when things get slow enough to force you to do somethin g like bake cookies, that 's when trouble starts. On one such occasion I was putting the finishing touches on a batch of peanut butter cookies, and as I wa lked over to slide them into the oven I stumbled as the tug shook violently once, then again even more violently, and I heard a loud "bang" from port side midships, followed by softer shudders and a cracki ng sound . A malfunctioning autopilot had swung the rudder hard left, throwing immen se strain on the push gear. Thi s parted a one- inch steel cable and two 8- inch synthetic fiber lines. Lucky for us it was a calm warm spring ni ght on Long Island Sound. The decklights were sw itched on , shedding a canop y of li ght amid the surrounding darkness. The barge's dog was barking, orders were shouted back and forth , winches squealed, lines strained and a new tow came into shape. The deck lights were sw itched off and we went merril y on our way, enjoying a small celebration over fresh-baked cook ies. Unique to the seaman is the fee ling of coming ashore in a new port. Perhaps the senses are rendered sharper by days of minimal stimulation on an a lmost constant sea under a similarly slow-chang ing sky. Whatever the reason, th e sailor comes ashore ready to take on the world.
SEA HISTORY 76, WINTER 1995-96
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