It was a normal flight from Mumbai to Singapore. By normal I mean that it took me from my home – full of noise, heat and excitement – to the almost sterile world of ship board life in the 21st century. Singapore is a familiar place, but I don’t always fly there to meet my hitch. After 35 years of this, I have visited more than 50 countries; most of which I can’t recall. Not that I see much of the port these days. As Captain on LPG carriers for the past 15 years I am married to the ship (with about 30 wives under my belt – thank God I don’t pay child support), which means that I must stay on her during port calls. Each port is met with ship chandlers, cargo surveyors, vetting inspections, class surveyors, superintendents, port state authorities, etc. All of these people require the Captain’s utmost attention, or at the very least my signature and ship’s stamp. Everything is official these days. Every action taken on the ship must be signed off by the Captain, no matter how trivial. My signature, once practiced with great care in primary school and eventually formed into a perfect little extension of my own personality, has now become a single loop with two dots. Nobody cares what my name is. The only thing that matters on all those papers is her stamp. I have used many stamps. While the names change, the sound of the imprint is always the same. The cold “CLICK, THUMP” as the ink is laid on the page next to my inscrutable loop and two dots. Copies are made. One of my officers files it away in one of the never-ending binders that align the bulkheads throughout the ship.
I meet the vessel at the dock. This is my first time on her. The name jumps out in all caps along her stern “GAS FREEDOM”. Great. The next four (plus or minus one, usually plus) months of my contract are going to be fraught with stairs laid out in half sized steps and poorly installed toilets. Chinese built. It’s not her name that gives it away; it’s the hull and bridge. She is too wide at the stern and too narrow on the bridge wings. All cargo. No concern for proper ship handling. Built to make money for 10 years then to be sold off to make rounds in the Asian gas trade before she falls apart.
The gangway watchman greets me with the typical enthusiastic Filipino “Good afternoon, sir!” Is the entire crew Filipino? The company sent multiple e-mails with all the vessel details, but I didn’t bother to read them. Not that it matters. I just hope the Chief Cook is Indian, or at the very least knows how to make decent biryani.
I lay on the couch adjoining the forward bulkhead. Stiff red leather that doesn’t give any comfort and creaks when I move. Chinese couch. I’m too tired to care. I think about the grit and heat of Mumbai. Peace in chaos.
It isn’t long before the Messman comes to wake me up. He looks like he is maybe 19. I wonder if it is his first ship. He seems nervous – uncomfortable in his own skin.
“Good morning, sir” he manages to say. I look at him and glance at the clock on the bulkhead behind him. It’s 1400.
“Good afternoon would be the appropriate greeting, Messman,” I inform him.
This is almost too much for him to handle. I ask him what he wants.
“Can I get you anything, sir? Maybe something to eat? Would you like some pussy?”
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!?”
His eyes open wide, tears well up, knees buckling. He manages to run back into the galley as I lurch off the couch.
“GET THE CHIEF COOK IN HERE – NOW!” I yell to anyone that will hear me.
There’s a dead silence followed by very fast talking emanating from the galley. Tagalog always sounds like a steady jumble of words to me during normal conversation, but this is a record-breaking stream of indiscernible noise like I’ve never heard before. After a few minutes the Chief Cook comes into the Officer’s mess room.
He looks like an old salt. Probably my age, if not older. He seems calm. Probably had his share of pissed off captains in the past. Nothing can shake this guy, I tell myself. We stare at each other for a few moments, both understanding this life we’ve chosen. I calm down.
“Cookie, what the hell is your Messman doing? Why is he offering me pussy? I won’t have that kind of shit on my ship. I’ve heard of this kind of thing before, but if that is going on it stops today.”
The Chief Cook nods in agreement. “Sir,” he begins “the Messman is only doing his job.”
“By offering me pussy? What, his pussy? Or is there a girl/boy on this ship?” Stories I’ve heard from other sailors start to creep up from my memory. Long trips around the world leave people hungry for what they get at home or in port. It wasn’t uncommon to have a designated girl/boy onboard to satiate that hunger.
“Please let me finish, sir.”
I stop talking and look back at him. Waiting.
“Sir, there is a misunderstanding. He was not asking if you wanted pussy. He was offering pusit. In Tagalog that means squid. We have squid and rice for lunch.”
I think about this for a moment. It passes. Another day for a sailor, another story. Move on.
“Just squid and rice? Do you know how to make Indian dishes?”
“No, sir. You are the first Indian Captain with our company. Sorry.”
“That will be all. I’m not hungry anymore.”
As he leaves the mess room I lay back down on the Chinese couch. It groans as I put my weight on it. This is going to be a long four months. Plus or minus one. Usually plus.
