Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.
PORTLAND, Ore. — Years ago, aboard my first ship as a young cadet, I noticed a man pacing along the bridge deck. I asked the third mate who he was.
"That's the captain," he said. "Loneliest man on the ship. No one wants him around, and when there's a problem, he's on his own."
Watching the film "Captain Phillips," which opened last month and tells the story of a ship hijacked by pirates, I recalled that conversation. One of the things this movie does well is depict the loneliness and vulnerability of a ship at sea: of the crew and, most of all, the captain.
Despite the real threat of a lethal brand of piracy and the dangerous waters of many international trade routes, merchant mariners are not soldiers. They are mechanics, cooks, deck scrubbers and ship drivers. They wear coveralls rather than snappy uniforms. Their mission is to safely deliver cargo. Tankers carry oil, while containerships haul anything manufacture: cellphones, mattresses, shirts and pretty much everything else you use. And mariners X out the days on their calendars until their tour of duty is up, so they can walk down the gangway and go home for a couple of months.
I spent the last 10 years of my career, in the 1990s, as captain of a containership called the MV President Garfield. For part of that time, I would commute 24 hours from Oregon to Singapore and relieve the other captain. After the containers were loaded, we would toss off our mooring lines, back down and strike out: less than two dozen souls managing a ship the size of an aircraft carrier, with cargo worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
We would head west, usually at night, round Raffles Lighthouse, and enter the dreaded Malacca Strait, a crowded sea lane, infested, at the time, with pirates. "Pirate-Night" signs would be posted, notifying the crew that special procedures were to be followed and that this was a night of particular danger.
The sailors would lead fire hoses out over the side to deter unfriendly boarders with the threat of heavy streams of water. All entries to the house, where the crew lives, and engine spaces would be locked, and no one was allowed on deck. Heavy metal gates would be padlocked in place. On the bridge wings, we mounted powerful spotlights and positioned one sailor at each light. Our only weapon was one .38 revolver in the safe in my stateroom.
In the control center, I would operate one radar, the watch mate the other. We knew what pirate boats looked like on the screen: high-speed targets, usually unlit. When we spotted one, we would hit it with the spotlight, letting the boat know we were aware of it and that it should seek trouble elsewhere.
One night, we were anchored off the coast of Colombo, Sri Lanka. An anchored ship is even more vulnerable than a ship under way. It was a clear night. Hundreds of boats, of fishermen mostly, sailed out of the breakwater. We had taken all precautions, but being stationary, we were an easy target.
The watch mate called me up to the bridge shortly after midnight, waking me from a deep sleep. A small boat approached, coming alongside in spite of the laser. We watched as men threw ropes with grappling hooks over the rail of our ship. A half-dozen men, dressed all in black, climbed hand over hand 30 feet up onto our deck, hauled tools aboard, then disappeared into the rows of containers.
We mustered the crew, brought extra lookouts to the bridge, manned the engine room and made sure no one was on deck. From the bridge, we could hear the pirates working, getting ever nearer the house. They cut through the seals and opened the giant doors to the containers until they found cargo they liked: computers and TV sets. They lowered a few dozen boxes into their boat. Then we waited. It was a still night, and we could hear their voices. They seemed to be debating — in what language, I didn't know. I had strapped on my pistol, though I had never shot it before. My plan, if they came, was to frighten them away with a warning shot. If the pirates were armed and got to the bridge, my gun might only exacerbate the problem. Pirates want to reach the captain, have him open his safe, and take the cash.
After several breathless minutes, the pirates climbed over the rail one by one, dropped down to their boat and left. And I never anchored in Colombo again.
The captain's primary duty is to protect the crew, the ship and the cargo. A merchant vessel is defenseless, but vulnerability makes the crew resourceful. They make do with what they've got.
A ship is like a space station, the oceans of the world an interplanetary void. There are challenges: typhoons, shoals, breakdowns, alien cultures, difficult personalities, sickness, congested waterways and, occasionally, pirates. Reaching the next port safely is always a cause for celebration.
Joseph Jablonski, a retired sea captain, is the author of the novel "Three Star Fix."
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