Death of a Supertanker

by Antony Trew

  Jarrett came to the bridge to take over the watch at five minutes to four that morning; five minutes earlier than usual. Foley would normally have commented on this, perhaps even been flippant about it, but their relationship was under intense strain. Instead he got on with the handover as quickly and impersonally as he could. He rattled through course and speed, ship’s position, ETA 0530 for the alteration of course off Agulhas, distance off shore, details of traffic approaching and the engineroom manning state. He finished with a terse reference to the meteorological forecast, the possibility of fog and the Captain’s night order book. Then, having once again deliberately defaulted on the preparation of coffee, he went to the chartroom where he wrote up the deck logbook and recorded and charted the 0400 position by Decca Navigator.

  In his desire to hand over with almost indecent speed he failed to mention the north-westerly set of the current, but succeeded in going below a good deal earlier than usual – a fact noticed by Gomez the quartermaster whose relief, much to his disgust, had not yet arrived.

  A few minutes later Jarrett asked where Fernandez was.

  ‘Not come yet,’ said Gomez. ‘I call him ten minutes already. He say he fall asleep.’ The quartermaster expressed his disapproval with a sharp hiss.

  ‘Okay, Gomez. She’s on auto-pilot. You go below now. Tell Fernandez to shake it up or he’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I kick his backside then he come quick.’

  ‘Watch it.’ Jarrett laughed. ‘He’s bigger than you.’

  Gomez slipped round the screen into the chartroom and went down the stairway.

  Not long afterwards Fernandez arrived, breathing heavily. ‘Sorry, sir, I sleep too much.’

  ‘Not good, Jorge. You keep Gomez waiting.’

  The quartermaster made apologetic noises.

  ‘Right,’ said Jarrett. ‘Now you can do something for me. Slip down below and get my blue jersey. Third drawer down, right-hand side of the wardrobe cupboard. It’s colder up here than I reckoned.’

  The relationship between the chief officer and Fernandez the senior quartermaster was a good one and they would often chat to each other while on watch. Fernandez never took advantage of this and always treated Jarrett with respect.

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  When the quartermaster came back with the jersey Jarrett told him to go to the bridge wing. ‘Keep a sharp lookout. There’s a fair amount of traffic about.’

  Fernandez left the wheelhouse and Jarrett went to the chart-room. He stayed there for some minutes before returning to the wheelhouse, when he called Fernandez in to make coffee.

  While the quartermaster was doing this, Jarrett went back to the AC radar.

  Chapter 13

  The chief officer took binoculars from the rack and searched the horizon. The radar display had shown three ship echoes ahead in the twelve-mile range. Of these one, an echo fine on the starboard bow at eight miles, was approaching. The others on the port bow, at five and nine miles, were on parallel courses and drawing ahead.

  He was focusing on the running lights of the ship approaching when they began to fade. They showed again momentarily then blurred and faded slowly until they had disappeared.

  The fog had come.

  On the radar display he identified the echo again, pressed the key switch and aligned the range and bearing markers. The target ship was seven miles ahead now, relative bearing 003°. A mile in two minutes, thirty knots. Fernandez broke into the chief officer’s mental arithmetic. ‘Coffee’s ready, sir.’

  ‘Leave it there, Jorge. We’ve a fogbank ahead and a ship coming down in it. Take the wheel.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Fernandez went to the steering stand and moved the switch from ‘auto’ to ‘manual’. He grasped the small horseshoe wheel, looked into the gyro and checked that the ship’s head agreed with the figures on the course-to-steer indicator on the console. ‘Steering two-six-seven, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Jarrett consulted the radar again. The range on the target ship had dropped to six miles. Combined speed of approach still thirty knots, a mile every two minutes, twelve minutes to close the distance. The mental arithmetic was instinctive, force of habit. He put a relative motion marker on the echo and noted the time, 0421.

  ‘Starboard easy, bring her round slowly to two-nine-five,’ he ordered.

  ‘Starboard easy, sir.’

  The gyro clicked off the degrees as the ship’s head moved slowly to starboard. Jarrett watched the echoes on the display as they wheeled to port like well-drilled troops, their after-glow describing little arcs like the tails of comets descending. It was a long slow turn and it was some time before Fernandez reported ‘Steady on two-nine-five, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  The chief officer went to the centre of the wheelhouse, picked up the binoculars and again examined the horizon. But sea and sky had merged into an opaque wall of darkness and he could see no lights. The fogbank was still some distance ahead. He went back to the radar. The target ship was now twenty-five degrees on the port bow and the relative motion marker showed that her course would take her well clear. He switched the range to twenty-four miles and the sweep threw up the coastline in bright relief. He examined it carefully, picked out Cape Agulhas, seventeen miles ahead, and from the Cape followed the glowing neon line round Struys Bay and away to the north and east. He switched back to the six-mile range, and stood at the front windows searching the darkness ahead.

  ‘We’re not up with the fog yet,’ he said. ‘But it can’t be far now.’

  ‘Fog no good for big ship,’ observed Fernandez.

  ‘You’re right, Jorge. It’s nobody’s friend.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fernandez was hesitant. ‘Sometimes good for fish.’

  Jarrett could just see the face of the quartermaster in the dim light of the steering gyro. Jorge’s thoughts were back in the Cape Verdes, he decided. The islanders had all been fishermen in their time.

  It was not long before the first tenuous swirls of fog appeared and Jarrett went to a bridge wing where he looked over the side and saw the reflection of the port steaming light, red against the smoke-like whorls. Forward he could see a halo round the foremost running light. The mast which supported it, and the bows, were almost hidden by the streaming smoke-like mantle. It poured over him, wet and clinging, condensing in his hair and eyebrows. The silence had grown deeper, his awareness of sounds, amplified by the fog, more acute so that those he would not normally have noticed, the slap and gurgle of water passing down the side far beneath him, the distant hum of machinery from the engineroom, had become unusually loud.

  The ship was now without any point of reference, a huge steel structure, most of it invisible to him, floating in a limbo of fog, its forward motion no longer apparent because there was nothing to which it could be related.

  Away to port he heard the faint thrum of a siren and was able to place it broad on the bow. It was the ship for which he’d altered course. The radar echo had shown that it was a big ship. The deep note of the siren confirmed this.

  The fog grew denser, swirling across the bridge, shutting out the wheelhouse, isolating him on the port wing. He went back to the wheelhouse, switched on the clearview screen and the automatic wipers on the big front windows.

  ‘Now for that coffee,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t too cold.’

  Fernandez didn’t like fog, but most of all he disliked supertankers in fog. Too big to stop, too slow to turn, no quick way of getting out of trouble. Not like fishing boats. Very small, easy to turn, easy to stop, easy to escape from trouble. Unless your nets were out and a big ship came blundering through the fog and ran you down. He had lost friends and relatives that way.

  With these giants, he asked himself, what can a man do? Three hundred and twenty thousand tons pushing through the fog at twelve knots, or sixteen when they were in a hurry. All right, he conceded, they have the scientific instruments on the bridge; radar, electronic position and direc
tion finders, autopilots, depth finders, press-button engine controls. They have these things but the ships are too big. They are not for sailors. For technicians if they want them and if …

  His thoughts were interrupted by the chief officer. ‘Who’s on standby below?’

  ‘Cavalho, sir.’

  Jarrett picked up a phone and dialled the recreation room. A sleepy voice answered. ‘Is Cavalho here.’

  ‘Chief officer here. We’ve got fog. Come up to the bridge for lookout. Make it snappy.’

  Next Jarrett phoned the engine control-room. Benson answered.

  ‘We’ve got some fog, Ben. Won’t need to reduce speed. We’re on three-quarters already but I’m going to put her on “manoeuvring”. Keep the revs at sixty. Okay?’

  ‘Right, Mate. Now?’

  ‘In two minutes. I’ll log it at 0430.’

  ‘Okay. 0430. Don’t use that bloody steam whistle though. There’s a lot of people aft trying to sleep.’ The steam whistle was on the funnel close to the accommodation and the disturbance caused by its shrill blast was much resented.

  ‘Do I ever? It’ll be the foremost siren. Pneumatic, auto, marvel of modern science, nearly a thousand feet from the accommodation.’

  ‘Why use a siren? Everybody’s got radar. You’re all peering at each other on your comic little screens. See each other bloody miles away. What’s the use of a sound signal? Right old relic of the past.’

  ‘You’re right, Two-E. I agree. But the Old Man doesn’t. ‘Bye now.’

  The chief officer removed the Perspex safety cover from the engine-control buttons, put his thumb on ‘manoeuvring speed’, a light glowed in response and he replaced the cover. He pressed the switch to activate the pneumatic auto-siren on the tripod mast in the bows. Once on ‘auto’ the siren would give a six-second blast every two minutes. On this occasion it did nothing. He pressed the switch again, tried several times, but the siren remained silent.

  ‘Bloody thing’s on the blink. Would pack up when it’s wanted,’ he complained aloud.

  He phoned the engineroom. Benson answered again. ‘What’s it now, Mate? Want me up there to take over?’

  ‘The auto-siren’s gone on the blink.’

  ‘Tried pressing the auto-switch?’

  ‘Several times. Like to come and try yourself?’

  ‘Expect you pressed the wrong tit. I’ll send up one of my high technology boys.’

  ‘Great. Tell him to wipe off the grease and bring a ten-pound hammer.’

  ‘Listen, Mate. Don’t use this as an excuse for that bloody steam whistle. We’ll soon fix the auto. Right?’

  ‘Right. Remember to speak up for me.’

  ‘Okay. Jackson will be along to check the circuit. We’ll have to call the poor sod, so don’t get impatient.’

  The chief officer went to the radar, pressed his face into the rubber-lined aperture of the hood and studied the display. Soon afterwards he picked up a phone and dialled. Fernandez heard him report the onset of the fog to the Captain, explaining that he’d informed the engineroom, put the engines on ‘manoeuvring speed’ and stationed a fog lookout on the bridge. He had added that the pneumatic siren was temporarily out of order, but the engineroom was sending up an electrician to attend to it. Fernandez heard him say, ‘It won’t take long to fix, sir. If you’ve no objection I’d rather not use the steam whistle. Disturbs too many people.’

  In response to something the Captain must have said the chief officer replied, ‘Yes. There are a few ships on the display. Mostly on parallel courses. I’ve had to alter for a big ship approaching on a reciprocal course. She’s well clear now. About four points on the port bow. There are two small echoes on the starboard bow at six and ten miles. Trawlers, I’d say, from their course and speed. I’ll keep a close eye on them.’

  The Captain must have asked about the weather. The chief officer said, ‘Fog’s fairly dense, sir. Probably just a bank that’s come off the land. There’s a light north-westerly breeze, calm sea, south-easterly swell.’

  There was a longish pause before the chief officer made sympathetic noises and said, ‘Sorry to hear that, Captain. It’s probably nothing a good sleep won’t put right.’

  Later Fernandez heard him say, ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep a sharp lookout. We should be out of it before the end of the watch.’ The chief officer then returned the handset to its cradle and went back to the display hood.

  Jarrett compared the displays on the AC and TM sets. Satisfied, he left the TM radar and concentrated on the AC display. The TM set was intended for coastal navigation, but Ocean Mammoth’s officers preferred the AC radar with its anti-collision facilities. With the use of markers it could do the work of both sets, giving true motion and relative motion simultaneously.

  Jarrett left the radar and went out to the starboard wing. Cavalho was standing on the wooden grating around the gyro compass. ‘Cheer up, Cavalho,’ he said. ‘It’s sunrise soon after five. Seen anything?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Fog too thick. I hear ship on port side.’ As he spoke the faint boom of a siren sounded on the port beam.

  ‘She’s less than two miles away, Cavalho. A couple of points ahead of the beam.’

  ‘It seem more than two miles, sir.’

  ‘Fog does funny things to sound.’

  ‘Yes. I know this.’

  Jarrett said, ‘There’s a couple of small vessels ahead four points on the starboard bow. Trawlers, I think.’

  ‘I hear nothing on starboard, sir.’

  ‘Too far still, but we’re closing them. Keep a sharp lookout.’

  It was the old liturgy of the sea, ‘keep a sharp lookout’, said ever since man had sailed the waters. Even with radar it had a special urgency in bad visibility. The fog was thicker now, a moist opaque blanket which Jarrett could taste and feel. He stayed on a little longer, the two men silent with their thoughts. Back in the wheelhouse he spoke to Fernandez. ‘We’ll be altering course to port soon. Must get back on our course.’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘There are a couple of trawlers ahead to starboard. Soon as the nearest is clear we’ll alter.’ Jarrett went to the AC set and studied the display for some time, switching through the range scales, then returned to the six-mile scale and placed a relative motion marker on the nearest echo. With a white plotting pencil he wrote the time against it. He went to the coffee shelf at the back of the wheelhouse, switched on the kettle and made a cup of fresh coffee. The one Fernandez had given him had long since gone cold. He tasted the coffee. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Scalds the tongue.’ He took it with him into the chartroom.

  When Jarrett came back a few minutes later Fernandez greeted him with, ‘Ship’s head still on two-nine-five, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s what it should be on.’

  Fernandez realized from Jarrett’s tone that he had resented the reminder. The quartermaster was hurt because he’d tried to be helpful. He saw the dim shape move across to the radar units. Soon afterwards he heard him complain, ‘This chap’s a sodding nuisance. On a collision course now. Has to be a trawler the way he’s behaving.’ A moment later he ordered, ‘Starboard easy. Bring her round quietly to three-two-zero. Five degrees of wheel will do.’

  Fernandez repeated the order, put on five degrees of wheel and watched the gyro as the ship’s head began its slow swing to starboard. What seemed to him a long time later he checked it with port wheel, steadied the ship on the new course and reported, ‘Three-two-zero, sir.’

  ‘Steer three-two-zero.’ The chief officer consulted the radar again.

  ‘I’d better pass well astern of him. Must have his trawl out.’

  Fernandez said, ‘Yes, sir.’ His sympathies were all with the trawler. Fishing was a hard enough life without having to get out of the way of supertankers. He wasn’t pleased when the chief officer added, ‘That’s the trouble with the Agulhas Bank. Lousy with trawlers. You never know what the silly sods’ll do next.’

  Ferna
ndez made an ambiguous noise. It could have been agreement or disapproval. ‘Must go to where fish is,’ he added in an undertone, a truth which seemed to him beyond dispute. The chief officer may or may not have heard for he said nothing as he went through to the chartroom.

  Jarrett recorded the change of course and the time – 0438 – in the deck logbook and on the Admiralty chart. Before returning to the wheelhouse he consulted the note on the board above the chart-table which gave the times of sunrise and sunset in Foley’s neat script. He saw that sunrise was just after five o’clock.

  He’d not been in the wheelhouse long when the electrician arrived. Jarrett looked at the clock on the console – 0445. It was more than a quarter of an hour since he’d asked Benson to send someone up to look at the auto-switch. ‘Hullo, Jackson,’ he said. ‘You certainly haven’t wasted time.’ The sarcasm didn’t amuse Jackson. A taciturn, humourless man, he was bowed down by the multiplicity of electrical faults in a new ship with many circuits still unfamiliar to him. ‘Did my best,’ he said sourly. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘The circuit on the foremost siren is dead. Nothing happens if I press the auto-switch.’

  ‘Could use the steam whistle aft, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I know I could, Jackson, but the higher echelons who sleep under it seem agreed that I shouldn’t.’

  The electrician shook his head. ‘Don’t seem much point in having a steam whistle then.’

  ‘It has other uses,’ Jarrett reminded him.

  The electrician was about to say something but changed his mind. He sighed noisily, put down the tool carrier and set about dismantling the auto-switch by the light of a torch. ‘Like as not the trouble’s somewhere else but I’d better make a start on this.’