Death of a Supertanker

by Antony Trew

  ‘Went down below as I came in.’ Foley said it mechanically as he turned back to the chart-table and pointed to the chart. ‘These aren’t the figures I wrote against the course before you took over. I wrote two-five-seven, not two-six-seven degrees. Who changed that?’ The words trailed away as if it were all too much for him. He moved over to the far side of the chart-table, switched on the echo-sounder. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ his voice was suddenly strident. ‘Look at this… we’re in eight fathoms!… look! It’s shoaling… my God, it’s shoaling.’

  For a moment Jarrett watched the flickering neon figures with staring eyes. ‘Christ!’ He ran into the wheelhouse shouting, ‘Hard-a-port! Hard-a-port!’

  Fernandez repeated the order, put the wheel hard over and the helm indicator travelled slowly across its red arc. He knew from experience that it would take fifteen seconds to complete the movement to hard-over. They seemed to him to be fifteen very long seconds.

  Jarrett depressed the ‘Full Ahead’ button on the control console and phoned the engineroom. Benson answered.

  ‘Mate here, Ben. I’m going to sound emergency stations. We could run aground. Keep her full ahead. We’ve gone hard-a-port. May get clear.’ There was a shocked ‘Jesus!’ from Benson. Jarrett rang off and thumbed the siren button for ‘emergency stations’. The comparative quiet of early morning was shattered by ear-splitting roars from the steam whistle on the funnel abaft the bridge. In the sudden silence which followed, the water noises along the hull and the rising note of the turbines sounded unusually loud.

  Jarrett pressed the speak-button on the handmike of the broadcast system. ‘Emergency stations, land close ahead,’ he warned. ‘Emergency stations. Land close ahead.’

  Foley, who’d dashed into the wheelhouse on the heels of the chief officer, went to a radar set and began fingering the controls. Jarrett shouted, ‘No good. They’re on the blink.’

  The second officer joined him. The two men, their animosity forgotten in the face of sudden disaster, stood at the front windows, their bodies rigid, their eyes straining to see through the fog.

  From somewhere ahead came a series of two short blasts followed by a long blast – the ‘U’ of the International Code – ‘you are standing into danger’. An agitated voice with a strong Afrikaans accent came over the VHF loudspeaker on the bridge. ‘Ship bearing due east. You are standing into danger. Repeat, you are standing into danger … this is Agulhas lighthouse,’

  Somebody touched his elbow. It was Jackson the electrician. ‘Sorry for the delay, sir. Storekeeper’s fault. I’ve got the parts for the auto-switch.’

  Jarrett waved him away. ‘For God’s sake, Jackson. You heard the alarm. Forget the bloody switch.’

  The turn to port was only half completed when the ship shuddered, seemed to check, moved on only to shudder again, this time more severely. There followed violent deceleration, accompanied by the muffled sound of rending metal. From forward came the sharp hiss of vent valves discharging from the gas line. The men on the bridge knew then that deep down in the ship seawater must be rushing into empty oil tanks through torn plating, compressing the inert gas in the tanks which was exhausting through the PV-breakers, blowing oil slush and water over the fog-shrouded maindeck. Above these harsh sounds came the thin shrill of a woman’s scream and the shouts of men, followed by the piercing shriek of steam exhausting from the funnel, a sound which drowned all others.

  Quite suddenly Ocean Mammoth came to a lurching stop, the force of the impact throwing those on the bridge forward, spreadeagling Foley and Jarrett over the consoles and winding Fernandez who was forced against the steering standard.

  The moment Jarrett recovered his balance he pressed the ‘emergency full astern’ button. It was an automatic response, a conditioned reflex, but even as he did it he knew it was futile. Another of his automatic responses was to note the time – 0539. It was little less than two minutes since he’d found Foley in the chartroom.

  Cavalho slid open the door from the bridge-wing. ‘It was motor car I hear before, sir,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Now i hear him again. Also dog barking. Now you see we hit the rocks.’

  A stern authoritative voice interrupted. ‘Sound the fire alarm, Mr Foley.’ It was Captain Crutchley. He had come from the chartroom into the dark wheelhouse, the sound of his footsteps drowned by the noise of escaping steam and the rattling of windows and other loose fittings as the ship’s emergency astern movement built up. The harsh jangle of fire-bells now added to the din, competing with the shrill of escaping steam and the high-pitched hiss of gas venting through the safety valves. The Captain spoke into the ship’s broadcast system. ‘Captain speaking. Take up stations for fire forward. This is a precaution, but get there smartly. I want the pumpman on the bridge.’ The even voice sounded absurdly formal in the turmoil.

  Jarrett called out, ‘I’ve already sounded emergency stations, sir.’

  ‘I know that, Mr Jarrett. But you were wrong. Fire is the greater risk. Go at once to your fire station.’ There was a sharpness in the Captain’s voice which brooked no opposition.

  The chief officer said, ‘Aye, sir,’ and left the wheelhouse.

  Soon afterwards the pumpman arrived on the bridge. ‘Captain, sir?’

  ‘Chapman. I want you to sound the deep tanks and lower holds right away. Work from forward aft and report to me as soon as possible.’

  The pumpman said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and disappeared at the double.

  Captain Crutchley, wearing a uniform coat over his pyjamas, remained at the forward windows staring ahead into the fog. He had considered illuminating the maindeck but decided against it because floodlights would be largely ineffective in fog, and a fire risk if power lines were damaged.

  The sound of escaping steam stopped as the emergency astern movement relieved pressure on the boiler’s safety valves. From time to time the ship shuddered and ominous noises came from strained plating and frames as Ocean Mammoth took the full impact of the south-easterly swells which rolled in on her port beam, their powerful undulations surging up against the high steel wall of the hull.

  The jangle of fire-bells ceased suddenly. In the unfamiliar silence which followed, men moving about the deck and occasional shouted orders could be heard; and the new and chilling sound of breakers as the swell spent itself on the rocky headland.

  ‘Mr Foley.’ Captain Crutchley continued to stare ahead. ‘Where has the ship grounded?’

  ‘Cape Agulhas, sir. The light-keeper spoke to us on VHF a moment ago. Gave our bearing as east of the lighthouse.’

  ‘Get Decca Nav and radar fixes at once, Mr Foley.’

  ‘They’re unserviceable, sir. The Navigator and both radar units.’

  ‘My God! What has been going on in this ship?’ The Captain paused, and in the half light of early morning Foley regarded the broad-shouldered back with anxious eyes. Believing that he understood what was in Crutchley’s mind, he began to speak in an uncertain, apologetic tone. ‘I was off watch, sir. I went to the chartroom only a few minutes ago. Before emergency stations was sounded. I found the Decca Nav dead. I couldn’t understand the course we were steering. The chief officer came in. Then …’ He hesitated as if he were trying to recall the sequence of events. ‘Then I switched on the echo-sounder… and told him we were in eight fathoms, with the water shoaling. He rushed into the wheel-house, ordered hard-a-port and emergency-full-ahead, and we struck soon after that. It was …’

  ‘That will do, Mr Foley. This is no time for explanations. Go at once to the chartroom and give me a DF bearing of the radio beacon at Agulhas lighthouse.’

  A bell rang on the communications console. It was Tim Feeny. ‘Radio Office here.’

  ‘Captain here,’ replied Crutchley.

  ‘Anything for transmission, sir?’

  ‘No, Mr Feeny. But stand by.’ He rang off, picked up the ship’s broadcast mike. ‘This is the Captain speaking. We have run aground near Cape Agulhas lighthouse. There is no immediate danger. Keep calm.
Remain at fire stations for the time being.’ He paused and his deep breathing could be heard over the loudspeakers. ‘The third officer is to report to me in the wheel-house at once. That is all.’ He released the ‘speak’ button and replaced the mike on the console.

  Foley came back from the chartroom. ‘Agulhas lighthouse bears two-six-eight, sir.’

  ‘How is the ship’s head, Mr Foley?’

  The second officer went to the steering gyro on the console. ‘Two-two-seven, sir. We’re lying on a sou’westerly-nor’easterly axis. Beam on to the swell.’

  Captain Crutchley was silent for almost thirty seconds. To the second officer it seemed a great deal longer. Then he said, ‘Stop engines.’

  Foley pressed the ‘stop engines’ button and moments later the rattling and shaking of the bridge superstructure died away.

  The deep voice with the Afrikaans accent sounded again on the VHF speaker. ‘This is Cape Agulhas lighthouse. What ship is that east of the lighthouse?’

  The Captain picked up the VHF handmike. ‘VLCC Ocean Mammoth bound for the United Kingdom in ballast. Captain speaking. We are aground. We have the bearing of your beacon. Two-six-eight degrees. Can you give me a distance?’

  ‘No, sir. We can’t see you. The fog is very thick. Visibility under a hundred metres. We haven’t got radar. I reckoned from your siren and the sound of steam blowing off that you must be about due east of the lighthouse. Very close inshore.’

  ‘Thank you, Agulhas.’

  ‘I will report your stranding to Cape Town, sir. Is there any message I can pass on for you?’

  ‘No, thank you. As soon as matters here are clarified I’ll be speaking to them by radiophone. We’ll come back to you if necessary.’ The light-keeper acknowledged and Captain Crutchley replaced the handmike. ‘Now, Mr Foley. Have soundings taken immediately, right round the ship. And give me the times of high and low water.’

  The third officer arrived on the bridge as Foley left. The Captain said, ‘Look after things here for a moment, Mr Simpson. I’m going through to the chartroom.’

  When he got there he switched on the angle-poise lamps, removed his dark glasses and cleaned them, took the magnifying glass from its bracket above the chart-table and examined the chart. With parallel rules he checked the pencilled course line to the position ten miles off Cape Agulhas. It was 257°, but written against it in pencil in Foley’s neat small figures was 267°. No alterations of course since 0400 were shown on the chart, but a line of bearing from the radio beacon had been plotted and a position circled on it over the 34-fathom mark with the time – 0505 – against it.

  Next he turned to the deck logbook. Under ‘Course’ at 0400, the end of the middle-watch, ‘267°’ had been entered in ink; again the figures were Foley’s. Since that entry the chief officer had recorded in his bold angular hand, several alterations of course and the times at which they’d been made. The checking of that data would have to wait, decided Crutchley – there was no time now. He moved across to the starboard side of the chart-table, leant forward and peered into the rectangular face of the course-recorder. It was an instrument which plotted the courses steered and the times of alteration by means of a stylus on moving trace paper.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered, repeating what he’d said to the second officer. ‘What has been going on in this ship?’

  The broken edges of the trace paper were visible at the top of the frame where the moving sheet had been torn off. The record of courses steered since 0200 had been removed.

  Chapter 16

  As the morning wore on the sky grew brighter with the rising sun but the fog, changed now from charcoal grey to smoky white, remained dense, moist and clinging. Nothing could be seen of the shore from Ocean Mammoth and only occasionally were her foremast cranes visible from the bridge less than a hundred metres away.

  The crew had been ordered to stand down from fire stations when it was evident that the danger of fire had receded. Now men were busy with hoses sluicing away oil slush splattered about the maindeck by PV-valves on tank tops, while others turned out lifeboats and made them ready for lowering.

  Foley’s report on the times of high and low water did nothing to reassure Captain Crutchley. High water was at 0527, low water at 1132. The ship could not, he reflected, have struck at a worse time – close to high water on a falling Spring tide. Not only did this bode ill for salvage but as time passed and the tide fell the weight of the ship would bear more heavily on the rocks; already fractured steel structures could be heard straining and breaking, for the stresses to which the hull was subjected were compounded by the formidable swell. Under its impact Ocean Mammoth from time to time shuddered and ground in protest.

  Soundings taken round the ship showed that she was firmly aground on a rocky bottom for two-thirds of her length. From the bulkhead between numbers 5 and 6 tanks, aft to the stern transom, she was still afloat but with little water beneath her.

  The pumpman’s report on tank soundings confirmed Captain Crutchley’s worst fears. From the forepeak aft to number 6 tank, every lower compartment was flooded. It could only mean that for more than half her length the bottom plating had been torn away or otherwise critically damaged. To the Captain that was not surprising. The momentum of a 320,000 ton supertanker at thirteen knots represented forces of enormous magnitude.

  The slop and splash of thousands of tons of seawater moving about in the tanks could be heard on the maindeck and it soon became evident that the ship’s prodigious pumping capacity – 10,000 tons an hour – could make no impression on the flooding since much of the bottom was open to the sea.

  In the course of an urgent conference between Captain Crutchley and Mr McLintoch, with Jarrett and Benson present, it had been decided that notwithstanding this setback the ship should be lightened as far as possible before the next high tide at 1731. Consequent upon this decision the emptying of some intact ballast tanks was begun, anchors were lowered on to the bottom and their chain cables run out to bare ends. Fortunately there was no list, the ship for the greater part of her length resting squarely on the bottom. The fore and aft level was, however, tilted so that seen from aft the maindeck rose gradually towards the bow.

  During the morning Captain Crutchley spoke by radiophone to Nicolas Kostadis in London. The marine-superintendent – who had already received a cryptic report from the agents in Cape Town – appeared to be deeply shocked by Crutchley’s account of the stranding and the extent of the damage. He expressed dismay that Ocean Mammoth with her highly sophisticated navigation aids should have run aground.

  ‘What on earth was the ship doing so close inshore in fog?’ he asked, his voice rising in plaintive disapproval.

  ‘That is a question I cannot at this stage answer,’ replied Captain Crutchley, adding with some asperity, ‘Nor would it help the ship if I could.’

  ‘Nevertheless it’s a shocking occurrence,’ insisted Kostadis, whose ill-concealed anger had sounded clearly over the six thousand miles between them.

  They went on to discuss the steps to be taken to deal with the situation. Captain Crutchley would, it was agreed, at once get through to the company’s agents in Cape Town to ask for the despatch to the site of a marine surveyor and a salvage expert, and to request that salvage tugs be put on short notice. ‘I’ll confirm this to them by phone as soon as I can get through,’ said Kostadis. ‘But in the meantime you must get on with it. They should be able to reach you by the afternoon. They are to phone me direct from the ship as soon as they’re ready to report. We can then decide what has to be done. How is the weather out there?’

  ‘Dense fog. Calm sea. Heavy swell. Glass steady.’

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for‚’ said Kostadis. ‘Cape Agulhas is no place to be in a storm.’

  Captain Crutchley, who felt that he did not need to be told this by an engineer, made no comment and the conversation ended soon afterwards.

  The reaction of those on board to disaster had been fairly predic
table. The officers and engineers had remained calm, doing all that was required of them quietly and efficiently whatever their private feelings. The Cape Verdians, used to battling with the elements in the frail fishing craft of their islands, had responded well: rather better than the Goanese stewards whose nervous at times noisy excitement was noticeable. It was only among the passengers – the officers’ wives – that any real emotion had been displayed. Woken from sleep by the raucous blasts of the steam siren they had jumped up frightened and confused, hurriedly pulling on whatever garments were handy, grabbing lifejackets and making for their lifeboat stations. Only one husband was in his cabin when the alarm sounded and that was the catering officer.

  Before the women had time to reach their stations and put on their lifejackets they’d felt the shuddering and jarring of the ship, followed by violent deceleration as she struck. Soon afterwards the fire-bells had jangled and it was then that Jean Simpson burst into tears and Doris Benson, who lived in a permanent state of terror of a tanker explosion, had become hysterical. Sandy Foley had rescued her from that by first slapping her face – something she had long wanted to do – and then, largely by the coolness of her own demeanour, pacifying her fears. That done, she’d turned her attention to Jean Simpson and succeeded in calming her too. Sandy was in fact very frightened, particularly as her husband had been missing from the cabin when the alarm sounded. She couldn’t understand how it was that he’d gone before the alarm. It was most unlike him to have left her in the lurch if there were danger in the offing. But she had no intention of showing her fear and to some extent it had been allayed by Freeman Jarretťs reassuring words a few minutes earlier.

  Piet Pieterse the new steward, on his first voyage in any ship, had been in a state of mystified apprehension, but once it had become apparent that Ocean Mammoth was neither about to sink nor explode, his ebullience and natural good humour asserted themselves and he got on with his duties as if the stranding of a supertanker in fog was an everyday occurrence. He did, however, incur the displeasure of Figureido, the second steward, by whistling in the serving pantry. ‘You must not make whistling,’ said the Goanese. ‘Unlucky for the ship, especially at this time.’ Pieterse had felt that the ship couldn’t have been much unluckier at that time but, anxious as always to please, he stopped whistling and apologized.