Showing posts with label The Boat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Boat. Show all posts
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
Bon Voyage
And now, when I've finished my coffee (an American habit) and had some lunch, I am off. If anything interesting happens on the boat I'll put it on here when I get home. If not, this is goodbye!
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Friday 19th September 2008 – 20:45 local time, Ziemia Cieszynska (Third Lock, Welland Canal)
You probably didn't, but just in case you were wondering where post rock went... I can enlighten you. Upstate New York. You heard it here first (and on NPR in Buffalo, NY. NPR is such a strange institution, but I'm grateful for it has international news...).
Friday 19th September 2008 – 18:25 local time, Ziemia Cieszynska (First Lock, Welland Canal)
All is not lost. Miraculously, comfort food never before seen on this ship has appeared, as if by magic, as if someone sensed my deep need! Belgian chocolates, boiled sweets, slightly dubious Polish chocolate bars... and I've still got a jam sandwich saved from breakfast in my cupboard...
Friday 19th September 2008 – 17:25 local time (I think), Ziemia Cieszynska (Lake Ontario, near Niagara Falls)
More waiting. Our ETA seems to be constantly slipping away into the future.
The voyage was sold to me as 12 days – taken literally, we would have arrived at noon yesterday. We were delayed by Ike but on the basis of the times for the seaway, lakes and locks posted on the bridge we seemed on course to arrive today. But each of the times appears to be a slight underestimate, so we keep losing time.
Yesterday morning I calculated we would arrive at about 4am tomorrow, and by the evening we were told “reliably” it would be probably around 10am. Now it is looking more like 2pm. Small differences. But I am getting so expectant about disembarking – being able to choose my own food! Being able to call the people I'm staying with an apologise for being 3 days late. Being able to check my emails and write home etc – that every extra hour is almost physically painful, creating real anxiety in me.
This may also be because I am about to run out of comfort food (having carefully rationed it for an ETA of 18th plus one day contingency!).
The voyage was sold to me as 12 days – taken literally, we would have arrived at noon yesterday. We were delayed by Ike but on the basis of the times for the seaway, lakes and locks posted on the bridge we seemed on course to arrive today. But each of the times appears to be a slight underestimate, so we keep losing time.
Yesterday morning I calculated we would arrive at about 4am tomorrow, and by the evening we were told “reliably” it would be probably around 10am. Now it is looking more like 2pm. Small differences. But I am getting so expectant about disembarking – being able to choose my own food! Being able to call the people I'm staying with an apologise for being 3 days late. Being able to check my emails and write home etc – that every extra hour is almost physically painful, creating real anxiety in me.
This may also be because I am about to run out of comfort food (having carefully rationed it for an ETA of 18th plus one day contingency!).
Wednesday 17th September 2008 – 23:05 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska (just passed Quebec City)
It strikes me that taking a long distance boat is not dissimilar from cycling. In both cases you become acutely aware of the weather, and specifically of subtle changes in it. It's something I've always appreciated about cycling, and I feel the same now.
I thought of this because the weather has been so changeable on the voyage – calm days of glorious sunshine and the tremendous waves, wind and leaden sky (and all the internal noise, chaos and seasickness that accompanies them!) when we caught the tail end of hurricane Ike, just west of Newfoundland.
Last night there was the most incredible sunset, we sailed due east, straight into 180 degrees of fuschia and glowing orange, with the full moon rising right behind us, reflecting the pink of the sky ahead.
Today we have spent most of the day in a cloud of rain and fog, so we could barely see the shore 200m away and almost missed Quebec City as we passed it.
I thought of this because the weather has been so changeable on the voyage – calm days of glorious sunshine and the tremendous waves, wind and leaden sky (and all the internal noise, chaos and seasickness that accompanies them!) when we caught the tail end of hurricane Ike, just west of Newfoundland.
Last night there was the most incredible sunset, we sailed due east, straight into 180 degrees of fuschia and glowing orange, with the full moon rising right behind us, reflecting the pink of the sky ahead.
Today we have spent most of the day in a cloud of rain and fog, so we could barely see the shore 200m away and almost missed Quebec City as we passed it.
Sunday 14th September 2008 – 23:48 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
Remarkably, I have just managed to have a conversation for nearly an hour IN GERMAN. Admittedly, I didn't do much of the talking, but I understood almost all of it.
And our scope was wide ranging – from the threat Europe faces from Russia, to swimming with wild dolphins; from the economics of running a ship slower than it could go to the best way to get a good photograph of the sunset; and from the reason the incessant rocking of the ship is so tiring (that even while you're sleeping your mind is still active, trying to make sense of the noise and the movement) to how military aeroplanes are much more polluting than civilian ones.
All of which was very pleasant and reasonably uncontroversial. Until we reached “South Africa was a much better place 20 years ago – now it is just kaput”. I disagreed, saying it is better now, but he repeated that he thought it was a disaster and the whites should never have relinquished power. And with my utterly limited German, all I could offer was a plaintive “but now they are free”, which didn't wash with him at all.
I was reminded again of how much I value the ability to argue about politics (reasonably) articulately, and how much I would hate to live again in place where I couldn't speak the language.
And our scope was wide ranging – from the threat Europe faces from Russia, to swimming with wild dolphins; from the economics of running a ship slower than it could go to the best way to get a good photograph of the sunset; and from the reason the incessant rocking of the ship is so tiring (that even while you're sleeping your mind is still active, trying to make sense of the noise and the movement) to how military aeroplanes are much more polluting than civilian ones.
All of which was very pleasant and reasonably uncontroversial. Until we reached “South Africa was a much better place 20 years ago – now it is just kaput”. I disagreed, saying it is better now, but he repeated that he thought it was a disaster and the whites should never have relinquished power. And with my utterly limited German, all I could offer was a plaintive “but now they are free”, which didn't wash with him at all.
I was reminded again of how much I value the ability to argue about politics (reasonably) articulately, and how much I would hate to live again in place where I couldn't speak the language.
Friday 12th September 2008 – 20:55 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
For the last few days I have been wondering how to describe the motion of the ship. I have two purposes. The first is just the desire to communicate to you who haven't felt it quite what a strange sensation it is. And the second is to defend myself – my fear in particular – against those who have traveled the Atlantic and who don't recognise my description.
Perhaps it's just what we're all telling ourselves, but I think this is a uniquely – I'm not sure of the right word, but I want to say hyper-mobile, or motile – ship. It is partly because we are small – only 180m long and very narrow (for the inland waterways between Montreal and Cleveland). But it is mainly because our cargo – high quality steel – is very heavy and sits very low in the boat. We, more than five stories above sea level, counterbalance the momentum of the cargo by swinging wildly about.
So, to attempt the description. The underlying motion, the base state which feels like being stationary, is a gentle rocking from side to side. Maybe ten degrees either side, and with perhaps 10 seconds between each extreme. When it is rough or windy, this becomes faster and more extreme – perhaps 25 or even 30 degrees in either direction in 7 seconds is my best bet.
Then there is the pitching, when the waves are coming at us from the front, which is always accompanied by a juddering which feels like the engine has stopped. Being long and narrow, we don't feel the pitching so much, but when combined with the rolling, and especially at night, in the dark, you start to feel as if you are on a magic carpet, swooping around in unpredictable directions, at unpredictable speeds.
Occasionally the rhythm pauses, then you feel it crank back into motion, like the second time a rollercoaster goes round its track.
Perhaps it's just what we're all telling ourselves, but I think this is a uniquely – I'm not sure of the right word, but I want to say hyper-mobile, or motile – ship. It is partly because we are small – only 180m long and very narrow (for the inland waterways between Montreal and Cleveland). But it is mainly because our cargo – high quality steel – is very heavy and sits very low in the boat. We, more than five stories above sea level, counterbalance the momentum of the cargo by swinging wildly about.
So, to attempt the description. The underlying motion, the base state which feels like being stationary, is a gentle rocking from side to side. Maybe ten degrees either side, and with perhaps 10 seconds between each extreme. When it is rough or windy, this becomes faster and more extreme – perhaps 25 or even 30 degrees in either direction in 7 seconds is my best bet.
Then there is the pitching, when the waves are coming at us from the front, which is always accompanied by a juddering which feels like the engine has stopped. Being long and narrow, we don't feel the pitching so much, but when combined with the rolling, and especially at night, in the dark, you start to feel as if you are on a magic carpet, swooping around in unpredictable directions, at unpredictable speeds.
Occasionally the rhythm pauses, then you feel it crank back into motion, like the second time a rollercoaster goes round its track.
Friday 12th September 2008 – 20:34 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
Amazingly, just as everyone said, I no longer need the seasickness pills to function. It is remarkable. I can't help thinking: faced with such disruption, surely the only healthy bodily response is to feel dreadful?! Yet I feel positively ok.
Another interesting thing about seasickness pills – they are very good at stopping the sickness that comes from being tossed about at sea. But they do nothing for the anxiety it causes.
Another interesting thing about seasickness pills – they are very good at stopping the sickness that comes from being tossed about at sea. But they do nothing for the anxiety it causes.
Wednesday 10th September 2008 – 18:00 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
Every half an hour or so a great, terrifying swell comes, launching the ship sideways so that the whole view becomes sea, and then sky and then sea again. The contents of mugs fly across the room. Sitting here writing, my chair slowly slides away from the desk. Previously secure items work loose, fall to the floor, crash loudly and roll about.
In the face of such determined entropy, the usual orderliness of the ship seems to have been abandoned. The biscuits which once sat neatly (and permanently - uneaten) on a plate in the captain's room are now strewn across the table, along with the sugar from the bowl that sat next to them. Some of his papers lie scattered by the door. Upstairs the carnage wrought by the wild movement of
the ship is even more extreme. In the officers' room next to the bridge, maps and journals have fallen from the cupboard and are strewn all over the floor, while the red bags containing spare immersion suits roll backwards and forwards around the room. The two chairs lie on their sides, gently sliding with the movement of the boat (see photo).
The captain keeps promising better conditions “later”. I think everyone's waiting - understandably – for this promised respite before attempting to clear up.
In the face of such determined entropy, the usual orderliness of the ship seems to have been abandoned. The biscuits which once sat neatly (and permanently - uneaten) on a plate in the captain's room are now strewn across the table, along with the sugar from the bowl that sat next to them. Some of his papers lie scattered by the door. Upstairs the carnage wrought by the wild movement of
the ship is even more extreme. In the officers' room next to the bridge, maps and journals have fallen from the cupboard and are strewn all over the floor, while the red bags containing spare immersion suits roll backwards and forwards around the room. The two chairs lie on their sides, gently sliding with the movement of the boat (see photo).The captain keeps promising better conditions “later”. I think everyone's waiting - understandably – for this promised respite before attempting to clear up.
Tuesday 9th September 2008 – 18:35 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
Someone should have told the chef that on the first day of seasickness tongue may not be the best dish to serve. Even Roman, the tough third officer who shares our table, opted for sausage instead.
Tuesday 9th September 2008 – 18:30 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
At about seven last night the boat started moving in a way which was different from before. We were no longer rolling gently and predictably from side to side. Instead, we pitched and rolled at the same time, tracing big circular lines, some fast, some slow. Things started falling off tables. Doors started slamming. It became impossible to walk in a straight line.
At first I was just scared, holding on to the table and not quite being able to believe that the boat could swing so dramatically without capsising, Then I was scared and felt sick – travel sick and like there was something stuck in my throat. I tried standing on deck and looking at the horizon (the recommended non-chemical cure for sickness), but it was just terrifying seeing the boat swing from side to side and pitch forwards into the waves. So, having smugly held out with only “sea-bands” to protect me, I gave in to the inevitable and took a seasickness pill, and started to feel a little better.
When it got so dark that the horizon disappeared I got up and told the sailors that I was going to bed. “So early?” asked the captain, to which I replied “I'm escaping”. He countered with “but there's nothing to escape from”. I think he meant “there's nowhere to escape to”.
At first I was just scared, holding on to the table and not quite being able to believe that the boat could swing so dramatically without capsising, Then I was scared and felt sick – travel sick and like there was something stuck in my throat. I tried standing on deck and looking at the horizon (the recommended non-chemical cure for sickness), but it was just terrifying seeing the boat swing from side to side and pitch forwards into the waves. So, having smugly held out with only “sea-bands” to protect me, I gave in to the inevitable and took a seasickness pill, and started to feel a little better.
When it got so dark that the horizon disappeared I got up and told the sailors that I was going to bed. “So early?” asked the captain, to which I replied “I'm escaping”. He countered with “but there's nothing to escape from”. I think he meant “there's nowhere to escape to”.
Monday 8th September 2008 – 17:05 GMT, Ziemia Cieszynska
Social organisation on the ship is extremely hierarchical, and I'm not sure why. For example, all of us eat the same food, at the same time, in the same room, but crew are obliged to sit at one end, closer to the kitchen, while officers and passengers sit at the other end.
Indeed, it is pretty much only at meal times that we see anyone other than the captain and the three officers who live on the same floor as us and take shifts steering the boat. Everyone else is clearly elsewhere working, but on what, and where, we have no idea.
Just as in some countries the fine gradations of race are a reliable marker of social standing, here elevation serves a similar purpose. The most senior officers work on the top deck, and live on the level below (with the passengers). Below them live the less senior officers, and below them the other members of the crew. The majority of the crew's work appears to take place at the bottom of the ship – in the engine room, , outside on the lowest deck, with the cargo or in the kitchen. It reminds me of one of those dystopian novels (HG Wells?) or films in which an entire servant race lives below ground, rarely seen and hardly appreciated by those above.
Indeed, it is pretty much only at meal times that we see anyone other than the captain and the three officers who live on the same floor as us and take shifts steering the boat. Everyone else is clearly elsewhere working, but on what, and where, we have no idea.
Just as in some countries the fine gradations of race are a reliable marker of social standing, here elevation serves a similar purpose. The most senior officers work on the top deck, and live on the level below (with the passengers). Below them live the less senior officers, and below them the other members of the crew. The majority of the crew's work appears to take place at the bottom of the ship – in the engine room, , outside on the lowest deck, with the cargo or in the kitchen. It reminds me of one of those dystopian novels (HG Wells?) or films in which an entire servant race lives below ground, rarely seen and hardly appreciated by those above.
Friday, 5 September 2008
Thursday 4th September - 21:15, Corus factory, Beverwijk (Dutch time)
I thought it might make some of you giggle to hear about the food on board.
I am a reluctant vegetarian, and was secretly slightly relishing the opportunity to eat meat (largely) guilt free for a couple of weeks. Arriving on board has confirmed my suspicion that vegetarianism isn't a viable option on a Polish boat. We are served platefuls of food, with no choice of either contents or portion size.
The first two dinners were roughly what I'd expected - variations on meat + boiled potatoes (with gherkins the first night, and in a stew the second). Breakfast - a boiled egg the first day, a frankfurter the next, with bread and jam. I got scared I would end up constipated and scurvy-ous after 2 weeks of this, so went to Haarlem and bought apples and vitamin c to keep me going. But then came tonight's dinner...
A large pile of droopy lettuce in a creamy sauce. A main dish of three large pancakes, stuffed with that savoury cheese you get in eastern European pastries, and covered in chocolate sauce. Plus, a chocolate mousse-cum-blancmange, with cherry syrup (possibly leftover from the lunch I missed), a pear and a large carton of orange juice.
Surely not a typical Polish dinner? I am wondering if this was a last-night-on-land celebratory dinner, or if the chef was using up his leftovers, or if he just gets bored (as the rest of the sailors surely do) of meat and potatoes, and fancies a change just once in a while.
Or perhaps he is experimenting with vegetarianism.
I am a reluctant vegetarian, and was secretly slightly relishing the opportunity to eat meat (largely) guilt free for a couple of weeks. Arriving on board has confirmed my suspicion that vegetarianism isn't a viable option on a Polish boat. We are served platefuls of food, with no choice of either contents or portion size.
The first two dinners were roughly what I'd expected - variations on meat + boiled potatoes (with gherkins the first night, and in a stew the second). Breakfast - a boiled egg the first day, a frankfurter the next, with bread and jam. I got scared I would end up constipated and scurvy-ous after 2 weeks of this, so went to Haarlem and bought apples and vitamin c to keep me going. But then came tonight's dinner...
A large pile of droopy lettuce in a creamy sauce. A main dish of three large pancakes, stuffed with that savoury cheese you get in eastern European pastries, and covered in chocolate sauce. Plus, a chocolate mousse-cum-blancmange, with cherry syrup (possibly leftover from the lunch I missed), a pear and a large carton of orange juice.
Surely not a typical Polish dinner? I am wondering if this was a last-night-on-land celebratory dinner, or if the chef was using up his leftovers, or if he just gets bored (as the rest of the sailors surely do) of meat and potatoes, and fancies a change just once in a while.
Or perhaps he is experimenting with vegetarianism.
Thursday 4th September - 21:05, Corus factory, Beverwijk (Dutch time)
Those of you who know me will know that I am not a naturally spontaneous person. I like my life planned, I like to know the parameters I am faced with in order to construct my plans within them. And I don't like it when plans change unexpectedly, or for reasons beyond my control. Well, not much anyway. So not knowing when the boat is going to depart is fraying my nerves a little. At one point we thought it would be Tuesday morning or even Monday night, but since I arrived on ship (about 2pm Tuesday) the departure time has been pushed further and further back, and now stands at Friday afternoon. It's because of the rain - we are carrying high quality steel which can only be loaded when it's dry. It's going to make cars apparently. So every time it starts raining again (which is reasonably often) my heart sinks as it means more delays.
It's not just the changeability I am finding difficult. It is also the act of waiting, which is another thing I have never liked (exam results etc). I am waiting for a journey full of unexpectedness to begin, and in the absence of it beginning my mind is filling up with fantasies (mainly bad - seasickness, boredom, not being able to get the radio to work out at sea, menningitis and appendicitis and the boat sinking etc). If it would only start I could put my mind to the task in hadn, which is supposed to be reading and thinking about America, and then writing about it. But worrying is consuming most of my mental energy, so the intellectual project is onl hold. For now at least.
It's not just the changeability I am finding difficult. It is also the act of waiting, which is another thing I have never liked (exam results etc). I am waiting for a journey full of unexpectedness to begin, and in the absence of it beginning my mind is filling up with fantasies (mainly bad - seasickness, boredom, not being able to get the radio to work out at sea, menningitis and appendicitis and the boat sinking etc). If it would only start I could put my mind to the task in hadn, which is supposed to be reading and thinking about America, and then writing about it. But worrying is consuming most of my mental energy, so the intellectual project is onl hold. For now at least.
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