Antwerp - Ireland - AntwerpDAY 2

- by Ward Hulselmans

- Friday 17 May 2019

Friday 17 May 2019 When we get up the humming of the ship's engines seems monotonous and dull. We are in deeper and wider water. Through the porthole I can only see the thinness of the sea. No land, only water and grey skies, no other ships. Or at least: in the distance the blue stripe of an enormous container ship slides along at the same height. Moments later it disappears behind the horizon and we are all alone again. We left the Strait of Dover and are now sailing through the English Channel, probably somewhere between Brighton and Dieppe. I have to hold on when I get undressed. Moments later, when I open the iron door of the stairwell to Deck 1, I am almost blown away by a tight, ice-cold wind. During the climb to the highest deck I cling to the railing and once upstairs I am wide awake. From the highest deck you can look into the wheelhouse. In the centre is a row of illuminated screens with radar and nautical charts and around that a few hundred buttons and handles. The Chief Officer (I recognize Black T-shirt now), leans at ease over a map and doesn't even look where we are going. A little later he strolls away to pour tea, and after half a look at the screens, he hangs over his nautical chart again. He yawns a couple of times, he doesn't realize I'm staring at him from the outside. The ship sails by itself, on automatic pilot, at 15 knots per hour, always straight ahead. I get a strange feeling in my stomach, but then what did I expect? Captain Haddock turning a wooden rudder and shouting towards the engine room for more coal on the fire? Next milestone of the day: breakfast. It's nice and warm in the mess, which looks a lot like a hospital canteen from the 70's, with shiny linoleum and tablecloths in toile cirée. I've met cook Ramon before. Ramon is a small, cheerful Filipino with a crazy white hat that doesn't stand still for a second. His English is sparse, he can't pronounce the R and only after repeating it three times I understand that there are fried eggs on the menu. It doesn't prevent us from treating each other warmly in no time.

"I don't know who he is, I call him "The Monk."

Although it never changes, I keep the best memories of breakfast: eggs in every guise, Polish sausage in every guise, cheese from the fridge, white or Polish bread, fruit juice and coffee or tea. On the table is a wooden tray with pots of hot red gravy, mustard, sweet and sour sauce, Polish gherkins etc.. Only day 3 I discover the white lid of a pot in between...Nutella! While I bite my last one inside, a 2 meter tall giant in black linen trousers and black shirt, barefoot enters the mess. A pale face, like that of someone who rarely sees daylight. His hands hang loosely next to his big body. He doesn't seem to step, but to slide, and his gaze passes me without seeing anything. He radiates something that suggests a strong inner life, he has something we usually describe as 'zen'. It is the most enigmatic figure I will meet on board. I don't know who he is, I call him "The Monk". Submissive Ramon puts him fried eggs with thick fried sausage. The Monk slides it in in record time with Polish bread, nods in my direction and disappears again. I ask Ramon who he is. The Chief Englishman turns out to be. First engineer, after the captain the most important man on board. He's from Lithuania, a small state on the Baltic Sea surrounded by Russia. I feel I shouldn't ask Ramon questions about The Monk. By the way, I don't get a chance. Ramon proposes to come and taste his ginger tea later, I can choose: with or without garlic. Um...at this hour in the morning I say without garlic anyway. He shakes his head, I really don't know what's good for me; but come, Ramon, ginger alone is also excellent for bloodplessul. What? Repeat again. Oh, blood pressure. Yes! And for digestion. His look tells me I'm gonna need it. I promise.

Back in my cabin I try to read something, rocked by the blissful swell and imbued with engine hum. After three lines I fall into a wonderful sleep. An hour later I wake up, just in time for "tea time with Ramon". In the galley I take a sip of ginger tea and my hair straightens up. Hot?, Ramon asks. Yes Ramon, very véry hot... He grins. This afternoon I'll get another dose. And tonight too. I'm going to be in perfect health. If I survive.

*

Message from the captain. I'm expected on the bridge for the tour included in the travel package. The captain is a short-staffed Est in a checkered shirt. I don't know his name, he's just the captain. He can already see from my face that technique is not my thing and he doesn't intend to dirty a lot of words about it. You really don't do him any favors asking questions, so I'll keep my mouth shut. It turns out that one man on the bridge is enough and the course is set and followed automatically by computer and the double and triple radars. Only sporadic intervention of the human eye or hand is required - at most in precarious circumstances. The drill on the bridge is four hours on and four hours off, divided between the captain and two officers. I hear we've got 369 40-foot containers on board and we're going to Dublin first, not Cork. When I ask (with a view to a trip ashore) how long the loading and unloading will take, the captain answers "no idea". The thought of Dublin alone opposes him: in Ireland nothing is certain, he growls. Why is that? "No idea".

"Ultimately, he shrugs his shoulders and sighs: "Irish"... "With Irish, you never know."

I get a warm feeling of recognition. It's the same look, the same sigh of the visitors to our region, when they don't understand the local way of doing things: "Wàlen sir... Wàlen!"...

*

The sea is endless grey. The water dissolves into a sky that is just as grey and so the horizon falls away. It's one big, wholesome space full of cold pure air. Gray is annoying everywhere in the world, except at sea. I breathe and enjoy.

A little later, I'm alone for lunch. I look into the soup kettle and see myself reflected in thick fat eyes. For safety's sake I only scoop at the top. The soup is red. With a few slices of Polish bread I spoon everything in. It tastes so delicious that I take another portion. Without turning the bottom, because I don't want to see it.

*

After lunch - fortunately again with ginger tea for digestion - five decks climb to the bridge; at least the outer deck on port side. There's not a human being to be seen, while we're at 17 knots through the water. The ship sails by itself. Somewhere to the right is probably the Isle of Wight. On the French side Le Havre. I'll look around. The sea remains endlessly grey, with that massive presence that only nature can evoke.

And then an alarm beep sounds - this signal has already sounded through all the ship's speakers a dozen times. Out of nowhere, the captain shoots up the bridge and slaps a button that blinks on and off. The beeping stops. It's some kind of presence check, as it turns out. If the alarm is not muted out, there is really cause for alarm, because then the bridge is unmanned. What a relief: we are not completely at the mercy of the autopilot. Then I notice something I noticed yesterday. The captain doesn't stand still for a second. During his watch our closed moped does nothing but march back and forth with big steps. Is he hiding a pedometer in his pocket? Does he have varicose veins? Hopefully I won't eat alone tonight, then I can ask someone the question.

*

I draw my curtain and realize more and more that this cabin will become my cocoon.

"The wider the sea and the higher the air, the safer and more intimate this cabin feels. "

I repeat a ritual that has marked man for centuries: the search for security, in ever-changing variations on the absolute warmth of the womb. In this cabin I cherish the illusion that I am safe from the immense nature. I am decomposed like in a cradle and only the reading light is on. So I go back to sleep and when I wake up it is almost 15h. My life slowly gets a different rhythm. I am beginning to understand that my body is taking back the time to which it is entitled. It is a catching up movement that makes me calmer and fitter every day. I thank this ship for denying me any distractions: no fitness room, no sauna, no bar, no music, no drink, no fellow passengers, nothing...

"There's no shortage of time alone. Exactly what I needed."

In the bathroom I shave with the knife, a bad idea with this swell. One bloody toilet paper after another disappears into the toilet. At home I tore a chart of England and Ireland from an old atlas. I hang them under the only rack above my table. Suddenly the cabin becomes more cosy, but it's still bizarre: while Starling can follow the course of the Elbfeeder down to the last detail on her smartphone, I know - she's on it! - except for a hundred miles where we are. I guess somewhere between Portland and Cherbourg. I put a cross on the map and note: 16h. Tintin's not far again. During dinner (pork stew with pasta à la Ramon), I ask the question about the Marching Captain to Black T-shirt, the Russian Chief Officer who turns out to be called Ilia and is not one of the evil ones. With my pedometer I am not far wrong. Moving turns out to be a real obsession for the officers of the Elbfeeder. According to Ilia you can jog up and down the stairs to the different decks, but jogging around the bow like on larger ships, is too risky because of the containers. So if this ship should ever gain a square meter, there would be a treadmill right away. No wonder the officers want to go to Dublin or Cork on foot in their spare time: they really look forward to walking those 10 km back and forth, the captain in the lead. When the Chief Officer is gone again, Ramon tells that he has been trying to buy a second-hand bike ashore for a couple of weeks in order to get to town faster. But every time his plan fails due to lack of time. He just can't get to a shop or a Penny store. "Sunday I'll try again," he hums and looks at the tip of his shoes. He doesn't really believe in it. Every minute of every day is taken up by little Filipino. It's his destiny, you see him think. Earlier I met below decks Rey Mark, a Filipino Ordinary Sailor - the lowest rank of sailor. He's only disembarked once in the last six months. I only half believe it at first. In half a year? But it's true. And no not in Antwerp, where the container quay is 15 km outside the city and a taxi costs 50 €. But in Cork, yessir. To buy phone cards.

"Telephoning is to the Philippines what miles are to officers: an obsession. "

From the second there's a network, you can see them calling family here and there. Why Philippine sailors find it difficult to disembark is simple: time is money; the ship is barely continuously unloaded and loaded at a quay and the Philippines are indispensable for unloading and securing the containers on board. Read: nobody wants to start this life-threatening job for 1.284 $ per month - say 1.000 €. Yet Rey Mark has a beautiful smile: he will be home in Manila at Christmas. Before that, he's signed up for two months, on top of his nine month contract... Will he be able to disembark in Dublin? Nossir. A big grin. He's not even going to try. How in God's name are these little guys holding up and how do they manage to keep smiling and having fun with each other? Maybe that's why you'll only find Filipinos all over the sea on the lowest decks: not because they're submissive by nature, but because a rich inner life lifts them above this daily misery. I know, that's the romantic view, but the argument that they earn ten times more than at home in this way is not enough either. After every conversation with a lower sailor, my respect grows and it will stay that way. I hear we'll be rounding Land's End around 10pm, the far western tip of England, the end of Cornwall. I'll be on the highest deck at that hour. It's still light, but Land's End can't be seen. It's somewhere behind the foggy horizon. Still, this is a bit of a solemn moment because we are now swinging towards the Celtic Sea, in a straight line northwards towards Dublin. I'll stay on the deck until the gray night falls. There's no star, no moon, there's absolutely nothing. Just our night lights and the fluorescent keel track behind the ship.

***

- DAY 117 May 2019

preceding day

- DAY 319 May 2019

subsequent day