Meeting a Big Tanker in the Dark

“Don. Don. Wake up. . . I think someone is trying to call us on the radio.”

“What? What time is it?” I shield my eyes from the flashlight.

“Almost two o’clock.”

Two? Barbara is standing the midnight to three watch. I need another hour’s sleep. Or maybe eight.

The first winter storm of the season is driving us south down the Oregon Coast. This is our third night at sea.

I stumble up into the pilot house. It’s dimly lit by the glow of the radar screen. Outside the surrounding darkness is absolute. We are wayfarers alone in a black universe.

Ships Passing in the Night

I thumb the VHF mic.

“This is the Canadian sailing vessel Maruba. That’s Mike Alpha Romeo Uniform Bravo Alpha. We’re southbound 70 miles off Oregon. Is someone hailing us on Channel 16?”

“Maruba, this is the Exxon tanker Crude Hauler. Please meet me on Channel 1.”

“Maruba following Crude Hauler to Channel 1. 16 is clear.”

“Hello, Maruba. This is the watch officer on Crude Hauler. We are overtaking you. I’m changing course to starboard and will pass two miles off your beam.”

I check the radar screen, then go up the gangway and slide open the hatch. Behind us the navigation lights of a supertanker glimmer through the rain and spray.

Her starboard and port running lights, green and red, are both visible. She’s headed directly toward us. (Green and Red, you’re dead.)

A ship that size will be slow to answer her helm. As she accepts the course change ordered by the watch officer, the green light will start to swing out of sight. (Green or Red away, you’re okay.)

“Crude Hauler. Maruba. Have you in sight and on radar at five miles. Understand you will pass to my starboard, distance two miles. I will maintain present course and speed.”

Then, before I can clear the channel . . .

Coffee and Donuts

“Maruba, there must be a lot of bumps in the road for you tonight. We don’t see many smaller vessels out here this time of year, especially sail boats. We’re on our way to the Los Angeles refinery from Anchorage. Where are you headed?”

Huh?

I’m standing with legs braced, the VHF mic in one hand and the grab rail grasped tightly in the other. Maruba is pitching . . . rolling . . . yawing. I’m wave battered, clammy, salty. Under my yellow flotation suit I’ve been wearing the same clothes for too long. I’ve never been more tired.

And this guy wants to chat?

I picture the bored watch officer on the tanker, shaved and showered. He’s probably lounging in a pedestal chair with arm rests, coffee mug at hand, maybe a couple of donuts fresh from the galley.

On the wide bridge with him another crew member is seated at a computer console. He’s driving the boat.

Last Thing We See

The tanker, a quarter mile long, with 200,000 barrels of crude oil in her deep running hull, is shrugging off the waves that are making Maruba dance. Fountains of spray bounce off Crude Hauler. That’s why the watch officer knows heavy seas are running.

I tell him we sailed from the Seattle area headed for Mexico, our first destination Cabo San Lucas. But now we need to put in at San Francisco to get storm damage repaired. Then I wish him a good trip and sign off.

The tanker forges ahead. Her big white stern light shrinks to a pinprick in the blackness, begins to twinkle as waves break the sight line at the invisible horizon, then disappears.

What they look like in daylight.

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We’re Okay, But Did the Cats Survive?