Shipping Out


Posted by Patrick Okens

Oct. 31 Noontime Position: Lat 48deg 23,8 N. Long 126deg 50,6 W.

My watch alarm beeps and I wake in darkness. Through the bed I can feel the steady, rapid vibration of the engine many decks below, as well as the slow, irregular swaying of the hull. The deep, dull rumbling of the engines cuts through the silence, as does the squeaking and rattling of loose fixtures.

I pull aside the curtain. It’s still dark outside, but I can make out the outline of a vast array of containers on deck. I get dressed, exit my cabin, cross the hallway, push open the door, and step outside. Astern is the Strait of Juan de Fuca; Washington state on port, Vancouver Island on starboard, misty smudges of land disappearing over the horizon, even as the sun rises.
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I boarded the merchant vessel Hanjin Copenhagen yesterday afternoon in Vancouver after farewell coffee with a few friends near the terminal. The Hanjin company agent had told me that the ship would leave at around 22:00. There had been no real reason to board nearly nine hours in advance, but I was taking no chances given the high (and non-refundable) price of the ticket and the somewhat loose boarding instructions given.

Vanterm is a vast expanse of metal: containers, railway cars, enormous orange gantry cranes. At the edge of the dock lies a 278 metre-long, 68,000-ton mass of dark blue steel that will carry me and about 5,000 containers across the Pacific Ocean to Shanghai. A crewmember, dressed in overalls, hardhat, and safety vest, greeted me and I followed him up a long steep ladder to the main deck, where I signed in. We took a narrow elevator to the E deck of the white-painted superstructure, where he showed me to my cabin. I met the ship’s steward, a Filipino (15 of the 20 crew are from the Philippines). I’m the only passenger.

Port time is busy, with none to spare for guided tours, so I tentatively explored my new waterborne home on my own. The ship’s superstructure is basically a narrow, nine story apartment block, with cabins, mess halls, galley, recreation and service areas, all topped by the command deck. I watched as cranes quickly slung containers aboard at a rate of 30 per hour in the drizzle. Loading continued on into the night. By 22:30, I was reading in my cabin when the ship started to move. Pushed/pulled around by tugs churning the water alongside, we edged away from the dock and swung around in Burrard Inlet.

I grabbed my coat, went up to the command deck and stood outside in the wind. Night-lit landmarks of my time in Vancouver passed slowly in and out of view: Lonsdale Quay, Waterfront Terminal, Canada Place, Coal Harbour, the dimly lit seawall of Stanley Park, the bright outline of the Lion’s Gate Bridge, specks of light from Grouse and Cypress Mountains, berthed ships in English Bay. I didn’t feel particularly sentimental about departure at this point – it had been a long week of goodbyes and I was tapped out emotionally. Besides, it’s cold and dark and I have a whole new watery world ahead of me.

Note: I’m writing these reports on my laptop. Then taking my laptop to the ship’s office to transcribe the text into an email (on an account connected to the Hanjin Copenhagen) which I’m sending to my sister. She has graciously agreed to post the whole lot into my blog as well as transmit it via Facebook and Twitter. She’s either very generous, or my online identity is about to be severely compromised! Alas, no attachments can be sent, so photos will have to wait until landfall.


East Van Character – a few impressions from my four years here.


Posted by Patrick Okens

“I live at the intersection of Hastings and Crackhouse” I used to say, without much exaggeration. Across the street from my apartment was a squat, crummy building that regularly had a police cruiser parked in front. Gutted, refurbished and under new management now, this structure is no longer an eyesore that houses druggies. But change has come slowly to my neighbourhood. In the four years I have lived here, the closest major commercial intersection still consists of the same Dairy Queen, auto parts shop, Seven-Eleven, and an empty lot. That’s the sort of place it is.

East Vancouver is an ugly duckling among swans in a city of stunning neighbourhoods.  It has no beaches, forests or wilderness trails, no dazzling skyscrapers, and few youthful, lycra-clad beautiful people. If you’re a tourist, the area won’t be on your check list. It’s next to a port and warehouse district offering none of Vancouver’s attractions. If you’re commuting into the city on Hastings Street, the one lasting impression you will have is of the poverty and mental illness that spills over from the Downtown East Side.

I chose to live in East Van for pragmatic reasons. It was close to work, transit, and groceries as well as a three public pools. But I also really like it here. It is liveable and unpretentious. And it has character in a way other beautiful but bland parts of Vancouver don’t. Nearby Commercial Drive has a bohemian loopiness to it. Incense-scented shops, a bicycle polo court, sushi restaurants and Italian cafes. But I didn’t even need to go to The Drive to get a real dose of urban East Van life. In fact, I didn’t even need to leave my living room. A few memories from my old apartment, as I sit here packing up:

The View. Mist-shrouded, snow-capped, fogged in or topped by clear blue skies, seeing the North Shore mountains in all of their moods has been an amazing experience. All that, and a grain elevator too. I like my visual cocktail half-natural, half-urbanized.

The Soundscape. Seaplanes drone overhead as they make their approach towards Burrard Inlet. At noon, on the dot, a ship’s horn blasts the first four notes of “O Canada” while crows and seagulls squawk. From the alley below comes the occasional jangle of a shopping cart pushed by a dumpster-diver collecting recyclable items.

The neighbours in the buildings across the alley

  • the amorous lesbians who practiced the accordion to get in the mood.
  • the amateur poulterers who keep chickens in their back yard. they set up lawn furniture in front of the coop to watch as if it were reality television.
  • the alley cats; on patrol for intruders, dozy during the day, scrappy at night.
  • the absentees, who sometimes rent out their house as a film set, so the whole block is taken over by movie trucks and floodlights
  • the tortured souls, who played and sang rock music badly out of their garage

One of the neighbourhood hens. The roosters should have kept their beaks shut at dawn and were evicted.

It only looks as if kitty's tails is on fire.

Alley regular.