November 3 Noontime Position: Lat 46deg 30,0 N; Long 159deg 44,2 W
North of the Harris Seamount

The sea, and the ship, feel and sound different today. I sleep with my head towards the bow, and my bed gives instant feedback. The first couple of nights, it was rising and falling as we plowed straight into the swells. Last night, with the wind
coming from starboard, we rolled side to side. This morning, the rolling is short and choppy. You feel this through the entire length of your body as it is pressed into the mattress, then released, over and over.

The sensory feedback is auditory as well. My cabin is on port, and for the first time I hear the howling and whistling, which means the wind has turned and is coming from my side. The ship’s vibrations also differ. We’ve increased our propeller rotation and speed. At the resulting resonant frequency, the cabin fixtures don’t seem to rattle as much.

I feel all this without even leaving my cabin. Every person on board gets his own cabin, assigned by role. The captain and chief engineer also get a day room. Mine, as passenger (also known as super cargo) is located on the E deck of the superstructure, facing the bow on port. It is placed high enough to see above the containers to the horizon through two thick glass portholes.

These quarters are no-frills, but comfortable enough. Carpeted floor, “captain-style” bed with duvet, closet, desk, bookcase, table, couch, and mini-fridge. There’s even a television and DVD player, small sound system, internal telephone, desk lamp. A small shower stall, plus toilet and sink round out the accommodations, which fit inside a 5m x 8m rectangle.

There are a few distinctly marine features. Everything is designed to stay in place, since there’s no such thing as “level ground”. There is a designated “escape window” and “escape rope”; and above the closet are stored my very own hard hat, PFD and survival suit ready to go.

Final note for the day:  the ship’s officers track our progress on large naval charts on the bridge deck. For days, we have been making steady progress westward on the “Vancouver Island to San Francisco” map. As of today, we’re on the “leutian Trench to Hawaiian Islands” map, which has absolutely no land on it. Just a bunch of numbers indicating the depth of the Pacific. Officially in the middle of nowhere.

Editors Note:  The bow is a nautical term that refers to the forward part of the hull of a ship, the point that is most forward when the vessel is underway. Both of the adjectives fore and forward mean towards the bow. The other end of the boat is called the stern.

Port and starboard  refer to the left and right sides (respectively).

To have a look at the Hanjin Copenhagen:  http://www.marinetraffic.com/ais/shipdetails.aspx?MMSI=211343310

November 2 Noontime Position: Lat 46deg 57,9 N; Long 148deg 10,4 W
(Still) Over the Tufts Abyssal Plain

We changed time zones last night, moving our clocks back one hour. This was the first of eight consecutive days of “one hour retards” we will have on our way to Busan. As we will be crossing the International Date Line, November 7th is not scheduled to exist.

The elements are truly against us. We’re laboring counter to the North Pacific Current, as well as winds upwards of Force 11. Our speed has been cut, and the ship is pitching up and down even more strongly than before. The bow rises and plunges into huge waves, making the hull shudder and spraying white water high and wide over the deck. At breakfast, the Chief Engineer regaled me with news that on average one merchant vessel disappears without a trace every week due to freak waves. I thank him for this cheery piece of trivia I’ll have to live with for another two weeks.

The “Hanjin Copenhagen” is essentially a big steel shoebox 278m long x 40m wide x 50m tall. Pushing this mass over the water is one monstrous 74,700 horsepower engine cranking a propeller with an 8m diameter. This morning I went deep down into the engine room to have a look. On many levels, it was probably one of the most useless educational experiences of my life. Let me elaborate.

First of all, mechanical knowledge is not my strong suit. It still takes me a shamefully long time to make even simple bike repairs (if I can do them at all). Put me in a vast hold containing assorted tanks, pipes, pistons and gauges and I’m quickly out of my depth. Second, the Chief Engineer explained all this in German, a language I know but don’t often use. Even if he had done the tour in English, I still wouldn’t recognize a “ballast stripping eductor” or an “anti-heeling pump” if they were giving me a lap dance.

Finally, and most important, was the acoustic assault. From 10 stories above, the engine noise is a dull rumble. Below deck it turns into the piercing screech of a million hairdryers set on “high”. We put on sound dampening ear coverings to do the tour, and in this hearing-impaired state I tried vainly to grasp German technical explanations. I nodded sagely as the Chief proudly presented a set of valves, and pantomimed understanding as he gestured towards a row of boilers and said something profoundly undecipherable.

The one thing I did get: I couldn’t stand being more than 15 minutes in that sonic Hades. The engineers, electricians, oilers and mechanics spend their entire workday there.