Nov. 1  Noontime Position Lat 47deg 40,3 N, Long 137deg 42,7 W
Over the Tufts Abyssal Plain

What’s rocking my world these days is water, and lots of it. The Hanjin Copenhagen is large (about half as long as the CN tower is tall), but it’s also crossing the Pacific Ocean, which makes up 40 per cent of the planet’s surface.* The ocean floor is thousands of metres below us, and the wind has been blowing head-on  unimpeded for thousands of kilometres. Which means it’s relatively rough out here, even on a big ship. We have been in Beaufort 10 seas (on a scale of 12), described as a “Storm” in the Marine Observer’s Guide on the bridge deck:

“Very high waves, with long overhanging crests; the resulting foam, in great patches, is blown in dense white streaks along the direction of the wind; on the whole, the surface of the sea takes a white appearance; the tumbling of the sea becomes heavy and shock-like; visibility affected.”

I had my safety orientation with the 2nd Officer yesterday. I was made to watch a video presentation (emergency procedures, etcetera, with a jaunty jazz piano soundtrack). Then we walked around the ship and he showed me various flares, beacons, life rafts, personal flotation devices, as well as the muster station. Rather sensibly, the dispensary is right across from the so-called drinking store. As I now understand it, my role in any emergency is to go to the bridge and then stay out of the way. The deck tour, in near gale conditions, confirmed that I won’t be doing any real running around the ship. The deck surface may be flat, but the sea is not. I don’t intend my last triathlon to be a run-swim-die.

Today I stepped outside for a bit to experience those winds. Hooo-eeee! Small children and dogs wouldn’t have been safe. I had to have both hands on the railing to keep from getting knocked down. Even breathing into the wind was very difficult. I managed to avoid seasickness until lunchtime. The Steward brought me a big breaded pork cutlet and I had to excuse myself. A hearty heave-ho in the cabin, a lie-down, and all is good now. Presently, it’s calmer but we still all stumble a bit walking around. It’s the same sort of motion as you get on a plane going through turbulence, but dampened by the ship’s size. In the shower this morning, it was neat watching the water sloshing back and forth before it went down the drain. You put a pen on the desk, and it rolls around.

We have altered our course southward to avoid more severe weather (a nasty-looking red circle on the forecast printout), which means we’ll be going into the yellow/orange blob instead over the next few days. This entails covering a greater distance towards Busan, Korea (our next destination), but less wear and tear on the vessel. The steel hull flexes as waves crash into the hull, and that’s a good thing too! Otherwise we could end up with our bow and stern on wave crests with nothing to support us in between. Trough to crest, wave height is upwards of 14m.

*Fact checkers can correct me on this and other figures throughout. I don’t have access to Wikipedia.

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.
—
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.