Francis Meyrick

A Blip on the Radar

Part 19: “Pilot-not-in-Command; Moggy,Moggy…what DID I just do? “

(Pilots tell me they find “Moggy’s Tuna Manual ” truthful and honest. Thanks, guys. I’m glad. I don’t try and portray myself as a super hero pilot. Because I know… I’m not. I make mistakes, just like everybody else. Of course, ‘they’ don’t all admit it. Many experienced pilots become arrogant and proud, judgmental, conveniently forgetting their own past learning mistakes…
I’ve seen some of these guys become instructors, check pilots, etc, and adopt a golden halo of their own superiority.
Entitled to use withering sarcasm to smash and slam low ranking pilots for the slightest, trivial transgression…
This sends entirely the wrong message.

The implication is that when you’re good, you don’t make mistakes.
(HA-HA-HA!!)

Bullshit. A good, defensive helicopter pilot accept his own human fallibility, and is on a sharp look out to avoid trouble. Not to mention acute personal embarrassment. Always.
Here follows a description of an occurrence, that I’m not proud of. Actually, it still sends shivers down my spine when I recall it. I’m not aware of anybody else in the History of Tuna Helicopters who has ever pulled this little trick…)

This… can happen to the brain as well

Accidents happen, they say.
But in the helicopter flying world, these accidents can kill. It follows that the prudent helicopter pilot will always try and think ahead. To the “what if ” scenarios. What if this-and-this happens? Then I will do THAT. Now you have actually thought about it. Beforehand. Maybe read something up on the subject. Seen it in “Moggy’s Tuna Manual “. Discussed it with a fellow pilot. You have digested it. For sure, you are now a much better pilot. But what of the sudden, cataclysmic events that you have never -ever- in your wildest dreams thought about? That happen so incredibly swiftly, that the events become almost surreal? Taking on a dream-like quality?
It is to be hoped that you never experience these events. But if you stay in the world of helicopters long enough, never mind the mercurial, quicksilver world of tuna spotting helicopters…. well, you will experience these nasty surprises, my friend, believe me, you will…

I had landed my beautiful Hughes 500 on another Taiwanese ship.
This particular crazy captain, one I wasn’t impressed with at all, was off on another gambling spree. That night he would probably return, drunk, even more in debt, moody, and determined to take his frustrations out on his unfortunate crew the next day. It seemed he would never learn. Gambling at cards is a real mug’s game. It’s almost as silly as believing the election trail promises of an American wannabe presidential contender. Watch my lips, no new taxes…

I had dropped him on his opponent’s vessel, and then shut down there. After a wait of a few hours, I had been told to return to my own boat, alone. All I had to do was fly the ten minutes back to my boat. Easy…
The deck was rocking a bit, with a stiff breeze blowing through. Twenty five knots or so. Some spray. No biggie.
The deck helper of that boat had come up to assist me. He was a bland, unsmiling individual, who revealed little expression on his weathered face. We untied my bird, and I did a pre-flight. Then I hopped in, and fired her up. Only the belly hook kept me from possibly sliding on the rolling deck. I warmed her up, and then smoothly started to advance the throttle.
Routine… nothing special.
I always enjoyed this stage. The anticipation. I would look forward to the freedom of flight. Always. The excitement.
I couldn’t wait. I absolutely loved to fly. I still do…
Now I was at full throttle. I checked the gauges, and everything was in the green.
Routine… nothing special.
I had done this a thousand times. Now to disengage the belly hook. I squeezed the trigger on the cyclic, which released the belly cable.

the famous (or infamous) ‘belly cable’

Even if the ship was to rock violently now, I had already achieved full RPM. I could always haul her off in a hurry if I was forced to. Next was a gentle increase in collective pitch. A smoooooth collective pull, nice and gentle, but positive nonetheless. Obediently, my faithful steed ‘sat up’. The undercarriage shock absorbers were now extending, and it gave the pilot a taut feeling of readiness. She was ready to go, light on the skids. I was vaguely aware of the deck helper staring at me unblinkingly, with that emotionless expression.
Routine… nothing special.
I had done this a thousand times. I was supremely confident. I eased in a fraction more collective. She “sat up ” just a little bit more. Obedient. My baby. My beautiful baby. Docile. She was telling me that she was ready to go.
I eased up a bit more on the collective lever. And a bit more…
Routine… nothing special.
I eased up just a bit more. Now she was really ready to go…

A thought screamed into my mind…

Like a galloping horseman on a dark, storm tossed night, a scary messenger with desperate tidings.
A strange awareness. A lurch in emotions. A sudden sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Hang on here…
In a trillionth of one second, a distant message was coming through. It was amplifying in my brain. The voice that spoke it, was elevating into a crescendo.
Hang on here… Something is WRONG!
ALARM! ALARM! ALARM!

It was too late…
In the next one trillionth of a second, I got as far as tearing my eyes away from outside back into the cockpit.
Glancing hurriedly down, I got as far as a fleeting realization:
Shit! That’s a HELLUVA lot of torque…
In another one trillionth of one second, I would have slammed the lever down, and averted catastrophe.
I would have….
but…
It was too late…

There came a colossal KA-BANGGGG!!!!!
The Laws of Nature, as I had understood them until that moment, were abruptly reversed. The Great Galactic Universe performed a trick I had never, ever, seen before. In a flash, the ship disappeared below, into a deep pit that had mysteriously opened up. It simply fell into the abyss. I was now in a predicament that I had never imagined. My mind was stalling. I wasn’t flying. I wasn’t pilot-in-command. The ship had fallen away. Just like that. And I was rotating to the right, slowly.
And I hadn’t a clue what to do.
What the F@#!!K…!!!

Precious micro seconds flashed by, whilst my mind grappled with utter confusion. I had my hands on the controls, but I wasn’t flying. I was a passenger. A pilot-not-in-command….
Slowly, I realized that the ship had not fallen into an abyss. It was I who had been suddenly hurtled skyward. Fired vertically like an arrow out of a bow.
I eased down on the collective, and eased forward on the cyclic. Achieved some airspeed. Checked my altitude.
Holy cow….
Tried to work it all out…
It was obvious the belly cable had failed to release. Not realizing it, and with no reaction or warning from the unfamiliar deck helper, I had mistakenly pulled in more and more power. Yup, I was trying to lift a cool 1,200 tons of Taiwanese steel. The gear legs had extended normally, with the belly cable now going fully tight. As I had pulled in more power, convinced that all was normal, I had suddenly realized something was wrong. All that power and still no vertical lift off? But then, a trillionth of a second before my full realization, the belly hook had simply failed. Or finally snapped open. This had literally fired me off the deck, like the proverbial arrow, with a truly astonishing rate of climb of many thousands of feet per minute. That shocking departure, coupled with the strange slow turn to the right, had rendered me a stunned passenger for precious moments. A pilot-not-in-command….

Now I was flying again, worrying about damage to the helicopter.
Where did the blades go!???? Did they hit anything? Holy cow…
I was in the cruise now, still reeling in shock, trying to picture what my poor little baby had just gone through.
I was thinking aerodynamics. Thrust. Rotor blades. Maybe striking the tail boom. I was assuming the belly hook had failed.
But now an awful thought sledge hammered into my aching mind.
How do you know the HOOK failed??? Maybe the CABLE broke?
Oh, God…
Now I was trying to grapple with the picture in my mind of an altogether different scenario. And instantly, yet another horrible thought announced itself, like a brother demented horseman, a Valkyrie screaming in delight.
Oh, hell!! Fuk-fuk-fuk!!! How do you know WHERE it broke???
Long since in a cold sweat, now I gasped at the nightmare scenario of a long length of steel cable trailing out behind my helicopter, in approximate formation with my one and only tail rotor…
That was all I needed, for the wire to wrap itself around the tail rotor, and rip the whole rotor system, gearbox included, right out of the airframe… The resultant change in center of gravity would render the entire aircraft uncontrollable…
A catastrophe in the making.
A friend of mine had crashed that way, and almost died…

I looked at my air speed indicator, which was winding up through way too many knots, panicked, and abruptly tried to slow down. This, I realized instantly, as the nose pitched up, might be the worst possible thing to do. My mind clearly saw the unseen wire snaking towards the tail rotor, aided by my abrupt flare…
You IDIOT!!! Concentrate! Fly this puppy smoothly…
The next few minutes were nerve wracking in the extreme. As I slowly and smoothly headed towards my boat, a thousand scenarios playing through my numbed mind. I just couldn’t tell what was happening. Was it the hook? Or the cable?
The hook or the cable?
Am I trailing wire?
If so, how long is that wire?
Long enough to reach the tail rotor?
What other damage have I done?
Am I going to crash?

I was a very relieved pilot, by the time I touched down on my boat. I was even more relieved, when I climbed underneath, and saw the four foot of steel wire trailing from the (still closed) belly hook. I was right. It was the cable that had broken. Luckily for me, only four foot away from the belly hook. Not enough to reach the tail rotor…
I had been lucky. Again. What if I had not been fired off vertically? What obstacle might I have cannoned into?
What if the blades had flexed down, and chopped my tail boom?
What if…

I don’t smoke. I climbed down to the deck below, and asked for a cigarette. The Taiwanese that gave me one, a little surprised, tried hard to light it for me. But I was shaking so badly, so uncontrollably, that the lighter in his hand was doing circles around trying to match the flame to the tip. Eventually, concern in his eyes, he watched me suck in the first puff.
He smiled. I smiled back.
“Is good? “,he asked, meaning the cigarette.
I paused, reflecting.
Then I nodded.
“Is good “, I answered.
Meaning something else.
Is good….

To be bloody well alive…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 19, 2016, 6:10 am

Part 18: Starry, starry night

At night, after a day’s hectic fishing, most of the crew always retired below to their cabins. Oftentimes we would be hove to. Then the ship would rock quietly, and only the distant diesel generators would disturb the Ocean peace, The main engines would be silent.
Music…

An awesome photo by Phillip Bell

Lapping of waves. The odd, startled, sea bird, confused by the artificial lights. A false sun…
A rhythmic diesel hum. And across the waves, delicately, soft chords playing.
Starry, starry night…

As likely as not, I alone would be up on deck. Pacing. Dreaming.
Often I would climb up to the helideck. And lie there, gazing up at the stars of the Milky Way, and far away Galaxies. Across the Space fabric of Time, my small and groping Spirit would wrestle with the enormity -for me- of what I was doing out there. And I would ponder the equal enormity of my insignificance on the Cosmic Scale.
I would stretch out along the top of the floats, and use my jacket as a pillow. I would spend hours upon hours alone up there, my little mind churning restlessly.
Who am I?
I would ask the question as if I thought I could find the answer.
Why am I?
I asked the question, almost convinced there was a reason. A good reason.
Am I alone?
I would speak the question softly in my mind, careful to send the tiny thought on its way with kindness and patience.
I don’t expect an answer…
There would be silence, save the hum of the distant generators, the lapping of distant waves, and the strange resonance of thoughts transmitted out, thoughts received, and deep, deep heartfelt longings. Dreams…
Dreams to Allah…

The middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a calm and clear night, is -in a mysterious way- a place where a Quiet Enlightenment is available for those of us tiny mortals who seek the honest humility required to glimpse it. I say glimpse, because that is all we can do. You’ll never find it. Hold on to it. Tie it down. Lock it up.
Not in our, busy, frenetic, blurring world…

Some people would call it Prayer. Others, offended at the very thought, and instantly hostile to any concept of a Deity, would call it Meditation. Others still, cynics perhaps, unbelievers in everything that cannot be touched, tasted, measured or seen, would sneeringly refer to it as the ramblings of a half crazy Irishman. But for me, there was a dynamic, hurting, confused sadness, matched, tended to, consoled if you like, by a deep and reverent awe. The Universe out there is inspiring, endlessly beautiful, and oh!, so accusing to us Mortal Men. How can we be so stupid? How can we be so selfish and greedy? So materialistic? In terms of our hunger to acquire possessions? And worse, materialistic in terms of our Cosmic blindness? Do we really think anymore…?
In my little scribblings, for that is all they are, I have repeatedly returned to the imagery, the symbolism, the metaphor, the theme of “the cubicle “. (As in my story “Living in a Cubicle “)
Four walls. Made mostly of cardboard. In which we tend to sit, supremely satisfied. In charge. Of our domain. Our Universe… We like to think we are important, and that we are in charge. Regardless of our occupation. I do it. We all do it. We all have this tendency to voluntarily restrict our view to our immediate surroundings. Make order there. Stick terribly important notes on the cardboard wall. Memos. Computer print outs. Work programs. Bank statements. Retirement fund statements. University degrees…..
Dude….
I say this to myself. Often.
Slow down…

That band of light, bright, incredibly prolific stars… that’s the Milky Way.
My favorite road. Leaning over hard, throttle wide open.
It’s a swirling, raucous, irreverent, cacophony of stars. Totally out of whack. The most hap hazard, botched up job of putting lights in the sky you can possibly imagine. Who the heck did that? No system. Just a massive stellar orgy.
Oh well….
But it’s home. Our galaxy. We’re just an insignificant pair of Dreamers, you and me, on a very minor planet, sailing steadily around a relatively small sun. There’s millions and millions of suns out there. The amount of planets is unfathomable. The distances are beyond comprehension. And Time itself, blurs our every attempt to measure it. So many of those stars out there are sending us light, that has been traveling through space for many years. It is only now reaching our retinas.
And we think we’re important?

There are catatonic explosions going on out there. We see the distant rumblings, but have we any idea of the passion, the intensity, the creative and destructive cycle? Have we any real concept of how big Life is, and how small, how finite, how limited we are?
And yet, we are, each one of us, important.
I feel that, very strongly. Despite the fact that I’m lying here, on the helideck, pondering the mass of our very own galaxy. It’s between four hundred billion and one trillion solar masses. The disc of the Milky Way spans more than 100,000 light years. But it’s not very thick. At the nucleus it’s only about 13,000 light years thick, and then it fades out towards the outer edge. Our part of the galaxy, where I’m floating in the middle of the Ocean, on this peaceful night, is roughly 1,000 light years thick. Not too bad.
Now, cruising at a hunnered an’ twenty knots in my Hughes 500, that should take me…
Duh. Quite a frickin’ while, Jimmy. And don’t you just wonder what the blue Ocean blazes is going on out there?
Is there anybody else out there, pondering the same musings? We’re roughly 26,000 light years from the centre of the Milky Way, so if I wanted to take a gentle poodle to Milky Way City centre, who would I meet on the way?

Our lives are so important. They matter. But to measure success only in terms of numbers in a currency, or standing amongst men, seems to me to be a wrong turn. Sure, that stuff matters, but then again, how does all that stand up to…
Wow… Look at that! It’s a satellite, streaking across the sky!
It’s only out here, far, far away from Man’s pollution, and his Slick City lights, that you can easily discern the satellites passing over. They are totally, totally different from airliners. We don’t actually get much commercial air traffic over at all. But lots and lots of satellites. If you keep a watch for them, you can spot them regularly. They will positively erupt over the horizon, and perform this amazing arc at breakneck speed. Up, up…. over…. and down the opposite horizon. It’s nothing to be able to follow them the whole way. Pretty awesome.
Neat…
‘Planet beam’ is bright again tonight…
The city dwellers, the rabbits in their hutches, carefully chewed together with the best straws they can find, grab or steal, are all able to recognize mere ‘moon beam’. Not that they would be really very interested. People don’t read much romantic poetry any more. Many people don’t really read much more, period, I’m thinking. Although they fancy themselves as educated. Such a pity. Maybe it just takes a romantic soul, a dreamer soul, to be awed by ‘planet beam’. Swing your head left….
moonbeam…
Swing your head right…
planet beam…
A more faint track of light, but, nonetheless, clearly, across the living water, comes a path of light from rising Mars.
Neat…

The truth is complicated, and yet it is simple.
We don’t know much.
Heck,no…
We think we do, but that’s an illusion. We think we are in control. But we’re not.
We weren’t born to hide like squinting moles behind the protective cardboard walls of our cubicles. We weren’t born to grip tightly to the corners of our desk, littered with self important papers. Those cardboard walls blot out the view of the stars beyond. They blot out the mystery. They reduce the Cosmic Search to the ramblings of some voice in the wilderness.
Dude…
We are star dust…

We were born to dream, and to let our minds wander through the Universe, and sense the Power of Creation.
We were born to seek. To ask. To puzzle. To confront…. our doubts, our worries, our longings, our fears.

A meteor lights up the sky. Particles of interplanetary debris. Endlessly recycled. A dramatic entrance, a flash, that lights up the sky, all eyes turn… he is the greatest!
All hail, the great leader….!
Poof….
All gone…
The way it is. The way it should be.
I can see clearly now…

For we are not Gods. We are just men. Specks of dust in a Universe of Galaxies, seconds in Eternity, and perhaps, the breath of the Great Architect. Beloved, for all our frailty, all our pride, and all our innocence.

We matter. We, the seeking ones.

Star dust…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 29, 2015, 2:46 pm

My buddy, Adona the Great!

Part 17: Barking Mad; “Moggy, Moggy, what you DO?? ”

Dogs can be funny.
Their territorial instinct extends to the most unlikely places. We’ve all walked up to somebody’s house, and found ourselves confronted with a protective canine. It might be a normally placid pet, but when a stranger approaches…
Bow-wow! F..k off! This is MY garden! I don’t know you! Go away! Master! There’s a strange man here…!!
Or you’ll be walking through a super market parking lot. Innocently, minding your own business. Your thoughts a thousand miles away, in some pleasant place, probably at five hundred feet in a Hughes 500, spotting tuna…
You swing by a parked car, with the windows maybe slid open a few inches. All of a sudden…
Bow-wow-wow! F..k off! This is MY car! I don’t know you! Go away! Master! There’s a strange man here…!!
We have a rescued Heinz 57 mutt at our house, which I like to pass off as an Australian Shepherd. In truth, that’s what the vet said. However, I suspect in Sinner’s genealogical line (that’s his name, by the way) there must have been some serious genetic upheaval. Maybe his Granny got gang banged by a mixed pack of Airdales, Whippets, and a Dachshund or two, because he sure as heck is not a pure bred. He’s also a bit deaf, and he doesn’t see too well. And his breath stinks.
And, boy!, can he fart. Putrid clouds of room emptying poison gas. Which he silently vents, with this strange, distant, dreamy faced expression. Supreme doggy happiness….
Brrrrffffttt!!!!……Prrrap!!…….Aaaaaahhhh…. that feels better now….
(screams, all fall down)
Apart from all that, he is a loyal, lovable little…. stinker.
Well, even Sinner will bark at me, when I’m more than ten yards away.
Bow-wow-wow! F..k off! This is MY house! I don’t know you! Master! Master! There’s a strange man here!
I then adress him , a little sternly:
Sinner! You daft mutt! It’s me! Pipe down!
And you sense his embarrassment.
Oops! (heh-heh) Sorry, Master! Thank f..k for that! I was getting ready to run like hell…err…. fight like crazy!

Small wonder then, that dogs in the Tuna fields are no different.
Thus it was that I set foot for the first time on a purse seiner. It was moored along the quay. Nobody seemed to be around. I entered the bridge, looking for the dude in charge, with the intention of introducing myself and discovering my cabin. I was instantly met by the captain of the moment.
Bow-wow! F..k off! This is MY bridge! I don’t know you! Master! Master! There’s a strange white git here!
A small little black and white Chee-chuu…. Chee-waa…. fukkit, a Chee-Chew-Wawa thing.
I tried to address him in a friendly fashion.
“Hi there, sailor! What’s YOUR name! “
Big mistake. Now he was really pissed. Soon he had worked himself into a first class hissy fit. A tiny, fluffy bundle of hair and gnashing teeth. Such a nice little doggie.
Little bastard…
Two sleepy crew members now put in an appearance. Eyeing me unsmilingly, one picked up the Chee-Chew thing, and the other peered suspicously in my face.
And the next thing, I had this giddy attack of daft humour. I can rarely resist it. It’s the one-liner. The poorly thought out wisecrack. The totally inappropriate joke. My life would be so much easier if I could finally learn to ‘button it’. But no, the amazing orifice beneath my nose insists on taking on a life and tiny mind all of its own.
I sniggered. I probably thought I’d lighten the mood.
Pointing at the Wawa thing, still yapping furiously at me, I said:
“Oh! Lunch? Tsuh-wann?? ”
And just for total clarity, I mimed putting Chee-Chewy into my mouth and chewing the heck out of Chewy.
It didn’t go down well. They looked at each other, and back at me. Horrified. I helped a lot, by bursting out laughing.
Now they knew they had a dangerous lunatic on their hands. The sailor holding Chee-Chewy backed off, his arms protectively wrapped around the ship’s mascot. The captain’s dog. The other dude, said, in a shocked tone:
“No! No eat! What you want? ”
I asked for the Captain. They went and fetched him, and the yappy thing struggled free and ran to him , breathlessly, tail wagging excitedly. Then, standing bravely behind his owner, he continued the vocal comment.
Bow-wow! F..k off! Master, master, that ugly monster wanted to EAT me… “
So I was off to a great start. Within a minute of landing on my new boat, I’d asked if I could eat the captain’s dog for lunch…

A few months later, things had calmed down a bit. Well, admittedly, I had accidentally shit blasted the second engineer right off his Asian squat hole. I describe that unhappy technical melt down in “Blip on the Radar 16 “. He still hadn’t forgiven me, and when we met, if I tried my sickeningly cheerful “Good morning! “, he would just stare, scowl, and flee. Probably was wondering what else I was capable of doing. But the crew and I got along pretty well already. A good few laughs. I’m mostly a chatty dude, if prone to ‘cultural mis-alignments’. and I was learning Chinese. I had quite a few hundred words already, and I was adding to my vocabulary almost daily. They had even forgiven me for trying to eat Chewy. Who was now my best buddy.
About a month out, they had diplomatically asked me ‘if we ate dogs’ where I came from. It had obviously been on their minds. I sensed this pity for me. The barbarian, forced to eat dogs. Poor fellow…

But apart from that, life was good. I had a good helicopter, with a freshly overhauled Allison C20B. We had a lot of guys flying around with C18 engines. Old, old military stuff. Old even then, in the mid nineties. Some were even grumbling that their machines had previously had updated C20B engines, which had been removed, and replaced by gutless -cheap- unreliable C18’s. The scuttelbut had it they could be bought for peanuts. Nobody in their right minds wanted them. They kind of belonged in museums. So I regarded myself as jolly lucky to be working for an employer who didn’t believe in cheap skating with pilots’ lives.
Yep, life was good. And on this particular day, I had received word that my bank account had been credited with $28,000 green backs, so now I was really happy. I was making $7,000 monthly as a pilot mechanic, in the mid nineties’. Today, more than ten years later, it seems that pay is DOWN to $4,600. Supply and demand. Too many desperate pilots. Strange….
Yes, it was a sunny day. I was in uproarious good humour. And we had left the fishing grounds for a refueling rendez vous with a tanker ship. So I didn’t have to fly. All I had to do was relax, goof off, practice Chinese, read, and look forward to tomorrow.
I watched as we neared the tanker ship. It’s just like pulling into a filling station. They don’t check your tire pressure, or wash your windscreen, but they do fill you up, and often there is an exchange of goodies.
I was amused to see there was a dog on the tanker. He was barking his head off.
Bow-wow! F..k off! This is MY piece of Ocean! Master, master, there’s a strange SHIP sneaking up on us! Bow-wow!!
He was kicking up a helluva shindig, and he wasn’t about to quit either. Old Chewy was at the rail beside me, kind of half wagging his tail, wondering perhaps what in heck that yappy thing over there actually was…

We pulled along side, and the slow, routine process of tying up and transferring diesel started.
I’d seen it all before, and I was quite familiar with the procedure. They spin-sling these lighter ropes across, then pull in heavier cables. Those cables get wrapped around winches, and the winches creak into gear. That draws the two ships together. Then more light ropes. Pulling in heavier ropes. Then they start to pull across the hoses, sometimes several.
It all takes time. And they have to be hooked up and connected below decks. There are quite a large number of crew involved. It’s an important business. For the pilot, it’s a change. You get to stroll around the deck, and watch the goings on.
Hey-ho…
Sometimes they use walkie-talkies. Sometimes they don’t. It’s such a well rehearsed sort of thing, it usually runs itself pretty well.
Luvvely day…
I was standing beside the bridge, when I was interrupted in my pleasant reverie by somebody whistling. One of those up-and-down undulating catch-his-attention whistles. When you’re trying to attract somebody’s… attention. I looked across to the tanker ship. There was this really friendly dude, waving.
Nice guy. Heck, I waved back.
Yeah man, it’s a lovely day, eh?
Big smiles. Him and me. Buddies already. Waving like crazy.
He gave me a cheerful ‘thumbs up’. I gave him one right back.
Heck, yeah.
The sun was beating down, the sea was almost flat calm, and the water was that translucent blue. A few porpoises were hanging around as well. Another great Pacific Ocean day…

A minute or two later, there seemed to be a commotion going on at the other end of our ship.
A lot of yelling. The loudspeakers were going off with perplexed, angry, confused Chinese voices.
People running. The captain came running out of the bridge, somebody yelled at him, and he bolted back inside, and got on the radio.
Hmmmm…. Strange…
I ambled back along the deck, hands in my pockets, to investigate. When I got to the middle working deck, there was a first class almighty right kerfuffle going on. Boy, they were mad! There were several sailors, covered in diesel. Including the second engineer. Soaked with the stuff. Just absolutely drenched. Peering down the hatch, I could see diesel everywhere, and even more really pissed off China men venting their frustrations. There was a right mess. Looked to me like somebody had really, really screwed up.
As an interested, compassionate, international observer, wholly detached of course, (nothing to do with me), I stood there, hands in pocket, trying to follow the Chinese. There was a lot of “Pooh how! ” Going on. It means “bad “. And also a lot of “saitee! ” Which also means “Very bad! ” Now they were yelling at the dude on the tanker. It was quite impressive. This gang of furiously, homicidally angry Chinese, venting freely at the tanker fellow. Holy smokes. It’s “Awesome ” how the Chinese can swear. It’s not just the words. Although I’m sure they involve your sexual orientation, your mother, your father, your life expectancy, the size of your pecker, your intelligence, and your chance of getting away alive… But it’s the way the Chinese accompany the words with body and facial movement. The face becomes a fluid, hate filled, tableau.
“I’m gonna KILL you, you son-of-a bitch! “
The body mimes stabbing you, stomping on you, and generally crushing your useless carcass into the ground.
Really impressive…
There were a number of words being repeated, and I was trying to remember them. I couldn’t wait to get back to my Chinese English dictionary. I would be asking the Radio Operator for help. I wondered what sentinpjin meant?
Hmmm….
Now the friendly dude on the tanker ship was yelling back. He wasn’t friendly anymore. He had a microphone in his hand, and the loudspeakers were amplifying his indignation. Now there was a fluent flow coming from him. And all of a sudden, strangely, most unexpectedly…
he was pointing, gesticulating, jabbing an angry, accusing finger…
at me...

Huh!??

What was infinitely worse than the finger pointing, was that, all of a sudden, that angry, baying pack of rabid Oriental gentlemen swung the combined -intense- focus of their (diesel blurred) gaze – in a nano second – ninety degrees right…. focus: ME.
Aaaahhh…..errrrr……. oh my gosh….
Now I know how a small rabbit feels, confronted with a pack of very large, very hungry dogs. Especially when there’s nowhere to run.
The dull, distant sound of a penny dropping…
clink…
And another one…
clonk…
Aaaahhh…..errrrr……. oh my gosh….
Me. Standing by the bridge. Wearing a white pilot’s shirt. With the straps for the epaulettes. Looks… official?
Like I know what I’m doing?
Me. Waving. Friendly.
Me. Giving back a ‘thumbs up’. Friendly. Trying to be nice.
Oh. Shit. Oh shit. Oh ,oh, oh….
Deck. Full of knives, fishing implements. Hammers, cleavers, grappling hooks.
VERY, very angry Chinese.
Mummy…..!

“Moggy, Moggy, what you DO?? ”
It was the captain. His voice up a full octave.
I sighed. We had been through this routine before.
I bowed my head.
I explained. Humbly. Honestly. Surrounded by maniacal Chinese crew men. I’m not sure if they were carrying hatchets.
They might have been.
I explained the whole thing to the captain. Then I looked at the assembled throng. And I kind of…
mimed…
“Oops… Sorry…. ”

I have a lot of fond memories of the Chinese. And the Koreans. They were good to me.
Very human. They occasionally get a very bad, distrustful press here in the United States. But you know something?
Having worked with them, lived with them, and shared… tsuh-wann with them, I regard them as terrific, industrious, hard working people. They are just as human and feeling as you and me.
I know…
They even have a sense of wry humour.
Because they just looked at each other. The whole thing got explained. And they just shook their (diesel soaked) heads.
I was forgiven. Again.
Stupid Irishman…
I think they felt sorry for me. My penitent, profusely apologetic expression probably said it all.
What a dumb ass.

Barking mad…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Return to Index? (ChopperStories.COM)?

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 12, 2014, 10:24 am

Part 16: “Shithouse Etiquette; Moggy, Moggy, what you DO?? “

People that know me well, marvel how I do it.
I have a unique gift. The ability to waltz, wholly innocently, into all sorts of serious trouble. Then, having unintentionally caused complete and utter chaos, I tend to be forgiven. Personally, I kind of understand the second part. It’s just that I’m so desperately naive and innocent, that I don’t lie. I can’t. I just stand there, embarrassed as hell, without running away, and say words to the effect of:
“Oops….! “
“Sorry….! “
And the aggrieved ones, with hatchets in their hands, murder in their eyes, gather around. They discern, much to their amazement, a clot. A blithering imbecile, harmless, who thought he had a real good idea. Or who thought he was just being friendly. Nice. They give up, and drift away. Maybe they feel sort of sorry for me. Hell, I don’t know…

When I was first on a tuna purse seiner, I went exploring.
I found the refuse incineration system. Which I thought was wonderful. Proof of environmental sensitivity. GreenPeace would be pleased… I describe the unhappy affair in full in Chapter Ten of the “Blip on the Radar “ series. (It’s called “Porcelain Andy “.) It wasn’t really my finest moment. I also… discovered the shitter.

Now I have traveled fairly widely. And in various parts of the world, I have learned to expect the dreaded hole in the floor.
No commode. No seat. No comfort. Just an ugly looking hole in the floor. If you’re lucky, there might be two roughly foot shaped raised parts. The idea being that you stand there, and then, well, you probably get the idea.
It involves some interesting anatomical contortions. You have to be careful. Trousers and knickers can be seriously…. you know, I’m sure. So you lean, and try and keep your clothes clean, and try and aim carefully. Down that damn hole.
In any sea state. Believe me, it sounds easier than it is.
The Asians are much better at squatting. They practice it all the time. I’m sure they have muscles a-plenty if their calves.
Maybe that partly explains their prowess as lovers. Just look at the Captain.
There were two cubicles. Each had a door, and a hole. You were guaranteed at least a measure of privacy, while you contorted yourself. It was bad enough on a calm sea. When the boat was rocking and rolling, it became purgatory.
Now matter how hard you tried, as a Westerner, disasters happened. It got to be ugly if you ate too much curry.

The flushing system was rather primitive. It consisted of a narrow plastic pipe, connected to a tap. When you were done, you opened the tap, and then the somewhat limp stream of water would trickle down, and hopefully you succeeded in tidying up the remains of the curry. You would think there would be a tap and pipe in both of the cubicles. But no, for some reason, there was only one tap, and one pipe. They were located in number one cubicle. But if that one was occupied, and you were desperate, then you just had to go into number two cubicle. Embarrassing. Now what?
There was also another problem. I’d always choose number one cubicle if it was available, and every so often I’d have this disconcerting experience. I’d be quietly doing my thing, and the next thing some Oriental lunatic would start banging on the partition. They would start off with a few rapid raps. But before you knew it, they were hammering hell out of the place. What was all that about? I didn’t have the foggiest notion. Were they mad because I’d beaten them to the best cubicle? Or…(horrible thought)… were they Chinese Poofters and had I unwittingly stumbled on their favorite meeting place? Sometimes there would be an angry Chinese growl. I had no idea what the unseen growler was mad about.
Heck, it was confusing for a simple Irishman, a long way from home.

Eventually I brought up both matters with the radio operator. He smiled (in fact, I think he was bloody well laughing), and patiently went with me to the shitter block. He then kindly explained to me how it worked. It turned out that there was a system.
A sort of shithouse etiquette.
Only thing was, I didn’t know the system. Hence the puzzlement, annoyance towards me, and the resultant chaos.
All you had to do, if you were stuck in cubicle number two, was to bang on the partition. The good guy in number one cubicle would then turn the tap on, and slide the hose under the partition. Conversely, if you were occupied in number one cubicle, the tapping on the partition was a request for you to reciprocate.
Ooooooh……
Simple. Worked like a charm. Every time. If I needed the hose, I’d do the bangety-bang thing. When I was done, I’d say “Shay-shay ” (‘thank you’) and they would turn the tap off, and retrieve the hose.
And vice versa.
By the time I’d done it a few times, I was a grizzled veteran. Our international entente cordiale held up well, and seemed to be fool proof. I could now do a grand entrance into number two cubicle, and not worry about the sloppy results. Similarly, if I was doing the heavenly contortion in number one cubicle, and somebody banged on the partition, I now knew the scoop. The full story. Not a problem.
The story could have ended there. Happily, and forever.

Unfortunately… there was number two engineer.
I didn’t understand him. Nor did anybody else. He was a mean, moody, scowling individual. He was not happy with his station in life it seemed, and, well, for some reason, the rules didn’t apply to him. If he was the occupant of number one cubicle, you could bang on the partition for all you liked, he totally ignored you. It wasn’t personal. He did it to everybody.
Presumably it gave him a sense of power. Or else the menial task of turning the tap on and sliding the hose was below his dignity. I don’t know. I can’t imagine he didn’t know the rules. But he didn’t play the game. Instead, he’d just squat there. For hours it seemed. The Chinese can squat like no other nation. They do it everywhere. Where we would look for a chair, or a comfortable seat, the Chinaman happily squats. I can’t do it for more than thirty seconds without getting cramp. But those dudes will happily do the Squats for hours. The second engineer was like that. He’d be smoking away, reading a newspaper, and squatting in the shitter.
And he was deaf to all entreaties. You could knock, ask, plead… he didn’t care. You were stuck with waiting until he was finished, and then you could go and get the hose and slide it under the partition yourself.
Son of a….
But it was just the way it was. You got used to it.

Well… one day.
He was in number one cubicle, reading a paper, smoking his head off, and I really, really missed the hole in number two. A totally rotten shot. And needles to say, Mister Squatter in number one ignored my polite tapping. He ignored my heavy tapping. He ignored my polite spoken request. Just cigarette smoke curling up above the cubicle.
Him and his bloody newspaper..
There was no way I could leave that awful mess. I had to clean it up. So I’d just have to wait until His Oriental Lordship deigned to exit number one cubicle, and vacate ownership of the tap and pipe.
The minutes ticked slowly by. It was noon, equatorial hot as hell, and the whole boat was having a siesta. We’d all been up since just after four o’clock. This was a break time. And here I was, waiting for this tosser.
I ambled to the sea door that lead out onto the deck. It was open, to let some fresh air in. It had a high ten inch sill. I rested a foot on it, and leaned up against the steel frame.
Boring…
Looking out on the deck, absent mindedly, I happened to notice… a hose.
Hmmmm…
A ghost of an idea started to vaguely nibble at the back of my retarded brain.
Hmmmm…
Hose. Water. Flush.
Might work…
My brain cell came slowly awake. It was, admittedly, a rather big hose. Whereas the one in the cubicle was barely half an inch or so, this deck hose was twenty times the size. But still. A lot of water through a teeny weeny hose equals a little bit of water through a hummer hose…right?
I guessed so. I looked back at number one cubicle. All you could see was blue cigarette smoke curling into the air. He knew perfectly well I wouldn’t leave without doing the clean up. And meanwhile he could enjoy his newspaper and his power.
I stepped over the high sill, and walked out onto the deck to inspect the workings of Master Plan B. I would have to drag the hummer hose, and lift it in over the high sill. Then I would have to turn it on, and run back in quickly, but it seemed a perfectly feasible plan.
Heck, yeah…
The idea of showing the greasy little bugger in cubicle number one that I had found a way around him… now that appealed to me. It would be worth the minor extra effort.
So I started to drag the hummer hose in. It took a bit more effort than I originally thought. It was heavy. I kind of wondered why. But after a bit of grunting, I had it dragged inside, and propped up, ready, outside my cubicle. All I needed now was a little bit of water. I headed back out again, beginning to feel smug.
Ha! I’ll teach you, you little nipster…!
Outside on the deck, I followed the hummer hose back to a vertical pipe. I guessed it was the main manifold. It had four or five wheels on it. Wheel-valves. Okay, no biggie, all I needed now was a slight tweak…
It was stiff. I put more force on it. Nothing. I put quite a bit more force on it. Still nothing. Irritating. I’d gone to all this trouble, and I wasn’t about to admit defeat. I positively hauled on the blasted thing…
Ka-BOOM…!!
There came a thundering, reverberating crash from inside the shitter block, and, alarmed, I positively leapt back in over the sea sill. I was however, completely unprepared for what was unfolding there.
The previously inert -admittedly large- hose, that had patiently been waiting for a little trickle of water, had transformed itself into a raging monster. An Anaconda on steroids. It was like something straight out of a Sci-Fi horror movie, where an alien Space Worm works its way on board the Star Ship, and proceeds to viciously attack the crew. Utterly dumbfounded, I wasted precious time trying to grab on to the out-of-control, demented beast, by the tail. It was utterly impossible. I had never seen anything like it. What was worse, was the fact that the torrent of water, being delivered at a rate of hundreds of gallons per minute, had not only shit blasted cubicle number two, all over the place, including the occupant of cubicle number one… it had somehow managed to self propel itself over the partition into number one cubicle. From whence loud, and very agonized shrieking was coming. With my eyes I’m sure the size of saucers, I wasted more precious time floundering about trying to get out of the place. I was already well over my ankles in water. The hose was beating off the walls with truly astonishing force, and knocked me over twice. To the appalling racket I had unwittingly created, there was now added the unmistakable sound of a ship’s siren. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I finally floundered my way out, back onto the deck, soaked through and severely bruised, in a state of near panic. Rushing over to the control manifold, I was met by two alarmed crew members. Their expressions were totally perplexed. I had no time to try and explain. I was now desperately trying to shut the valve off. I was hauling on it with all my strength, and it wouldn’t go back.
No wonder. I was whaling on the wrong valve…
I finally founded the right one.
I shut it off. The fire hose. The use of which had set off the fire alarm.
Stood there, dripping, wanting more than everything to run and hide.
Oh… fuk….
The whole boat was up now. The whole crew. No more quiet siesta, on a sunny, hot equatorial day…
The claxon was still wailing. I made my way back to the shitter. Faces were everywhere. Perplexed, mystified faces. And, guess what, here comes the Captain…
He looked at the flooded shitter block, now under ten inches of water. He looked at my weary, infinitely guilty face.
“Moggy! What you DO….!??? “
I sighed.
“Well, captain…. “
And I explained, to the amazement of everybody. I explained it honestly and truthfully. How I had dreamed up this wizard idea. All on my own. And not realized it was a fire hose. With two positions.
Off…
or…
ON.
He listened, incredulously. Everybody stared, incredulously.It looked like I had made the Taiwanese history books.
Again…
I probably looked as defeated as I felt. For some reason, nobody was angry with me.

Slowly, one odd thing was becoming apparent to everybody. The unlucky occupant of number one cubicle… had still not emerged. Gone was the lazy blue cigarette smoke. Well gone. The Lord knew what state his newspaper was in. Heck, The Good Lord, with his infinite patience, also knew what state number two engineer was in….
It was the Captain who addressed him, and bade him come out. He didn’t seem to want to. By now, mercifully, attention was being diverted away from me. The sea of curious faces was now switching attention to number one cubicle…
The door opened just a crack. He peered out. A white China man. Pale white. Deathly white.
The fearsome number two engineer. Somewhat the worse for wear.
Beaten up, by forces unknown, and shit blasted.
It looked like he was doing a careful reconnaissance. To see what further unknown forces out there were lurking in wait for him…

Days later, the delighted crew were still laughing about it, and clapping me on the back.
A most unforeseen outcome.
But perhaps the oddest thing was this:

I only had to enter number two cubicle, and the unlucky engineer was already shouting:
“Okay, okay…! “

…and sliding the hose under the partition.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 23, 2014, 8:51 am

Part 15B: Beautiful American Film Star

If he was disappointed, the Captain never betrayed any sign of it. After a few seconds of contemplation, he merely motioned over the waiter, now doubling as the Captain’s personal pimp.
Handing over the keys to his room, he instructed the waiter to escort the Fair Maidens there, and make sure they were ready for his arrival. I watched the trio depart as per orders, and found myself studying the Captain, and everybody else.
It was obvious what was going on, and the arrangements had been made in full view and well within earshot of the entire restaurant and bar. It phased the Captain not one bit. Nor did anyone else seem bothered by it. The laughter and the banter continued as before, and the Captain continued to massively entertain. Now he was downing the double Scotches as if they were lemonade. For such a relatively small man, his capacity to absorb copious amounts of alcohol, and retain the sharpness and the focus of his mind, was astounding. It far exceeded my own. It didn’t take much for me, to start descending into a Woozy Happy Place, where the illogical became perfectly Rational. Hence my attempt to ascertain if my head would fit between the jaws of the carved crocodile. I was curious. I wished to know. And anyway, so did the Radio Operator. I think him and I had been solemnly discussing it. On another occasion, in Dover, England, I climbed to the top of a lamp post in that merry state. Unfortunately, it had been a tall one, some thirty feet high. Concerned bystanders had called the cops. Who had called an ambulance. And blocked the main Cheriton High Street. In case the daft drunk, singing Irish rebel songs at the top of his voice, at one o’clock in the morning, would take a massive fall and crack his head…

With a fine flourish, The Captain downed the last drops from his glass. It was quite obvious that he was eager to get to the business at hand. Soon he was on his way, wending his way around the busy tables with scarcely a list to either side.
The party continued on as before, and now we were discussing the Captain’s legendary appetite for the fair sex. His crew told endless stories about Chinese, Russian, Taiwanese, American, and Chamorro ladies their fearless leader had bedded.
They talked about it in hushed whispers, as if he might otherwise hear. None of these men were strangers to the delights of concubines, but all seemed to be in awe of the unlimited capacity of this Asian Romeo.
After just under half an hour, he was back. He sat down, quite unruffled, and continued where he had left off. Once again the life and soul of the party, he carried with him an extra zippiness. He was, if that were possible, even more upbeat, bushy tailed and spunky. It was quite obvious to me, and probably everybody else, that he had successfully rubbed the old relic, as the Irish say, dipped the wick, and exercised the pump. I watched the Heavenly Sisters depart, slightly flushed and tousled looking, but all smiles and waving nonetheless, doubtless carrying a pile of the green stuff back to base. Everybody was happy. Except me. Because I just didn’t get it. Understanding, I mean. Not talking about my holy relic…

I had to ask. I just had to. I would have been wise perhaps to have left it alone.
“Captain! “
“Yes, Moggy? “
He was positively genial now. Almost infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“Captain, I have to ask you a question. “
He beamed at me.
“Moggy, you ask. You know I always teach you. You know I have Big Head! “
“Yes Captain, I know you are a Big Head. Please explain this to me: most men, one girl. Why you, TWO girls? “
He looked at me, wisely and knowingly. The table fell silent. Everybody was listening. I formed the distinct impression he was going to explain things to me, in a simplified form, kindly allowing for my limited I.Q.
“Moggy, Moggy…. you know nothing. But is okay. I explain to you everything… “
He paused for dramatic effect.
“I am Captain of ship! So, I have TWO girls. One…port side! One… starboard side! “
He toasted his statement, and his eyes were sparkling. Goldarn it, I knew full well he was laughing at me, and my simple values. I sighed. Everybody was amused. I tried again.
“Captain! I have number two question! “
“Yes, Moggy, no problem! I teach you! I am Big Head! “
He looked around the table, and everybody nodded approval.
“Yes, Captain, I know you are a Big Head. Please explain to me… these girls…. errrr….. very UGLY! Not like your girls I see in Guam! Errr…you not find… these girls….. like very old sheep…. try to be young lamb? “
I hesitated to use the word “mutton “, thinking he would not know it.
But he got the meaning straight away.
“Ah, Moggy, you mean no spring chicken? “
“Exactly, Captain! “
I could have added comments about the weight, size, the hairs sticking out of their noses, the massive biceps, the red stained teeth, the humongous buttocks waddling dangerously across the room…. but I was loath to go into detail. I was just amazed he could find them…. errr…. worthy of…. his refined taste.
He looked at me, shaking his head.
“Moggy, Moggy, you know nothing… ”
I hung my head.
“But is okay…. I teach you everything. When you are captain of ship, you always take magazine with many photo of beautiful American Film Star… ”
I looked blank. He had lost me.
He looked around the restaurant. Leaping to his feet, he marched over to a table with some glossy magazines lying on it. Returning, he stood beside us once again, and opened the magazine out wide. Continuing the narrative, he explained:
“So when you have really UGLY girl…. meo ountie…. no problem! “
He mimed the procedure.
“First you find Beautiful girl in magazine… “
Everybody was entranced.
“Then you put over FACE… “
He mimed the action. Placing the magazine slowly over an imaginary ugly girl’s face.
“And then… “
His face lit up. His voice reverberated around the crowded room.
“You fuck like crazy man! “
And standing at the table, he furiously mimed the movement, an unmistakable series of fierce pelvic thrusts, his whole body rocking to the motion…

What could I do or say… I just gave up and toasted him.
The surrounding tables burst into loud applause.
He bowed solemnly in all directions.

My education was once again, advanced to a higher level, Taiwan style.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 3, 2011, 4:24 pm