November 8 Noontime Position: Lat 46deg 57,7 N; Long 154deg 31,1 E
South of the Kuril Islands

As scheduled, we’ve skipped ahead to Tuesday, making Monday disappear.

Hanjin Copenhagen has a crew of 21, not including me. Most of the officers are German and Polish. The others on board are from the Philippines. I’m on my own mostly, but share my meals with the officers and spend some time on the bridge while they take turns on watch (four hours on, eight hours off, round the clock).

The Captain: Hanjin Copenhagen’s master is a gruff white haired, red-faced East German. The first time I saw him, while we were still loading cargo in Vancouver, he was on the superstructure taking pictures. Dressed in khaki and sandals (with socks of course) I almost mistook him for another passenger until he introduced himself. A German company manages the ship’s operations and requires a German to be in command. As the captain wryly said, this is so that head office can chew people out in their native tongue. The man is under a lot of pressure. He has strict schedules to keep, and absolute responsibility for 22 lives, and hundreds of millions of dollars of equipment and payload.

First Officer: a soft-spoken, bald-headed giant from Wroclaw, who stoops while ambling along the corridor. On the bridge, he folds his massive frame into the command chair on the bridge and stretches his long trackpant-covered legs toward the console. Back home in Poland, his wife runs the family drugstore chain and he quizzes me about the cost of living and tax rates in Canada, as well as his professional prospects were he to emigrate. As we plowed through the storm the first two days out of Vancouver, he gestured toward the gray waves; “Weather is bullshit. But used to be ships were of wood and men of steel. But now ships of steel and men of wood.”

Second Officer: a melancholy, round-faced Filipino who tells me of missing his kids growing up since he’s away months at a time. As he has the 12-4 watch, he has plenty of time to ponder as the Hanjin Copenhagen churns through the dark, desolate Pacific night. It’s perhaps not surprising to see him knocking back the rum and cokes at karaoke. But then off he goes to operate 66,000 tons of heavy machinery, and it makes you wonder.

Third Officer: a twenty-four year old kid from Rostock on his second ship after marine college. Hearing him talk, I get the sense he’d be way happier snagging a job on a Baltic ferry closer to home. At least then he could be out with his friends and supporting his beloved Hansa Rostock of the Bundesliga second division, rather than spending months in social isolation at sea.

Chief Engineer: a large, affable, rumbly-voiced German who’s seen it all and is willing to tell you all about it. “At sea”, he says, “it is do or not do. There is no place to hide.” Puking his guts out, icicles freezing on his beard while making
critical repairs on the stormy North Sea; six months on a Persian Gulf tanker during the Iran-Iraq war; business deal gone bad in Saudi Arabia; opening manufacturing plants in China. Now back on the ocean, he says it’s the best life for him. “It’s so peaceful, and the commute to my office is short.”

Second Engineer: a short, hard-eyed Pole with a trim mustache and toothpick stuck between his teeth. We’ve not spoken and the only words I’ve heard him say were a curt “What the fack you doing?!” to the cook.

Mechanic: Santa Claus’s younger, seafaring brother. A burly German, with a bushy, greying beard and thick, blue-tattooed Popeye forearms. He’s deep in the bowels of the ship most of the time, so the only words we’ve exchanged were when I took a walk on deck a couple days ago, “Nice wezzer today!”