November 4 Noontime Position Lat 44deg 24,1 N; Long 170deg 55,7 W
Over the Chinook Trough

Last night on the bridge, the First Officer made a joke. I had asked him where the nearest land was. In his Polish accent, he answered deadpan:

“Three kilometres, straight down.”

There is nothing but ocean in thousands of kilometres all round. Our radar hasn’t even picked up another ship since we cleared Vancouver Island on Monday. And there are many more days of this ahead. We still have to cover a stretch equivalent to Vancouver-Toronto before we see the coast of Japan. Hanjin Copenhagen has been plowing along steadily at around 18-20 knots, which is about 30-35km/h, round the clock. We’re progressing at a rate of 11 degrees longitude every 24 hours.

I’m grateful for some smooth sailing now after a rough few days. Not gonna lie – even if you’re not puking your guts out, it’s hard living with peek-a-boo queasiness. Waking up feeling fine, then discovering you might need to do a preventative dry heave to avoid embarrassing yourself in the Officer’s Mess at breakfast. I’ve discovered that there is no “one size fits all” seasickness. There are different types based on the ship’s motion, and you need to get used to them all. It only offers me some comfort to hear agonized retching from the 2nd Engineer’s cabin, which is beside mine. Even experienced mariners have to bow to the porcelain Poseidon.

Anyway, the seas settled down enough that I was permitted to walk around the deck today. So I put on my hardhat, winter coat, and gloves and headed out for a stroll. Under a groaning canopy of steel containers, a vast dull blue panorama of rolling sea unfolds. Peering over the edge, I see a film of white spray as well as a thin layer of brilliant icy blue bubbles. The soundscape is the engine’s constant rumble and a long, slow, irregular crash of a wave breaking on the bow.

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