petroleum gas. The
Charlotte
âs captain, Dick Danielsen, decided that this tank would rule their efforts: if the flames came too close to it the ship would be abandoned. The men fought with the knowledge that the consequences an LPG explosion would surely be lethal for some of them.
What formidable courage it required of the smoke-jumpers: as they suited up for our drill and peered out through their visors I imagined Mike and Ray hurrying forward along the narrow deck, vision constricted by their masks, their breathing loud in their ears as they make their ungainly charge into danger, knowing that if anyone is going to die they will surely be the first.
There is a photograph of the crew of the
Charlotte
taken after their victory. They are an almost perfect analogy of the men of the
Gerd
: four Europeans and three Indians wear the insignia of officers; squatting at their feet is the Filipino crew. Every man is smiling. Captain Danielsen, in particular, looks euphoric.
It is not unusual for captains to serve their periods at sea knowing little of most of their men. The ship sails on an understanding of combined strength, not certainty. The expressions on the men of the
Charlotte
are triumphant not merely in achievement, but in unity: the fire put them to the question and they answered. The different scales of pay, the racial divisions in treatment and privilege, the difference between company-employed officers and voyage-contracted seafarers undermines the traditional language of the enterprise. âCrewâ in the
Gerd
âs case actually refers to a collection of entirely different classes, experiences, grades, cultures and sets of expectations which happen to be in the same boat. (It would not be strange or out of place for Captain Larsen to go halfway around the world without sharing anything but the briefest exchanges with Roy, the youngest of our crew.) But Captain Danielsenâs expression is alight with pride and relief. At the moment the shutter clicked there was no captain anywhere who knew his crew better, who had endured as much with them, who had worried about them more, or achieved more with them. Of all the thousands of photographs generated and published by the company, this photograph is the only one I have seen of a complete crew.
We approach Egypt as night falls, passing south of Crete and beating on through spectral waters. The moonâs broad path is cut with shadows like phantom ships. The air is milky and hot. The sea lies right down, darkest silver-blue and alive, flowing past us like a snake.
CHAPTER 8
Bitter Water, Bloody Sand
I WAKE EARLY and the sun is already up: our clocks remain on Central European Time but we have been steaming towards morning. As we pass Tobruk and El Alamein a helicopter comes over from the north and soon after twenty-one turtle doves descend out of the same sky, settle on a pink container and fall asleep. They have the air of having done this before. The noon horn test blasts them awake. Oil rigs appear like traffic cones, serviced by strange-shaped ships, their silhouettes stretched, crushed and platformed. Sun stars sparkle on the blue in an infinite, strobing shimmer.
At breakfast there is discussion of a ferry which turned over in the Zanzibar Channel last night. âAnd it is dark there then,â says the Captain. The ferry was overloaded. âAnd there are many sharks there,â the Captain adds, âgreat whites. Six metres. It was Christmas Eve for them.â
For hours we parallel the width of the Nile delta, which remains out of sight until an oil refinery rises over the southern horizon, the first sight of Egypt. Two flying fish skip out of a flat sea, bright silver. They change direction in the air, dipping and diving between waves, their wing-like fins extended. A pair of dolphins, bigger and jumping higher than the Biscay and western Mediterranean animals, rush up to take advantage of our wake. Huge and wild, they buck out of the
Charlotte
âs captain, Dick Danielsen, decided that this tank would rule their efforts: if the flames came too close to it the ship would be abandoned. The men fought with the knowledge that the consequences an LPG explosion would surely be lethal for some of them.
What formidable courage it required of the smoke-jumpers: as they suited up for our drill and peered out through their visors I imagined Mike and Ray hurrying forward along the narrow deck, vision constricted by their masks, their breathing loud in their ears as they make their ungainly charge into danger, knowing that if anyone is going to die they will surely be the first.
There is a photograph of the crew of the
Charlotte
taken after their victory. They are an almost perfect analogy of the men of the
Gerd
: four Europeans and three Indians wear the insignia of officers; squatting at their feet is the Filipino crew. Every man is smiling. Captain Danielsen, in particular, looks euphoric.
It is not unusual for captains to serve their periods at sea knowing little of most of their men. The ship sails on an understanding of combined strength, not certainty. The expressions on the men of the
Charlotte
are triumphant not merely in achievement, but in unity: the fire put them to the question and they answered. The different scales of pay, the racial divisions in treatment and privilege, the difference between company-employed officers and voyage-contracted seafarers undermines the traditional language of the enterprise. âCrewâ in the
Gerd
âs case actually refers to a collection of entirely different classes, experiences, grades, cultures and sets of expectations which happen to be in the same boat. (It would not be strange or out of place for Captain Larsen to go halfway around the world without sharing anything but the briefest exchanges with Roy, the youngest of our crew.) But Captain Danielsenâs expression is alight with pride and relief. At the moment the shutter clicked there was no captain anywhere who knew his crew better, who had endured as much with them, who had worried about them more, or achieved more with them. Of all the thousands of photographs generated and published by the company, this photograph is the only one I have seen of a complete crew.
We approach Egypt as night falls, passing south of Crete and beating on through spectral waters. The moonâs broad path is cut with shadows like phantom ships. The air is milky and hot. The sea lies right down, darkest silver-blue and alive, flowing past us like a snake.
CHAPTER 8
Bitter Water, Bloody Sand
I WAKE EARLY and the sun is already up: our clocks remain on Central European Time but we have been steaming towards morning. As we pass Tobruk and El Alamein a helicopter comes over from the north and soon after twenty-one turtle doves descend out of the same sky, settle on a pink container and fall asleep. They have the air of having done this before. The noon horn test blasts them awake. Oil rigs appear like traffic cones, serviced by strange-shaped ships, their silhouettes stretched, crushed and platformed. Sun stars sparkle on the blue in an infinite, strobing shimmer.
At breakfast there is discussion of a ferry which turned over in the Zanzibar Channel last night. âAnd it is dark there then,â says the Captain. The ferry was overloaded. âAnd there are many sharks there,â the Captain adds, âgreat whites. Six metres. It was Christmas Eve for them.â
For hours we parallel the width of the Nile delta, which remains out of sight until an oil refinery rises over the southern horizon, the first sight of Egypt. Two flying fish skip out of a flat sea, bright silver. They change direction in the air, dipping and diving between waves, their wing-like fins extended. A pair of dolphins, bigger and jumping higher than the Biscay and western Mediterranean animals, rush up to take advantage of our wake. Huge and wild, they buck out of the
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