their heads down and work, sealing every hairline crack, every fissure, every fitting that does not meet perfectly, until finally they concede that they have done everything they can out of dry dock. While their efforts have helped, at times a discomfort still burrows into the upper-left quadrant of their bodies, usually toward the end of a shift when they are tired and the joints in their shoulders and fingers are beginning to ache. Other times, they wear paperbreathers, like those worn by plasterers, though these are hot and uncomfortable and tend to slip off. Mostly, they choose to take their breaks up on deck, where they gulp down lungfuls of sea air, the whole time thinking of soft bedding, and tropical nights, and the voices of children.
Land is spotted. For the next twenty-four hours it hovers in the distance, an indistinct blurring of green, and brown, and gold. Slowly, the deck crew begins to make out its features: the Atlas Mountains, the gap separating continents, Gibraltar. The boat passes into the Mediterranean Sea, the shores of Europe so tantalizingly close the sailors keep themselves busy so as not to die of longing. At the end of the week, the boat steams down the Red Sea and then tightly hugs the sand-white shores of Yemen and Oman. Here, Juanito hears the first joke made about the stowaways; one of Rodolfo Miguel’s deckhands says, at a mess table, “I hope no Arabs find their way on board,” to which another AB responds, “Yes, or the captain would throw him over!” There is brief, forced chuckling, though only among the deck crew.
The ship docks briefly in Dubai before crossing the Gulf of Oman. As it nears Bombay, the atmosphere turns cottony, and redolent with spice and brackish water. After taking on new containers, the ship leaves India by nightfall, crossing back over the Arabian Sea toward Djibouti. There the sailors spend a half day in steerage, waiting for permission to proceed back through the Strait of Djibouti.
Shortly after the ship has entered the Red Sea, travelling north this time, Juanito hears the oily water separator sputter and clank. A few minutes later, it starts producing thin coils of dark bluesmoke, and a short time after that it issues a series of mechanical sighs. Broas inspects the situation, and then reports to the second engineer. From a catwalk above, Juanito watches the ensuing discussion—the second engineer gesticulating, Broas shaking his head in defiance, the more senior of the officers yelling something and turning away. For a few seconds, Broas stands by the bilge pool, staring at the murk, before he bounds up the ladder leading from the lower decks of the engine room. He jumps off and passes Juanito on the catwalk.
Juanito has never seen him this way—his features scarlet, the tendons in his neck distended—and it scares him, for he knows that the third engineer prizes control and reserve above all. Juanito goes back to work, half-heartedly draining one of the main engine’s oil pans, though as he does he watches Broas jury-rig a sump pump that will expel the ship’s waste directly into the ocean. By the time he’s finished, his overalls are covered with handprints and muck. He also looks disgusted—bilge pumped straight into the ocean is a serious offence, one that could lose Broas his licence to operate a big ship’s engine.
He is coming back now. As he passes Juanito, he stops suddenly and turns. His face is a tight sheet, his eyes slits. He yells something, a question or a command, Juanito isn’t sure—Broas has a soft voice at the best of times, and here, in the engine room, amid the screeching of the engine, it is lost. Juanito removes his hearing protectors, and strains to hear the officer’s words.
“Tonight,” Broas yells, “I want to talk to you.”
The rest of Juanito’s day proceeds slowly. He welds, he showers, he tries to nap, though as he lies in his cabin he keeps slipping intoa waking dream, the one in which he’s still an
Land is spotted. For the next twenty-four hours it hovers in the distance, an indistinct blurring of green, and brown, and gold. Slowly, the deck crew begins to make out its features: the Atlas Mountains, the gap separating continents, Gibraltar. The boat passes into the Mediterranean Sea, the shores of Europe so tantalizingly close the sailors keep themselves busy so as not to die of longing. At the end of the week, the boat steams down the Red Sea and then tightly hugs the sand-white shores of Yemen and Oman. Here, Juanito hears the first joke made about the stowaways; one of Rodolfo Miguel’s deckhands says, at a mess table, “I hope no Arabs find their way on board,” to which another AB responds, “Yes, or the captain would throw him over!” There is brief, forced chuckling, though only among the deck crew.
The ship docks briefly in Dubai before crossing the Gulf of Oman. As it nears Bombay, the atmosphere turns cottony, and redolent with spice and brackish water. After taking on new containers, the ship leaves India by nightfall, crossing back over the Arabian Sea toward Djibouti. There the sailors spend a half day in steerage, waiting for permission to proceed back through the Strait of Djibouti.
Shortly after the ship has entered the Red Sea, travelling north this time, Juanito hears the oily water separator sputter and clank. A few minutes later, it starts producing thin coils of dark bluesmoke, and a short time after that it issues a series of mechanical sighs. Broas inspects the situation, and then reports to the second engineer. From a catwalk above, Juanito watches the ensuing discussion—the second engineer gesticulating, Broas shaking his head in defiance, the more senior of the officers yelling something and turning away. For a few seconds, Broas stands by the bilge pool, staring at the murk, before he bounds up the ladder leading from the lower decks of the engine room. He jumps off and passes Juanito on the catwalk.
Juanito has never seen him this way—his features scarlet, the tendons in his neck distended—and it scares him, for he knows that the third engineer prizes control and reserve above all. Juanito goes back to work, half-heartedly draining one of the main engine’s oil pans, though as he does he watches Broas jury-rig a sump pump that will expel the ship’s waste directly into the ocean. By the time he’s finished, his overalls are covered with handprints and muck. He also looks disgusted—bilge pumped straight into the ocean is a serious offence, one that could lose Broas his licence to operate a big ship’s engine.
He is coming back now. As he passes Juanito, he stops suddenly and turns. His face is a tight sheet, his eyes slits. He yells something, a question or a command, Juanito isn’t sure—Broas has a soft voice at the best of times, and here, in the engine room, amid the screeching of the engine, it is lost. Juanito removes his hearing protectors, and strains to hear the officer’s words.
“Tonight,” Broas yells, “I want to talk to you.”
The rest of Juanito’s day proceeds slowly. He welds, he showers, he tries to nap, though as he lies in his cabin he keeps slipping intoa waking dream, the one in which he’s still an
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