Viking Raid

by Matthew McCleery

  Robert marveled at the tiny seaside village through the giant tinted windows. The right-hand side of the street was lined with dozens of tavernas that opened onto the sidewalk. To the left of the vehicle were an equal number of waterfront dining rooms served by the restaurants across the street. A man wearing a white apron stood in front of each of the establishments vigorously encouraging passersby to come in for lunch.

  “Welcome to Mikrolimano,” the Captain said warmly from the front seat of the vehicle as they stopped in front of a restaurant called Jimmy the Fish.

  “It is lovely,” Robert said. He was disoriented that they had been transported from hot and chaotic urban sprawl to a fragrant harbor in the time it took to check his email.

  “Many of the shipowners have moved their offices out of Piraeus so they can be closer to their homes in the north of Athens,” the Captain said, “but to me, the magic of shipping will always be here in Piraeus. Did you know this port was used by Themistocoles?”

  “Mikrolimano means tiny harbor,” Aphrodite whispered into Robert’s ear.

  Not to be outdone, Spyrolaki chimed in from over Robert’s shoulder, “We have three harbors in Piraeus. The third one is called Zea.”

  When they were just six-years-old the Captain had forbidden Aphrodite and Spyrolaki from sitting in the same row of the car as a result of their incessant roughhousing – and the rule remained in effect almost thirty years later. They weren’t even allowed to sit together when they travelled on the family airplane.

  “It is absolutely stunning,” Robert marveled.

  When Robert stepped down from car, he felt instantly refreshed. The sky was deep blue and cloudless and the light breeze blowing off the water lowered the heat he’d experienced on the Akti Miaouli to an energizing seventy degrees. The temperature and lack of humidity reminded him of his favorite time of year – the first warm spring days in New England – which reminded him of how far he was from his family and his home.

  There were captivating things to look at in every direction; multi-colored fishing boats bobbing on moorings, hulking white mega-yachts tied up to the stone bulkheads on the opposite side of the harbor and loads of stylish and happy-looking young Greeks sunning themselves in the outdoor cafés and restaurants. It was a workday in a European capital city, yet the harbor of Mikrolimano felt like a resort town in full swing. It was a far cry from buying food wrapped in plastic and eating it at a desk in the company of a computer screen, a BlackBerry and a telephone as he had done for so many years in New York. The Southern Mediterranean may not have the economic strength of America or Northern Europe, but there was a lot to learn from its way of life.

  Once they had climbed down from the car, Spyrolaki, Aphrodite and Robert trailed the patriarch like obedient pets as they walked across the street onto the pebble-covered patio of the restaurant. As if scripted, they all marched across the uninhabited dining room and directly to the large round table positioned next to the harbor. Only later would Robert learn that the table was the equivalent of the “Owner’s Cabin” on a ship; always reserved for the exclusive use of the Captain whether or not he happened to be.

  A few feet away from the table, the swell of the emerald green Aegean Sea gently lifted and dropped a floating dock on which a dozen fishing skiffs of various colors and sizes were made fast. After the waiter delivered a basket of warm bread, Spyrolaki began lobbing pieces into the water creating a frenzy of fish boiling on the surface.

  “As our guest, we would like you to select the fish, Mr. Fairchild,” the Captain said as he gestured with his damaged hand toward the fish that were battling for bread next to an outboard motor.

  “Um, what?” Robert asked.

  “What my father is saying,” Aphrodite explained, “is that he would like you to pick the fish that we will eat today.”

  “This is an important tradition at a Greek taverna such as Jimmy the Fish,” Spyrolaki added. “First you must select the fish that you would like to eat and then the chef will catch it and cook it for us.”

  “Not today,” the Captain said solemnly as he wagged the stump of his finger.

  “Oh,” Robert said hopefully, “are we having Gyros instead?”

  “No, today is a special occasion because you have come a long way to be with us. Therefore, today we will have the fish Sashimi style,” the Captain said and smiled. “We will just slaughter the beast right here at the table,” he said and lifted a butter knife from the table. “And we will eat it raw.”

  “I’m allergic to fish,” Robert blurted out.

  After what seemed like an interminable silence the Captain raised his arms into the air and proclaimed, “Bravo!” Then each member of the Bouboulinas family exchanged congratulations for their successful gag; it was their signature joke when entertaining visitors from aboard. So far only their Japanese visitors had embraced the idea. “Come with me, Mr. Fairchild.”

  Once again trailing the Captain, the “children” retraced their steps under the canopy of the outdoor restaurant, ambled across the narrow street and stepped into the cool concrete building where the restaurant’s kitchen was located. As they entered the building, a portly chef burst through a set of doors carrying a sickle-shaped knife and wearing a white apron splattered with blood.

  “Kapetanie!” the chef sang out, brandishing the stainless steel scalpel high in the air as he approached them. After the chef had kissed Bouboulinas family on each cheek, Robert quickly backed away.

  “Ti kanis,” the Captain said with a warm smile.

  “Come with me,” the chef said in clear English and ushered them toward the door at the back of the restaurant from which he had emerged. “We have some very nice things for you today.”

  Robert followed the Greeks into the frigid chamber where hundreds of fish, lobsters, crabs and a variety of more exotic and less identifiable species of seafood were embalmed on drawers packed with shaved ice. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the chef said to Robert when he caught him watching a fish that was twitching on a stainless steel tray.

  He pulled the American by the sleeve toward a rack on which several large, coral-colored fish were laying in varying states of death and dying. After a rapid fire exchange of Greek the Captain firmly pushed his index finger into the eyeball of one particular fish and then nodded. The Greek shipping magnate lowered his nose until it was almost touching the fish, closed his eyes and inhaled as deeply as a man preparing for an underwater swim.

  “She’s the one,” the Captain said dramatically as though choosing a life partner and not ordering lunch.

  “Always the red snapper for you,” the chef marveled.

  When they arrived back at their seaside table, the Captain folded his nine-and-a-half fingers together. “So,” he sighed, “please tell us a little bit about the tankers that you need our help with.”

  As the Captain waited for Robert’s reply, Spyrolaki poured straw-yellow white wine from a carafe into four tiny stem-less glasses that reminded Robert of the recycled jelly jars he drank milk from as a kid.

  “First of all, I need to know if you are comfortable being taken over the wall?” Robert asked.

  “I know Aphrodite is,” Spyrolaki laughed just seconds before his sister kicked him in the shin with her sharp-toed shoe.

  “Over what wall?” the Captain said, working hard to ignore the rancor of his twins. “This may be a problem because my knees are not so good anymore.”

  “Don’t worry,” Robert smiled. “That just means that everything I’m about to tell you is confidential because it relates to the public offering of securities regulated by the United States government,” Robert said.

  “I may be just a simple shipowner from a small island in north Aegean Sea, but I do know how to keep a secret,” the Captain said and looked at his children. “Isn’t that right, children?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Spyrolaki and Aphrodite said with one compliant voice.

  “After I sold the Lady Grace,” Rober
t said, “I went to work for a company called Viking Tankers. We are in the process of raising $500 million through an IPO in America.”

  “I am very sorry to interrupt your very nice speech, Mr. Fairchild,” the Captain said after taking a tiny taste of the wine, “but can you tell me what “IPO” stands for? I very much hope it doesn’t stand for International Pollution Organization. There is no nation more careful or respectful of the sea than Greeks, but enough is enough with all these different regulations.”

  “IPO stands for Initial Public Offering,” Robert explained slowly. “It means that Viking Tankers is selling some of its shares to investors in America and those shares will become freely traded on the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “Yes baba, this is what the Tsakos Family has done so very successfully. Will you be the CEO, Robert?” Aphrodite asked with a flash of excitement in her anthracite eyes.

  “Actually, I already am,” he said. He decided not to mention the detail that he would be demoted to unlicensed third-mate on the Viking Alexandra if he didn’t get control of the fifteen LNG carriers, somehow convince Coco to subordinate his shares to Luther Livingston’s and successfully conclude the IPO at a valuation of 200% of asset value.

  “I see,” the Captain said. “And who owns this Viking Tankers? Is that a Swedish company? They were Vikings, right?”

  “Bite your tongue,” Robert laughed. “It is owned by Coco Jacobsen and he is very much a Norwegian.”

  “I am sorry to say that I have never heard of that lady,” the Captain said. “However, I wish to say that I think it is wonderful that we have more women shipowners like Ms. Jacobsen these days.”

  “Dad,” Spyrolaki laughed, “Coco is a man and he’s one of the biggest tanker owners in the world.”

  “Okay, but if Ms. Jacobsen is such a big fish and you are her big CEO then how can a small Greek family shipping company like ours help you?” the Captain asked. “As you know, we are just simple shipowners from a small island in the…”

  “I know,” Robert cut in, “a small island I the north Aegean Sea. I get it.”

  “We are like the dump truck drivers of the oceans,” the Captain added.

  “It’s Mr. Jacobsen,” Robert stressed, “and while I understand that you are just simple shipowners you are also my only hope.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Robert sighed. “Let me tell you what’s going on here; the only reason the American investors will buy shares in Viking Tankers is because ten of our ships are on five-year time charters to a subsidiary of a large corporation called American Refining Corporation at very good rates.”

  “Very good rates for whom?” the Captain asked; it was yet another haunting echo of Coco’s sage words at Brown’s Hotel.

  “Very good rates for us, of course,” Robert said.

  “Ah, so then your customer is suffering because of these very bad rates for them,” the Captain said using the same frustratingly simple logic that Coco used when faced with complex fact patterns.

  “The point is, sir, that our time charters to ARC generate the free cash flow we need to pay our American investors a 14% dividend,” Robert said.

  “I know I never had the opportunity to attend a fancy university as you three have,” the Captain said, “but I have never understood why shipping companies pay dividends that are so high.”

  “Because we can,” Robert laughed.

  “Not for long,” he said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Robert asked.

  “Mr. Fairchild, removing the cash from a shipping company is like removing the blood from a body – you can’t take too much too quickly – and you always have to be ready to put it back in if necessary,” he said.

  “We just need the dividend to be high when we first do the IPO. After that, our share price will go up and down as investors re-price the risk of our company relative to what’s happening in a broader context. In other words, the shares become like a hot potato.”

  The Captain’s copper eyes lit up as he finally appeared interested in what Robert Fairchild had to say. “Potatoes? Would you like some potatoes, Mr. Fairchild?” The Captain asked. He just loved it when his children and their friends were hungry. He immediately began waving his hand in the air to alert the waiter that he needed a plate of pommes frites pronto. “I think that is an excellent idea!”

  “It’s just a figure of speech, baba,” Aphrodite whispered to her dad.

  “Oh,” the Captain sagged as he lowered his arm. “Now let me guess what happens next. The market has dropped and the charterer wants to get out of the deal.”

  “Sort of,” Robert said and took a sip of wine.

  “Shipping, like history, repeats itself,” the Captain said, “but each time it’s dangerously a little different.”

  “I need a cigarette,” Robert said to Spyrolaki. “Can I bum one?”

  The Captain shot a searing stare at his only son. “But this is impossible! My little Spyros does not smoke cigarettes. Isn’t that right, Spyrolaki?”

  “Of course not, Captain,” Spyrolaki said sheepishly and slipped his nicotine-stained fingers under the table.

  “Instead of a cigarette, Mr. Fairchild, may I offer you some advice?” the Captain said.

  “Sure.”

  “Time charters may be acceptable for part-timers who would otherwise get slaughtered like lambs in the spot market, but they are often a losing bet for a shipowner who is in the market place every day,” the Captain said.

  “But don’t time charters offer security?” Robert asked.

  “Unfortunately, the higher the time charter rate the less likely the time charterer is to pay,” he said. “A shipowner who does not wish to be in the market should not be in the market.”

  “But I just don’t understand how charterers can get away with defaulting on contracts whenever the market drops,” Robert said. “That doesn’t happen in any other industry unless the company files for bankruptcy.”

  “Shipping is a mysterious business,” the Captain reflected. “Anyway, what does this American oil company want from you now?” the old man asked again. “Do they want a lower rate on your tankers?”

  “Actually,” Robert said, “they want more ships.”

  “More ships,” the Captain laughed. “That’s an unusual request.”

  “Different ships,” Robert clarified. “ARC is demanding that we gain control of fifteen highly specialized LNG carriers that are presently under construction at Regal Shipyard in Korea,” Robert said.

  The Captain whistled. “That is a very good shipyard. Along with Samsung and Hyundai Mipo, Regal is one of the finest in Korea – which means it’s one of the finest in the world.”

  “Robert, why don’t they just call a good sale and purchase broker?” Aphrodite asked. “We have a cousin in America named Christolakodakis who would be more than happy to help you.”

  “Because they want to keep it quiet,” Robert said.

  “I can understand that,” the Captain replied.

  “I should warn you, Robert,” Spyrolaki chimed in without looking at his dad. “I do not think my father knows what an LNG carrier is never mind how to go about buying fifteen newbuildings. He is from the old school of Liberty Ships and T2 Tankers.”

  “Thank you for your confidence,” the Captain said modestly and patted his son’s hand. Then the old man reached for the iPad that Spyrolaki had placed on the brightly varnished table.

  “Mr. Fairchild, it really doesn’t matter what kind of ships they are or where they are being built,” the Captain said as he began swiping the screen with the stub of his severed index finger. “The first thing you need to do is figure out who owns those ships and the best way to do that is with this,” the Captain said and pushed Spyrolaki’s iPad across the table toward his guest. “In the old days it would have taken six months and a harrowing transatlantic journey to get this information, but now it appears on the screen l
ike magic.”

  “What?” Robert gasped.

  “Is something the matter, Robert?” Aphrodite asked.

  Robert was so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t even look down at the screen. “I flew all the way from New York City to find out who owns these ships and now you are pointing me to a website!”

  “Of course,” the Captain said.

  “But I thought this industry was all about secret information and personal relationships,” Robert said.

  “It is about those things, but Fairplay Solutions is a database that catalogues the owner of almost every ship that is currently under construction,” Spyrolaki said. “This is not the answer to your problems but it can be a very useful place to start.”

  Spyrolaki leaned over to see what was on the screen but Aphrodite quickly pulled it away before he could see it.

  “Voila!” she said. “Here are the ships you are looking for – 174,000-cubic meter LNG carriers currently under construction at Regal Shipyard. There are fifteen sister ships and they will start to deliver next month,” she said and pointed with a slender finger.

  “Great Dane Shipping in Copenhagen, Denmark,” Robert said with excitement. “Is that the owner?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “Do you know them?”

  “Don’t you?” Spyrolaki laughed.

  “Great Dane is one of biggest and most successful shipping companies in the world,” the Captain said.

  “And they didn’t get that way by being stupid or generous,” Aphrodite added. “I once spent $176,000 and two years arbitrating a claim over some bad chain worth $14,000.”

  “If you are trying to buy ships from those guys I think you have your work cut out for you, shipping man,” Spyrolaki said. “They are neither willing buyers nor willing sellers.”

  “Mr. Fairchild, it appears that you will be leaving us now,” the Captain said and whistled with his fingers to rouse the driver who was taking a nap in the driver’s seat of the Escalade.

  “You want me to leave now?” Robert asked just as the waiter approached them carrying a salad of tomatoes and feta and a plate piled high with fried minnows. Robert was eager to meet the owner of the vessels in Denmark, but he was also starving.