Death of a Supertanker

by Antony Trew

  The phone in the dayroom rang. He looked at his watch. It was eleven minutes since he’d left the bridge. He picked up the phone. ‘Two-Oh here.’

  ‘Captain here, Foley. How’s your wife?’

  He was ready for this. He’d been rehearsing it as he bathed his bruises. ‘All right, sir. I’ll be up in a moment. There was a short on the bedside lamp. The lead started smouldering. Sandy woke up, smelt burning and was frightened. I’ve fixed it. I would have been back sooner but I slipped on the stairs coming down. Got a few bruises but everything’s okay now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Captain Crutchley with characteristic brevity, and rang off.

  Foley hoped that his voice had not given him away. He was in a highly emotional state. Once again he wondered who had phoned the bridge and put the note on the door.

  Something else which Foley had rehearsed was handing over the watch to Jarrett at four o’clock that morning. He was determined to keep it cool, not to refer to what had happened. If Jarrett chose to do so that was his responsibility. In the hours he’d had to himself since the Captain left the bridge, Foley had done some hard thinking. While he put the greater part of the blame on the chief officer, he knew that it took two to create a situation of that sort. Others would say that Sandy was just as much to blame and maybe they’d be right. She was old enough and experienced enough to know what she was doing. While this in no way diminished his hatred for the chief officer, he was too intelligent to believe that a further row could repair the damage. The least said now the better. Fortunately it had happened in the middle of the night, behind closed doors, and it was unlikely that anyone had heard. Jarrett would be the last person to talk about it.

  In the event, the chief officer had come up at four o’clock as was his custom. They’d not greeted each other and in the sheltering darkness of the wheelhouse neither could see the damage done to the other, which was just as well. Foley had handed over in monosyllabic and more cryptic terms than usual. Jarrett had acknowledged curtly, asked no questions, and by four o’clock the handover had been completed. Foley went to the chartroom, spent a few minutes there writing up the logbooks and then went below.

  There had been one notable departure from normal routine. He’d not handed over the traditional cup of coffee.

  Chapter 12

  Throughout the following day Ocean Mammoth made steady progress down the South African coast. Cape Recife, guarding the southern flank of Algoa Bay, was abeam soon after eight o’clock in the morning. At 1153, Cape St Francis was abeam to starboard, distant 15 miles, and course was set for Cape Agulhas, the most southerly point of Africa. With the aid of the Agulhas current the supertanker, though steaming at only 12 knots, had by noon that day averaged 14.3 since leaving Durban.

  The weather remained fine with a light southerly breeze, a long swell from the south-east and a calm sea. Both sea and air temperatures had dropped but the barometer remained steady. Along the coast to starboard banks of cloud lay on the distant ranges of the Outeniqua Mountains, but for the greater part the sky was clear.

  From the bridge, high above the sea, Alan Simpson, the third officer, looked down on the diminutive figures of crewmen at work along the great expanse of the maindeck. Far away in the bows, so far that they seemed antlike on that huge scale, men were working on the windlasses and cables; others were painting the tripod mast, set well forward, which carried running lights and the foremast siren; further aft again crewmen were busy on the steam winches.

  Simpson, young and new to supertankers, had never ceased to be amazed at the enormous size of Ocean Mammoth. He often thought she was too big, too remote from the sea, a giant floating tank of frightening proportions. Yet he took boyish pride in being officer-of-the-watch in a ship of 320,000 tons. More than four times the tonnage of QE2, he used to remind himself.

  For the greater part of that day Captain Crutchley, whether on the bridge or in his stateroom, tussled with his personal problem.

  Withdrawn and reserved by nature, aloof from his officers as befitted the Master of a big ship, he had not confided in anyone on board, nor had he reported what he believed to be a temporary disability to London. The dark optical glasses which concealed his eyes had not attracted attention for he had worn them for several years to counter the effects of bright light. Even Middleton had not known his secret.

  Grundewald’s letter to the Harley Street consultant had come as a profound shock, for it enormously complicated his problem. Should he report to London by radio telephone now that he knew what it was, or say nothing? If he reported, London would probably instruct him to hand over command to the chief officer for the return voyage. In that event he would almost certainly be landed by shore-based helicopter at Cape Town to fly home.

  Crutchley did not believe that his eye trouble endangered the ship. He had every confidence in his officers, Ocean Mammoth was equipped with highly sophisticated navigational aids, his judgement and experience were unimpaired, and the ship would be back in the United Kingdom in a few weeks. In the meantime, with Grundewald’s treatment, the eyes should improve. He wished, however, that Middleton was still on board. He had been a great help.

  A man of strong character, Crutchley was honest enough to admit to himself that in this matter he had been influenced by personal considerations. Having married a second time he had a young wife and family to support, school fees to pay, a large mortgage, a pension scheme and other personal insurances to finance. Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd. – small, impersonal, speculative and a late starter in the ship-owning world – had no pension scheme for its officers. Its policy was to pay well and leave it to them to make their own arrangements. This Crutchley did, but he had to remain at sea for a least another five years if he was to meet his commitments.

  Two other factors complicated his problem. One was that the ship was about to be laid up, the other that the redundancy clause in his contract would be void if he were medically unfit for command at sea. It was essential that he should complete the voyage and continue to guard the secret of his eyes, if he were to take advantage of that redundancy clause. It would give him as Master a year on full pay. In that time, he argued, treatment should have restored his vision, the tanker market would have recovered, and he would be able to seek re-employment. There would be little chance of doing that if the record showed he had been relieved of command because of defective eyesight.

  After a long fight with his conscience, Crutchley decided against informing the company. He was not happy about the decision but felt it had been forced upon him.

  Jarrett and Foley were at considerable pains that day to avoid each other. At four o’clock in the afternoon when Foley handed over the bridge watch, it was once again done quickly, curtly and impersonally. By custom they had always sat at different tables in the saloon and while at sea had meals at different times, so no problem arose there. It was known that they had long disliked each other, and the absence of communication and bonhomie, more pronounced that day than others, might have passed unnoticed had that been all. But it was not.

  At breakfast Jarrett had explained away his puffy nose and cut eyebrow as the result of walking into a wheelhouse doorframe in the dark hours of the morning. As a rule Foley did not breakfast in the saloon; instead he would have coffee and an apple in his dayroom. To those who saw him that day he ascribed the swollen lip and bruised forehead to a fall on the stairs leading down from the chartroom to Deck One when he came off watch.

  As the day progressed tongues began to wag. By late afternoon it was rumoured that there had been a fight and there was much speculation. Doris Benson thought she’d heard shouting and banging in the early hours but could not be sure. ‘You know what a heavy sleeper I am,’ she added apologetically.

  The catering officer’s wife said, ‘Well, I’m not on that deck so I wouldn’t know. But you’d think the Chief or the Captain would have heard. After all they’re in adjoining accommodation.’

  Doris Benson shook her head. ‘The
Chief was down in the engineroom with Ben, and though the Old Man’s suite adjoins Jarrett’s their bedrooms are four away from each other’s. Not that I’m suggesting that anything happened in the bedroom. Maybe it was in Jarrett’s office or dayroom.’

  ‘Of course you’re opposite, aren’t you, Doris?’

  ‘Yes. Our bedroom is right opposite his dayroom.’

  ‘Well. I don’t know.’ The catering officer’s wife wrinkled her nose and forehead. ‘What on earth could they have been fighting about?’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve, love.’ Doris Benson tidied her hair with one hand. ‘Everybody knows Sandy and Jarrett fancy each other. And the men hate each other’s guts.’

  ‘But George was on watch between midnight and four this morning.’

  ‘That was it, wasn’t it, dear?’ Doris Benson chuckled. ‘Maybe he went down to get a clean hanky.’

  The catering officer’s wife looked at her with wide eyes. ‘You don’t mean to say he could have found …?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything, love. But I did hear peculiar noises.’

  ‘It could have been George falling downstairs, like he said. Both being bruised could be a coincidence. I mean, their stories may be true.’

  Doris Benson shook her head. ‘That’s being a bit unrealistic, isn’t it, sweet?’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t look as if anything unpleasant’s happened. Cool as a cucumber,’ said the catering officer’s wife.

  And indeed Sandy was. She had looked and behaved quite normally throughout the day, laughing and chatting, swimming and sunbathing, as if nothing had happened.

  Down in the Foleys’ cabin, however, things were somewhat different. The tension was acute and they did not speak to each other. She had tried hard but it had been impossible to break his stubborn silence. For his part he behaved as if she were not there.

  When Foley relieved the third officer at midnight the ship was off Still Bay. The coastline, some twenty-five miles to starboard, now ran more or less east and west across the bottom of the African continent. It was a fine clear night, the southerly breeze had died away, the sea was calm, the barometer high, but the long swell from the south-east persisted. The temperature had dropped and Foley wore a jersey over his denim shirt and slacks. Captain Crutchley did not object to informal dress during the night watches as long as it was, in his words, ‘clean and well scrubbed’.

  The second officer had not been on the bridge long when a phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Two-Oh here.’

  ‘Midnight met report ready, George.’ It was Tim Feeny speaking from the radio office.

  ‘Fine. I’ll send for it. Any problems?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe fog later.’

  ‘Much later I hope.’

  Feeny laughed. ‘Like after four o’clock.’

  ‘You said it, Sparks.’ Foley replaced the handset and summoned the quartermaster who was on bridge lookout.

  Gomez came into the wheelhouse. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The met report’s ready, Jorge.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I fetch it.’ The quartermaster disappeared into the darkness. He was soon back with the report. Foley went into the chartroom and read it in the light of an angle-poise lamp. The forecast indicated fairly settled conditions over the ensuing twenty-four hours with calm sea and light winds. It concluded with a warning that in the vicinity of Cape Agulhas and the area immediately westwards there was a possibility of fog. In accordance with Standing Orders the second officer at once informed the Captain by phone.

  Crutchley said, ‘Good. I’ll be up shortly,’ and rang off.

  The second officer clipped the report on to the forecast board over the chart-table and returned to the wheelhouse.

  Cape Agulhas was the focal point for shipping around the southern extremity of Africa and there was a fair amount of traffic about. It was this which Foley now examined with binoculars from the starboard wing. Later he returned the night glasses to their box in the wheelhouse, went to the AC radar, adjusted the display hood and pressed his face into the rubber eyepiece. He turned up the brilliance and for some time watched the sweep circling the screen, switching through the range scales and identifying the echoes of the ships he’d observed visually. He put relative motion markers on two of them and noted the time, 0017.

  He was at the steering stand comparing the ship’s head by gyro compass with the magnetic compass reading in the periscope above, when he heard the Captain’s heavy tread in the chart-room. Five minutes later he heard a chart-table lamp click off and the Captain came into the wheelhouse. ‘You there, Mr Foley?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The Captain said no more but took up his usual position at the console, to starboard of the steering position. Foley could just see the solid shape of the Master in the darkness, standing squarely, braced against the slow roll of the ship, looking ahead. On the bridge, high above the water, the roll was exaggerated by the pendulum effect.

  ‘No sign of fog yet, sir,’ ventured Foley after a long silence.

  There was the customary pause as if the Captain was weighing every word said, before he answered. ‘It’s unseasonal. But I’ve experienced it here before at this time of year.’ It was a long sentence for him.

  Foley said, ‘Yes, sir. I imagine with this high glass it must be due to radiation.’

  There was another long silence, broken at last by the Captain’s. ‘I’ll take a walk on the bridge, Mr Foley.’

  ‘You’ll find the temperature’s dropped a bit, sir.’

  The Captain went out of the port door. It was some time before he returned. As he passed through the wheelhouse he said. ‘Keep a sharp eye on the traffic, Mr Foley.’

  Through the glass panels along the top of the screen between wheelhouse and chartroom, Foley saw the reflection of a chart-table lamp as it was switched on.

  It must have been fully ten minutes before the light went out and he heard the Captain making his way to the head of the stairs. He knew he’d been writing up his night order book.

  Crutchley changed into pyjamas and went through to the bathroom. There he boiled water in an electric kettle, poured it into a jug, worked cotton wool round the head of a wooden spoon, secured it with a bandage and dipped it into the hot water. For a minute or so he held the pad as close to his eyes as he could bear, repeating the operation several times. Next he put in the eye drops, applied the ointment to the lids and massaged them gently with his fingertips. When he’d finished and put things away he went through to the bedroom.

  It was the end of a tiring day and he had used his eyes too much. Strained them, he supposed, for the pain and irritation were severe. The eyes soon began to feel better but his head continued to throb. Worrying too much about his personal problems. But it was impossible to escape them and, as he lay waiting for sleep to come, they paraded through his mind in an endless procession. The family dominated because they were his main concern … Emma, sad, wistful, so much younger than he, so considerate and sympathetic, a fine wife and mother … the boys: Andrew, intelligent, diligent, thoughtful in his adolescence but somehow distant and unapproachable: Bobby, still at preparatory school, full of good-natured fun, unperturbed by indifferent school reports. It was a splendid little family and every fibre of Crutchley was determined to defend it … Kostadis, lean, sharp-faced, long-nosed, appeared in a vaguely threatening role and Crutchley rejected him, only to find that a picture of Ocean Mammoth, red with rust and neglect in some Scottish loch, had taken his place … the service contract joined the procession, clause after clause of it passing before his eyes like a cue-sheet until it stopped on the redundancy clause: unless the employee shall be declared unfit for service at sea for medical or other reasons or by virtue of loss of certificate/s of competency … Grundewald came next; calm, grave, sympathetic, pronouncing sentence: your vision should improve … it will not, I’m afraid, be as good as it was … new spectacles, these should help.

  Why ‘should’ and not ‘will’? … the picture of a dole queue pre
sented itself, and Crutchley recognized the man in a ragged overcoat waiting despondently at its tail as himself …

  The headache was intolerable. He switched on the light, leant over, took two of Grundewald’s capsules from a small bottle in the drawer of the bedside table and washed them down with water. He switched off the light and lay in the dark thinking about the meteorological forecast. The possibility of fog did not worry him unduly. The ship had every conceivable aid to safe navigation and he had full confidence in his officers; they had much experience of fog in northern waters – waters more confined and heavily trafficked than those off Cape Agulhas. He had, however, written in his night order book, ‘I am to be called at once in the event of fog, and in any case before alteration of course off Cape Agulhas.’

  With any luck he would get in four hours of sleep before then. Comforted by the thought he dozed off.

  At 0240 the second officer consulted the Decca Navigator, noted the lane co-ordinates from the digital read-out, identified them on the Decca chart, plotted the ship’s position and transferred it to the Admiralty chart. He found that over the last hour current had set the ship 1·3 miles to the north-west, that was towards the land. For some time he worked on the chart with parallel rulers and dividers. On the assumption that the north-westerly set would continue throughout the rest of the watch, he determined the new course to steer to reach the 0530 ETA position ten miles off Cape Agulhas.

  He switched off the lamp, went through to the wheelhouse and checked the auto-pilot gyro. The ship’s head was steady on 264°. He turned the handwheel, counting the clicks and watching the gyro-repeater until the ship had settled on the new course which he then set on the course-to-steer indicator. He noted the time, 0246, and recorded the alteration in the deck logbook and on the chart.