Each season, with the same regularity as the swallows returning to Capistrano, the trampers arrive back in Western Alaska to haul away the sea's mother lode. Kind of a sea gypsy, a tramper is a ship that wanders around the oceans of the world, without a schedule, searching for and collecting goods until her holds are full. Trampers are small compared to other deep-sea ships, averaging around 500 feet in length. While there is no argument that fish are valuable, they are not economic equals to oil or some of the other high-volume bulk commodities shipped over the globe. Because of this, ships chartered to transport fish to foreign markets operate along much thinner profit margins than their larger and more expensive cousins.
The typical ship arriving in Western Alaska isn't a Cadillac. It is a Spartan, rust-covered, hard-working Samson-sized ship constantly struggling to be "the little ship that could." It competes against Goliath-sized container vessels carrying 10 times the cargo. ?
The more frequent and common customers to Western Alaska are Korean-, Japanese-, and Russian-flagged trampers with crews from all around the world. To reduce operating costs, many ship owners hire the cheapest labor available from Third World markets. The result is that crews and officers alike are often mixed together without regard to cultural differences or ethnicity. Men of different races and religious beliefs have a hard enough time coexisting with each other on terra firma. Imagine being bottled up together on a 500-foot ship drifting around in the Bering Sea for more than a year. Good captains need to be good babysitters.
The fact that ship pilots must live on these ships for weeks at a time is an unusual aspect of piloting in western Alaska. This is due to the reality that many of the ports and harbors these ships visit have zero infrastructure. No communication, transportation, housing, or medical facilities are available. Because of this, a voyage to Western Alaska for most seamen provides little time ashore to even briefly stretch their legs or to lie down in the grass and do a little daydreaming. Many of these men sign contracts to remain aboard these ships for a full year or longer. For better or worse, the ship is their home.
Recounting one of my past partners' story about a particular ship in our respective careers provides a good snap shot of what life was (is) like not just aboard a fish tramper, but life in general aboard the multitude of foreign-flagged ships that ply their trade in the remote reaches of Western Alaska. Ships much like the Oryong 501, the fishing trawler that recently sunk in the Bering Sea.
Below is Capt. Willy Cork's sea story, passed along as best I can recall.
"We had been at anchor for 10 days in a nameless bay 600 miles from the nearest living human being. The trawlers had been arriving regularly with full loads of Atka mackerel. I was alone most of the time in the wheelhouse. When the trawlers were alongside, the entire crew was required to work 24 hours a day, except for the captain's young cabin boy, who had special privileges. Down in the cargo holds, the rest of the men wrestled 50-pound blocks of frozen fish, as the entire ship was stowed by hand.
The ship's house was no warmer than the winter weather outside because the captain had turned off the heat. The captain did little to hide the contempt he harbored toward the race of humans his company hired to work aboard his ship. When the men came in for their meals, he made sure they didn't get too comfortable, loitering around the galley or grabbing a little nap. When I inquired about the lack of heat, the captain replied in broken English, "Must save fuel." I was luckier than the shivering sailors, because the captain was good to me and gave me a hotplate from the galley for extra heat in my room. I might also add, that in addition to saving fuel, the thrifty captain had also shut off the ship's supply of fresh water to all the faucets and showers, for conservation measures. Fortunately, before the ship went on water rations, I was again afforded special treatment as a full, 5-gallon bucket of water was delivered to my stateroom for my personal use and hygiene.
After two weeks, the food started to run out with the exception of white rice. Since there was no fruit, crackers, popcorn, or snacks of any kind to munch on, I invented my own munchies. Each night after the cook had shut down the galley I scavenged the burnt rice from the sides of the huge steel rice cooker. The rice peeled off in crisp sheets. I sweetened my snacks by dipping them into a glass of water mixed with dissolved sugar, then laid them out to dry in the warm stack of the engine room, right next to the crew's drying laundry.
On Day 15 we hit pay dirt. There had been no trawlers alongside for a few days, so the crew had some time off to sleep. Fishing off the stern, one of them managed to hand-line up to the surface a 200-pound halibut. Through some ingenious rigging, they were able to heave the thrashing fish up from the sea and land it on deck. High fives went all around, because tonight the crew would feed on something besides rice and kimchi.
I like fresh halibut, so I was looking forward to a real dinner. Seated that evening in the ship's cramped dining salon waiting for dinner to be served, the smell drifting out from the galley was repulsive. When the cook came out of the galley, he brought a large oval-shaped cooking pan. He set it down on the captain's table and removed the lid. The odor that came wafting up from the contents of the kettle stunk like warm gas escaping from a gutted deer whose entrails had been accidentally perforated.
Instead of cooking the fish's flesh, the cook had prepared a haggis from the halibut's stomach. Removing the stomach from the pan and setting it out on a cutting board, he sliced open the bag of baked tripe and onto the table spilled the halibut's lights, along with its other edible organs. The crew dug into the treat like starving men, which actually they more or less were.
After a few uneventful days, the trawlers arrived for another round of offloads. On the third straight day of work, the crew started to get sullen and moody. The ship's officers were driving the Filipino crew members to total exhaustion, while at the same time accusing them of working too slowly. The atmosphere on the ship turned dark, the crew members sulked and grew quiet. Realizing he had a problem, the captain notified his shipping company over the fax machine that trouble was brewing. What to do? On the fourth day the following message arrived over the ship's teletype and was posted on the bulkhead outside the dining salon where all crew members could read it.
?Mr. Hatamo's message of love and encouragement may have worked, had the master left well enough alone. After the message arrived, I was lying in my bunk reading when I overheard a commotion outside my stateroom door. The captain was yelling at one of his crew members. Then a loud "thump, thump, thump," followed by screaming and more thumps. It sounded like a man being beaten by a heavy object or stick. My suspicions were confirmed the next morning when I saw the captain's cabin boy sitting in the galley with black and blue welts across his head, face, and arms.
The crew mutinied the next day. Climbing out of the cargo hold, they grabbed fire axes off the ship's bulkheads and squared off with the officers. The offload was stopped.
After some discussion among themselves, the men calmed down on their own accord and laid down the axes. Wanting nothing to do with the disagreement that was brewing on the tramper, the trawler, which was alongside, cast off her lines and headed back out for the fishing grounds. The Auba Maru heaved anchor shortly thereafter and set sail back for Dutch Harbor. The captain, a cautious man, decided to lock the crewmen in their rooms for the transit. This treatment included no food and no water. When the vessel arrived back in port, all the mutineers were quickly removed from the ship and replaced with a new crew, all of whom were from Myanmar. As soon as they were aboard, the ship heaved its anchor and beat feet back out to the waiting trawlers."
Reading the sad story of the sinking of the Oryong 501, I am reminded again of how little the working conditions have changed aboard the Oryong 501s of the world. Except for one small detail. Capt. Cork no longer works on vessels like these, and as such can no longer corroborate his (this) story. Shortly after the events described above, Capt. Cork lost his life in the line of duty as he was attempting to pilot another ship, similar to the Oryong 501, as it conducted its business affairs in the remote Western Alaska waters.
Capt. Pete Garay has been working as a state-licensed marine pilot in Alaska for more than two decades.
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