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Safety, Shortcuts, and a Shift in Gears

After reading about groundings, collisions, flooding, oil pollution, blackouts, and other near misses, it is natural for readers to wonder why I continued to sail.

Many have asked me the same question, and I respond by saying that I feel safer on ships than on roads packed with careless and drunk drivers.

In fact, a few captains quit sailing and joined nautical colleges as faculty.

I am a die-hard optimist, and I believe that a ship is a safe place with many alarms, safety procedures, and systems in place.

The real danger is overconfident, ignorant staff and shortcuts that circumvent safe working practices. If checklists, procedures, and maintenance schedules are followed, the chances of accidents and injuries would be far less.

One example is avoiding walking under a hanging heavy load. Many crew members take shortcuts and walk under heavy loads as they are being transported. A detour, they feel, is a waste of time. Any number of safety posters and lectures prove futile.

I show safety videos to the crew, so they see what horrible things could happen. I am certain none of them would ever walk under a hanging load.

I refused to take shortcuts, nor did I allow my staff to take them. But God’s blessings and the prayers of my family also functioned like a safety net.

Now, it is time to shift gears. Sailing adventures are paused, and hilarious and amusing stories will take the steering wheel.

The Shipyard Days: Loitering, Coupons, and Signature Tricks

After graduation, we completed the compulsory training at the shipyard, which we enjoyed to the hilt.

We were supposed to learn all aspects of shipping at the shipyard during six months of training. No one there had the patience or the time to teach us, and they shooed us away. So, we used to go at 7:30 a.m., loiter around, have subsidized coffee, snacks, and lunch, kill time, and go back at 5:00 p.m. Tea would cost three paisa, coffee twelve paisa, breakfast twenty-five paisa, and lunch fifty paisa. We used to buy coupons every month.

Though we were not paid, attendance was compulsory. In the morning, afternoon, and evening, we had to sign in the register. The training officer was present only during the afternoon. Someone had a brainwave. We decided to work in shifts. In the morning, half the batch would go at seven-thirty and sign in for everyone. (The training officer would not be there, so we bribed the peon.) At lunchtime, all of us would be present and sign in front of the training officer. Then the morning batch would leave, and the second batch would sign for all in the evening. We practiced each other’s signatures and kept it very simple

Sometimes, guilt would gnaw at our hearts. And like a fever, the enthusiasm would last a few days, during which period we tried to learn everything about shipbuilding from laying the keel to the delivery of the ship. We would burn with enthusiasm, go to the library, read manuals, go to the dry dock, and pester the machine operators to death. Then, as suddenly as it started, the fever would go down, and we would go back to playing cards under the trees, gossiping, and catching naps in nooks and corners.

That was a very enjoyable transition phase. No college, no tests, no tensions. No responsibilities. We had to live within our meager budgets (money sent from home). We managed to squeeze in a lot of fun and laughter. After the training was over, the harsh realities of life stared us in the face.

The Shipping Recession and the Trip to Bombay

The worst phase of recession in shipping had just begun. Jobs were drying up. There were about ten Indian shipping companies. All of them had sent regret letters but promised to employ us when vacancies arose. Damodar, Chougule, India Steamship, Scindia, Mogul Line, and Dempo — every company was prompt in sending regret letters.

Just when I was giving up hope, one shipping company sent an interview letter. I jumped with joy. My dad’s brother’s close friend was a top boss in that company. So, my dad gave me a letter addressed to Mr. Iyer, my mother gave three big jars of pickles to my uncle’s family, and I boarded the train to Bombay in the scorching heat of May.

I got down in Dadar the next day and asked directions to go to Chembur. I was directed to go to another platform, catch a train to Kurla, and again change to another train to Chembur.

“It is not far, only a few stations away,” they assured me. But I had to climb up and down hundreds of stairs with pickles weighing a ton. I climbed up what looked like Galigopuram at Tirupati, got down to another platform, boarded the train to Kurla, and repeated the same exercise at Kurla and Chembur. By the time I came out of Chembur station, I was mad with hunger and anger. I resisted the impulse to dump the pickles in the garbage bin and got into a taxi. Bombay taxi drivers are good. They never grumble. He took me to my uncle’s apartment.

Now the proverbial straw on the camel’s back — my uncle’s flat was on the third floor… but with no elevator. I was panting like a dog by the time I reached his flat and pressed the buzzer. My cousin sister opened the door and invited me in.

She was extraordinarily beautiful, like Aishwarya Rai. She was exceptionally fair, with light-colored eyes, and held a double doctorate in economics. My uncle had passed away several years back. My aunt and cousin warmly welcomed me. I took a much-needed shower, had lunch, and hit the sack. When I woke up, it was already dark.

My sister took me to Mr. Iyer’s house. He received us well. I gave my dad’s letter to him. He gave it a cursory glance and returned it.

“Don’t worry, go and celebrate. I will make a few calls. You are selected. Your uncle Raju was my best friend.” We thanked him and came out. I was on cloud nine. My sister was also happy.

The Constipated Bulldog and the Avatar of Narasimha

The next day, I went to the shipping company building promptly at 09:30 hours. I was surprised to see many people, including a few from my batch. I tried to look as worried and tense as they were, trying to disguise my confidence.

My name was called. I entered, wondering how I should react to an offer of coffee or tea. I expected the interviewer to hug me, shake hands, and ask me to sign on the dotted line. But the interviewer resembled an irritable bulldog with constipation, badly ticked off by his wife. There was no warmth or friendliness visible on his countenance. He looked at my application form; I expected his eyes to widen and a smile to replace his scowl since he was sure to recognize that I was the one recommended by Mr. Iyer.

The scowl remained firmly in place as he started bombarding me with questions: How do you de-sludge a purifier? How do you blow down a boiler? How do you prevent a crankcase explosion, and what will you do if it occurs? I knew partial answers to some, and none to many.

Then he donned the avatar of Narasimha, about to tear Hiranyakashipu apart.