The Moralizing Oiler, the Mystery of “A”, and a Sleep-Deprived Awakening
The Dawn Preacher of the Watch
At 0400 hours, right as the deep blue of the tropical night began to bleed into a pale, bruised gray across the horizon, the elderly Muslim oiler finally came down the vertical steel ladder to take over the morning watch.
Now, stepping back into the illuminated control room, I felt a noticeable sense of relief wash over me, as I knew from the senior engineers’ gossip that this pious old man had absolutely no intention of sneaking off to find a mattress or going to sleep on duty. He was a creature of absolute discipline, a veteran of a thousand ocean crossings.
However, I soon discovered that divine protection from a sleeping watchkeeper came with an entirely different kind of price. Instead of discussing the complex operations of the machinery, he spent the next two continuous hours lecturing me relentlessly on the state of my soul.
“Young man, you must guard your moral character strictly on these floating tin cans,” he advised sternly, leaning over the main console with a warning finger raised. “Alcohol is the absolute root of all societal evils. A pious, disciplined life, free from worldly temptations, is the only true way forward for a young marine engineer stepping out into the big world.”
As the hours dragged on at a snail’s pace, the analog clock ticking forward with agonizing slowness, I began to seriously wonder if I actually preferred the quiet, harmlessly sleeping oilers over this relentless, unyielding moral preacher. At least a sleeping man didn’t subject your sleep-deprived brain to a full theological seminar on the evils of shore leave at four in the morning.
Deciphering “A” and the Art of Waking Up
At long last, my agonizingly long and emotionally exhausting vigil came to an end as the clock neared 0600 hours. I stood outside the heavy control room door, staring intently up the steel companionway stairs, eagerly waiting for my relief ‘Spiderman’ Pal to arrive and release me from my duty.
This time, instead of his usual signature acrobatic leap down the handrail, he walked slowly down the stairs one agonizing, heavy step at a time, dragging his heavy work boots against the metal treads. His eyes were bloodshot and red, and his face was noticeably puffed up from water retention and exhaustion. He was clearly in a foul, volatile, and explosive mood due to a massive, throbbing hangover brought on by too much local rum ashore the night before.
“I had far too many heavy drinks ashore last night, and my head feels like a steam hammer,” he grumbled under his breath as he reached the deck floor, clutching his temples.
Standing quietly in the corner behind him, the old Muslim oiler motioned toward the staggering 4th Engineer and gestured silently to me with a knowing nod, as if to say, “I told you so — behold the tragic, miserable evils of alcohol right before your eyes.”
Pal gave a cursory, irritable, and bloodshot glance at all the pressure gauges, temperature indicators, and monitoring instruments on the main control panel. Then, exactly like the furious, perpetually irate Sarge character in the old Beetle Bailey comic strips, he spun around on his heel and shouted directly into my face:
“Why is A so less?!”
I was utterly puzzled, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, and stared back at him blankly. “What is A?” I asked him innocently, completely bewildered by the sudden scientific riddle.
That simple, honest question was the final straw for the sleep-deprived, hungover engineer. Pal became instantly furious, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of crimson.
“You don’t know what A is?!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, throwing his hands up in absolute, theatrical disgust. “How can you possibly be so stupid after graduating from an engineering college?!”
“Pal, if you just show it to me once, I will remember it forever and never ask again,” I told him calmly, trying to defuse his mounting rage.
“You are genuinely the very first person I have ever seen in the history of mankind who doesn’t know what A is!” he grumbled angrily, kicking a loose gasket across the floor plates. He grabbed my arm in a tight grip and dragged me forcefully out of the ECR, leading me up the companionway stairs to the next machinery deck.
“This is A!” he barked aggressively, gesturing dramatically with his index finger to two massive, towering steel pressure vessels mounted securely against the bulkhead.
I clutched my forehead with my palm in a sudden, brilliant wave of realization as the pieces finally clicked together in my exhausted brain. “Oh! You meant air? The air pressure in the starting air bottles?!” I asked, a massive wave of relief washing over my battered nervous system.
“Thank God, at least you know the English language now!” he snapped sarcastically, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. His heavy, eccentric British accent had caused him to completely swallow the ‘ir’ sound from the word “air,” clipping it entirely down to the isolated letter “A.”
A Restful End to the Maiden Day
I learned much later in the voyage that Pal’s stormy, unbearable morning mood would consistently improve as the day progressed; by evening, after a strong cup of tea and a proper meal, he would regularly transform into a jovial, warm, and delightfully effervescent companion. But in those early hours, he was a force of nature.
I quickly learned to exercise extreme caution when dealing with him — or anyone else anywhere — who had just woken up from a deep, intoxicated slumber. In fact, to this day, I am always exceedingly careful when waking up people who are fast asleep, as well as handling those who have just opened their eyes from a nap. Both categories of people can prove to be surprisingly dangerous, irrational, and volatile — a valuable lesson I had painfully learned back during my turbulent engineering college days.
(I recall fondly from those golden college days how I once landed a powerful, instinctive right-hook slap straight across my roommate Eashwar’s face when he tried to wake me up for an early morning semester exam preparation—and fell asleep again. I didn’t even remember I had committed the assault until he confronted me later with a swollen cheek!)
“Pal, from tomorrow onward, I will be far more careful with checking the air bottle pressures and keeping my terminology straight,” I assured him as we walked back down to the ECR together to officially hand over the logbook. “And I certainly won’t be depending on sleeping oilers to keep watch either.”
With my maiden watch officially over, I walked back down the alleyway to my cozy cabin, stripped off my grease-stained boiler suit, and took a long, wonderfully hot shower to wash off the soot and grime of the engine room. After enjoying a hearty, comforting breakfast in the officer’s mess, I headed straight back to my bunk and hit the sack.
Before that grueling, transformative day, if I was ever deprived of even ten simple minutes of sleep from my strict daily quota of eight full hours, my eyes would burn intensely, and I would spend the entire following afternoon yawning continuously, desperate to somehow regain those lost precious minutes. But on that unforgettable day, I skipped lunch entirely without a second thought and sank into nine straight hours of deep, dreamless, well-earned sleep, completely dead to the roaring world outside.
That was the chaotic, confusing, intimidating, yet thoroughly unforgettable first day on my very first ship — the day I truly crossed the threshold from an academic student into a real seagoing engineer.
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