Annoying Spaghetti

Sunday 1/21/07

0530 I wake up with a bad thought – it’s really cold… the forepeak water, did they pump it out? If not, I could have more valves crack like the one I patched with wood slivers…

0800 I arrive at DD#1 and find Charlie already there, I’m to be his scribe recording the audio gauge soundings. I tell him I want to get a fire going in the potbelly and check the forepeak and then I’ll be right along. Yup, there’s water in the forepeak.

0830 I call the very can-do Ernie, who has always said, “call me if you need anything, I can be here in 20 minutes,” to tell him the forepeak water has to go.

0900 Ernie arrives, a tad disgruntled and in new suede shoes. Oops; I shouldn’t have taken him at his word on a Sunday… We begin wrassling with pumps. The box on their power cord comes apart. He gets another. Next their pump won’t work; it can’t push through the frozen fire hose. My idea is to wet the hose to see if that will thaw it enough. I squeeze down the forepeak hatch, to protect Ernie’s shoes, and start soaking the hose. Pump no can do. Next, we try the pump I have aboard, a heavy bronze one with an air compressor hose attached. We lower it down, it won’t move. The impeller must be jammed with rust. By this time, there’s a snarl of pump hoses, ropes attached to pumps, and power cords dangling into the rusty wedge of the forepeak. An annoying spaghetti. It’s a two-man job -- one on deck, one in the hole – to get things out of there because everything fouls on its way up, on the ladder, the internal keel coolers, or steel bracketing. This is a bugger of a job, but the company is good. Ernie and I chat.

Ernie tells me two thought-provoking things, that the lead paint test IS still needed – “it’s procedure now;” and the dock is haunted, “footsteps sometimes follow me up the gangway at night”. If anywhere were to be haunted, the Brooklyn Navy Yard would be it. Thousands have died here: During the Revolution, the British kept prison ships that were really floating death chambers. Some 11,000 died in them, and their bodies were dumped overboard or in mass graves. Bones washed up on the beaches of Wallabout Bay well into the 19^th century and caused such distress that they were re-interred in what is now Fort Greene Park where a tower memorializes their suffering. The Mafioso Joey Bonanno reputedly made people disappear here in the 20s. My boyfriend John says the King of Samoa is buried under the dock, because slave labor was used to build the dock and the Samoans would not work without their king… Truth or rumor, I don’t know, and I hope to find time to call the Navy Yard archivist Daniella Romano to ask about the dark side.

Ernie offers to unfoul the bronze pump, and I go to assist Charlie who has, as is his way, methodically chugged on with the soundings even though he hasn’t had the right ladder, me as scribe, or friendly weather. I meet him at the bow, where frozen stalactites reveal more forepeak leaks. Good thing none of that steel gave way while the Whalen was afloat!

Hearing my report of forepeak pumping frustrations, Charlie takes a hammer and smashes a hole in the bottom near the icicles. I’m ready to smash more holes if the bottom steel needs replacing; because what’s become clear is that most of the forepeak water migrated aft to the next space, the pump room engine room, and has flooded over the deck (floor) that separates a watertight compartment and the engine room itself. The limberholes in that watertight space are clogged with rust-mud, so pumping will not be easy.

Ernie fixes the bronze pump and resumes his Sunday by 1125. As I consider the frustration that pulling the spaghetti alone will be, I spot a mustached fellow in very clean Carhartts on the pier, “Are you the K-Sea barge guy?” “Yes” is the echo back. I ask for help.

Tankerman Rick is willing, he’s got time to burn. He’s into his second winter of “standing by” here, another weirdness of the weird Navy Yard that is a world unto itself. The Navy Yard has a co-generation plant. It runs on LNG, but Rick says that if there’s a cold snap down south, the LNG spigot is turned off so the South gets heat. Since the Navy Yard doesn’t want to risk not finding a local fuel barge available if there’s an LGN problem, they keep this loaded barge sitting at the ready all winter. As last winter was a mild winter, they never needed its fuel, so the tankermen never came and went nor did anything besides stand watch on the boat at its isolated dock. He’s eager to talk, “I read two books a week and go for long walks” and wants a quick tour of the Whalen. He, like everyone else who’s seen the Whalen since she arrived, really admires the boat. For me, it’s been a great boost and validation to feel that appreciation by all the staff and visitors at GMD.

Rick and I start pumping the flooded forward engine room. The hose doesn’t reach the rail (edge) of the boat; but given how much he’s prowled around, he knows where there is some ratty PVC pipe. We lay that down on the deck so we can shoot the water past the spudwell hole in the deck, down the starboard side. He leaves to get tend his generator, and I help Charlie until visitors arrive. Boyfriend John Gladsky arrives with more kindling and enthusiasm. Nathan Kensiger comes to photograph. Then Tim Ventimiglia, our museum designer, arrives with Elaina Ganim, his wife, and their beagle Mila. Tim is utterly taken with the Whalen out of water. The grand sweep of her lines is more visible framed by the dock. It will be Tim’s job, among others, to come up with a plan for how to turn the eight cargo tanks, 2,800 square feet, into exhibition space and shape what those exhibits will be. I spend a little time with everyone, with the result that Charlie really gets the shaft and spends most of the day working alone.

Tim & Elaina invite me and John to dinner. We spend a lot of time discussing the revived lead paint issue. I decide to stay the night with them and blog. High time; transforming notes into blog posts has proved challenging after long work days. John heads back to Oyster Bay. The lead testing team is due between 8 and 12 on Monday, so tomorrow will define all that follows.

Toxic Tension

Saturday, 1/20/07

0720 the first call comes in. The industrial marine biz in this port hits the phones right after 0700, seven days a week. No sleeping in for this birthday girl. It’s John of Amorica, Paint. He’s returning my call about the lead paint issue. I tell him I’m thinking of calling the dockmaster from H&R who docked the Whalen in 1991 and asking him about what paint was used. I’m not liking losing a whole weekend of good weather waiting for the lead paint testers. H&R is long gone, but I know where the guy works now, a new dry dock outfit on Richmond Terrace, but I don’t know his name. With that John says “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that yesterday. When was her last haul out? 1991 at H&R? I would have done that job… I’ve done every boat around here for 20 years… they weren’t using lead paint then.”

I experience a flood of relief. I’ve had no time to organize a birthday party but the no-lead paint news is the best present I could receive. I call Ernie, yard supervisor of Dry Dock #1, right away. Ernie, ever on-duty and ever-amiable about it, says “great… Blasting will start tomorrow night.” Charlie Deroko calls soon thereafter and says he can start surveying tomorrow at 0730. The weekend WILL show some progress after all. I begin to unwind.

Birthday calls roll in throughout the morning. My boatbuilder uncle Ross Gannon is particularly interested in what’s going on. I tell him about “the tulip,” the wickedly deformed prop. He asks if that could explain how the drive shaft was damaged, could it have been a grounding that nailed them both? I realize I don’t yet have the story as to why the Whalen went out of service.

The fallout from the Exxon Valdez ultimately would have put her out of work. That accident lead to the OPA90 (the Oil Pollution Act of 1990) and one of it’s many mandates is that “single-skin” vessels would be phased out of the fuel-moving business and be replaced by boats with double hulls. The idea being that if they were hit, only the outer skin would breach and the inner skin would prevent an oil spill. That rule has retired many noble old tankers around here, whereupon they go to the scrap pile, get sunk as artificial reefs or get spirited away to Latin American where the rivers are many and the regulations few.

I argue with Outlook some more and try every form of workaround to get the laptop version to work or get the data from the desktop up into Earthlink’s cyberspace mailbox. No go. Clearly, I will work in splendid isolation while in Dry Dock #1.

I finish my first post and realize I’m too tuckered out to swing more. I reassess the Lulu plan. She was almost named Limpet for her proclivity to stick herself to me. It’s endearing when she plays parrot and sits on my shoulder while I’m typing; it’s a molestation when I’m trying to sleep and she’s wrapped around my head like a tight, fidgety hat. She hadn’t been bothering my sleep for weeks, but I realize that’s cuz she’s been stuck to John’s dog Sophie. Lulu is infatuated with Sophie. I need my sleep on the Whalen. I think Lulu may not make the trip back with me…

Mussel Men

Friday, 1/19/07. The Victorians are winning; Bill Gates is not. Friday, day two, I try to activate my mobile office on the Whalen, but Outlook 2000, age 6, wont work. Neither will my Nikon D1X, about the same age. The pump on the graving dock, age 156, works fine, so does the WWII-era gantry crane, and the 1938 Whalen is holding up pretty well. Enough said, but that’s why posts are running late, I can't get data in to get posts up, and this seasoned photojournalist is reduced to making photos with a cellphone.

Back to ship issues. A shipyard experience is about expecting the unexpected, the uncertainty is only of degree, “how bad will the news be?” I hold my breath. PortSide hasn’t done any fundraising to pay for the boat yet, so we are limited in what we can do now.

Friday, I begin to deal with the revelations of Day One. Thursday afternoon, Ernie, the yard supervisor for Dry Dock 1, had phoned “hey, you have a hole in your forepeak right above the hawsepipe!” I go to the bow. Sure enough, the ballast water is shooting out of the boat. How had I missed that hole before? Clearly, the anchor had once pressed into the steel as if it were Play-Doh. The old girl won’t be going coastal for a while, I think to myself, so a hole that high up isn’t the worst. We’ll fix that ourselves out of the yard where rates are cheaper. Next!

Boyfriend John Gladsky, marine salvor and Steel Archeologist, is scowling around the bottom and dubs the prop “a tulip.” That would be an over-ripe tulip; each of the three flukes is bent back. Well, she’s currently dead ship, and the engine, if repairable, is not an immediate priority… I figure we can be towed when we visit other communities… next!

I check the pump room engine room that shares a bulkhead with the forepeak. Aha, another surprise: there’s piddling from a valve near the deck, an old crack from freezing damage. Thanks to the interim potbelly heating system, I’ve got lots of wood aboard and I shave off slivers, add some toothpicks to my quiver of repair tools and head forward. The wood will swell up nicely once wet. I hammer it in, add a cap of weatherstripping and bind it all with duct tape. It’s dry in 20. Lovely

Below the boat, a crew of ten sheathed in duct tape and rubber clothing is removing the mussel beard. The blue crust comes off too easily in places—a crustacean peel with the weight of the mussels pulling off a sheet of steel scale. I wince. We need that steel.

The workers are all Hispanic. As often happens these days, I’m glad my father was from Spain. I can converse with the work crew better than the supervisors who use broken Spanish and hand signals. Amongst themselves, the workers communicate in high speed Spanish or a series of whistles. The dock rings with whistling all day. Jorge, supervisor of the mussel crew, points out another leak. Water is coming down out of the forepeak! Ouch. This ballast water is proving a useful diagnostic tool.

The state of the steel will get assessed in waves; and money, or relative lack thereof, shapes the work plan. Charlie Deroko, the marine surveyor and I will work around GMD’s schedule. If we make them stop work, we pay a lay day fee for the day. Blam $750! If we time our work for a weekend when they are not working, then no fee. Stage one, Charlie Deroko will give the boat another round of audio gauging, basically a sonogram of the boat, and, yes K-Y jelly is used. A touch of the grinder to clean off the rust, a smoodge of jelly, and then the sensor is applied. Charlie spent two days surveying her last January, and concluded that the boat was not about to become swiss cheese. If she had been, I wouldn’t have bought her. She’s to serve PortSide, not the other way around.

Stage two, sandblasting will reveal other flaws once the blistered steel and loose coatings fall away. Done with a heavy and slow hand, sandblasting can also churn a new hole in the boat, so I’ll be watching the crew.

Charlie has illness in the family and cancels survey work for Saturday. Soon after that Ernie stops by to say that he has to check for lead paint, that’s done on every boat now, DEC regs, he says, and the lead testing team can’t make it until Monday. My friend Debby Romano is there to loan me a point n shoot digital camera. She asks all the questions which net long answers about tonnage of blast grit and costs of hazmat disposal; I just hold my breath. The yard won’t blast the boat and risk dispersing old lead paint until they know what’s on the hull, so GMD is doing nothing on the Whalen this weekend.

Debby leaves. I call John Tretout of Amorica, the go-to man for marine paint in New York. “Ah, don’t worry,” he says, “if there’s lead we’ll just encapsulate… give her a wash and then extra coats of paint.” I don’t like this. Her scabrious, neglected waterline needs more than a wash. She’ll look like dreadful without a blast, and the coatings won't hold as well

With that, and given that Saturday is my birthday, I decide to get off the boat. Also, I’m tired thanks to my rusty stove-tending skills. I haven’t used them much since the oil crisis of the 70s (I was a teen). Then, Mum, newly divorced, struggled to make ends meet, so we skimped on heating oil. A Franklin stove, a coal-burning potbelly. We didn’t need Carter to tell us to lower the thermostat. Well, that was long ago. I smothered ­the fire after banking it Thursday night, and woke at 0230 with cold rasping my nostrils. I spent an hour and a half rebuilding a bed of coals and arguing with Outlook. Enough to wipe out a girl on Friday. Saturday is gonna be a day off…