Prologue: Ghosts

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.
—Kate Chopin, The Awakening

There is a stiff breeze coming in off the bay, tugging at me as I stand on the deck of a ship. The wind carries with it the aroma of salty brine and the essence of freedom and isolation, hallmarks familiar to anyone who’s spent any time near the sea. Yet the ship I’m on is not coursing through the waves or navigating any waterway; she is motionless, lifeless and without sea-going purpose. She harbours only ghosts.

The vessel is the SS Sag River, an immense tanker currently beached on the sandy shores of the Bay of Khambhat at a place called Alang. This ten-kilometre stretch of northwestern India is the site of the biggest shipbreaking operation on the planet, where ocean-going vessels come to be deconstructed and turned into scrap metal. If you want to see a cross-section of the world’s shipping fleets and ponder the existence of these leviathans and those whose lives revolved around them, Alang is the place to be. Up and down the beach are scattered other tankers, container ships, bulk carriers, passenger liners, car carriers, cattle carriers, cable layers and pretty much anything else you can imagine.

The oceans, seas, lakes and rivers of the Earth are teeming with over forty-six thousand merchant vessels not unlike the hulks that are beached around me here in Alang, and as many as two million people make their livelihood from seafaring. Merchant shipping is a multi-billion-dollar, multinational endeavour that carries over 90 percent of global trade: crude oil, cooking oil, beer, wine, vodka, wheat, fresh fruit, vegetables, livestock, medicine, computers, televisions, cell phones, camcorders, running shoes, blue jeans, tuxedos, perfume, iron ore, coal, gold, lumber, newsprint, furniture, automobiles and even expensive French water. It is the tie that truly binds us together, more so than religion or sporting events or the internet.

In the last thirty years, commercial shipping has seen dramatic and sweeping changes. Technology, international regulations, global economics, environmental laws, ship owners, officers and crews—everything is different. But perhaps the biggest change is the fate of the ships themselves. Throughout the 1970s, the commercial shipping industry was in the midst of a boom period and expanded in response to the growth of global economies, with more and larger vessels being launched weekly at yards throughout the world.

However nothing lives forever and ocean-going vessels are no exception. Their lifespan will rarely exceed forty years; often it is even further shortened by the extreme physical stress of marching headlong into the pounding seas day after day, year after year. Eventually the metal fatigues, the engines break down, the costs of maintenance exceed profitability, and these aging vessels must leave the sea and return to the land whence they were born.

What fascinates me is that each vessel being scrapped here in Alang—indeed, every ship that has ever sailed—was once the home to a tightly knit group of people both metaphorically and literally. The frames of these vessels once contained individuals who ate, slept, worked, argued, cried, prayed and sometimes died within their steel embrace. They were shipwrights, architects, owners, engineers, able-bodied seamen, ordinary sailors, bosuns, mates, captains, cooks, motormen, electricians, stewards and passengers. They spent days, months or years constrained by wood and steel, engulfed by a vast sea that was variously placid or demonic. I believe humans have souls; is it possible that ships have them as well? And if you believe that energy can be neither created nor destroyed, merely transferred from one source to another, then perhaps it’s possible that some of the energy of those whose lives revolved around these ships has seeped into the vessels.

To glimpse the ghosts who once inhabited these ocean titans, all you have to do is follow that offshore breeze as it swirls around, over and into the ship, gliding through empty corridors and darkened cabins. The winds moan and murmur as they explore the vessel, at times pausing until the air becomes heavy with the smell of sweat, steel and heat. Then they resume their airborne journey through the leviathan until the gusts grow bored and exit into the brilliant sunshine of northwestern India.

Aboard the Sag River, I caress the teak-covered railing on the portside wing of the wheelhouse as I wonder how many seafarers once stood here while staring out to sea. Inside the bridge the ship’s wheel is warm to the touch, the plastic having absorbed the intense heat of the subtropics or the firm hands of many a helmsman. Close by is the engine telegraph, still in the Full Ahead position set when the great ship crashed her bow onto dry land. Bits of paper litter the deck in here, sometimes catching a whiff of the breeze and swirling into the corners. There’s a compass deviation form, dutifully stamped and signed by the Sag River’s former master, while some other paperwork reveals she was built at the Sparrow’s Point Shipyard near Baltimore back in 1972, for ARCO Marine. As long as the Titanic, the 70,000-tonne vessel apparently plied the West Coast between Alaska and the Lower Forty-Eight as she carried North Slope crude oil to the insatiable energy markets of America.

Down a linoleum-lined staircase, I arrive at B-Deck, where some of the crew’s quarters are located. The wind whistles through open portholes, a banshee-like wail of remorse. As I peer through various doorways, the cabins seem desolate and sad, revealing only soiled mattresses and garbage strewn about the floors. Another flight of stairs leads to the galley, where the crews’ meals were once prepared. Here I find cutlery and dishes lining the cupboards, and the smell of rotting food is rank and ubiquitous. Cockroaches, the only animate inhabitants to greet me on my exploration, skitter about the stainless steel surfaces. Through a nearby door marked “Engine Compartment” I call out a weak “Hello,” though the only reply is the echo of my own voice. It’s quieter in here and also much hotter, the wind having deigned to ignore these nether regions. The Sag River’s power plant towers above and below, rising as high as a small office building, but not a sound emanates from its once-powerful engines. There’s an open vent near the ceiling through which a shaft of light streams into the compartment, guiding me down a narrow ladder to a catwalk that stretches the width of the tanker. I cautiously make my way past vertical pipes and electrical tubing, clutching at the greasy railing that was once a lifeline to an engineer in a storm, until I arrive at a wide platform. Along one bulkhead are open storage lockers containing firefighting suits, the safety garments hanging like corpses from their hooks.

Down and to the right is the engineering station, where the distinct smell of fuel oil permeates, like that in the basement of an old home. The metal deck below is strewn with empty cans of Coca-Cola, packets of artificial sweetener, half-eaten bags of Orville Redenbacker microwave popcorn and crushed boxes of Marlboro cigarettes—the diet of someone striving to stay awake.

On the corkboard above the engineer’s desk is pinned a note from one of the ghosts, a first assistant engineer, to someone named Paul, listing instructions for shutting down the ship’s water evaporators and stating, “You should hear something on your watch whether or not we are going in tomorrow morning.”

Below that is a large nautical chart protected by Plexiglas; I pull out my flashlight, brush aside the dust and see that the chart is the approach to Port Valdez, Alaska, through the Valdez Arm and the Narrows. A cryptic note has been taped to the map: “What an extra five inches feels like.” I realize that this is a reference to the shallow waters and narrow shipping channels that make up the area near Prince William Sound where the tanker Exxon Valdez was famously grounded in 1978, spilling 250,000 barrels of oil into the pristine Alaskan waters. It makes me stop for a moment, for I realize the Sag River had been there, too, that her ghosts had traversed those shipping routes.

By now the heat in the engine room has left me thoroughly drenched in sweat, so I decide to leave the tanker’s bowels and head back topside. A wrong turn somewhere leads to a different door from the one I’d entered, which sticks when I try to open it. Stepping back, I give it a mighty push before the door swings open to reveal a scene of utter devastation. I am standing in a vast open space the size of a basketball court, what was once the main deck level of the ship’s accommodations, but every wall that partitioned the area has been removed, as has every piece of furniture, equipment, wiring and even the ceiling tiles. This renovation job gone awry has left nothing more than the outlines of the rooms and a few toilets scattered about like the stumps of clear-cut trees, each surrounded by a square of ceramic tiles.

Over in the corner is an old newspaper, now aged and yellow. It’s the Baltimore Sun, dated Tuesday, February 1, 1972, which must have been left by a shipyard worker, since that’s about the time the Sag River was built. Perhaps he read it over lunch before shoving it behind a wall partition, a time capsule from the tanker’s birth. The paper is open to an article headlined “Westmoreland predicts big enemy offensive,” detailing B-52 bomber missions against North Vietnamese troops near Khe Sanh. The article ends with a prediction from an unnamed American adviser stating that the South Vietnamese “are going to win.”

Finally, I head outside to reach the main deck, where the sea breeze cools my body before drawing me to a pile of garbage: technical binders, old magazines and reams of paperwork billowing ever so slightly from the wind. Atop the heap lies a sheet of lined paper, beckoning me. The handwritten note is smudged and dirty, but as I pick it up I can see it is still legible.

Dearest Juliana,

I don’t think you’re ready to get married; I’m not ready to give you away, and having met him, I know he’s not ready for marriage…

I stop reading and sheepishly look around. Should I continue? Will I be caught red-handed with someone’s private correspondence, this heartfelt missive about marriage and life written to a daughter, a sister, maybe a lover? But the ghost is calling out to me, so I read on.

I see that you mean to leave your parents’ home, travel across country, begin a physical, sexual relationship, set up housekeeping and live together as a couple…pretty much everything but the ceremony.

There is clumsiness to the letter, the crude penmanship reflecting someone who probably does not write very often, definitely a man. But the content of the document is an honest and forthright expression that bears no corrections, no amendments, no alterations. Whoever wrote it was firm in his resolve to deal with something openly, not to shy away from it. And yet here it sits, atop a pile of garbage reeking in the hot tropical sun.

I flip the note over, but there is no signature, no name attached to it. Instead, the black ink fades away as though the thoughts of the writer trailed off into nothingness. I stare in fascination at this moment in someone’s life, thinking of how the note had travelled across oceans, canals, seas and bays before being unceremoniously cast aside. Perhaps the author changed his mind at the last moment, thinking it better not to get involved. Or maybe he revised it. Either way, I picture him sitting here on the deck, staring at the sea while the ship lumbered along, his thoughts of Juliana troubling him.

I know I’ll never find out who the author is; tracking down every former crew member of the Sag River would take more time and money than is worth the effort and, who knows, the man could be dead by now. It doesn’t really matter, though. Unlike nautical charts, empty cigarette packets or yellowing newspapers, this letter is a more personal connection with a seafarer who once called the Sag River home. It’s a glimpse into someone’s life aboard a sea-going vessel, for while standing watches or loading crude oil in Alaska, this mariner was thinking of Juliana. It’s a start, a signal that there are memories calling out to me, waiting to be discovered.

The lives of mariners like the writer to Juliana seem to have fallen off our collective radar, eclipsed by Hollywood movie stars, jumbo jets and missions to Mars. Few of us pay attention to the business of merchant shipping, unless an oil tanker spills its cargo of crude oil on the shore of some far-off beach or we glance at a story buried in the back pages of a newspaper about the sinking of a container ship. When a cargo vessel slips its moorings and steams over the horizon, it vanishes from the memory of most, just as these aging titans lie forlorn and forgotten here in India.

How forgotten is this world? Well, consider the situation in Iraq. According to the U.S. Department of Defense, 1852 American, British and other coalition troops were killed in that nation during the two-year period from March 2003 to April 2005, an average of 71 per month. In that same time frame, the United Nations’ International Labour Organization, as well as several other shipping observers, estimate some 13,000 mariners died at sea. If you factor in fishermen, many of whom use small, unlicensed craft, the figure rises to 52,000 deaths on the Earth’s waters. That’s over 2000 a month. Every year, more than 100 commercial vessels are lost at sea, roughly 2 each week. To be a professional mariner is to engage in the most dangerous profession on the planet, and one of the most invisible.

Looking for romance or symbolism in a business like modern-day commercial shipping may seem a naïve pursuit, unlike that of the chroniclers of tales of old with imagery of sailing ships fighting their way around Cape Horn or battling the North Atlantic’s fierce winter storms. But the memories of those days linger, if only because the reality of modern-day mariners is still quite similar to the experiences of their predecessors. Seafaring is—and always has been—a hard, lonely, dangerous endeavour. There really never was a “golden age of sailing,” for the ships and crews who plied the oceans in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries lived perilously, with little pay for the dangers they endured.

Nevertheless, the sea and those who sail upon it have always been surrounded by a certain aura, highlighted by the omnipresent threats that can still seize a vessel and wrestle her to her doom in the depths below. Scan any bookstore shelves and you will find a lengthy list of titles about that golden age of sailing or the memoirs of individuals who have single-handedly circumnavigated the globe in a small boat, but fewer works about the daily lives of those whose profession is seafaring.

I believe there is an innate bond between those who leave dry land for the perils of the sea today and those who went before them. This unspoken thread splices the experiences of American, European, African and Asian mariners with those of the great Polynesian, Viking, Hanseatic and Phoenician cultures. This is the heart and soul of seafaring.

I also believe we all have a primordial connection with the sea, one that goes back to the infancy of our planet and a time when there was no such thing as terra firma, merely a molten ocean from which all life would eventually emanate. Even as we crawled from our watery birthplace, though, we still remained close to Poseidon’s embrace: Most of the planet’s population continues to live on or near water—oceans, seas, lakes and rivers—and this is where you will invariably find the world’s greatest cities.

The slow and pedantic pace of ocean-going vessels seems at odds with today’s world, in which speed is everything. The lengthy periods of isolation one needs to endure crossing the seas mean that even passenger cruises are now designed so that travellers need not miss dry land and duty free shopping for more than a few days. The idea of spending months—or years—at sea makes merchant sailors a distinctly unique breed of individuals and so, too, their ships.

To paraphrase a cliché, ships can mean many things to many people. And though I will likely never know the full story of any single ship’s life, I hope I can piece together enough parts from various sources to give me a broader picture of mariners, ships and the sea. The breaking yards here offer one the chance to glimpse some of that in the moments before a vessel is torn asunder and obliterated from existence, especially in the few short days these marine entities lie in state awaiting the arrival of the undertakers.

As I look at the shipbreaking yards that engulf me here in India, I marvel at the modern technology and ponder those who built and sailed the leviathans, torchbearers of a tradition that goes back at least five thousand years in recorded history. Perhaps by seeking out the designers, shipyard workers, owners, officers, ordinary sailors and anyone else I can find whose life revolves around commercial vessels, I can figure out if a ship has a soul.

At this moment I decide to focus my quest on “working ships,” since humans ventured out to explore, trade and harvest the seas well before they decided to make war or pamper vacationers there. For the time being, I’ll leave the study of battleships and passenger liners to others.

And so I turn away from the Hades vista that surrounds me, intent on beginning my quest into the world of ships and mariners who are eternally bound to the sea. I want to find out who these ghosts really are.