Death of a Supertanker Read Online Free PDF Page A

three dismal days at anchor outside the port with a tug standing by because the ship was without power; the invasion of his privacy by the busy-bodies who’d come out to the ship for one purpose or another – that had been the first assault. Now came the second: the pilot on his bridge, the tugs ahead and astern emphasizing the impotence of his command; in half an hour, when the ship had berthed alongside, there would be a third assault: more port officials,ship’s chandlers, marine surveyors, engineering contractors and consultants, shipping agents, workmen, and of course the media … SABC broadcasts from Durban were already carrying reports of the breakdown; of the impending entry into Durban of the biggest ship ever to visit the port; of the serious pollution caused by tankers along the South African coast and in the Southern Ocean, and the particular threat posed by VLCCs – the supertankers – should they meet with disaster. It was old hat to Captain Crutchley but its regurgitation was disturbing … all these people, he reminded himself, would soon stream aboard, bringing with them new problems. Sooner or later they would want to see him, to ask questions, to have documents signed, to justify their existence in one way or another, even if it were no more than to pass the time of day in the expectation of a drink. There would be strange faces, unfamiliar voices, unusual situations to be contended with each day. What, he wondered, lay in store for him and his ship?
    Others on the bridge – Simpson the third officer, and Middleton the cadet, for example – felt rather differently. For them the breakdown was a welcome variation of a boring routine: an exciting beginning to the uncertainties and adventures which the minds of young seamen always associate with the shore.
    McLintoch and Benson, like the Captain, resented the enforced visit. The breakdown had already involved them in a lot more work and worry than usual, and they had no doubt there would be more to come.
    For the Cape Verde Islanders the interruption was an unwelcome or at least a dubious event. They were at sea to make money, to support their families in the harsh poverty of their tropical islands. ‘More days more dollars’, was their philosophy. But they were seamen and there would be, they knew, the customary attractions of a big port – women and drink – and that meant spending money. At the back of their minds lurked another less pleasant reality. They were dark skinned and would be up against the problems and humiliations of apartheid. So, too, would the Goanese stewards.
    Captain Crutchley moved to the starboard wing of the bridge and remained there while the pilot and tug captains, working as a well-drilled team with maximum skill and minimum fuss, edged Ocean Mammoth into her berth at No. 1 Pier. Heaving lines were thrown, nylon pennants snaked down to the jetty followed bysteel wires, dock hands slipped them over bollards, the supertanker’s mooring winches began to heave, the tugs to push, and the massive hull was inched slowly alongside.
    The group of waiting men on the jetty far beneath the bridge wing, their faces turned upwards, their briefcases at the ready, suggested to Captain Crutchley that his gloomy forebodings were not unfounded.

Chapter 4
    The Zurich offices of Inter-Ocean Crude and Bulk Carriers Ltd. were in what had once been a large private house in a side street off Seefeldstrasse. The only indication of its changed character was the discreet brass plate on the wall beside the front door.
    The boardroom – it had been a drawing-room – was at the back overlooking a pleasant old-world garden of lawns, trees, flowering shrubs and a fountain. It was an elegant room, the highly polished mahogany table at its centre and the tall chairs round it reflecting light from crystal chandeliers set in a rococo ceiling. The tranquillity of the garden seen through french windows was in marked contrast to the tense atmosphere of the