May 25th, Friday morning

“At last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no longer.” (Moby Dick)

Over night, too keyed up to sleep very soundly, what with the anticipation, the engine noise and its continuous vibrations, I was vaguely aware that we had a change of pilot at 0300 hrs (at Trois Rivières), the ship slowing right down. When we woke at 0545 we were chugging ahead at 18.6 knots past the eastern tip of the Île d’Orléans. We saw the red sun rising through the mist ahead of us and the outline of the Laurentian mountains to port, some snow still showing on the ski-slopes. Up onto the bridge as soon as dressed where I was immediately offered a cup of freshly ground coffee by the First Officer. The Captain was resting after his night-shift, but the two new pilots were chatting to one another in French. On the desk of the bridge lay the chart of the Isle aux Coudres, so we stayed up there until we’d passed its northern shore. We picked out the familiar landmarks, the road we’d cycled down, the harbour, the lighthouses, even the dining room windows and row of cabins belonging to La Coudrière from which we watched these ships two summers ago wishing we could ride on one, and here we were doing exactly that!

Plenty of interesting diagrams to study on the bridge, and I learned that our ship is 46m tall, keel to mast, 169m long and 28m slim. There’s a definite rolling motion when we turn, like banking an aircraft. We could also observe this on the rudder angle indicator.

Breakfast was fried eggs and German sausages, juice and fruit. I asked for deckchairs but was refused, because the decks are being cleaned today.

At 0955 we crossed a line where the water changed from pale green to indigo blue, the outflow of water from the River Saguenay causing this phenomenon. In the recreation room and the cabin I read and wrote, and from time to time I wandered about on the stern deck. Reagan came up to bring us an extra pillow by request and to tighten the screws in our wardrobe door whose missing key I had found for him in our desk drawer.

“In heavy rolling,” he explained in his less than perfect English, “door swing!”

“Are we going to get heavy rolling on this crossing?” I wondered, anxiously.

“I’m praying, ma’am!”

At 1050 the ship slowed down to drop the pilots at Grandes Bergeronnes, pulling in closer to the shore.

“We’re on our own!” said the Captain. “Lower the flags!” and the Canada flag on the foremast sank out of sight. They also rolled up the H-flag (= pilot on board) and put away in a cupboard.

There’s a crew of 19 in all, three of them German, the rest from the Philippines. Jan Block was born on Helgoland, so I observed from the name list. I had a long chat with Orlando, the First Officer, from Manila, who’s applying for Canadian residence so that after nineteen years as a sailor he can finally live settle down with his family whom he misses very much indeed.

Reagan called me down to the mess room by phone. We were served a lunch of chicken fricassé with rice and melon wedges for dessert, and were also each presented with a gift box of Belgian chocolates each from the Captain. Here’s a picture of the Officers’ and Passengers’ Mess taken by Chris of Mischa, Martin and me, with Captain Block and Chief Engineer Thilo Schmidt in the background at their own table. Behind them, the galley.

In the afternoon while members of the crew washed the decks and portholes, dangling from ropes on the bosun’s chair, Chris spent two more hours on the bridge and I had my first good sleep for ages. I woke up just beyond the stretch of water between Matane and Baie Commeau, Chris saying he’d just seen the ferry for Sept Îles.

Supper was steak and chips. On the deck afterwards it felt colder, though he sea is still remarkably calm. Just north of the Chic Choc Mountains I was the first to spot a whale and told the others, then Mischa saw one too. At around 8pm local time a red sun sank into layers of mist on the northwestern horizon. Sunrise will be at 0427, apparently. The Captain doesn’t trust modern electronic instruments, by the way, thinks they give delusions of accuracy but could break down or be sabotaged.

“What is the best screen we have here?”

“The radar?” suggested Orlando.

“No, that one!” said Captain Block, pointing to the window. As for the GPS, he said, “If the American Military push a single button you could have the sun rising in the west”.

Of course we also talked about the weather. The Captain showed us the isobars on the latest printout and made some favourable predictions, but is worried about the possibility of fog off Newfoundland, and the danger of running into growlers—too low down to be picked up by the radar, so we’ll only cut across the Grand Banks of Newfoundland if visibility permits.

Apparently the waves on the last crossing (Liverpool to Montreal) were 10m high, “…or a bit more!” You can’t sleep in weather like that– you roll off your bed. The Captain has a settee at 90 degrees to his usual bed, in any case that’s a better way to lie down. You do all you can, he says, then you put the ship on autopilot, and rest, having slowed down to 5 knots to avoid structural damage. All the same, the ship did suffer on the last crossing. All the crew is talking about it; it was a miserable experience.

Montreal, May 24

Day by day, here comes my story of our voyage across the Atlantic on the MV FLOTTBEK, a container ship owned by the Wappen Reederei of Hamburg.

“…as for Captain Ahab, no sign of him was yet to be seen; only, they said he was in the cabin…” (Herman Melville: Moby Dick)

It’s a very hot afternoon with a smog alert. Docked at the river end of rue Curatteau, Montreal, we’re in Pax Cabin No 1 at the stern of the Flottbek, already well stacked with colourful containers labelled Hapag-Lloyd, OOCL, Capital. No idea what’s inside them. The container port is a super-efficient place with a speedy unloading system, each truck-driver given a number on a blue card. I had to scuttle between arriving trucks to enquire at the gate huts where passengers should go. The man couldn’t hear me too well through his ear plugs but told me to bring the luggage and our ID over here and we’d be driven to the ship. Tight security: Carol and Don who’d brought us here were made to stand still while the guard checked our passports. Up drove a young man in a helmet, hasty goodbyes to the Buchans and he spirited us away amongst the container forest.

The gang-plank was made of rope with metal steps. Miss a step and you’d break your leg through the holes between. A friendly welcome on board from a couple of the orange clad filipino crew who took our passports off us for the duration of the voyage. No sign of the Captain, yet! We sat in a small office on Deck 6 while the First Officer looked us up on his computer. Then we were introduced to a polite young man in a white uniform, the steward.

“What’s your name?”

“Reagan, Ma’am.”

He led the way down the narrow corridor then up 8 steep flights of stairs on the port side to Deck 10, past framed photographs of the earlier Flottbeks, Flottbek 1 being a sailing ship. Our cabin’s at the far end of a row of cabins, clean, neat and carpeted. Coat hooks by the door, orange chairs clamped to the floor by the table, but their restraints can be unscrewed. A desk stands under the porthole between the two beds. Through this window I spy cranes in operation (capacité sous spreader 40L Tons) obscuring my view of the Mont Royale, the Olympic Stadium and a stretch of river towards the city. Another window over Chris’ bed overlooks the thousands of containers stacked on shore. In the cabin is a modern washroom with a shower, a divided wardrobe, a Hi-fi unit and a small fridge. We have drawers under the desks and beds containing helmets, PFDs and “immersion suits”. A framed picture of Hamburg’s Alster hangs over my bed with wedges of torn paper at the corners to stop it from rattling, likewise the ceiling lights. A ship’s lamp hangs over the table and there are reading lights over the beds. Plenty of soap and toilet rolls are provided as well as two towels each, so we hadn’t needed to pack any after all.

We are due to cast off at High Water, 8p.m.

Our only fellow passengers are Mischa and Martin Stehli from Switzerland, in their mid-30s. They are at the end of a 14 month honeymoon in North America, deliberately protracting their homeward journey to Zug, Switzerland. We were all given a safety briefing: the emergency signal will be 7 short blasts followed by 1 long blast, klaxoned all over the ship. If we hear 1 short and 1 long blast repeated we must “ABANDON SHIP!” If we have to wear our life jackets in the water a light attached to them will come on automatically once we’re in the water. My goodness, that’s reassuring. There’s also a free-fall life boat hanging at a 45 degree angle from Deck 8 at a great distance from the water. If we have to get into this we’ll sit facing backwards. For this one, we’d be wearing a different kind of life-jacket.

At our first supper on board (tasty meat on skewers with flavoured rice, cheese, fish, cold meats and a bowl of fruit besides) we also met the Captain, Captain Jan Block from Hamburg, who has a long blond pony tail. “Good appetite!” he said, and told us we’d be welcome on the bridge, Deck 13, at any time. So we watched the cast-off from up there, an emotional moment for the Stehlis when our rope flopped into the water, their last attachment to North America.

Our departure at sunset was magical, the bows beyond our nine rows of containers (the ship’s hold seven containers long) moving almost imperceptively away from the quayside. To my surprise we were setting off upstream, towards the city, but only to make a slow turn, the horizon tilting slightly as we banked to the side. We passed an oil refinery and four ships at anchor, mid-stream on river, brightly lit (picture below by Martin Stehli). Because my legs and feet hurt from so much standing I went and sat on our cabin desk looking out of our porthole. Briefly, Chris and I went out on the stern deck to see half a moon and the evening star, then early to bed with lights on the banks and lit buoys on the river to either side.