The Tugboat Captain |
| A
tugboat is a wonderful thing. Lacking the majestic height of a sailing
ship or the fearsome rake of a warship, its appeal is found in its
compact power. Among ships it is the wiry, constantly moving, 5 foot 8
inch basketball guard or the explosive, high leaping 85 pound gymnast:
it isn't supposed to be able to do what it does, but nothing can equal
its ability. The tugboat sacrifices speed for raw power, power used to
push, to pull, to maneuver. Cruising down a river, scurrying about some
port, or working in the open sea, its measly 6 to 9 knot top speed
makes sailing on it seem like a trip that is all pleasure; as if no
company with an ounce of sense would ever let itself move so slowly. |
 | | The New Jersey Sun.
Like all of the boats owned by Sun Transportation, Inc., the New Jersey
Sun bears the name of her home station combined with the word Sun. A
seventeen year old tug, she is 104 feet 5 inches in length and has a
beam of 30 feet. Pulling a fully loaded barge, she cruises in the range
of 6 to 9 knots, her speed heavily influenced by the tides and
currents. Her crew is made up of six experienced sailors: the captain,
the first mate, the chief engineer, the chief steward, and two
tankermen. The lower bridge, the one with seven windows, is used
whenever a loaded barge is being pushed or when towing is being done;
the upper bridge, containing all of the necessary controls but
scaled-down electronic navigational aids, is used for maneuvering an
empty barge, where the barge's height would interfere with the crew's
line of sight. Because it's closer to the water, the lower bridge
offers a smoother ride. |
But
move they do. They move large ships. They move barges filled with coal,
oil, and other bulk materials. They move the waste of large cities. On
the Mississippi, the Hudson, the Delaware, and other parts of the
25,000-mile waterway system they move more than 600 million tons of
goods each year, goods that would otherwise require vast fleets of
trucks. For example, a typical gasoline barge, loaded with its capacity
of 2,400,000 gallons of gas, will meet the demand for 200,000 fill-ups
at the pump, provide the fuel for driving 384,000,000 (yes, that's
million) miles in the average car, and give that average car the needed
combustion to putt-putt its way around the world 14,769 times. To make
that delivery by truck would take a convoy of tanker trucks that would
move along bumper-to-bumper, stretching for nearly three miles.
It
is a paradox of twentieth century America that the things we are most
wary of are often the things we have grown most dependent upon. We are
a country consumed by consumption. Nothing illustrates this point more
than our unquenchable thirst for oil and its derivatives. For the vast
majority of Americans, every movement is planned around the automobile:
jobs, family activities, the most basic necessities rely on some form
of powered transportation. And yet the source of transportation's
lifeblood, that monster that we label "big oil," is seen as the enemy
of the environment, a greedy beast that must be watched, distrusted,
and vilified. The great paradox of our time becomes our simultaneous
consumption and fear of oil: we use gasoline to drive to meetings and
oil to heat our homes where we watch television, and the meetings and
programs condition us to despise the very source of our mobility and
warmth.
Until we can resolve the
dilemma created by our demand for oil, we will need to count on such
things as tugboats. We will need to rely on them for their steady
reliability, for their constant concern for safety and the environment,
and for their economical response to our demand. Modern tugboats are a
marvel of engineering. Small, highly maneuverable, and incredibly
powerful, they and their crewmembers play a crucial role in our goods
and materials society. |
| Chris Brogan |
 | | Chris Brogan, Tugboat Captain |
No
celebration marks the occasion of Captain Chris Brogan's fiftieth
birthday. No cake, no candles, no cards. There is, instead, the
relentless pounding of the waves and the constant, throaty growling of
the boat's engines. As does every member of the crew, for dinner Chris
has a choice between roast pork with steamed fresh vegetables and
mashed potatoes and gravy, or lemon chicken with rice pilaf, both
meticulously prepared and presented by the boat's professionally
trained chef. For dessert Chris can select thick brownies, teeming with
walnuts and piled high with whipped cream, or fresh fruit salad, or
cookies, still warm from the oven, tucked neatly alongside a scoop of
French vanilla ice cream. But there is no party or special treatment.
He is aboard his boat, Sun Transportation's New Jersey Sun, and is
closely focused on his role as its captain.
As
he does every day during his two week shift, he eats at 5:30; and after
dinner he stands watch on the bridge from 6:00 PM till midnight. He
examines the twin radar screens--one set to scan a one mile radius, the
second set to cast its eye on farther distances--monitors the boat's
Global Positioning System (GPS) to ensure that the boat is on course,
and studies the inky darkness of the surrounding sea, watching for
ships' lights or illuminated marker buoys, constantly moving from one
source of information to another, constantly alert to the hazards and
responsibilities that he embraces with such serene delight. All the
while he talks softly to himself. |
| His
talk is not the rambling of an eccentric or the mumbling of someone
whose mind is drifting about. It is the talk of someone who is solely
responsible. It is the talk of someone who must rely on his own
experience and education. It is a way of stepping through a list of
reminders, a way of directing the process on which he is so intently
focused. Perhaps even more, it is a way of protecting his charges: his
crew, his boat, and his cargo. Every moment brings new decisions, and
every decision must be the right one, for he is the captain and he
allows himself no room for error. |
| And
no matter how carefully you listen, no matter how much you eavesdrop,
you will not pass beyond the carefully maintained persona that is
"Captain Brogan" and into the deeper thing that is "Chris Brogan" until
he is sure that the boat is safe, that he is in charge, and that you
present no danger. It's not that he's dishonest or duplicitous; it's
just that, like most of us, there are two sides to Chris Brogan, and
the dominant side of the one who sails the New Jersey Sun is to be measured, attentive to business, and careful. |
But
when he is content that everything is as it should be, the other side
of Chris Brogan emerges and his conversation weaves in and out of the
two roles that make up the single person. Then you begin to understand
the reasons behind his tendency to draw pictures, his habit of
mentoring his crew by telling them of his own past mistakes, and even
his penchant for talking to himself.
| When
I was young, they didn't know that I had learning disabilities.
Learning disabled wasn't even part of the vocabulary of the time. So
school was a disaster for me, and I dropped out in the ninth grade. I
finished my high school education later, in the Marine Corps, but my
early failures haunted me. |
|
| Self-taught
in many of the skills he needs to navigate--geometry and trigonometry
eluded him until later years when he made his living as a pilot in the
harbors of Connecticut and on Long Island Sound and its tributary
waters--he is intensely aware of the problems people can encounter when
trying to learn. Almost as if he is over-compensating, he embraces
technology and applies it to almost every aspect of his work.
"Technology is great," he'll tell you, "The more we get the better off
I am. That and common sense, you'll do all right." |
But
technology isn't what brought him to sea, and that's where the other
part of his being comes in to play. He is a Towing Master--the
technical term, he'll tell you, is the one that appears on his license,
"Master - Inland Waters Any Gross Tons" and "Pilot, as endorsed Any
Gross Tons, and Master Coastwise"--largely because he has spent the
major part of his life around the water. The son of a ship's
master--when he shows you the picture of his father that hangs in his
cabin, Chris will tell you that his father's license allowed him to
sail "any ship, any waters." He also saw tugboats as a means for
achieving those things that his lack of formal education threatened to
deny him. Finally, Chris--and later his brother, Pat, who also commands
a Sun tug--were drawn to the sea because it offered them the ability to
maintain a measure of control over their working lives:
| We're
like pirates! This is one of the last jobs on the face of the earth
where you can be the absolute master of what you do. You can train the
men, configure the boat, lay things out the way your experience tells
you will work best. Sure there's a purpose to this, but it's still fun.
It's like having your own yacht with a purpose. |
|
| Before
he could take the helm of that "yacht with a purpose," however, he had
to put in his time as a deckhand, a pilot, and a first mate. It took
six years before he had a master's license, and undending years of
sitting for First Class Pilot's licenses--to get one requires that you
learn and memorize course, buoy, depth of water, rock, reef, and shoal,
of the area that you are being tested for. As if that wasn't enough,
the descriptions and dimensions of all manmade objects have to be
committed to memory. The test takes at least eight hours, includes
drawing the entire chart to scale, and you have to score 90 percent to
pass. |
| Along
the way he also picked up the skills required to maneuver--whether
pushing, pulling, or alongside--a tug and barge filled with nearly 2.5
million gallons of fuel, in any condition of weather, tide, or current.
Along the way there were accidents and close calls; but rather than
hide from them and pretend to be something he isn't, Chris uses them as
the source of instruction and learning. He commonly gives jobs to his
first mate and in the process of laying out the requirements of the job
he'll explain how he went wrong in the past and what he learned from
it. "I want everyone on this boat to know as much as possible. Let them
be as informed as I am. That will give me more freedom." |
That
notion of freedom, the idea that sweeps through his conversation with
the deliberation and illumination of a scanning radar, is Chris
Brogan's reason for bringing technology to what is, by any standard, a
generally low tech profession. If asked about his affinity for gadgets,
he'll explain quickly:
| Technology
gives me more freedom by lessening paper work and making mistakes more
rare. Computers, GPS, radar, and the like let me enjoy the details
instead of fighting them. |
|
| So
when he is not standing watch or training the crew, he can generally be
found in his cabin, working at his laptop computer, designing or
refining a piece of software. Whether it's a program that can be used
to navigate Sun's boats from one port to another, calculate trip
schedules, or handle the routine tasks of ordering, inventorying, and
cataloging, Chris works to match the advantages of the computer to the
needs of the shipping industry. And while some people might think it
odd that he loves this job enough to work the two-week-on, two-week-off
schedule that comes with it, a schedule that forces him to put off an
occasional birthday party, Chris Brogan is happy. After all, candles
can wait, but the sea never stops churning. |
| |
The Tugboat Captain - A Gallery |
| Course Planning.
Because
the speed of the boat is affected by the movement of the tides and the
currents, it's necessary for Chris to plot the boat's course based on
the date and the time of departure. Given some of the new navigational
aids, especially those that make use of the boat's recently installed
Global Positioning System, Chris has undertaken the project of planning
sets of courses which will be programmed into the autopilot and
recalled for use as they are needed. |
| Programming the course.
Once
wavepoints have been calculated, they're programmed into the autopilot.
Using GPS technology, the autopilot will compare the actual location of
the boat with the programmed course. Looking down from a satellite, a
GPS can determine, within 20 feet, the boat's position on the globe.
The large black boxes on either side of the console contain the boat's
radar monitors. When the boat is underway, one monitor is usually set
to scan for a radius of 1.5 miles and the other is set to scan for a
radius of 6 miles. Scanning radars help assure that any maneuvering
that has to be done can be done in a routine manner. |
| The galley.
Work
schedules on a tugboat place unusual demands on Chief Steward Darcy
Lever. First and foremost the food must be good. It is. Secondly,
because she's working with six different palettes, the food must have
variety. It does. Breakfast is usually the familiar cereal-egg menu,
but lunch and dinner generally feature two or three choices and a range
of diet-conscious selections. For example, dessert after dinner might
be pie ala mode, but weight watchers would have the option to ask for
yogurt and fresh fruit. While the galley appears small, it contains all
the elements of a small restaurant kitchen, and the crew's work
schedule means it rarely has to accommodate more than four people at a
time. Tug crews work two weeks at a time. While they are scheduled to
work, they stay on or close to the boat and work in shifts: one
tankerman and the captain work six hours; after that time the other
tankerman and the first mate work the next six hours; then the rotation
begins again. The chief steward and the chief engineer work as needed
and inevitably work at least twelve hours a day. |
| Sitting in the notch, ready to get underway.
In
order to push a loaded barge, the tug is maneuvered into a cutout at
the aft end of the barge. This cutout, called "the notch," is like a
ten foot wedge that's cut in to the barge in a shape that conforms to
the bow of the tug. The tug eases into the notch until its cushioning,
rubber bumper is against the barge, and lines are tied off to securely
join the two. Side lines are then run and result in a linkage that's so
rigid it's as if the barge and the tug were a single unit. The barge is
unpowered, and the structures on top are pump housings and a shelter
used by the tankermen while they supervise loading and unloading. |
| Moving into tow position.
It's
safer to tow a barge than to push it when sailing in potentially
choppy, open waters. So at the mouth of a river, before entering the
sea lanes, the lines holding the barge against the tug are untied and
the tug moves around the barge and positions itself in front of the
barge. Then, using a cable running from one of the winches to the front
of the barge, towing begins. In the process, the shape and size of the
notch can be clearly seen |
| Letting out cable.
The
length of cable fed to the barge is determined largely by the wave
height and the depth of the water. Rougher seas call for more cable,
but the cable is heavy, so the greater the amount of cable that's
unreeled, the deeper it sinks. For instance, the distance shown is this
photo suggests that the cable will be running about 20 feet below the
surface. What results is a series of calculations that help to
determine how much cable should be fed to the barge given the depth of
the water. One of Chris's recent projects was finding a mathematician
who helped produce a chart that can be used to speed up the process of
calculating how deep the cable runs at given lengths. |
| Passing New York City.
The
dramatic skyline of New York City in the background, the Island Sun
looms above the tugboat as they approach the mouth of the Hudson,
heading toward the open sea. Empty, the barge presents no significant
safety risk, and its height makes it impractical if not impossible to
manipulate with the tug in the notch, so it's usually towed. Because
it's on a river where there's considerable traffic, the cable is not
fed out very far. |
| A moment of reflection.
Passing the Statue of Liberty, a member of the crew takes a minute to enjoy the beauty of life aboard the New Jersey Sun. |
| | A discussion of navigation.
An
important part of Chris's job is ensuring that members of the crew have
an opportunity to learn and work toward promotion. Here he discusses a
navigational problem with First Mate Michael Smith, assigning to Smith
the job of computing the scheduled wavepoints for the journey from
Sun's Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania, refinery to the delivery point outside
of Albany, New York. Wavepoints are nautical milestones that use buoys
as checkpoints and assure that the boat is on course and schedule. Like
most members of the crew, Smith is qualified by both experience and
education, but the mentoring system Sun's captains use guarantees that
all hands are given an opportunity to keep current with advances in
technology. |
| Getting into pushing gear.
Under
Chris's careful scrutiny, tankermen Wesley Gamble and Thomas Wyatt help
to set up the lines needed when pushing a barge. Because safety is
given such a high priority, every system has checks and double checks,
and every caution is taken to assure that a barge doesn't end up
adrift. Here Wes and Tom take turns greasing one of the 2 inch lines
that secure the barge to the boat. Grease is applied to make sure that
the lines don't fray and break as a result of rubbing against the boat.
The small, booth-like room behind Chris houses the controls for
handling the two powerful winches that are used for pulling and pushing
the barge. |
| Below decks.
The
engine room houses two 1,450 horsepower, Caterpillar diesel engines
that drive the boat, two smaller diesel engines that provide electrical
power for the boat's systems, and the workshop in which Chief Engineer
Mark Finucane handles the job of keeping the boat sound and running.
From the kitchen to the bridge, anything that goes wrong or requires
repair is his responsibility. While the sound of the running engines is
nearly deafening, the engines and the space itself are kept
meticulously clean and make it a pleasant place to work. |
| Pushing the Island Sun.
Filled
with nearly 2.4 million gallons of gasoline, 15 feet of the barge,
Island Sun, is below the water. The cable on the left is one of two
that are connected to the boat's winches and are used to keep the barge
snugly against the boat. |
| A view from the Island Sun.
Looking
back from the bow of the barge, the New Jersey Sun seems dwarfed.
That's not surprising, since its 315 feet in length and 64 feet in
width make the barge more than three times as long and twice as wide as
the boat. In order to strengthen the structure of the barge and
minimize the size of any spill that might occur, the interior of the
barge is a series of tanks rather than one single tank. If the top were
peeled off, the lower portion of the barge would resemble a sectioned
icecube tray. |
| The winches.
Using 2 inch diameter cable, both of the winches are used when pushing the barge. One is used for towing. |
| Coming in to port.
Before arriving, the tug again goes into the notch so that the barge can be precisely maneuvered to the dock. |
| Emptied.
As
the cargo is unloaded, a process that takes about eleven hours, the
barge slowly rises until only three or four feet of it are below water.
It's hard to believe that it's the same vessel that was being towed and
pushed the day before. |
| Sunset at sea.
Moving along at about 8 knots, the sea relatively calm, it's difficult to imagine a more tranquil way to earn a living |
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