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Foto below was taken on July 3, 2012. Charles D. McAllister . . . featured here dozens of times, was assisting British Harmony (see name on lifeboat) out of IMTT Bayonne . . . for sea. Where? Doubleclick enlarges fotos.
MANAUS on the tug is the best clue.
All fotos in this post except the first one were taken by my daughter, Myriam, who’s on the Amazon all summer as a grad student. I bought her a camera and said . . . “tugster needs you,” and she’s been following through since mid-May while I’ve focused mostly on my end of the sixth boro, not hers. More on this later in this post. That’s a sweet ride below.
She’s based in Macapa and took this and all the others from her workboat. No, she doesn’t drive it.
this. Right now Ikan Suji is Shanghai bound with a hold filled with Amazonian raw materials, I’d bet.
From Macapa to Manaus upriver is 500 to 600 air miles. Stadt Gera, in Macapa today, was in the sixth boro and on this blog a year and a half ago.
And here’s why I put the foto of Charles D. McAllister and British Harmony first: British Harmony is about halfway up the Amazon to Manaus as I write this. One really can get anywhere watery from the sixth boro. Knowing that and having concrete reminders like this are not the same.
From fishermen, people with cameras along the KVK, and Macy’s barge waiting for the 2012 Independence Day fireworks . . . to kids in wooden boats like this . . . all seen by crew on British Harmony on the same trip . . . I find amazing.
I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of another watershed. Myriam certainly has the gallivant gene. Here’s some self-disclosure. 39 years ago (!!) I traveled to my first professional job about 500 miles up the Congo River on a huge tugboat named Major Vangu, pushing four deck barges. The tug had 8 or 10 “staterooms” and a bar/restaurant for paying first class passengers. Second class were on a barge with shade, and third class slept among the cargo (barrels of fuel, trucks, crates of beer, misc . . .) on the other barges. It took four days and nights to get from Kinshasa to Mbandaka, near where I spend the next two years. The reason for the choice of a tug was the airplane was non-functioning and roads to get there would have taken weeks. Making this realization today suggests the need for a long river trip next year. . . . hmmmm . . . .
Related: Several times I tried unsuccessfully to find good profile shots of Major Vangu, which sank in 1979. Anyone have ideas on finding fotos of the old Onatra vessels like Major Vangu?
For starters, yes I do feel I’ve dropped the ball and missed taking and publishing fotos of such sixth boro events as the final move of the Willis Avenue Bridge and City of Water Day. If anyone has fotos to share, I’d love to see them.
The North Country here means the St. Lawrence and beyond. The white-helmeted gent does seem to be leading and gentle giant on a leash, not even having to
tug as BBC Rio Grande (ex-Beluga Gravitation, 2008) traverses the Iroquois Lock. All the Wisconsin-built Staten Island ferries had to make their way through this lock. Anyone have a foto of a big orange ferry passing here? I previously wrote about these locks here and here.
William Darrell ferries loads of improbable size across the international border between Cape Vincent and Wolfe Island, Ontario. 86 windmills now churn in the breezes near this northeast tip of Lake Ontario, not without controversy.
The “H” on the stack stands for Horne, the family that has operated this ferry since 1861. This particular vessel entered service in 1953.
Bowditch (ex-Hot Dog, 1954) works out of Clayton, NY; as do
Maple Grove (left) and the unidentified “landing craft/freight ship” on the right.
More upcountry workboats tomorrow. All fotos here by Will Van Dorp.
For now, some announcements:
And finally, I’ve started a new blog called My Babylonian Captivity. Exactly 20 years ago today, Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait, the US entered the current era, and I became trapped and remained so for over four months. It’s a different kind of blog–all text– but I plan to chunk it out day by day or week by week until December. Please send the link along to folks who you think will enjoy it. It’s all nonfiction, the experience as filtered by me.
aka poisson d’avril, which is what the French call this delightful day. At that link in previous sentence, check out the list of (they say) well-known pranks.
A year ago, I put up a post that I’ve now concluded shows a hoax, a doctored foto . . . although I did not know it was a fake or intend it to be one. I’d still like more analysis of what this shows and who did it.
I mention last year’s post because I heard about Edgar Allen Poe’s April 1, 1829 misinformation involving the lighthouse then at this location: Lazaretto Point in Baltimore. The hoax? A man would fly from the world’s tallest structure–then Shot Tower–across the harbor and Fort McHenry to this lighthouse. A crowd gathered here and waited . . . until nothing happened and the date began to sink in. Poe was given to other hoaxes like the Balloon hoax of 1844. He should just have called it “science fiction.” By the way, Poe has figured prominently twice before in tugster: here and here.
Hoaxes are sometimes well-received; other times the response might be prosecution. Periodically I put up silly stuff, just for fun, like this one featuring light fixture reflections on the Staten Island ferry, never claiming otherwise. Like those below . . . just a kid’s soap bubbles, or . . . you never know.
Captain James restaurant is no hoax but a unique Baltimore eatery. New York hoaxes? The Madoff gang comes to mind, like a nagging migraine. More interesting is Orson Welles, but a century before the New York Sun published a story about an astronomer’s sightings of biped beavers, man-bats, and blue unicorns on the surface of the moon.
New statue dedicated to Jim Morrison or some other ecdysiast?
See you at the Fool’s Parade at the intersection of 14th Ave and Canal Street on the first of April . . . muster around noon? After the parade, which’ll feature ALL the workboats of the sixth boro doing laps in front of the Statue and stopping at a barge spudded there with all manner of eats free for the taking by the BEST grubistas on the nearby shores and music & dancing to please every tongue and ear and eye and limb, there’ll be a bash in front of Snug Harbor: all the orange juice you can drink and escargots au vin sans limites, maybe even some good eats from GMG, eh Joey?
Great sci-fi short stories based in New York: The Third Level and Accidental Time Traveller by Jack Finney. The third level refers to stairways leading to time portals located below the passenger boarding area in Grand Central, detours I look for when I’m not interested in boarding a train to work.
Oh, the statue . . . not a hoax but Orpheus himself, signed by Warren G. Harding.
Fotos by Will Van Dorp. Again, thanks to Allen Baker for the Baltimore “local knowledge.”
Modifications to the routine forced by heavy weather bring unlikely revelations, like this metro NY area newspaper editor reading his poetry (yes poetry . . . from a no-nonsense editor!!) about snow that you can enjoy here. Low-brow?
Sometimes snow is just snow; and bad weather is unadulterated pain, but . .. other times snow might get us thinking about other stuff.
Claude McKay sees in snow flakes love found and lost: “Throughout the afternoon I watched them there, Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky, Whirling fantastic in the misty air, Contending fierce for space supremacy. And they flew down a mightier force at night, As though in heaven there was revolt and riot, And they, frail things had taken panic flight Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet. I went to bed and rose at early dawn To see them huddled together in a heap, Each merged into the other upon the lawn, Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep. The sun shone brightly on them half the day, By night they stealthily had stol’n away.
And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you Who came to me upon a winter’s night, When snow-sprites round my attic window flew, Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light. My heart was like the weather when you came, The wanton winds were blowing loud and long; But you, with joy and passion all aflame, You danced and sang a lilting summer song. I made room for you in my little bed, Took covers from the closet fresh and warm, A downful pillow for your scented head, And lay down with you resting in my arm. You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day, The lonely actor of a dreamy play.” High brow?
Anyone feel inspired? A poem . . . 60 seconds or less? Snow on the water? If you go, I’ll go …. I’ll even film my reading at one of my favorite waterfront offices. High brow or low brow or no brow . . . no problem.
Until then, I hope you enjoyed the same foto of Meagan Ann, increasingly manipulated. Here she appeared in the 2009 Tugboat race with her Viking crew, and here (See Youtube at end.) she sports in nose-to-nose pushing with Nathan E. Stewart.
Again, foto thanks to Jed although I’m still looking for more.
Last week I caught Lee T. Moran and Miriam Moran wrestling Atlantic Leo into a dock. If wrestling–versus sacred dancing–it was, then the bout was one of slow but continous strain, where raw power overwhelms other raw power’s muscle fiber, strand by stand. Diesel versus tide, or petroleum versus gravity, each almost evenly matches one with its counter.
Not that I usually employ this blog to toot my whistles, but this picture snatches me, and holds me, claws into tender skin, in its clutches. Double click to enlarge.
It could be the diagonal composition, the myriad tones of orangish-red superimposed with stains and reflection and bowsprite-like squiggles, whose recent additions I’ve found too infrequent,
the appearance of steel against steel as soft textured black cloth against softer smooth brownish fabric, or the explicit exhibition of contact points,
the depiction of the crew, diminished by their work and yet struggling on.
but it holds me, like a scene of an infant or lover snuggling with huge matronly curves.
Fotos by Will Van Dorp.
I’m posting this very late . . . in the wee hours when judgment fails, you know, a risky time. Will I still like this in the morning? Let me know what you think.
See a focus on Laura K Moran here.
Tricolor and square sails on the mainmast under a North American sky…
red/yellow flag on the fore, with a respectable lookout,
bowsprit pointed to a gap between formidable headlands,
dramatic rake on the forecastle,
lookouts attend to multiple duties as vessel heads between imposing banks,
mate on the high and extremely raked quarterdeck and steersman steadies hands on the hidden whipstaff. What vessel is this, what beautiful valley?
And unrelated to the museum vessel, check out my new blog with bowsprite, the historical fictitious voice of Henry Hudson, based on Corey Sandler’s Henry Hudson Dreams and Obsessions and Donald S. Johnson’s Charting the Sea of Darkness. Sail vicariously in the bimonthly blog.
All fotos, Will Van Dorp.
In Friday night excitement about work ending and weekend looming ahead to harness as I chose, I decided to stop by KVK. The spring night was warm. Three men fished and ate sizzling steaks (not fish!) right off a smoky grill, and told tall tales about shark and barracuda there when I inquired about their catch. Two other guys had started on a case of Budweiser and were starting to vent about a co-worker or supervisor. From the smell of BBQ, the beery voices that would vent til the beer was gone, and the warmth, I expected Saturday morning might bring an early summer.
As night fell, Pamir–a vessel that makes regular appearances in NY but whose name is rich in exotic associations–started backing out into KVK, outbound, remarkably silent given the a power plant the size of a small house, revealing not the tugs assisting it but two tugs collected at its bow: the larger Reinauer and the historic Cornell.
The Reinauer turned west and passed Weeks Marine’s Shelby pushing a crane barge eastbound toward Robbins Reef. From the Reef, any destination anywhere is possible on the sixth boro. Cornell lingered a little longer before going that way too, sounding a shrill whistle.
Tractor Ellen McAllister and unidentified partner turn eastbound, ready to assist Pamir . . . to ensure that the equally rosy dawn would find Pamir well out to sea, its crew–recalling the aromatic smoke of the BBQ –eager to regain their hearth fires, wherever they might be.
And I had people to support, something I could do better now that I’d stopped along the Kill on that spring evening before beginning my night work. I had miles to go … As I turned inland Staten Island the unexpected music in my head is the Bob Seger anthem about losing the awkward “lifetime” blues.
A day in the life of a John P. Brown crew is nicely chronicled in this essay by John Soltes published last year in the Brooklyn Rail.
Next to the John P. is the smaller Thomas J. Brown. Check out Fred’s Tug44 foto of Thomas J. here.
After the parade, a race happens. If this blog did audio and “sensearound,” you’d hear the roar and feel the splash and pitch. You’d need towels for your desk and a cloth to clean your glasses. For now, read the fotos and imagine the sound. Cover your keyboard lest the spray damage it though. Picture the photographer, back braced against the deckhouse, one foot against the inside of each toerail, as the sweet official boat BTU rocks. I’ll try to put up a foto of BTU and pushing matches tomorrow.
A stealthy tugboat Dragon churns forward,
Cornell builds momentum,
Illusion dashes towards the breakwater,
and Patrician Ann cuts us close, but lags far behind Redfish almost invisible off slightly to port.
You stand with weight evenly divided on balls of right foot and left, and the vibration you feel confirms that the powers beneath are ready. You ignore individual sounds bathing you but take the whole: friends’ voices, crackling radio monologue, a throbbing helicopter passing swiftly overhead, and some creaks you can’t identify as coming from inside your body or not. Your eyes look straight ahead but really focus nowhere and every at once. What you see reminds you of last night but also of months and decades ago. Your stomach muscles tense such that you don’t know if you’re hungry or not. You hardly breathe. Your jaw clenches. Of course you’re ready and have been, but you jet through time so fast that at this instant you’re already immersed in what you just dreamed of. Yes, hours and triple checks and consultations have prepared you, but you have an almost equal desire to retreat than to plow forward.
You already started your engines? Then throw it in gear. It’s September, time for races, new contracts, relationships, voyages, and projects. When the signal flashes, you forget all hesitation. “Ahead full.” You hear only the roar of directed power and don’t look back.
Rewards await all who go.
All images, Will Van Dorp