A day in a life of a marine pilot.

 Every day hundreds of ships enter and depart the ports of the world making trade possible. Aboard each one of them a pilot, the individual with the local knowledge and experience, is charged with the responsibility to assist  their Captains to ensure that all is done in a safely and expeditious fashion. 

Very little is known about these professionals. How is a day on a pilot's life?

A day in the (mysterious)  life of a (Panama Canal) marine Pilot.

It is 6:00 am and my cellphone rings. I am still half asleep, and while desperately trying to reach for it,  my right hand awkwardly knocks down everything that is on the surface of my night table. Just before the ringing stops I manage to grab the elusive piece of equipment and answer the call. The noise has waken up  my wife, my kids, and probably my adjoining neighbors.

"Captain Cabal?" inquires the voice on the other end of the line. "Yes madam, it's me". I am now sitting on the edge of the bed, fully awake. She continues, "your duty time is 2315, you are assigned to North 5." "OK, thanks", I reply letting out a sigh, and hang up. 

Sure at 6 a.m most people are already awake and/or at work, if only today wasn't Sunday. Also 2315 might seem as a good time to show up to work. After all there is a huge gap between 0600 and 2315 to do whatever I'd like to do, right?

But, actually, there isn't. As a pilot, one can't afford going on day's errands, sacrificing the possibility to rest, if working that same night. Little or no rest is the first link of a chain that leads to tragedies. A pilot's place of work is not a stationary one. It moves. And he is in charge of that movement. The shipping industry needs him to be alert, fully aware, well rested. Simply put, my day at work begins at the vey moment I receive that early call.

Also, I came back home yesterday evening after being on a transiting ship for almost the entire day. 

(Most pilots around the world work on weird shifts. Weird enough not to have a "normal" human life. Weird enough to mess our circadian rhythm. But most of us like the abnormality of being off work when others aren't. We too, here at the Panama Canal, where we  cover both transits and harbor jobs, have a bitter sweet relation with Jet lag. )

I arrive at the Pilot Station some 20 minutes before my duty officially starts to gather all the pertinent information about my assignment.   A hoard of partners are already there. Some have finished working and are going home, some others, like me, are at the start of their work journey. Others are sitting, their heads tilted and eyes shut, trying to get a brief "sitting nap" before being dispatched to their respective assignments. The ones talking engage in almost every single topic, from politics to fitness, to their plans for when the time for retirement comes, and not surprisingly very few talk about ships.  Some just bicker about even more trivial matters. Almos  everybody is sipping coffee. 

 I sit by one of the computers and look for the information of my assignment. N05 happens to be one of those gorgeous Wallenius Whilhelmsen vehicle carriers. The type of ship I would voluntarily select, if had the choice, to transit the canal every day. But, to my disappointment my name is not next to it, or to any of the ships transiting today.

 I talk to one of the transit controllers over the phone to find out what I will be on today. She informs me that instead of N05,  I will be acting as one of today's Balboa harbor pilots. This is a complete different duty. Instead of transiting the canal I'd be moving ships in or out of Balboa Harbor, Panama largest port terminal on the Pacific side.

(In the Panama Canal, ships that are transiting in a north bound direction are assigned odd numbers, and those heading south, even numbers. N05 is the short name for the third ship of the day heading to the Caribbean, behind N03 and N01.)

Shortly into my new role, I am instructed to proceed to dock 15 to unberth a small container vessel, the Jenz Maersk, a 750 feet in length by 105 feet in beam. By old days  standards,  small is clearly an understatement.  Because of her size and the fact that she is docked bow to the shore, I ask the harbor controller to dispatch two tug boats.

At this time of the day Balboa Reach and the Pacific channel, the two legs leading out to sea, are busy with the last south bound ships of the day before and/or the first north bound ships of today. In other words, I have to find a window to enter the fairway without interfering or slowing down the canal traffic, a yet powerful additional reason for my request of two tug boats. Even if the Jenz is fitted with a bowthruster (which might or might no be operational) tugs would shorten the un-docking time, and later assist me in holding the ship in the basin until we can safely enter the fairway.

A company car takes me to the dock. To the lay eye, port terminals might look as chaotic spaces in which lorries, cranes, and other vehicles, dart ramdonly in all directions. The sound of bells, whistles, sirens, and honks plague the environment.  (Astonishingly, when there are no ships the terminal becomes dead quiet, silent enough to hear the sound of the water hugging the foundations of the dock. )

 In spite of the apparent chaos, there is order. Everyone is assigned a specific task, everyone knows what to do. But, though everything is synchronized, I don't belong there, I am an outsider. And the place is neither safe nor friendly to outsiders. It is actually a terrifying, inhospitable, hostile ambience to anyone unfamiliar with it.

The automobile drops me near the ship's gangway. The tide is at its lowest, I won't be climbing up the ship but rather down on to it. I make sure I have my life vest and hard hat on before walking on the gang plank.  I look up at the gantry cranes making the last movements of containers before the operation is complete.

 (Watching those huge structures, makes me feel very small,  like an ant. I am reminded that they are an icon of Globalization. A tool of consumerism. A symbol of humanity's progress)

 The cranes operators make the containers literally fly high above my head and I wonder what sense does it make to wear a helmet. If one of those steel boxes fell on me, only my company id would retain its physical integrity.

Two of the ship's crew spot me from the poop deck and volunteer to carry my bag from the edge of the dock all the way up to the ship's bridge. Aboard I feel safe. A very rare event on a Maersk vessel, the lift is out of order, so while I climb the 7 decks up with the covid mask on, my breathing goes from normal to being huffing and puffing. On the good side, this causes that any sign of sleepiness, that I may have, dissappear.

 (By now it is no longer tonight, we are at the beginning of a new day. It is the tomorrow of yesterday already, though the sun is far from rising.)

Once in the bridge the Captain greets me with the usual, old time, salute.                                           "Good Morning Mr. Pilot",  "Goooood Moooorning" I say, while we shake our hands,  emphasizing each word in an attempt to smooth any possible moodiness that he might be caught in.  (few times this has the opposite effect)

(Seafarers' life has always been tough. These days it is only worse. Not having shore leave while in port, facing difficulties in signing off and returning home by the end of their contracts, due to the Pandemic, have hardened their lives.)

The last container has been lifted from the ship's deck and the gantry cranes are erecting their long necks. The noise outside has incredibly decreased. The deck crew is busy checking that the cargo has been properly secured. For such a small amount of people, (20) it is my opinion that they know how to do magic.

 I grab the portable radio from my pilot bag and perform a frecuency check. Harbor Control, the office in charge of the harbor movements, replies and gives me the names of the assisting tugs: Cayman and Smit Barbados. They also provide me with a picture of the current situation of traffic. I let the skipper on the Barbados know that I will refer to him only as "Smit". He fully agrees. We both know that, for obvious reasons, long names handicap effective communications.

The officer on watch (OOW) offers me a cup of coffee. If I drank it, it would be the third one. Even if I don't drink it, having it in my hand allows me to have some sort of reassurance which in turns makes me look calm and relaxed to the Captain. Panic is contagious.

The darkness inside the ship's bridge is only disturbed by the dim lights of the radar, the ECDIS, and other electronic equipment. The faint ambience illumination is enough for me to sign the bundle of papers that the OOW brings with the ship's information. I can't read what I sign. It could be my death sentence. For me, all those papers are just an unpractical formality.  Legal stuff that serves as testimony that the  Master-Pilot exchange took place. Only four facts from the ship matter to me: size, draft, air draft,  and the ship's harbor speeds. The first three for obvious reasons, the last to have a better idea of the power I have at hand.

 Are we ready? I ask the Captain. Almost, he replies with the accent of someone whose native language is not English, just like mine. We both speak what I call International Maritime Language, an evolved version of English with a strong accent.

The Master then tells me that the tugs lines are made fast: Smit on the port bow, Cayman on the starboard quarter. Seconds later the tugs' Captains confirm the same. Closing this loop of information is crucial to a safe operation. The Captain and I agree that the first lines to cast off should be the head lines and the stern lines. The springs will go last to prevent the ship from slipping backwards onto the bow of another ship docked at dock fourteen, or forward crashing onto the corner of dock 16. I also make the tugs push slowly to maintain the ship in position while the rest of the lines are freed from the dock's bollards.

We move to the extreme end of the starboard bridge wing. This side  offers us the best view to handle the ship.

 -all lines cleared forward- all lines cleared aft, propeller is cleared- I hear the officers inform the Captain by radio, who immediately tells me- all cleared Mr. Pilot. I watch the last heavy rope being winched up onto the ship's poop deck, and the dock crew on their coveralls walk away.

The ship is now underway. I order the tug boats to stop pushing and then to start pulling. They aknowledge my orders by radio. The Captain and I watch how the ship gently separates from the dock. And at a point in which I am sure that we are far enough from the dock I tell the tug boats to stop pulling and order that the ship's engine be set on "dead slow astern". The Captain and I walk inside the bridge. Three prolonged blasts on the ship's horn, meaning that we are backing out of the dock, are sounded to alert any unaware surrounding traffic of our intentions.

 (Every order I give is relayed  by the Captain to the OOW who is in charge of operating the engine control from the bridge and to the helmsman who is at the wheel. The Captain and OOW verify that my orders are properly executed. However, since they could make mistakes, I glance at the rpm and rudder angle indicators with each order I give)

I keep the engine going astern until the ship gathers enough stern-way to reach the middle of the basin, not more than 2 kts.  (Ships never move in a straigh line, less so while they are moving backwards. In our way to the basin, I need to make corrections with the tugs to maintain her trayectory nearly steady. )

Then, with an ahead order on the engine I bring the ship to a dead stop. Shortly after I use the tug boats, the one on the bow pushing, the one on the port quarter pulling, to perform a 180 degrees turn, in situ. The Jenz Maersk turns like a professional ballet dancer, only many times slower and, I am willing to bet, that it does it as equally as gracious.

When the turn is finished, we end up facing the main channel, at a right angle. We then wait there just as a driver would at a stop sign before joining a highway. With the slight difference that we are in the water, there is a moderate breeze, a tidal current, and a density current caused by the mixing of fresh water that comes out of Miraflores and Cocoli locks with the brackage water of the basin. We are not on a solid cement street at a stop sign. We are at the mercy of all of the above elements.

While waiting, a short parade, made up of two south bound ships, passes in front. I have already made arrangements via radio with the pilot on a third one, which is two miles north, exiting Miraflores locks, to let us enter the channel. As we proceed , I order the tug boats to be released. Soon after, we make our last turn  to port into the Pacific channel, and stay on our side of the waterway, on the right, to safely meet opposite traffic. As we face the Bridge of the Americas, before passing under it, I glance and see how traffic on it begins to pile up in from the west. (I wonder if the people up there have a clue on the importance of the shipping industry for their lives)  If the tide was high and I was on a mega container ship I would be concerned about the certainty of the ship's air draft. The lighted buoys marking the channel make it resemble a perfect landing strip. Red on our left, green on our right.                                               

  The Captain reminds me that the gyro error is about 1 degree, so instead of having the ship steady on course 142, the true course, I instruct the helmsman to steady on 143. 

 A huge box-like shadow emerges from the dark by our port side. It is N05, the ship originally assigned to me. Its distinctive mark, the giant letters reading Whalennius Whilhemsen, are difficult to pass unnoticed.

We are a about a mile away from the end of the Pacific channel, and to the drop off pilot's zone. Before disembarkation I contact the VTS at the Panama Canal Pacific entrance, Flaminco Signal Station, on VHF channel 12. I request traffic information and  make sure the ship's Master fully understands everything. I also warn him about the effects of the infamous cross current by the area around the end of the channel.  -Beware of that current- I tell him- It will push you to starboard, out of the channel, in a New York minute. Mind the course made good, and not the ship's heading.

 Minutes later a small boat with a white-over-red light on its masthead zooms towards the ship from shore. It is my ride back to the pilot station, the pilot boat. As it approaches the already rigged ladder by the starboard side, I return the control of the navigation of the ship to the Captain. We say our good byes and thanks each other for a succesful work. A hand shake closes my work aboard. A sailor carries my bag and leads me to the main deck. I estimate that the ship is moving at about 8kts, a decent speed to disembark.  I climb down the ladder studying the waves pattern as they make the boat surge up and down. When I am certain that the small boat  reaches its highest possible point, I step on its deck under the attentive look of the boat sailor who is there to make sure that I don't lose my balance.

I am on the pilot boat now, this time dry, and more importantly, save and sound. But my harbor watch is not over.

 -Captain-, says the boat operator, -the Ever Libra is waiting for you at the anchorage. You are taking her to the dock-

I nod, and sit with my eyes shut, trying for a "brief sitting nap". The operator pushes the throttles all the way forward and the boat dashes through the darkness and heads towards the glimering lights that reveal the figure of a ship, tiny in the distance, but that gets bigger and bigger as we get closer.   Big, in this case, is NOT, in any sense, an overstatement. At any rate, anything that is well over 300m in length is definetly big. Taking a ship to the dock is a complete different story. More so a ship like the Ever Libra. And that is the beauty behind piloting, no single day is alike. Not a single maneuver is equal. 

Technology helps, spaces are tiny.

Inside the bridge of the Ever Libra minutes before all lines were secured.

There is nothing more rewarding that the  handshake after a successful maneuver.

The Ever Libra at the dock, the tide is high now.

By the time the last line of the EVER LIBRA is secured ashore, it is already monday morning, we are in broad daylight. I am exhausted, but also satisfied. It has been a long night. Nights like this one replicates around the harbors and waterways of the world. Piloting is key to maintaining the supply chain. And to many of us Pilots,  Piloting is part of our raison d'être…

TMP