It’s a warm, humid night, raining slightly, with a half-moon reflecting on milky water as a Shanghai pilot arrives to guide us up the river.
We’re at anchor in the Yangtze delta outside Shanghai harbor in 28 metres of water. It took us all day and all night sailing from Qingdao along the coast of China to reach here. Now we have 180 metres of chain out, about 6.5 times the depth of the water. Amazing! The captain explains that the weight of the cable holds the ship, not the anchor itself.
At 11p.m., I go to the bow to watch our anchor being raised. It takes forever to winch and the chain emerges like a slimy beast rolling out the water. We’re surrounded by at least 100 vessels waiting to enter port. It’s a four or five-hour trip up the Huang Pu river, and we’ll be leading the convoy in.
As we head up river, the Chinese pilot with us on the bridge, we pass a strange-looking dredge, a junk, a small freighter, and now a small tugboat. The water smells like tidal flats and the air is really humid as I hum another of the Sunday hymns:
My life is in you, Lord
My strength is in you, Lord
My hope is in you, Lord
In You, it’s in You.
So far the scenery is pretty industrial. Interesting to me, but not everyone’s idea of beauty. I can see a few skyscrapers in the distance, but downtown Shanghai is at least an hour’s drive away.
After more than four hours, the Wai Gao Qiao terminal emerges ahead, eerily bright in the night. Two tugs chug over to help us dock, twirl and separate, like they’re doing a river dance. One settles into our port bow and the other heads for our stern and they nudge us between two other vessels, like parking a car in a really tight space.
At long last, just before dawn, we tie off at Berth No.2. The dock gantry cranes kick into gear, the ship’s office fills with Chinese agents, and a new chief engineer arrives to replace Anil, who’s signing off at the next port.
It’s starting to get light as I go reluctantly to my cabin to pack my bags, not really ready to leave the ship and the camaraderie of my shipmates. Dasan, the electrician, chats with me about his family and I realize he finds my independent way of life as strange as the concept of wives submitting to husbands is to me.
Whenever I start to feel judgmental, I try and remember his words: “Working and living on ships means having to get along with people from different religions and countries, which requires a lot of adjustments.”
Outside, the funnel is being repainted and trucks swarm below as I join Rodney, Jina and Annette to clear immigration. They’re excited to be heading home to Goa after five months at sea.
But ocean life is not as glamorous as it sounds, says Jina. “At home, the other wives are jealous of me, because I’m married to a chief officer. They see the money and travel, but don’t see the price officers pay. All they have to stare at is the sea and the sky, and think of home.”
Annette holds my hand as we leave the gangway for the last time and stand sweating in the early morning sunlight surrounded by our baggage, saying our goodbyes. We board the port bus, full of workers in light blue uniforms going home. They talk noisily and smile a lot more than U.S. port workers. More people pile in, the noise level reaches a crescendo, and outside on the streets are loads of trucks, cars hooting and people riding bikes.
After saying goodbye to Jina, Rodney and Annette, the ship’s agent Jason calls a taxi for me. Suddenly feeling very much alone, I head into downtown Shanghai. Huge billboards and colonial-style buildings are mixed up with tall, thin, gleaming skyscrapers.
It’s very strange seeing so many people after being cloistered on the ship. But I think about buying chocolate and fresh fruit and going out for noodles, and my spirits slowly rise.
Capt. Gomez, meanwhile, prepares to cross the Pacific one more time before his current contract ends and he too can go home to Mumbai to see his wife and son. Like all the Indian officers, he loves biryani, a dry curry eaten on board the ship every Sunday. “We measure our time left in biryanis,” he says. “I’ve got two biryanis left”.
* *
A few years ago, I receive an email and picture of a very poised slim young woman. The chubby little girl on the bridge has grown up! Annette Noronha tells me she is a student in Mumbai, hoping to do a postgraduate course in maritime crew management afterward.
Third officer Praveen Prabhu also emails me several years later to say he is now a captain, married and with a family.
As for the ship, the CSCL Felixstowe has a new name. It’s now called Seaspan Felixstowe but is still owned by Seaspan Container Lines. As I write this, in August 2023, she’s in the East Mediterranean, en route to the port of Aliaga, Turkey.
I wonder sometimes if the drums are still on board, still played every Sunday as the ship ploughs back and forth across the world’s oceans.
With my hands lifted up
And my mouth filled with praise
With a heart of thanksgiving
I will bless Thee, O Lord.
* See also Drums Ahoy 1: Sailing across the Pacific to China by containership
Alison Bate 