Kapiolani
Community College
Horizons 2001
Oceans
By Benjamin McGraw
Photo By Carl Hefne
I opened the heavily laden door that shut the cabin of the tugboat from the
open aired deck. Just eight miles outside of the soft lapping coast of Waikiki,
the phosphorescence of city lights began to wane. Over the dark ocean, sounds
flew by reminiscent of the first uau (petrel, or sea birds) that made their
way through salt-sprayed air currents to settle in nests up high in the mountains.
We were on the Uaweke, a tugboat carrying a cargo of diesel fuel to be deposited
on Lana‘i. All the fuel that Lana‘i received came from this lone
cargo-tug. The Uaweke would make overnight trips back and forth to this cove,
depositing diesel fuel into giant underground holding containers right next
to where the coastline rocks and tidal swells met.
At night away from the distracting aura of the city, the sky was marvelous,
pinned with resplendent points of light. When it was cloudless, I could see
satellites as they silently sped away. Falling stars came often and in clusters.
I lingered when this happened, pausing from my work in the hopes of seeing
a few more.
I quickly made sure that all the booms used to keep fuel or oil from spilling
overboard where not lying on the deck where they could be easily washed away.
Returning to the cabin, I shut the door. Soon the ship would be heading through
fifteen-foot swells. The lashing water always made the monster-sized rubber
tires that were used for bumpers crash heavily against the metal hull.
Having no engineer on board, I received the honor of checking all the readings
down in the engine room. The violent rocking of the boat made it difficult
to navigate the heavy door leading down to the engines below. Learning to
time the opening of the door with the oncoming swell was a crucial skill.
It wasn’t uncommon for a crew member to suffer a broken arm or leg from
getting caught between them, as they slammed shut. Besides this, the decibels
that the engine ran at were unbearable. The industrial-sized ear protectors
barely provided protection from the roar. So instead of the routine half hour
engine inspection, I would venture down to read the gauges about every three
hours, sleeping and resting on a bench that behaved like a seesaw throughout
the majority of the trip.
Around four in morning we came within the five-mile mark of Lanai. Returning
to the deck, I began to prepare the eight-braid line that was to be used to
tie the boat to the pier. The dark sea on both sides of the ship glowed an
incandescent blue. Neon sprays carried little specks of shimmering phytoplankton
onto the rigging and my clothes. I began to think of all the splendid faces
that resounded from the ocean’s surface. At night it was black ink.
In the morning, it turned from gray to orange in scattered streaks that looked
as though an impatient painter hadn’t the time to keep up with the oncoming
dawn. By noon it was platinum, a sea of liquid mercury only accessible through
a hand sheltered squint. By three o’clock the ocean often times matured
into a blue deeper than laughter. So many times, salt-caked and chapped, I
hated the ocean. It was an isolating entity. Other times I thanked it for
swallowing my spirit.
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