Stories that missed the Ships Log Book

Liv and let Liv

“Find this place and buy 4000 bottles of Liv 52, …or don’t come back”. It was the first order my
Chief Engineer gave me after showing me the manufacturers address on a bottle of Liv 52.
It was the Port of Madras, the year was 1981. It was the first day of my first job, on a ship. The
Chief Engineer summoned me to his office and gave me this unusual order. No further
instructions were given… and out of fear, none were sought, despite the number of question
marks that hung over my head. I was as clueless as a chicken at KFC.
I learnt later that the ship was headed for Russia, where Liv 52 was a life saver for the big boozers
out there, and more importantly it fetched a high price on the black market. The whole ship had
pooled-in their resources to buy the 4000 bottles which would fetch them a return of around USD
80,000, a dirt load of money in 1981.
Like a bloodhound on a trail, I sought out and found the Everest Drug House at Mylapore. I went
up to the first person I saw, the receptionist, and asked her for 4000 bottles of Liv 52. With a
condescending look she pointed her pencil towards the purchase department. I repeated my
request to the Purchase Manager who asked me for a purchase order. I had no clue what that was.
He asked me a battery of questions which I answered with a dimwitted look. He shook his head
in despair. The Chief Engineers warning ‘don’t come back without them’ resounded in my head.
I cooked up a story that I needed it for the ship. “But why so much?” he asked. The stories flowed
easily now. “We are going on a long voyage and have a lot of heavy drinkers because of cheap
booze onboard. The inevitable liver problems means we will require a big quantity”. I’m not sure
he believed me, but he decided not to forgo a cash sale of Rs. 40,000 for a mere technicality, he
ordered the bottles to be brought up from the godown.
He asked me what kind of transport I had, another technicality I had not thought about. Running
out of the store I hailed a rickshaw and filled every inch of it with my precious cargo. There was
no place for me, so I had to share the seat with the petulant driver. I couldn’t believe I had
accomplished my task, and was pleased with myself. But on reaching the dock gate, the next
unforeseen hurdle came up. The policeman peeked into the rickshaw and his eyes widened on
seeing so many boxes. He demanded an export certificate and custom clearance for my cargo.
Once again I had no clue what these were so I tried my well tested lines yet again. I said they
weren’t for export but for ship consumption as we had a lot of liver problems on board. He didn’t
buy it at first, but a hundred rupee note slipped into his palm made him an instant believer, and
he waved my rickshaw through.
After the success of this task I quickly rose in the esteem of the Chief Engineer and the ship crew
as they didn’t really believe I could pull it off. For my efforts I was rewarded with two boxes of
Liv 52 to conduct my own little side-business in Russia as I had not purchased any for myself.
When the ship arrived Port of Odessa in the Black sea, the crew started smuggling the Liv 52
bottles out into the city a few at a time, under fur hats, and in their boots, etc, and were making
a killing selling them. A ten rupee bottle fetched twenty dollars. A bottle to the policeman at the
gate now and then would ensure a larger quantity slipped through while he pretended to look the
other way. The nouveau riche crew members had now started living life in the high lane,
travelling in limos, surrounded by pretty girls and drinking only champagne.

However a week later, the bubble burst. A Russian was found dead from a supposed overdose
of Liv 52. Sales plummeted. One crew member was even lynched trying to peddle the product.
This was bad news as the crew still had half the stock left for disposal, and half a month to go.
They had already become used to living the high life with their ill-gotten wealth.
I had sold only 1 box, but made enough money to buy myself a seven stringed guitar, a five holed
flute, an accordion, two fishing rods, five hand operated dynamo flashlights, an assortment of
other things and a lot of Russian champagne. One day a Russian stevedore happened to pass my
cabin while I was strumming my newly acquired guitar, and invited himself in. He asked if he
could play something and we bonded musically. While playing the guitar he spotted the Liv 52
bottles lying on my table and asked if he could buy them. Naturally, I was ecstatic. He picked up
the five bottles on the table but alas! He didn’t carry any money, so he took off his wedding ring
and handed it over to me.
I could hardly believe my luck, I took out another 3 bottles from the box and handed it over to
him. We had a deal, he was happy and so was I. No sooner he left, I dashed off to the Chief
Engineers cabin to show him my prize. He scrutinized the gold ring, rubbed it on the table, sniffed
it, tapped it, even tasted it, sneered and tossed it back to me declaring it to be a fake. Annoyed at
being duped, I made for the ships gangway and accosted the Russian as he was about to disembark
from the vessel. I questioned him about the fake ring. He swore that it was a genuine gold wedding
ring and even showed me a mark of Russian gold authority inside the ring. I gave him the benefit
of doubt. Anyone who played the guitar so well could not be a crook. Anyway as there was no
sale for the Liv 52, it didn’t matter even if it was a fake, at least I would have saved somebody’s
life.
On returning home, I took the ring to the goldsmith who verified the Russian’s claim. It was
indeed eighteen carat gold! I have treasured that ring as a memento of my Odessa odyssey.

A Tort of Negligence

A blood curdling scream rent the air. Everyone stopped in their tracks and looked at each other
nervously. No one could figure out where the scream came from. Everyone scampered around
the Engine room trying to locate the source of the horrible sound, when yet another spine chilling
scream followed.
A few hours earlier, the vessel Mokambi had arrived the Black Sea port of Odessa, in the USSR.
We were kept out in anchorage due to port congestion so it was a good time for catching up with
engine maintenance. Each engineer was assigned a team to carry out jobs around the engine room.
The team headed by our Third Engineer, Mr Deboo was given the job of changing fuel injectors.
The Second Engineer deployed two Wipers to clean the Scavenge Manifold of the Main
Propulsion Engine which is a long tubular space connected to each engine cylinder. This space
is just big enough for two persons to crawl into and is usually coated with black grimy deposits
of carbon. The Wipers were sent in to scrape off the grime and wipe the surfaces. Jobs were
progressing well when suddenly sometime before the lunch break, the blood curdling screams
were heard.

Almost simultaneously, it struck everyone that it could have come from the Scavenge chamber
where the Wipers were working, and so they all ran towards the opening in the manifold. Nothing
much was visible in the black void, but a high pitched whine could be heard inside. Without
hesitation, Mr. Deboo charged into the manifold with a flashlight and in the glow of his light, we
could see one of the wipers named Ibrahim, with his right arm stuck inside an engine cylinder.
Deboo seemed to know what to do as he charged out without discussing the matter. He headed
for the engine turning gear and started rotating the engine carefully. The Wiper screamed again
as his arm came unstuck and he collapsed onto the floor of the manifold. The other Wiper
appeared to be in a daze and was not receptive to any instructions or questions. Then the Fitter
dashed into the confined space where I followed and together we managed to extract Ibrahim out
of the manifold. He was covered in grime, his arm was twisted and his hand was a mess with
blood and crud. I noticed there were strings of tissue hanging where his fingers should have been:
it was horrifying. I had come from a sheltered environment and this was my first voyage out to
sea. The rosy picture of life at sea did not prepare me for this.

The cause of the accident was clear-cut negligence. Deboo had been changing the fuel injectors
and had decided to rotate the engine to inspect the piston top. Since the Second Engineer had
been the one to send the two Wipers into the Manifold, it was his responsibility to have blocked
off the turning gear to prevent an unauthorized rotation of the engine. The Third Engineer on his
part should have checked if it was clear for turning. Ibrahim had his whole arm in the cylinder
through one of the ports in the cylinder wall and was busy cleaning when Deboo started turning
the engine. He’d heard the hiss of the piston climbing up in the cylinder, but it didn’t register
until the tip of it touched his hand. With barely a few seconds to extract his arm through the
narrow opening before the piston would shear it off Ibrahim quickly whipped up his hand. But
he wasn’t quick enough. The Piston relentlessly continued its upward journey and took off four
of his fingers.

Ibrahim was writhing on the floor, in shock and pain, covered in black oily grime mixed with
blood. He kept looking at the carbon-covered stubs on his hand in disbelief and screaming.
Everyone including me just stood around bewildered, not knowing what to do next. A stretcher
was brought and he was transported to the ship’s hospital. Attempts were made to clean him with
spirit but it made him scream louder and even turn violent. The Radio Officer contacted the Port
Control to send us a doctor or to arrange a boat to take him to the hospital. The Ship Captain’s
Medical Guide advised us to give Ibrahim a 10mg dose of morphine to dull the pain and calm
him down. The Chief Officer injected the morphine and the writhing & moaning gradually
subsided. It gave us an opportunity to clean him up to some extent. Four hours passed but there
was still no sign of a boat or a doctor. The tranquilizer was wearing out and Ibrahim begun feeling
the pain again as his hand ballooned out. Repeated calls to the Port Control appeared to have
little effect. Finally a boat was seen approaching. It turned out to be the laundry service and even
though the laundryman was reluctant to take the patient, Ibrahim was lowered into his boat with
the Chief Officer as his escort.

An hour later, the Captain received a radio call from the Chief Officer. The hospital wanted to
amputate Ibrahim’s arm as it had become severely infected.. The Captain refused to give his
assent and told the Chief Officer to bring him back to the ship. He decided to treat him on board
until the next port.

Upon his return on board, Ibrahim’s hand was cleaned, medicated and dressed in the best possible
manner but it didn’t lessen the pain. Grime had entered the wound and infection had set in. Soon
it started to fester, and smell. Ibrahim would become delirious and start shouting incoherently.
He was shifted from the ship’s hospital to his cabin which he shared with the other Wiper Govind,
so that he could be monitored. Everybody was worried: why wasn’t Ibrahim being sent home was
the question that played on everyone’s mind. Cash constraints? Port constraints? As a Fifth
Engineer I was not privy to the discussions between the top officers and the office.

Govind was a master craftsman. His hobby was to build model ships complete with all the details.
He was presently working on a replica of the J.Mokambi, the ship we were on. Alas, he had one
drawback. He was an alcoholic and his alcohol-induced fights resulted in the Captain cutting off
his booze allowance. Govind knew that I didn’t consume my quota of alcohol and so begged me
to secretly pass it to him. I agreed on the condition that he gave me the completed model of our
ship. It was a deal. I would visit his cabin every week to lubricate him and to check on the
progress of my model ship. Progress was slow as Govind wanted to milk out the maximum
alcohol he could get. Months later, the ship had taken shape slowly but nicely: All that was left
was for the name to be carved out on the stand. That night, Ibrahim had one of his violent fits of
delirium and went on a destructive rampage. In the morning I saw my beautiful ship on the floor
in pieces. Divine retribution?

After a month’s stay in Odessa and 6 days sailing we reached the port of Rotterdam in the
Netherlands. Ibrahim’s hand was a ghastly sight, swollen, festered and discoloured. Ibrahim
himself was a sorry sight, emaciated, unshaved and depressed. He was sent to the doctor who
gave him a course of strong antibiotics and recommended his immediate repatriation for the fear
of septicemia and gangrene setting in. However that did not happen, and the vessel continued on
its voyage from port to port. Life went back to normal, except for Ibrahim. He fought his battle
alone. Eventually, his doctor’s visits were stopped as they were proving too expensive and also
since all the doctors recommended sending him home. Four months turned into six and six turned
into eight. Ibrahim endured his suffering alone. His wounds had healed but the right hand was a
digit-less paddle and so obviously, his working capacity was thoroughly diminished.

After nine months, we finally reached our home port, Bombay. Ibrahim was relieved and sent
home. None of the bosses from the office had the decency to visit him. He was given a paltry
compensation due to his low rank and was not re-employed as he didn’t meet the fitness criteria
for his job. Ibrahim was another sailor that just sailed off into the sunset, never to be heard of
again. It opened my eyes to the hard truths about life at sea.