It was time to roll. Layla was getting on my case, Sin Wu wasn’t satisfied with just lunch quickies, and Coral, well, I won’t go there. It was time to pack my sea bag and make for the coast. I hadn’t hit an airport since the terrorist attacks and completely agree with what the government is doing to develop proper security measures. I was searched three times and my bags were ineffectively searched. It prompted an idea for a business. It may be that in the future the baggage search business will need to be taken off airport sites. Here’s my idea: What if you had your bags searched, certified and taken to the airport by another company? Then when you get there, you’re body searched and you go. As in the past, the people doing the searching are far too overwhelmed to handle the job effectively. I was also searched before boarding the plane, again ineffectively.

When I arrived in Houston, the cabby didn’t want to admit thathe knew where the port was or how to get there. He nervously drove through the gates and down to the docks. It was dark and the docks were poorly marked, so we had to find markings on some of the ships. Actually, some were such rust buckets that markings and names were difficult to find. We finally reached the scow Leon, which was tied up beside collapsing buildings and next to a dock strewn with busted pallets and battered fork lifts. Some military construction equipment painted a dark green with camouflage treatment sat next to the ship with flat tires.

The cabby nervously waited beside his van as I unloaded my bags. Three short Filipinos in grease-soaked overalls ran down the rattling gang plank to snatch up my bags. I asked the cabby to hang to take me to town for grub, but he refused. As soon as my last bag was gone, he jumped back in his vehicle and split without even charging me. I didn’t even have a knife on me; they were still in my bags.

The gangplank was the first indication of the quality of vessel I was escaping on. It was constructed from aluminum angle iron some 30 years ago. The damn thing was only about a foot and a half wide. As it deteriorated, pieces of mild steel angle iron were bolted across it for strength and to keep crew from slipping. Even wood was screwed to it to fill holes. There were no railings, just rope pulled through rings and old netting that wouldn’t prevent anything from falling into the oily sewage between the ship and the pier.

The ship is 584 feet long and 85 feet wide. It belongs to the historic Rickmier line out of Hamburg Germany, but doesn’t carry a usual Rickmers name. The more I saw of the ship the more I knew why. Tramp Steamer is an accurate description. The first night aboard someone left the air conditioning on all night and we about froze to death. The next night the crew tried to cook us in our cabins. The officers are polish and the crew Philippino. The Captain speaks broken English and so does the steward. The Phillipinos don’t speak Polish and the Poles don’t speak Phillipino. This particular ships has six cranes and the same number of holds and each hold has several layers. It’s a general cargo ship which means it packs anything and everything all over the world. If they can hoist the motherfucker on board, they’ll take it. If there’s not room in the holds and they can strap it to the deck, they will. This in not generally a container ship, so it usually spends more time in port off-loading and loading more goods.

They were scheduled to depart on Tuesday and I was originaly planning to arrive on Monday and going to have dinner with Billy Tinney, the editor of Tattoo Magazine Monday, who lives in Houston and should be editing a magazine on antique gun sales. It’s better that I arrived on Saturday. Sunday after setting up my cabin I took a bus to downtown through the ghetto to the upscale shopping area to buy some much needed communications equipment and gym equipment for my cabin. Monday afternoon the Captain anxiously announced with five minutes notice that we were pulling out. We yanked for the docks by a tug and headed out the canal past Galveston and the Battleship Texas Memorial and into the Gulf of Mexico.

Now go for a ride and have a beer on me, goddamnit.

–Bandit

I don’t where to start or how far to go. Hell, I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t even know where I am from time to time, but fuck it. I’ll tell you what I know and take it from there. I’m in Baltimore, one of the more beautiful ports around. We rolled up the Chesapeake Bay just like in that old war movie, “Run Silent Run Deep”. It was creepy, as if we were steaming over a flat lake in a dense fog. But as we reached Baltimore, a horseshoe of harbor lights engulfed us until we pulled into the dreaded Lazaretto Warf, Berth A.

As the morning dew lifted to a strong smattering of clouds threatening rain, we made arrangements to escape the rust, not one minute too soon. The ship was immediately swarmed with Rickmier agents, attorneys and a knock-out blonde who sold brokered yachts. It seems that when Hold No. 1 caught fire in Japan, fragments caught and burnt the top deck and interior of a 50-foot yacht and small steamer. I could smell litigation as I called a cab from the ship to pick us up on the docks.

Unlike the Savannah cabby system, these operators didn’t know where we were and could care less. Immediately they demanded a local number from me and I had to explain to every operator that I was on a ship and incapable of having a local number. Finally, I had to get my own info and map and try to explain to the operator once more where I needed to be picked up. When we finally hailed a cap, he had no idea where I was going and spoke little English. Finally in the afternoon I was forced to return to the ship.

I was somewhat relieved, yet my mission to find a whorehouse and get laid was dismally attended to.

I made it to dinner on the ship and picked at my meal like a disappointed teenager. I went to my room to write when the cell phone rang. Frank Kaisler, the editor of Hot Rod Bikes, grew up in Baltimore and I had given him a call for a connection. He told me to call Larry McCullough of Pro Paint in Baltimore and ask for his girlfriend, Debbie. She was once in the nightclub business on the back streets of the harbor city, less than an hour from Washington, D.C. The rescue call came at just the right moment as the Filipino members of the crew began welding something to the deck above the gang plank. Burning chunks of paint were blistering from overhead and falling on the deck below, creating a curtain of terror in the way of my escape. I ducked the burning shards as a crewmember sprayed my feet with what appeared to be a garden hose.

Larry came to my rescue and swept me away. His dually took us to his shop, Pro Paint, and I was blown right out of my seat.

I’d never met Larry before. His shop has been open for more than 8 years. He has a very well-organized, professional custom bike shop with a metal fabrication wing and separate facility for mixing, painting and buffing, all under the same roof. I thought I knew every world class builder in the country. Before I get to the girls, let’s get to the news: Ah, but first I must tell you that one of Larry’s creations recently won a Bikernet Bike Show and the owner’s trophy was on the counter. The name of the bike was Dawn.

We had dinner with Rob, Debbie, Christine and Sholana, great people, in a joint called Mothers, with fuckin’ wonderful apple pie with handmade ice cream. Better stop that, I’m beginning to sound like Rip’s tales. I had been at sea for 15 days and what I needed the most was the touch of a woman. Larry and Rob, one of the seven shop guys, took me to a seedy little joint called Night Spot and a totally nude bar, and I mean nude. Oh fuck, these girls were sweet, tender and nimble, crawling along the large oval bar top bare naked and moving to your licking pleasure.

Sometimes I hesitate to talk about sex on the site, because of all the weird trappings construed with sexual discussions. I believe that sex is one of the grandest things on earth. Men need sexual stimulation, and it’s not fair that we’ve got to buy diamond rings and make bullshit promises to relieve a natural tendency. It would be like telling a woman she can’t have a period without getting a job. Goddamnit. It’s fucking natural, and someday we should beat the prohibition on the oldest profession on the books so if we need tang, we can get it anytime, anywhere and go about our business without launching new children.

These girls were having as much fun as the guys and I was surprised to see three or four girls in the bar with guys enjoying the pussy-to-pussy closeness. It was a trip watching a naked stripper spread her legs in front of another woman and move her pussy confidently close to another girl’s teased grin.

The guys I was with surprised me with a lap dance from a particularly cute brunette. She was perfectly built and cute as a button as she slipped onto my lap and ground her pussy against my crotch. I wasn’t sure if this was pure torture or at least a mild touch of a woman without…

Just to show you how strange my life can be. I crawled into my bunk at 4:15, yet got my ass up at 7, worked out and had lunch with an 84-year-old retired admiral in a beautifully austere restaurant on the inner harbor. Like Savannah, this harbor is blossoming into a beautiful area of 1,700 brick row homes in some 200 ethnic neighborhoods. I only hope that San Pedro will wake up to the success some of these eastern ports enjoy. Admiral Rindskopf was the youngest skipper of a submarine during World War II, at 26. He was ultimately the captain of another sub, a destroyer and a sub tender before taking his knowledge and experience to Washington until he retired after 35 years. He mentioned that he was working with another officer, Admiral McCain, during the Vietnam War, while his son, Bob McCain, was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. At one point the Vietnamese sent the admiral a deal to release his son. The Vietnamese, much like the Taliban, were not men of their word and he was unable to implement his son’s release.

Let’s see what happens tonight. I’ll still be trapped in the god- foresaken port for a couple of days before heading across the Atlantic, through the English Channel, on our way to Hamburg, Germany, to fill this bastard with cargo for the remaining trip around the world.

Meanwhile, I haven’t been able to contact the Bikernet headquarters. The women have taken over, and although I have a signed contract from all three women in my life to be able to seek sexual release in various ports and hunt down motorcycle connections, there seems to be a mutiny afoot. Rumor has it that Coral and Sin Wu are trying their damndest to lure Layla into some sexual nirvana.

Reports are in that motorcycles have been moved in the headquarters and frilly curtains hung from the purely bachelorized windows.

I hope to have more information by News time next Thursday. Snake and Dr. Nuttboy have escaped the treachery to hide in the mountains until the dust settles.

Goddamnit, go for a ride, Bandit.

It’s wild out here.
We are trying to duck two storms coming from the north. The reports we receive are constantly inaccurate. We are rolling as much and 35 degrees on an empty stomach and we can’t risk the engines in such severe seas so we’re heading south east probably through the Azores. We just passed a container ship from Morocco. The captain pointed out that it was rolling 15 to 17 second increments. We roll twice as fast, which is much more abusive to the vessel.

The rolling severity is due to the edge of the south-bound storm we are racing away from, the fact that our ship is empty and that some container ships have anti-rolling ballast tanks and even wings that reach into the sea 30 meters off each side to slow and minimize the rolls. We have slowed to 15 knots and it feels like 5. If the storm continues to be a threat we will continue south and spend Christmas in the Canary Islands off Morocco, wait out the storm and head north along the coast of Africa, then Portugal.

We may be in the Azores by tomorrow (Saturday) night. As I sit at my desk this afternoon the skies are gloomy and the rain is spraying against the porthole. I’m working on Chapter 10 of the number 2 Chance book, and as the sea rolls my jug of water jumps off my desk and my chair is slipping away from the computer. As I reach out to maintain contact with the keyboard and grab the bottle, my notes on my left go flying. I replaced the water-bottle and turned to retrieve the notes and lose the jug again.

One of the storms is 900 miles in diameter. At the center of the storm is 35-foot swells, and at the edge is 24-foot swells. We are currently dealing with 12-foot swells. Unfortunately another storm is grouping and headed directly in our direction directly behind this one and we have another gale still on our tail. We receive reports from Miami on the storm conditions constantly, we also receive course recommendation from home base in Hamburg. Unfortunately, the directives from Hamburg are fast food quality. Yesterday we received notice from the base that the storm was turning and heading directly into the vicious weather north of it. Based on that information the Captain changed the course to head northeast again toward Europe. Later information from Miami indicated that the storm was heading south directly at us. We’ve run into the outer lip of the storm and it’s heading right at us.

Well, the initial report was from yesterday, and it was rough all night so the captain decided to have some drills today and we had to don our lifejacket and head toward the bridge where he explained the various sinking scenarios and what we were to do. He also pointed out the various gear and life boat and raft situations. The seas were too rough to test the life boat conditions but we will once through the English Channel and into the North Sea. Actually the Captain in his joking demeanor told us passengers that we wouldn’t feel calm seas until we reached the gates to the North Sea and out of the Atlantic. We’re just north of the Azores as this lumbering 584 foot vessel is tossing its cooking in the Atlantic at 17.4 knots. We watched a video on the life rafts in containers on these ships. They’re hot, but I wonder what kind of shape they’re in after 10 years of bouncing from one seaport to the next.

I’m still getting reports from the front that we’re all nuts to be out here so here’s a bit of a poetry from the beginning of the 19th century about shipping out:
We went to sea in a sieve we did
In a sieve we went to sea
In spite of all our friends could say
On a cloudy morn on a rainy day
In a sieve we went to sea
And everyone said “you’ll all be drowned”
And we said “We don’t give a fig!”

Just goes to show we’re just as nuts as a guy who slaps on his vest and rides across the country in the middle of the winter. Damn I miss the babes of Bikernet, though. Have a great Christmas, it’s the only one you get this year.–Bandit

This will be scattered, but full of the heart, soul and romance of motorcycling. We spend a couple of semi-calm seas rolling toward the English Channel. At the narrowest point it is a mere 10 miles wide, but goddamnit it was good to see the coast even if it was just the glimmer of lights on the coast in the increasing darkness. Two days out of the channel and into the North Sea we got the word that we could roll into Hamburg, but just then we hit a storm. The impact of just a knot or two on the length of time it takes to travel a few hundred miles is severe. Figure it out. Damn I was horny as hell, but reports from around the world told me there was ready love waiting for the taking in the Reeperbahn area of Hamburg as prostitution is legal, clean and ready to rock. I was climbing the steel bulkheads.

After a rough day at sea on Thursday in a force 8 storm the reports from the port was that we couldn’t get in the harbor and might have to anchor at sea. At 11:30 at night in a twisting sea that had us dancing on the bulkheads the captain reported that the crowed port had no craft available to haul a Pilot to the ship and would we consider a helicopter. The Captain laughed and asked them if they were snorting glue. We have six tall cranes on this ship, cables running everywhere, and the chances of catching a harbor guide hanging out of a helicopter with some of the steel cables was 90 to one. There was no way. The anxiety level increased and at 4:00 in the morning I jumped out of the sack. I was cold but I noticed that the rocking had shut down and it felt as if we motored into a dry dock. We were in the Elb river with a pilot who was delivered to the Leon on a high speed 50-ft Hydroplane. He stayed with us until the Hamburg Harbor loomed ahead, then he was removed and we were told again that no pilots were available. Four more ships were lined up behind us. I was surprised that the Rickmers company has been home based in this port since 1834, yet had so small a handle on their own harbor. Another pilot finally boarded for the last multi-harbor maneuvering and docking. The Hamburg port is on the River Elb that consisted originally of several merging rivers into a swampy delta. In the 14th century many of the small towns used an island in the flat delta as their home protected by canals, bridges and guard shacks.

Rumor from management at the port was that there would be crews of longshoremen waiting at the Stlanerkai dock to begin to load cargo and we would be gone in two days and a half. As a passenger I wasn’t happy to hear that I only had a couple of days to roam the hinterland and find sexual release. I stood up on the bridge from 4:00 a.m. on watching a gang of ships attempt to find home in the myriad of docks, islands and peninsulas. Hamburg is a maze of fresh water canals, rivers and harbor inlets and the traffic was intense.

I was fortunate enough to have a leg up on this port. Lee Clemens knows a rider who had a shop in the Buxtehude, a suburb of Hamburg. I met George at a couple of events with Lee several years ago and he was willing to take some time out and rescue us from the ship’s docks. I watched as the first lines were tossed to the stevedores on the concreted dock 80 in another grizzly port. I understand the industrial strengths of ports and their service to the industrial side of the world, but each one I’ve had the displeasure of entering is a Siberia of metal, trash and containers. In towns smart city planners arrange industrial areas to be separated from other industrial units with residential and retail. Each port I come across could be a delight to thousands of residents and a pleasure to work in, if proper planning was implemented. It would actually boost morale within the dock worker’s community and afford the people of the community the opportunity to appreciate the work that goes on in port and how world wide shipping works. Instead it’s hidden from society by chain link fences and dirty streets that no one wants to be caught on.

George was ready to pick me up the moment we arrived and after 10 days at sea I was ready to stretch my legs. But I held off for a couple of hours. The crew on the docks was ready and began to load the ship immediately. Right away the deck was crowded with stevedores loading crates of copper tubing the size of houses bound for Hong Kong. We got the word right away that we were still leaving in a couple of days since the gangs on the docks would be working around the clock. We would finish loading in Antwerp, Belgium and head to Italy. When I asked about England I was told that currently the process for shipping included smaller ships that brought materials from the UK and spilled them into the free marketing zone of Hamburg to be off loaded, then loaded again on ships bound for the orient. Seemed costly, knowing that dock space and union workers pay to load and unload cargo was a high cost to shipping. What the hell do I know, except that we will not be going to see the queen? As it turns out we will be here five days since the workers took off at 10:00 p.m. and know one worked again until 6:00 a.m.

George showed me his historic town and the canals that ran through it. It’s tough to imagine that farmers harvested crops of apples and hauled them to the canals where they were loaded on small shallow boats in the 1600s and hauled to the harbor in Hamburg, then loaded on bigger ships bound for ports all over Europe. In parts of Hamburg buildings are built right on the edge of the canals and material was off loaded on one side into a building like hops for making brew. On the other side of the building lifts that reached every floor were loaded with the brew and lowered into waiting boats on the other side of the building.

George is the owner, with his wife, of five waterbed stores in the Hamburg region. Lee Clemens put it perfectly when he told me, “George Bergman is the Waterbed King in his area.” Well, he is. His stores reek of class and style, and if you live in Germany or one of the surrounding countries and would like to consider a high quality waterbed. He’s your man, his web site is www.wasserbet-city.de. Wasserbett City is the name of his business. He’s still into bikes and rides from time to time while building the business, restoring a home and taking care of his wife Cindy and his young son George, Jr. He has a couple of brothers, John and the other, Robert. I’m 6’5″, George is 6’7″ and his brother John or Jochen Bergmann is 7’0″. These guys are good looking monsters. The other brother rode some, but is currently out of the lifestyle. George has a Fatboy, and John has Heritage, and a Ultra with a sidecar.

So here’s where we touched on a little motorcycling philosophy and the real depth to the desire and need to ride. John explained it perfectly in broken English and I only wish I can paint the picture described in his big blue eyes. I could hear the passion in John’s voice and see the need for it in George’s eyes. John tried to explain something to me that we all feel but usually accept as a life long endeavor which we never talk about. It’s the will to be free and the opportunity to express that freedom. “I have two hearts,” John said, “One is for my family and the other is for my motorcycle and riding. I cannot function without my sense of freedom to ride. If when I was getting ready to marry my wife, she had said you cannot ride since we are having children, it would have been like cutting off my leg or my arm. She has grown to understand and so I still ride, but I have tried to give her the opportunity to understand by taking her and my first son on sidecar trips. She has grown to understand my need for this.”

I listened to his stories as we roamed the ancient street of Hamburg. I learned that 72 percent of the city was bombed out during WWII. Yet the entire time I spent with people in this beautiful city I only heard the word Nazis once. It is something the people of Germany would like to put behind themselves. It’s the 23rd of December today and tomorrow is Christmas Eve and this is a dynamite place to be during the holidays. It gives me a true sense of Christmas with some of the most magnificent churches on the planet and in each plaza is a group of temporary wood cabin like Kiosks, decorated in Christmas motifs, serving wine and rum drinks, selling candies and nuts, ceramic, leather or wood craft Christmas presents. As the evening fell upon us we rolled into Reeperbahn, the nasty section of town.

Beautiful prostitutes line the streets. I mean knockouts all hitting on you as you meander through. The publicized highlight is the famous street called Herbert Strasse. The window street where no children or women are allowed. Half naked women sit inside windows and try to get your attention. They even have their own website called Herbertstrasseonline.com. Unfortunately these girls and some of the others are rip offs that I was warned about. The women lure you in with big tits and promises of love for 100 marks, then once inside the story changes trying to milk every nickel out of you and you’re lucky to get a hand job.

We wandered the streets and looked, but didn’t touch. On the other hand, hard working girls are out in the street, or if you have a contact, there are prostitutes who know how the oldest profession is supposed to be handled with warmth, honesty and tenderness, but I’ll get to that later. The rest of the area is packed with peep shows, titty bars, night clubs, Irish pubs, adult stores and bars with girls who will stroke your leg for a high-priced drink.

We drank traditional brews and shot the shit about riding and our brother Lee Clemens who lost his son in a motorcycle accident this year. Travis, his son, was about to take over a major part of Departure Bike Works, in Richmond Virginia. He had a small son and a troubled wife he was trying to handle when he went down in a freak accident and died. George and I feel strongly about our brother who has endured many changes in his life this year and his trying to sort out his direction within his heart.

I took another shot of Irish whiskey just to fight of the verbal cold chill that filled the bar with each of John’s descriptions. We had a helluva time in Hamburg and I’ll spill my guts about the girl I met on Thursday in the news. I’ve got to grab some shuteye. It’s been whiskey, women, pubs and German beer every night until, well, until I find my ass back on the rusting barge.

Merry Christmas everyone. This is going to be a helluva year comin’ up—

Bandit

Ah Christmas, a time of families and tenderness. Ah bullshit, it’s a time of lean budgets, kids with non-stop dreams of presents to the moon, Christmas lists that are too long and bank accounts too short. I escaped the treachery of Christmas, almost. I hope the rest of you survived.

You have stumbled into the Bikernet Twilight Zone. Just when you think you’ve come across one of the hottest bike sites on the Web, you discover that one of the bastards behind this mess is on a tramp freighter out of Houston ultimately bound for Houston some months later, and you’re forced to hear about it a couple of times a week. Merry Christmas.

So let me tell you about my Christmas Eve and Christmas on the MS Leon, a 20-some year old rusting hulk being stormed with cranes, stevedores, fork lifts and agents while it’s snowing or raining on the rusting decks in below-freezing weather. The design was that we would be in port for two and a half days, load this bastard with 8,000 tons of crap (22,000 ton capacity) and be on our way out the Elbe River by Christmas Eve. Not so, Kimosabe. We discovered rapidly that management and the union contracts are from different planets. What management plans rarely happens. On the other hand, while management and supercargo agents sit on the ship, sip espresso and eat cookies while expressing their dismay at the efficiency of the teams on the dock, there are 50 men standing in the freezing cold as the wind is blowing snow at 30 knots across the main deck of the ship. If they had ice skates, they could be practicing loops on the frozen concrete dock.

On Christmas Eve it was explained to us that since many of the longshoremen extend their days off with vacation time, the teams were dwindling. Instead of being able to work around the clock, the units could only work until 10 p.m. and started at 6 a.m. The tapering crew would knock off at 2 p.m. on Christmas Eve and wouldn’t be back until the day after Christmas. We were shut down. What was designed to be a 2.5-day in a costly port became six days. The supercargo agent also informed me that every time cargo is shifted it costs $250. It costs $150 to load a piece of cargo, but once it’s loaded, if it needs to be unloaded, moved and loaded again, that’s another quarter of a C-note. He said that much of the cargo would be removed again in Antwerp, Belgium, then replaced, and the process would be repeated in Genoa, Italy, and perhaps once more in Jakarta. I asked him how the damn company makes a profit and he threw his hands up in the air in mockery. He had no idea.

As he explained the business side of shipping, Clement, our hardworking steward, set the table for a Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve. The captain, officers and crew were requested to come into the officers’ mess and have dinner, which was an assortment of many things, including whole fish and turkey. The captain explained that the real feast would start at noon on Christmas and would continue until midnight with drink and food available all day. I noticed that many of the Filipino crew were uncomfortable eating with the officers and escaped as quickly as possible to the crews’ lounge and a wild karaoke festival.

Christmas morning we awoke and had a small breakfast as the chef and his crew were working on preparations for the noon Christmas feast. At noon the captain was successful in getting the entire crew around one long table. All the food was displayed buffet style with two turkeys a full pig, vegetables, lots of buttery rice, pasta salad, two types of gravy and two brands of whiskey. The pig was a biker’s run-feast cooked to perfection and the drinking got under way with whiskey, gin, wine and beer and some of the crew had all four.

At dinner I returned for some chow and to take score of the survivors and party animals. Since we were requested to mix the seating in a brotherly fashion, I was the only Anglo to sit with the Filipino crew at one end of the table. I spent a great deal of my Vietnam military service in the Philippines and learned to love and respect the people on those paradise islands for their kindness and pleasantness, but as I sat at the end of the table the mood changed. It reminded me of so many experiences in the past from losing a crew member on the heavy cruiser I was stationed on to the meeting of men after a gang battle or to the meeting of a family after a member has been in a motorcycle accident. Suddenly the end of the table became quiet. Two members of the crew got up in unison and disappeared up the inside stairwell. None of the crew would look at me, not out of disrespect, but out of concern for what had occurred. I was not a part of the serious nature of what took place. The concern was deep and fearful and only shared amongst the family of men who were involved.

It seems that one of the men partied too hard and drank too much. He was the one who smiled the most and sang with the best until the torment of the whiskey bottle took over and he became mad and tried to take his fury out on another member of the crew. The man inside his cabin was dismantling his bicycle for the next leg of the journey and was holding a leg of pipe as the madman stormed his quarters. He lashed out and split the angry man’s hand. I had no idea of what happened as I sat amongst the serious crew, but I had been in the midst of life and death battles and recognized the concern in men’s features, the fear in bowed faces and edgy gestures like nail biting andr nervous twitches. They spoke to one another in only Filipino except to use a term that wasn’t in their dictionary from time to time, such as: Self defense and star witness. A crewmember called to the captain finally and the captain did his duty and had the man hospitalized. His hand required surgery. He was paid and his bags were packed and delivered to the hospital. He would return to the Philippines once operated on.

On the day after Christmas it was too miserable to go outside yet the ship was in full loading swing with two cranes working furiously to load crane motors, containers and crates the size of motor homes. Hatches were clanging, containers slapped against one another as the snow blew over the bow. The rumor was that the ship would depart by 8 p.m., but at 5:30 we were told that loading would take one more hour, then an hour of lashing and one more hour to get a harbor pilot on board and have the crew ready the ship to depart. That schedule was pushed an additional hour until it was nearly midnight before we pulled away from the docks and began the 100-kilometer trip out the Elbe river to the coast of Germany, where we would turn port and head west along the coast to Antwerp, Belgium, which might be a degree or two warmer but swamped in the same drizzling rain and snow as Hamburg.

In studying a Hamburg weather chart, I found that the city faces 10 to 13 days of rain during every month of the year. Of course our visit took place during the 13-day season with an estimated one hour of sun daily during December. The temps average between zip and 4 degrees celsius. Not exactly a tropical paradise but a helluva beautiful city. Euro Dollars are going into effect the first of the year an it’s difficult to exchange money because they’re into the transition. The people of each country will have up to a year to use up their existing cash. A few countries like England, which is in financial hard times, isn’t changing just yet, but I would think it would benefit them to change as soon as possible. I’m sure opinions on that matter vary substantially.

There you have it, Christmas on the battle-worn, rusting Leon heading for a New Year’s celebration in Belgium. My next report will be in the Sunday Post in the Cantina the day before New Year’s Eve. We plan to be in Antwerp until the 4th of January. Let’s see what kind of trouble I can get in there.

Finally, I’ll report that tonight while in the North Sea I will finish my 16th chapter of my second Chance Hogan book. It’s called “Tides” and is based on this worldwide adventure. If I can get the staff to go for it, we will post all of the chapters in the Cantina for new members and members who rejoin for the new year.

May your holidays be safe, secure and packed full of warm sex.

Ride Forever, Bandit.

Life is so strange. We roll along oblivious to the tremors constantly shaking around the world. We ponder retirement, plan vacations and look to job future and raises, while much of the rest of the world is on the brink of some bizarre an illation. I’m not about to point fingers or get political here. We’ve made plenty of mistakes in parts of the world, and there’s some crazy hatred in other parts. Okay, Okay, I’ll throw an example at you, then we’ll get back to my romantic notions.

We just pulled into Jakarta this afternoon, some four hours behind schedule. Schedules are ridiculous on cargo ships. Nothing follows a timetable. We had diesel injector problems coming into port this morning and slowed the ship to 11.4 knots. Then when we arrived we were told to pull to a particular position that the pilot would be there on arrival. He showed up an hour later. Our estimate for departure was 24 hours, now it’s 18 or less. Believe me we want to get the fuck out of this hell hole.

Yesterday morning at four a.m. we left Singapore, a Manhattan Island of high-rise buildings and upscale shopping malls. It was a handful of degrees above the equator and we headed east for a short while then south about 500 miles to the dread Jakarta. The Captain’s wife recommended that he not go ashore. Sin Wu suggested the same. Jakarta has an ugly violent Muslim reputation. The Captain suggested that the radicals trained on small islands off the coast of Java and travel in the town shouldn’t be a problem.

He also pointed out that this small island has a population of 200 million. The US isn’t much larger than that. There are only 250 million in all of Indonesia and 200 are packed on this island about the size of just the Florida peninsula. I was astonished as we began to pull into the harbor which it was as bleak as the reputation. A gray mist hung over the port and blanketed the region with a somber air. The bay around the coast was littered with ships of all sizes and types. Many were rust buckets anchored or seemingly adrift waiting a turn at the harbor. Even two miles off the coast the water was shit-brown and full of crap, trash, oil film and black scraps of tar. As we entered the small concrete block jetty at the mouth of the Tanjung Priok Harbor we watched small ratty boats crowded with people buzz around the harbor. Then there was a smell, and suddenly I wanted to escape to my cabin. I couldn’t trace my fatigue. The air seemed to engulf me like radiation from an atomic warhead. I’m being dramatic, but the stench felt like the grayness of an industrial fire. It was too late to consider going ashore and there was nothing about the port that called to us.

In other words I had the notion that we were entering a vast island of squalor and crime, covered with a small bitter people who despised the west. Okay, that’s over the top and perhaps had something to do with the climate. We could see high-rise buildings in the mist, and from experience I have always found the Asian people as a whole to be warm and friendly. The Captain pointed out that the water could be a mess due to recent flooding from the inland. He also pointed out that when he was on a ship entering the Los Angeles Harbor that the chemical smell was so strong that he couldn’t breathe and his eyes watered. On the other hand the port agent came on board and warned us to keep our doors locked that a recent raid on a ship netted $8,000 from a crew.

I may have over estimated the evil spirit of the people of Jakarta due to the dismal climate, and I’m sure part of my impression was tainted by my recent contrasting experience in Singapore. This city is wild, it’s beautiful, and the people speak English and make every effort to be accommodating. The city is a progressive 3.4 million, 75 percent Chinese (many escaping the communist regime sweeping Hong Kong), 14 percent are Malay and 7 percent are Indian. For some it would be disappointing and intimidating due to the uptown metropolis nature. Get this, on an island that’s 26 miles long and 14 miles wide there are 15,000 air conditioned taxis and 2,800 buses, plus subways and trains. It’s unbelievable, most of the old world is gone replaced by vast slick high-rise buildings, top-of-the-line hotels and restaurants. We arrived during the Chinese New Years celebration and enjoyed the crowded streets and unique booths in one of the few old town regions left.

Prices were more than reasonable, but unless you want to get the hell out of the city and land in another, try to find somewhere else to visit. This is the independent city that fines people for spitting on the ground. There are a number of other laws that dictate consideration for others and a quality of life, although I didn’t get the sense that thousands of cops were roaming the streets in starched uniforms kicking ass. At one point, standing in line at an ATM machine at the base of a modern high-rise, an old Chinese gentleman pushing a cart full of cleaning gear passed and for some reason was deliberately spitting into an area marked off by workman as being wet and slick. He was pissed for some reason, but I didn’t see paten leather adorned guards jump and beat the pour sap into the marble deck. On the other hand in general the people had a desire to follow the rules and respect the cleanliness of their city. So how’s that for dissimilarity with Jakarta?

Alright, so tomorrow we will cut a dusty trail out of here and basically begin our trek north to Vietnam and China before we hit Japan and head home. I’ve threatened to have a box ship back to San Pedro to force the ship into Los Angeles, before it heads through the Panama Canal and the Gulf of Mexico to Houston.

So back to my heartfelt notion of life on an increasingly small planet. Maybe there is a code such as Singapore has that could spread throughout the world. Maybe people can enjoy any religion they wish and leave the past behind, to help children live better lives. Maybe, a world police is a good notion to follow and build the code. Along with the policing needed to destroy terrorism, there must be efforts by governments like ours to help people understand how the rest of the world works hand in hand for business and education.

Okay, so I’m full of shit, but the constant fighting over ancient battles and racial discrimination 100 years old won’t do their kids any good except to pass on the hatred. Let’s see if I don’t get my ass kicked in Hanoi. —Bandit

PS. Three o’clock in the morning the phone rings in my cabin. A voice attempts to tell me I must sign a document. I told them to go to hell. I’ve had enough prank calls on this ship. Another voice takes the phone and tries to explain that they don’t want money that I must sign something. I told them to see me in the morning. That wasn’t possible. They explained that the ship was finished unloading and would be leaving early.

I finally got up and opened the door. I glared at the little sonuvabitch who was holding my passport in one hand and a form in the other. Sleepy, I didn’t read the form, and signed it. He asked me if I would contact the other passengers and since he was with an officer of the ship, I indicated that he could use the services of the officer and I went back to bed. As it turned out they knew that due to a wild thunderstorm that started at midnight, all cargo works had halted and wouldn’t begin again until this morning. What bullshit. The crews’ passports have been returned but not ours.

I spoke to the captain this morning and he pointed to a list of bribes he was forced to endure to see that the ship keeps moving without undo hardship. There was the agent for a cartoon of Marlboro; the customs guys for more Marlboros and a bottle of Whiskey, the Immigration folks for more cigarettes and a bottle of Chevas, and the Security inspector took smokes and a final bottle of booze. When I met with the Captain this morning he laughed and pointed at the empty case of Marlboros. He pointed out that if you don’t play the game they will inspect the levels of paint in the paint locker and fine you, or make you jump through bureaucratic hoops and delay departure. In addition a group came on board and collected the same loot as the others, plus a fee to give the captain a Deratting Certificate to certify that the ship was clear of rats. I reviewed the certificate that indicated that there are no passenger accommodations on this ship and no cargo(?). Oops.

We are scheduled to leave at noon. Wanna bet?

I’m going to begin this with a complaint and a recommendation to anyone who plans to travel in the future. I’ll get it off my chest then tell you about the wild experiences we had in Vietnam. First tear up your American Express card and throw it away. Visa and Master cards are useful everywhere unless yours is stolen. We had one stolen. The people at the bank knew this was a 5 month trip around the world and we would be using this card on a regular basis. Generally that means profits for them. Did they bend over backwards to ship us another card? No way. Bottom line no business for them for five months. I’d call that down right stupid.

So we’re relying on American Express and American Express Travelers checks which are useless. You can spend all your precious travel time standing in a bank for an hour only to be turned down when you want to cash a traveler’s check. Again, that’s time that you could be spending money. In addition the American Express card is rarely accepted.

Now, get this. The card is not even accepted at an American Express bank. That’s right. We could not get cash using an American Express card at an American Express Bank. Okay, so the clerks kindly explained that if we wanted to take a cab across town to the only American Express ATM in all of Singapore we could get a small amount of cash. Again shopping/spending time lost. Their profit loss and your time loss.

Enough of that shit. It’s 2000 hours and we just started pulling out of the Hon Gai harbor in Vietnam. Its located almost dead center of the infamous Tonkin Gulf. We were anchored 35 miles from our true destination of Haiphong. I’m going to run down some stories about the area and the people, but first I’m a three time ship- bound Vietnam veteran. I never had a member of this race stick a gun in my face. With that as a background there was some hesitation to arriving to Vietnam. I know that many veterans have returned here to help sort out their own feelings. I wanted to come back for a simple reason. I wanted to see the people and the land I bombed for three years straight. I was curious about this land and the people I had never seen up close. I had a gut feeling that I would like it here and I did.

I’m sure for some WWII and Vietnam veterans there’s a wonderful sense of the untamed and natural beauty of these lands like the Philippines and Vietnam. There’s the notion of grass shacks and people who can live their lives barefoot near pristine beaches without the consumption of asphalt and concrete, bushels of laws and government. I loved the Philippines for those reasons. Tahiti is much the same.

Yesterday we crossed the Tonkin Gulf and met our pilot off the coast of Haiphong past several island separating us from the coast. The jade green seawater in this region is shallow to 6 and 7 meters and we could not enter the area since we draft 9 meters. Take into consideration rocks and tides and we were stuck waiting outside for the pilot.

I stood on the bridge when the pilot was delivered. As usual the time announced from the harbor and the actual time of pilot arrival was an hour different. The captain was frustrated setting dangerously close to the bottom (less than one meter of space between the sea floor and the hull) waiting. The pilot’s boat, a tug like craft motored in our direction at a slow six knots, but finally arrived.

This was our first greeting from the Vietnamese and unlike most ports in Europe three gentlemen boarded the Leon when usually it’s just the pilot. The pilot was a small native wearing a navy blue uniform suit, shirt and an odd paisley tie. He was wearing a ball cap with scrambled eggs on the brim and a pilot sticker on the front. With him was an associate who also wore the scrambled eggs on his white brim and some sort of black industrial company nylon parka. It had the name of a company silk-screened on the back. The other gentleman was a tall military man wearing an olive drab dress uniform and pink socks. He was crisply dress except for the socks and wore an officer’s hat that was tall in the front like you would imagine a Russian officer. It had a wide red band and a yellow star in the center. It was an impressive uniform.

It’s a strange sensation to be standing somewhere foreign to you and be confronted by a strong imposing uniform on a man nearly my size. I found myself somewhat apprehensive, flicking my knife in my pocket. I left the bridge and returned to my cabin. An hour later I discovered that we were entering a series of small rock-like islands. I grabbed my camera and dashed back to the bridge. As I started to take some shot of these beautiful rocks jetting from water as smoothed as polished jade the tall young office approached me and said in very broken English. “Free, take pictures, or video camera.” At the moment I didn’t really understand was he was trying to say and continued to be mesmerized by the beauty of the light green sea and the group of islands. Unfortunately a gray mist hung over us the entire time we were in port.

I immediately felt that if I was a kid and had a small boat or even a kayak I would be in seventh heaven.

Off to the starboard we could see a series of barges, tugs and small boats lined up against one of these islands. As we neared they seemed to be headed in our direction and as we discovered they were. The local Rickmers’ agent had cut a deal with the stevedores. It seems that we were arriving in the late afternoon on the 10th and the 11th was the last day before the Tet festival, which I believe is the lunar New Year. It seems that we celebrate the Sun’s New Year and much of Asia celebrates the Moon’s. I believe it was mentioned that China parties for both.

At the same time that the captain, who intended to become an astronomer, explained the difference in New Year’s celebrations he mention that when he sailed into Casablanca he discovered that the stevedores take Fridays off for the Muslim religion, Saturdays for Jewish and Sundays for Christian. Perhaps we need to add that element to the code of the west.

The Tet Festival begins the 12th of February and runs through the 15th. If we were not unloaded by the middle of the 11th we would be stuck a serious distance from land for three days, perhaps unable to get ashore. I was hoping to take a bus to Hanoi. The Cargo Superintendent told me that the city is large but safe. The agent had cut a deal with the stevedores to work all night and try to get us unloaded before the holiday. We were stuck in-between land and holidays, and we had just arrived were anchoring and testing the waters.

Within a half hour we were surrounded with ratty looking boats, large steel barges and in the distance a tug was coming flying its little communist red flag with the yellow star in the center pulling an out-of-commission ferry. As it turns out this ferry, that had seen better days, was the barracks for the stevedores, a bar and party pad complete with whores and music.

Suddenly our little calm hole in the world came alive. The ship was crawling with Vietnamese people while women cooked and set up shop on the tugs that pulled the barges. We could see high rise buildings in the distance on the shore we would never reach, but we were surrounded by grass shacks on the water. Each vessel had a pot of sorts somewhere on the ship that became alive with burning embers for cooking.

The population of guys who came aboard the ship was generally friendly and all were well dressed in a range from stevedores to businessmen to women in sampans selling trinkets. The girls weren’t bad looking and it dawned on me what the officer was saying on the bridge. He was inviting me to take pictures without the influence of government.

I’m not sure if I already told you this story: The captain told me that the US fought so hard against communism unsuccessfully, but in the end, it died its own sorrowful death. Most communist countries have not been able to succeed and now welcome the ways of the west or starve to death. The officer was opening his arms to me and the west, since Vietnam has discovered that without business with the world, it will starve, its people will never have decent educations, or access to a world that is flowering around them. No matter how hard a government wants to put its thumb on its people it cannot completely hide the rest of the world from them. Sure the notion is simplistic, but I thought also fascinating. We didn’t need to fight communism, which in most cases was not true communism but dictatorships. We could just sit back and build what we have while they fell so far behind by preventing freedom that sooner or later they had to throw up their hands and open their door to progress.

Okay, so the afternoon turned into evening and maze of activity. Discharging cargo began immediately and continued all night. The party fired up on the Haiphong ferry and the girls were brought aboard the Leon. According to the Romanian sandblaster the whores knew how to take care of a man unlike the stuck-up broads in Hamburg. He told me stories that I won’t repeat, but he had a helluva time. He’s the guy in the shot getting tattooed from the artist in Jakarta, who set up his shop on the main deck and gave him two shoulder tats for $30. The guy wasn’t half bad.

So the evening started calm enough with cute girls slithering around the decks under the guards noses. There were a number of military men on board in their olive drab uniforms. As the night engulfed the ship, the guards were invited to drink on the ferry. Either through the drinking or bribes the ship was left without security and a mafia gang slipped aboard the ship and began to raid it of lashing materials and tools left all around the deck for cargo off-loading and containment. Some of the crew spotted this activity and an alarm was sounded. Many of the crew fought with the gang for their tools, some chickened out, and headed the other direction because the mafia was armed. The bottom line was that we chased them off and told the guard to get back to their posts.

Later in the evening another ship our size pulled into the channel and dropped anchor. It was another Rickmers rust bucket and they were waiting for us to depart before they could commence off-loading. The next morning went as is common in the shipping trade. The morning departure turned into 3:00 p.m. for pilot arrival which generally indicates up-anchor. Three turned to five, and it was 8:00 before the last plates of steel were removed from the hull and loaded on barges.

That’s it. We came close to a boat trip around the bay, but couldn’t put it together because of the erratic departure times. We’re now headed out of the Gulf into the South China Sea for the 1.5 day voyage to Hong Kong. The first of three maybe four visits to China, then Korea. I’m still hoping for a box to be loaded for shipment to San Pedro post haste.

–Sailor Ball

Someone recently asked if I’m having a good time? I thought it was an odd question. Yeah, I’m having the time of my life, but it made me wonder what the hell I was saying might be throwing readers off course. On the other hand, I’m not a paid-to-tell-you-wonderful-shit, travel writer. I enjoy pointing out the madcap foibles at each port and send up flags to be recognized and avoided by travelers. I also find this shipping industry fraught with odd equations to profits, strange traditions and a wild deck of cards to be dealt in each dank harbor. I also have found that each seaside haven is a mess, yet the most precious land in the community. I believe in my heart that something could be done about this errant condition that would help and entertain all involved. Traveling, unless under specific conditions, has its share of dark alleys and risks. If you want to travel in specific tour groups your conditions can be monitored to a certain extent. If you’ve got money to burn you can duck some of the slums, much of the world has to trounce through, to get to the Jade Garden of Luxury.

Traveling on a Tramp freighter has neither of the above accouterments. There are risks and the unknown at each port. In general the shipping folks don’t want to have anything to do with their passengers. In some respects you can’t blame them. They’re not set up for passengers, they don’t have the time or the money to go ashore in most ports, and they have hundreds of strange unknown stevedores, agents, gangs and officials running around each ship, who they can’t communicate with, and constantly break cranes and equipment. I feel for these bastards. They work their asses off and the only fun they look forward to are cheap whores in some ports, maybe a tattoo from a kid with dirty needles and warm beer once in a while. It’s not bad, it’s just a tough existence.

Well Hong Kong was no different, in fact, for the crew it wasn’t much fun, for us another wild encounter. We pulled into the port again in the middle of the night. I discovered that Hong Kong is noted for the Hong Kong Island, but it reality Hong Kong is made up of four different and distinct departments. There’s this small island slightly larger than Singapore with much less build able land due to the steep hills. Next is the Koloon Peninsula which is a sizeable chunk of property across from the island. Then there is the large mainland area that has a border with mainland China. This portion of Hong Kong is called the new territories and is substantially agricultural. Finally there’s a smattering of 235 surrounding islands that make up the rest of the Hong Kong State. Altogether, it’s probably the size of New Jersey surrounding one of the largest ports in the world in Victoria Bay. We rolled in through the East Lamma Channel during the middle of the night as usual so we couldn’t see shit, course it didn’t matter because we were quarantined due to our Vietnam excursion. So we were told to anchor out of the harbor by about a mile. Now, get this. The captain asked the harbor pilot what the requirements we were subject to under the quarantined conditions, since he had never encountered the Vietnam rule. The pilot told him that ships from Vietnam, Russia or Cuba had to endure quarantine regulations. Immediately the captain asked, “Oh, so it’s political?” “No, no,” the pilot said with emphasis. “Well, then what is required?” the captained continued to question. “Is there a health inspection?” “No,” the pilot said, “I will call the officials when you lay anchor. He will come to the ship but not board. You take him your ship’s paper and he will review, then we can move into the harbor.” That was it and a half hour later we pulled anchor and moved a mile closer in the harbor and dropped the sonuvabitch again. We were still five miles off the coast of the Kowloon Peninsula and five from the Hong Kong Island. We were in the middle of no place, the coastline off in the distance. Next we had to find out how the hell to get to shore. The agent showed up and reported that it would cost us 120 bucks (US) to get a lift to shore. That didn’t cut it and our dubious report was that were only scheduled to be in port for 24 hours. That sucked as the barges began to pull along side in the choppy currents and the crew began to prepare for offloading. The next morning after very little sleep I drug my ass to breakfast to check the situation. I was beginning to think that we wouldn’t be able to afford the trip to the coast due to the high costs and the fact that boats weren’t available and we might be leaving in the evening. Doesn’t make too much sense to pay $250 to get into town to have lunch and leave. Ah, but there are always alternatives. The Cargo Superintendent came on board and shrugged his shoulders with a lack of solutions to the problems afoot, but the Chinese Agent, Henry Cheung from the Gulf Agency Company, showed up and volunteered to take us to Kowloon on his dime on the harbor skiff, a 40-ft, high-powered launch.

One problem, though. Henry was peeling out as we spoke. I had to hit the showers and head to the gangplank. I spent the night in town without so much as a tooth brush, so some shopping had to take place and as usual, few shops accepted American Express and if you wanted cash from American Express you had to walk miles to the one Amex ATM in downtown Kowloon, only to find out it was out of order. We were told that another Chinese bank would accept it. That alternative was tried and a passenger had her card sucked by the machine, leaving her cardless. She had to spend the afternoon waiting around the office for a temporary card. There was nothing wrong with her balance. She swore that when she returned to the states she would use up her miles and burn the card. Such fools. Instead of assisting cardholders they put as many obstacles in the way of using the card as possible.

The last time I was in Hong Kong was during my stint in the Vietnam War. I sailed into the Hong Kong harbor three times. During the late ’60s the harbor was packed with a myriad of Chinese Junks, but this time as I looked out over the vast harbor, I didn’t see a one. I wasn’t reminded much of the old Hong Kong and wasn’t sure I would be startled by remembering something. The city has grown to a population of 6.9 million. It’s a madhouse metropolis teaming with shopping and high rise buildings. There something odd about it though. From the harbor or any distance the city reflects a massive sizzling beautiful metropolitan area, but when you get close in the daylight and look up, most of the buildings are apartments where people live. They are not luxury apartments but grubby stained buildings with air conditioners hanging out of window and clothes hanging on anything outside to dry.

More importantly, I exposed the fact that it is actually a downright expensive place to live. Apartments range from 20-40 grand a year to rent. That’s for the low rent districts and low on the elevator check list. As you move from floor to floor the rent increases until you’re facing 65-100,000 a year to be less than street people. No wonder the population clamors to gamble and there are only two types of gaming allowed. There is one race track on the island which produces 74 horse races a year and the crowds Annie up 81 Billion a year on the races. The only other legal gambling fare was to roll the dice on the Hong Kong lottery.

Hell, a burial site on the island costs $200,000 since land is so precious. Someone told me that you are buried sitting on a chair to conserve landI can’t confirm that gossip. There are several hospitals in town but only one government joint right across the street from a hilly cemetery. Rumor has it that if you end up in the hospital, it’s likely that the only way out is the rocky road to a plot across the street. Yipes.

I took a ride through a tunnel from Kowloon to the island. The tunnel costs 320 million to build, but it’s only 2 kilometer long and 24 meters below the surface of Victoria Bay. Keep in mind as I babble that the rate of exchange was 7.2 to one US dollar. Okay, so I’m blasting around the island looking at the sites and I cruised over a very tight winding road to the south side of the island to the small Aberdeen Harbor and when we pulled up to the dock leading to the popular floating restaurant in the middle of the bay I was taken back. A lump formed in my throat as I looked out at the odd looking floating Chinese River Boat still swaying in the calm waters 36 years later. It’s now called the Jumbo and is covered in neon and glittering lights like a Las Vegas gambling boat. It’s now owned by a gentleman who owns casinos in Macao and all over Indonesia.

I suddenly remembered the night I drug one of my buddies off the St. Paul and we grabbed a cab for the floating restaurants. We were 19 and 21 years old and concerned that the cabbie was taking us for a treacherous ride until he pulled into this small parking lot on the coast in front of a short pier some 20 feet long surrounded by little 5- foot sampans. We had hit the whores in strange tall buildings that were full of long halls without lights and dank rooms with little or no appliances. I remember the guy who lured us inside, gave us beers and showed us grotesque dirty movies before selling us on young girls. The girls were cute and in some cases not in a brothel ambiance. It was as if someone invited you into their home and offered you a drink, a daughter to fuck and dinner later. It was odd and somewhat uncomfortable. It was like going to see your girlfriend, fucking her in the room next to the dining room packed with relatives. Then dusting yourself off and saying goodbye.

If I’m not mistaken, my buddy, Outlaw (no shit, that was his last name) copped out when he saw the sampans and got back in the cab and headed back to the ship. I remember stepping into a wobbling sampan by myself. An old woman pushed off from the dock. She didn’t say much, just rowed quietly to the glittering floating River Boat type craft in the harbor. Half way out she stopped the dinky vessel and I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. It was dark on the water except for the reflection of the lights of the restaurant. She turned and picked up a bundle off the wooden deck that turned out to be a baby and held it up to me. I could see that the infant wrapped in the dirty blanket was sleeping soundly. She showed me the child then held out her hand. I don’t remember anything about the money then, but I handed her a couple of bucks and she grinned a toothless smile, bowed and kept rowing.

I still remember that night. There were two restaurants at the time and one of the two allowed you to pick your fish from an adjoining tank and they would cook it up for you. I wasn’t in the mood for that fare and went to the next boat for a real life Chinese dinner which was tremendous and the atmosphere eerie. The two restaurants are now one and they server 3,000 people a night.

It was out of a dream and we jumped aboard a large motorized sampan for a tour of the area which is packed with luxury yachts, the restaurants and rows of boats that people still live on. They were tied next to professional wooden fishing boats. This was the only area left where people can still live on boats and they must buy a license each year to remain there. Between the rotting boats, the cost of the licenses and a thinning ceiling on the number of live-aboards allowed the traditional live aboard situation is quickly diminishing. There were once six million live-aboard boats in the Victoria Channel and now there are only 11,000 and that number is fading fast. It was sad to look at the boats and wonder about their future. I asked the woman in the motorized sampan behind the long wooden rudder, who looked and was dressed like a bank teller, “What happened to Chinese Junks?” When I was a youngster my old man took the family down to Wilmington Harbor to look at some new imported Chinese Junks for sale. They were as cool as pirate ships. Unfortunately my folks were trying to decide whether to buy one of them or a cabin in the hills and decided on the cabin.

She looked at me as if I was a voice from the past bringing up a legend she would just as soon forget. I imagined the harbor in the ’60s with thousands of these sailboats that looked like butterflies on the water flittering from harbor to harbor. Then she looked at me and I detected sadness in her broken English. “All the masts are gone. We have only motors now. Only one left with a sail for charter. The rest are either fishing sampans or live-aboard.” I could tell as she finished explaining that the story would only end when all the old line of wooden hulls were gone, replaced with fiberglass high-dollar yachts. How times change.

I found it interesting that Hong Kong is noted for its jewelry deals and spent some time at the Dynasty Jewelry mart, yet almost none of the raw materials come from China. Diamonds and gold come from South Africa, Opals from Australia and Jade and Rubies come from Burma.

As a closing thought I would like to mention a bit of advice for those who are interested in living in the hills. According to Chinese legend, dragons live in the hills. Chinese lore has dragons built into their yearly schedules as if it was a true animal. For instance last year was the year of the snake and this the year of the horse. Since the dragon is the symbol of China it is to be respected and cared for so people who build homes in the hills make sure that each structure has a center courtyard to nurture dragons and let them breathe.

So if someone was to ask me if I had a good time in Hong Kong I would answer the same as all the ports I’ve entered: Each port has it challenges and adventures. Hell, yes I had a good time. I had a steak at the Morton’s Steak House at the Sheraton over-looking the Victoria Bay and the brightly decorated high-rise buildings for the New Year Holiday. I walked along the edge of the channel surrounded by the Las Vegas like night lights incredible. There was a Ferry Boat ride to the Hong Kong Island and back. Indians attacked me on every corner with brochures about hand tailoring clothing for my lanky self. The city is just as mysterious as during the Vietnam era.-Bandit

Everyday we receive the briefest of news reports that come via Telex and contain a series of four-line paragraphs about world topics. There are usually 13 segments, and 11 of them contain reports of violence somewhere in the world. I don’t want to walk on anyone’s politics, but doesn’t anyone in this world do something because it’s the right fuckin’ thing to do? The attacks are generally based on religion, politics or greed.

I’m rapidly discovering that if any country looks at the realities of their past they can be pissed off enough to go to war with almost anyone. Some of the shit the white race did to China over the years, for instance, would curl your toes. There wouldn’t be opium in China if the British hadn’t brought it to keep the little people in line and make a few bucks on the side. There were several opium wars; in most cases the Chinese people lost and were forced to let Europeans distribute drugs and other profitable substances in ports like Hong Kong and Shanghai.

I don’t want to jump into a bag of generalizations, but you can imagine why the people turned to communism for protection from the white vultures. They thought that communism was the answer when in most cases it became a highly controlled dictatorship that raped the people and the land. It backfired here too, like it did in Russia. The Chinese people endured revolutions and corrupt government. At one point, people with educations were forced into the fields and all books were burned. One of the last emperors ultimately became a gardener. The wife of Chiang Kai Shek sucked as much wealth as she could out of the country and ended up living in Washington, D.C. In the meantime, while the people were trying desperately to find a way, the rest of the free world was progressing. Sooner or later everyone wants an air conditioner. People aren’t blind. They can see when they have nothing and the rest of the world is driving cool cars and listening to rock ‘n’ roll.

So we steamed into Shanghai, (originally two words that mean “on the sea”) which is an example of a new China. Keep in mind that China is about the size of the continental United States yet has 900 million more people. Believe it or not, the birthrate is down. If you think that every family should have a bushel of kids, come to Shanghai and get a lesson in wild population growth and what it does for the quality of life. The reason that I’ve tossed in all this background is that it gives you a basis for what I will try to explain.

The population of Shanghai was 10 million in 1975. It’s the largest industrial city in China. There are 200 agricultural communities surrounding the city to supply food. There are 98 berths for large cargo ships and container vessels. There are 25 more for ships in the 10,000-ton range and 28 more for ships in the range of 4,500 metric tons. It took us 4 1/2 hours to motor up the Beicao Shuidao River from the Yellow Sea, before we grabbed another pilot for an hour and half ride down the Huangpu Jiang River to the port. The river continues past Shanghai, the sprawling city of high rise buildings. At night it’s impressive beyond belief.

I believe from the people I met that the residents of Shanghai are generally happy campers. They dress well, have good attitudes, are making livings like never before and are experiencing much of what the world has to offer. Perhaps they’re like kids in a city of candy stores. My perspective was entirely different. Not bad, but cautious.

Let’s have some fun first. The day we arrived I met with the captain to get some travel guidance. He had been up all night rumbling from one river to the next, one pilot to the next and, once we arrived, from one administration to the next. Our meat locker was immediately sealed. We were not allowed to eat meats from anywhere except the United States. Unfortunately, the Leon stocked up in Europe. It meant business for local merchants since we had to buy additional stores. In addition to the usual forms, we had to put in for a permit for naked light operation so that our fitter could continue to weld on the main deck during the day. Our sandblaster came down with a terrible tooth infection and was hauled off to a dentist who didn’t have modern tools. He finally received some antibiotics and pain killers. At first he told the dentist that the pain was so bad that he couldn’t sleep so the doctor gave him sleeping pills. I was told that the doctor’s drilling machine was powered by pedals. I was also told that some Chinese dentists are taught to do all their work by hand. They can pull a tooth with their muscular fingers. They train by pulling nails out of wood with only two digits. I started brushing my teeth several times a day.

We discovered quickly that it’s no problem to catch a cab. But unless you speak the language, you can’t go anywhere without a card with the address written on it in Chinese symbols. That includes the return cab drive back to the ship. It was critical here due to the hour-long ride to and from the ship. For the three-day stay, we all had to carry cards with our info so we could find our way back. We discovered that the best bet for getting to know an area is to take a cab to a fine hotel. The concierge will always assist (in most cases) with tour packages, or anything else you may need. Generally they speak English. I try to spend a couple of bucks in the hotel of my choice to show my appreciation. If we didn’t spend the night there, we ate dinner or bought souvenirs. In this case, we were recommended to check the brand new Grand Hyatt, located in an 88-story building, the largest building on the Pu Dong side of the river. I fortunately made contact with Butch, the founder of the Red Devils underground Motorcycle Club in Shanghai, who was a true brother and helped with travel pointers and some of the best chow we had. Another recommendation was the Peace Hotel. It’s an older, classic high-rise, built in 1906. It became our home base since the harbor was a good hour away over rough streets in cabs driven like they were in training for New York City status.

It was crowded everywhere, but the people were friendly and excited to try their English on us. People of all ages said hello when they saw us. There were a few Anglos about, but very few. I looked like a freak of nature, but the blonde was admired everywhere. Traffic was wall-to-wall mixed with trucks, constant construction equipment, buses, subways, trains and those buses that run on electrical lines. In addition to the four wheelers, the motorcycle traffic is immense, mostly scooters zipping between cars, and on the wrong side of the street, anywhere, to get where they were going. Then there were bicycles all over the goddamn place. Like the scooters, they were nothing fancy, just inexpensive, utilitarian motorcycles and three-speed bicycles by the millions. Most of them had faded paint and were spotted with rust. The streets are jungles of telephone poles, electrical wires, you name it. The face of this city has completely changed in the last 10 years. Wherever possible, someone is mowing down the older two-story homes and building grand high-rise apartments. But old traditions die hard. On a cab drive, we passed a sprawling old stucco housing track with gray plastered walls and pointed tile roofs.

The homes looked more like a ghetto of wire, filth and clothes hanging from windows. Next door was a new building but already air conditioners were hanging outside windows along with the laundry. On so many city street corners there were trees surrounded by concrete and asphalt. It’s wintertime so there were no leaves on the trees, which only added to the desolate look. Even in the midst of the city there was laundry hanging on the tree limbs next to a sprawling intersection. Behind the tree would be a vast ghetto of crumbling, two-story buildings built close together. Across the street could be a new high-rise office building as slick as New York. It was a strange juxtaposition. It sounds grim, I know, but the people dressed very well, smiled, got along and were pleasant. There was no vast difference in groups of people. They were all well dressed and on the move. I saw hardly any denims or T-shirts. Guy all wear slacks, pressed shirts and some sort of jacket. So it could have been that what looked like a ghetto to me was just another old apartment complex to them. Perhaps some were just older and more hammered than others.

Again, we were faced with every imaginable type of retail store. I was astonished by the number. On occasion we were told to go to Nanjing Road or Huahai Road for outstanding shopping, but I found shopping on every street in every direction. Butch also explained that the prices in Shanghai were the highest in the country, even higher than Hong Kong. Sharp-looking franchise shopping malls were perched next to rundown streets with stall-type shops faced with roll-up garage doors in front that housed hardware stores or scooter repair businesses. Everything was piled on everything else, and damnit if everything wasn’t packed with people.

To be perfectly honest, this type of lifestyle doesn’t do a damn thing for me. From what I’ve heard, this is happening all over China. Cities are expanding like crazy. In 1978, a law was passed that couples could only have one child. Since then it has been modified to allow couples made up of single children to bear two. I was recently told that if you have enough coin, you can buy a license to have another child.

It’s so odd that if you discuss the history with Europeans you get so many different slants and explanations. You would think that perhaps the citizens of Shanghai would like to put the European influence behind them and build anew. Where the Peace Hotel is, there are a series of high-rise buildings built from the late 1800s to 1927. The architecture of these buildings is common in Europe and the United States. They all were planted on Zhonghan Road, considered the Bund (water front), which borders the river. This is considered by the Chinese to be the street that represents Shanghai.

On the other side of the river is Pu Dong or the new neighborhood where the Grand Hyatt is and the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. It is 468 meters high. It is the highest TV tower of its kind in Asia and the third highest in the world. You can blast up into it for a price and see the city from the top. Until recently there was only one way to get across the river to Pu Dong and that was by ferry. Now there are bridges, ferries, tunnels and the Bund Sightseeing underground tunnel. It is the first passenger tunnel in China and takes riders on a psychedelic light show to the TV tower on the other side. The Grand Hyatt turned out to be inserted into the tallest high rise in the country called the Jin Mao building, named after Mao’s wife. It’s the third tallest building in the world.

So on one hand, the Anglos treated the Chinese poorly at times but never as poorly as the Japanese or some of the dictators who ran the country. So for some, the English and Europeans protected them from attacks, freed them from the Japanese during World War II and now they honor that heritage. Who the fuck knows from one moment to the next.

We finally got the hell out of Shanghai and arrived in Qingdao at 4 a.m. the next day. This is the city where the Chinese beer is produced. It is a half million strong and built up from a village in 10 years. We were docked and ready to go ashore at 9 a.m., but were not allowed. We didn’t receive our passports back until 4 p.m. It may have been that we were docked in a military portion of the port since destroyers surrounded us and there were eight submarines moored across the harbor. Originally, in the morning, the captain had told me that we only were off loading 14 items, two with the 250-metric ton Stuelcken crane and 12 out of the forward hold with the 20-ton cranes. As it turned out, the stevedores delayed work until all the paperwork formalities were handled. The captain had 70 forms to produce in the morning. The two large pieces were finally unloaded in the morning, then union lunch break was taken until 1 p.m. Then, after chow, five crates were moved. There was some discussion about the seven final crates. Some shifting was needed to reach some of the crates. Again, the stevedores shut down until they were assured that payment would be received for extra work.

Ultimately the projected three hour off-loading exercise turned into eight hours. The job was completed at 4 p.m. and a pilot was scheduled. He did not arrive and the time was switched to 4:30, then at 4:45, we were told that he would be aboard in five minutes. At 5:30 p.m. we were still waiting. We finally pulled out of the harbor at about 6 p.m. A soldier stood at the bottom of the gang plank all day. At one point there was a watch relief, but they had to exchange coats. There was only one between them.

Bund Tunnel

We usually steam into port, pass many waiting vessels and go immediately to a dock ready with stevedores. That is handled by the agent who gets to know the authorities, then greases their palms. It also has to do with the captain giving gifts to the administrators who come aboard. He explained that for every $100 spent on gifts and dinner, the ship saves as much as $6,000 for the expenses of anchoring outside the dock for one day waiting for a space. Since we were not allowed ashore, a couple of passengers were hopping mad and complained that we have been denied access to Berlin when we had the time to make the trip. We weren’t allowed off the ship in Newport News, Vietnam or now QingDao. Oops, I forgot to mention lovely Jakarta. I’m beginning to see a tradition of high rise cities that don’t do a damn thing for me. I suppose it’s not the cities but the crowds.

I appreciate the growth and progress for the people who live here, but frankly I want to see the traditions and the landscape. I would like to have dinner with a Chinese family, or get my ass home and ride over a lonely road in the desert, look at the latest American Indian jewelry and have a cold beer. Can’t wait.

Shanghai Sidebar:
Religion still wreaks havoc the world over. I found myself surrounded by relics of Buddhism. Some 60 percent of the Chinese population is Buddhist. The rest of the population is split between Christianity and Muslim. Here are just a couple of items I picked up on my hunt to find nirvana in a world at each others’ throats:

There are four states to Buddha: First is Buddha herself. Second is the many disciples. Laughing Buddha is the esteemed predecessor. He represents all things happy and the bright future. He is already set to fill the main man’s shoes at some point, but there are several others including the Goddess of Mercy who is always there to assist. There is Madison Buddha who represents everything healthy, Ameda Buddha who is the Happy Buddha and represents the future and Canodi Buddha who represents all that is current. There’s a third level, and I confirmed it, but goddamnit I can’t find it in my notes. The last is the people who are monks and nuns. The religion is set up so that anyone can become a Buddha.

A few notions of the Buddhist religion are that fish are highly regarded as the wisest being on earth, because fish never sleep or close their eyes. We should all have jade in our homes because it is full of energy that rubs off on all inhabitants. The years are based on 11 animals and the dragon. The dragon is the symbol of China. For instance, last year was the year of the snake, not a good year. This is the year of the horse, a very good year. I toured the Jade Temple that was built in 1882 and houses several vast jade carvings of Buddha from when she was 35 and before her death. That’s all I know or was taught as hundreds of people surrounded me to bow to their Buddhas with smoking incense clutched in their hands as I looked on and compared their temples to the ornate Christian and Catholic cathedrals in Europe. Similar in some respects and vastly different in others, but always impressive and foreboding.

Yesterday we pulled out of China for the last time. Next stop Masan, Korea. It’s another country that’s terribly over-populated, but I’ll report from there. Rumor has it that they don’t like Americans and we may be forced to stay on board the ship, but we’ll get to that later.

Two rules of thumb when making a trip like this. Don’t do it in the dead of winter. Not only is it so fucking cold it would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but the vegetation is bleak and the grass looks as brown as desert sand. I’m sure some of the areas I report on would look much better with a taste of greenery. Second rule, make sure that the cabins on the ship have heaters. I’m discovering that I’m a person who likes the warmth and prefers heat over cold. Goddamnit, I’ll bundle up for anything, but when I return to my cabin I want the comfort of warmth and a woman. Is that too fuckin’ much to ask?

By the 24th of March I will have been bobbing from port to port for four months. I’m still bugging the captain about picking up a crate bound for San Pedro. Here’s the schedule as it stands: We’re a day from Korea. We’ll off load there for three days then steam for 18 hours to Yokohama, Japan for 24 hours of loading cargo bound for the U.S. Then after six hours of sailing to Hitachi for another 24 hours of loading and we’re bound for 17 days in calm seas to the Panama Canal. We’ll burn a day due to dealing with agents and inspectors trying to roll through the locks and into Lake Gatume, and out the locks and into the Caribbean bound for Houston another six days away.

Enough dreaming about being home and in the arms of my babe, let’s get to the China report. At last report, I mentioned the town of Qingdao, then 17 hours after departure we arrive at the peninsula that contains the port of Dalian.

This is the Zhong Shan Square in Dalian. Check out the buildings in the background.

By now I’m a blur of big cities all trying to over-rate the next one with the highest high-rise building or TV tower. This was the first city that contained no tours and after walking for a bit we discovered there was no need for a tour. It was a mess, but don’t get me wrong. Again the people seem pleased with the progress.

I’m reading a book about the history of Hong Kong as part of my research for my book project. In this book, “Hong Kong Remembers” it is explained that until 1980 there were no labor unions in Hong Kong. The book says that the labor unions in mainland China are run by the government, so not really unions at all. It’s only been in the last twenty years that the working man has enjoyed any rights or benefits. Think about it. If five years ago you still worked in a sweat shop 14 hours a day, 7 days a week without any benefits, you’d be mighty happy now if progress was afoot. So you wouldn’t be too concerned if you still worked in a building without air conditioning and the air quality stunk. The same philosophy applies to living conditions. These people are moving fast and ten years from now, they will be light years ahead of the curve and I’m sure making corrections that we are now facing in some of our over-built cities.

Dalian was again a city of transformation, but not a handsome joint in the winter, although prices were very reasonable and taxis cheap. It is based near the Gulf of Liaudong which was once controlled by the Russians until the Japanese took over in the ’30s. We visited an old street of Russian buildings. The classic ornate structures were being refurbished and turned into shops.

While roaming from shop to shop we met a young man who spoke English very well. He took us to a small restaurant where we ordered two dishes and they delivered enough food for a half dozen people, plus we had hot tea. The bill was slightly over two bucks US. So we went to the ultra luxurious Furama Hotel and had cappuccino and desert for $15.

A light desert at the Furama Hotel in Dalian

Once more, Dalian was very European with all the retail outlets we’ve seen in a number of countries, but the side streets are really where it’s at. The ship’s catastrophe afforded us in Dalian was the discovery that a 38 tons of sheet metal was buried deep in the hull under another level of cargo bound for other ports. It was the mistake of our planning superintendent in Europe. It took the stevedores eight hours to shift the cargo to reach the slabs of steel, and another eight hours of delay to unload the cargo, held us up for a day. The word on the ship is that Rickmers is a shifting company, not shipping. In the superintendent’s defense, it was the holiday season and all his comrades took the time off saddling him with over eight ships to manage and all the cargo. No an easy task.

The rusting Leon at the dock between stevedore shifts.

Our next port was again only a handful of hours away. Tianjin is located on the coast of the Gulf of Chihli or Bo Hai. The fog was unbelievable. For two days we couldn’t see a dam thing. Concerned that we were facing yet an additional Chinese port I pointed to a crate 80 feet long and asked the captain about the destination printed on the side which said Xingang. The captain in his usual humorous demeanor laughed, “That’s the port, Tianjin is just nearby.” Actually Tianjin was over an hour away. It’s confusing as hell. The port is called the Port of Tianjin, but is actually in Xingang and the nearest town is Tanggu. Tianjin might as well be on the other side of the world.

The Fog created a mysterious haze without color. Only the bleak shapes of ships could be seen.

The first day we took a cab to Tianjin. The roads were rough and all the cabs needed new shocks. The highways were well planned and under each interchange there was a park and some kind of sculptured art. Unfortunately due to the season the grass was far less than brilliant green and the trees stark wooden skeletons. Along the roads were building projects next to hovels surrounded by trash and dirt, next to abandoned industrial buildings, next to flea markets, next to older industrial buildings being torn down, next to strips of retail shops and lastly next to partially constructed industrial projects that looked deserted. There were people everywhere crossing the highway, on foot (brave souls) on bicycles, and motorcycles.

Cabbies peeled along constantly on the horn, driving on the wrong side of the street to pass a slower moving vehicle. I discovered that drivers making lefts and u-turns felt they had as much right-away as the through traffic. Being a biker I have much the same devil-may-care mentality as these drivers. You learn to dodge bullets wherever they come, much like these guys did jetting around and through traffic, bicycles and pedestrians whenever they got a shot. I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Tianjin was nothing to shout about. The food was great in the Hyatt hotel and the Astor had a Hua Fu dress I was trying to pick up for Sin Wu, but I decided to look further unsuccessfully. The streets again were jammed with bicycles and shops, but the people were comfortable and friendly, although we discovered that few knew English.

This is a common site throughout Chinese cities. A shop like this could be two doors from a new high-rise or a high fashion designer store.

The next day was a surprise. The coal dust whipped through the bumpy streets as it was being delivered to the port by trucks. We decided to hit the local town and we were picked up by a cute little female driver who was to deliver us to Tanggu. She didn’t leave the port through the gate but cut through a field of crushed buildings then across a series of old railroad tracks guarded by a small dilapidated building that was dark and crumbling. Even the post that blocked the road seemed to be on its last leg.

Perfect example of old and new mixed with a constant sprinkling of coal dust.

We were use to seeing destitute buildings parked next to new structures, but this was different. As we crossed the intersection to another gate or toll road we entered a twilight zone of sorts. The toll gate or whatever the hell it was, was state of the art. The pavement was new and wide with several lanes. Each building post and archway was high-tech and of wild design. It was as if the students at a local college were challenged to come up with eye-catching new forms for each structure. Who ever designed this stuff was no slouch. Each building we passed had a distinctly different design. Arches of stainless steel and white tile were cast over the road way as we rolled closer to town.

Each arch and building we came to was more modern, almost space aged. Someone was pouring a mint into the redevelopment and growth of the new Tanggu. It was unfortunate that it was winter and brisk. With some color, the area would have been downright impressive except for one demise. Coal dust was on everything. They needed to go back to the college with a new challenge, get this coal dust to market without killing people and making the city look like shit.

As we entered the downtown area and I was impressed beyond dreams. This portion of the city was a well-planned burgeoning area of high-rise and luxury hotels. Unfortunately, who the hell wants to travel around the globe to explore the new section of downtown Houston again? Tanggu is distant enough from tourism that few speak English and the hotel maps are only written in Chinese symbols. We were told of an area for shopping and grabbed another cab after obtaining little assistance from Hotel Tedu. The shopping area was just like a new mall in the states with marble pathways and department stores. Sure there were differences, but not the type we were looking for.

It wasn’t until the following day that we saw how the people of the city shopped. We went to a flea market of sorts in a down area of town. This time the cabbie escorted us through the crowed street and buffered us from the beggars who were plenty aggressive, pushing and shoving their empty tin cans in our direction. The swapmeet/fleamarket was a kick of wild booths containing anything from old electrical appliances and tools to ancient Chinese coins, brass dragons, knock-off watches, knives, toys, relics, carvings and bicycle parts. I scored a couple of small solid brass dragons for some kids in the states for less than four bucks apiece.

We departed there and went in search of Hua Fu dresses for Sin, after lunch in a revolving restaurant at the Tedu Hotel on the 33th floor over-looking the entire Tanggu fog soaked basin and the port. Wang our waitress was dressed in exactly the gown I was after. She was just as much of a knockout as Sin and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. The silk dress slid down her body as if it was my touch moving over her shapely hips. Unfortunately she spoke very little English, although I started asking her about the dress. She called for assistance, and no, I wasn’t asked to leave. Another cute Asian woman came to my aid. I drew a sketch of the dress I was after and we started to discuss options. Unfortunately everyone I asked told me to go back to Tianjin, but time wasn’t working in my favor. I was burning daylight.

Our devoted cabbie who was most helpful took me to several locations without a whisper of luck, then we hit on one of the myriad of bridal shops in town and scored some success, but no particular assortment and I had to purchase just the right one for Sin. I was forced to resort to plan B, of which I’m not sure of yet.

As usual, we were informed that departure would take place by noon the next day, but that wasn’t the case. We motored out of the harbor being escorted by two tug boats about 1600. A misty haze hung over the harbor again as we left and pulled out of another bleak harbor covered with coal dust. Even our Leon was coated with the black powder as we pulled away and out past the breakwater and the lighthouse. We passed 29 ships at anchor waiting for dock space, cargo and stevedore agreements to enter the port. Fortunately our Rickmers agents were doing their job again.

Lighthouse just outside the Xingang Harbor near Tanggu called Tianjin Port.

As we motored out of the harbor, I stood on the bridge with the Captain, 2nd officer and pilot. The pilot was a very well dressed agent. I generally stand off to the side to that I’m out of the way as they deal with ship traffic, navigation, small boats and communications with the port. The Captain usually comes to me with reports of hazards, administration nightmares, customs or immigration tribulations. This time he mentioned to the agent that I was a passenger from America and the agent spoke good English and approached me. Most of the time the agents are very focused on their mission and simply bark orders and leave.

This agent wearing a navy blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons and a golden patterned tie was impressive and friendly. The agents in each port dress differently. This guy looked like an executive not a seaman. He told me he had been an agent for 20 years and had never seen an American flag ship. He also mentioned that he had never experienced a crew of American seamen or officers. We don’t build ships in the states anymore. We can’t compete with China or Japan. Americans are not hired on the ships because they’re too expensive. In fact, we noticed that few Germans are seaman for the same reason. Pilipino crews mostly man the ships and many have Polish officers.

I wish I had met this agent on the trip into port. I would have known exactly where to go and where to avoid. A critical learning process in every port is becoming acclimated. About the time you know the town or area, it’s time to split.

A scene from a street we stumbled onto since we didn’t have a guide to show us the right way.

It’s too bad that guides are not available to assist. The ports and towns could make a lot more money off passengers if they could obtain the proper information quicker. A couple of passengers wanted to go to Peking, which is now Beijing and beyond to see the great wall, but due to misinformation were never able to get away from the ship or get the information in order to make the trip. As it turned out we would have had plenty of time if the data was available.

Next report from Masan, Korea.