tears streaming down his cheeks, on his knees and kissing Manuel’s shoes.
Juanito nods, and steps back inside his cabin. “Okay, Bosun,” he says before shutting the door. “Of course, of course, bring him. He is welcome.”
That night there are seven of them, three on each bunk, with the officer Broas again claiming the chair beneath the porthole. Though the stowaways are not discussed this time, Rodolfo understands that by being there, the men have reached a tacit agreement—when the passage of the
Maersk Dubai
is over, they will somehow tell what they saw that morning. In the meantime, they’ll offer each other company, humour and, should the need arise, protection. (Of course, they have decided one other thing. The other Filipinos on board—the ABs named Angel, Carmelito, Marlou and Joe—have not found themselves here, in the cabin of the oiler, and should therefore not be trusted.)
This solidarity, along with the passage of days, helps. Each time one of the Taiwanese officers asks Rodolfo for something, hefeels a little less panicked, and a little less like this is the moment when the officers will decide to rid the ship of witnesses. Though he still has dreams of the stowaways being sucked under by the churning wake, they are not coloured so luridly. A measure of chatter, at times brightened with laughter, returns to the seamen’s mess. At first, Rodolfo has trouble joining in, for it feels like a betrayal of the dead men, yet after time he starts to question how he could hurt them by, say, laughing at one of the second cook’s awful jokes, or admiring a sunset off the bow, or savouring the way barbecued pork tastes after a morning of labour. His shoulders and neck do not ache with the same ferocity, and the dull ebb of his headaches abates. Prayer, too, helps, Rodolfo understanding that hardship exists for one reason and one reason only: to deliver him more eagerly, and more eternally, into the embrace of God.
Two days from Halifax, petrels appear, frolicking above the boat, occasionally swooping at fish thrown up by the wake. Ten kilometres from port the big ship stops, and the anchors are dropped. In the distance, Rodolfo can see the hazy outline of a bulk carrier, also stopped, awaiting a berth. They are in anchorage for a day and a half. The pilot boat arrives, and the pilot comes aboard to help navigate the
Maersk Dubai
to shore. As the big ship nears the berth, a mooring tug moves to its side and manoeuvres it into place. Throughout the docking, the smaller boat throws up mushrooms of white, foaming sea water.
They are in Halifax for ten hours, the stevedores and onshore crane operators responsible for loading and unloading the boat. Rodolfo and his ABs continue stripping, grinding and sanding the deck. In the engine room, filters are cleaned and injector valves replaced. In the mess, the second cook chops enough onions for a week, his kitchen filling with a vapour that would leave a lesserman gasping for breath. The boat leaves for Newark, where the sailors are again confined to the ship. Then, in Miami, they are allowed to leave the boat for an hour only, the Filipinos all rushing to the long-distance phone shops that line the port, only to find there’s a problem that night with the trunk lines. They return feeling glum, and lonely, and remembering the terrible moments they’ve had during the voyage. The ship proceeds to Houston, or more precisely to the docking facility at the mouth of Trinity Bay called La Porte, Texas. Here, an official shore leave is finally granted, and Rodolfo heads to a shop called Best-Price Phone Calls. The place is loud with chatter and ringing telephones. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, he’s handed a pass card for cabin number 4, which he finds in a line of wood-panelled booths along the left side of the shop. He nods his thanks, and enters the relative quiet of the cabin. He places a call to Manila.
When Maripaz answers the phone and hears her
Juanito nods, and steps back inside his cabin. “Okay, Bosun,” he says before shutting the door. “Of course, of course, bring him. He is welcome.”
That night there are seven of them, three on each bunk, with the officer Broas again claiming the chair beneath the porthole. Though the stowaways are not discussed this time, Rodolfo understands that by being there, the men have reached a tacit agreement—when the passage of the
Maersk Dubai
is over, they will somehow tell what they saw that morning. In the meantime, they’ll offer each other company, humour and, should the need arise, protection. (Of course, they have decided one other thing. The other Filipinos on board—the ABs named Angel, Carmelito, Marlou and Joe—have not found themselves here, in the cabin of the oiler, and should therefore not be trusted.)
This solidarity, along with the passage of days, helps. Each time one of the Taiwanese officers asks Rodolfo for something, hefeels a little less panicked, and a little less like this is the moment when the officers will decide to rid the ship of witnesses. Though he still has dreams of the stowaways being sucked under by the churning wake, they are not coloured so luridly. A measure of chatter, at times brightened with laughter, returns to the seamen’s mess. At first, Rodolfo has trouble joining in, for it feels like a betrayal of the dead men, yet after time he starts to question how he could hurt them by, say, laughing at one of the second cook’s awful jokes, or admiring a sunset off the bow, or savouring the way barbecued pork tastes after a morning of labour. His shoulders and neck do not ache with the same ferocity, and the dull ebb of his headaches abates. Prayer, too, helps, Rodolfo understanding that hardship exists for one reason and one reason only: to deliver him more eagerly, and more eternally, into the embrace of God.
Two days from Halifax, petrels appear, frolicking above the boat, occasionally swooping at fish thrown up by the wake. Ten kilometres from port the big ship stops, and the anchors are dropped. In the distance, Rodolfo can see the hazy outline of a bulk carrier, also stopped, awaiting a berth. They are in anchorage for a day and a half. The pilot boat arrives, and the pilot comes aboard to help navigate the
Maersk Dubai
to shore. As the big ship nears the berth, a mooring tug moves to its side and manoeuvres it into place. Throughout the docking, the smaller boat throws up mushrooms of white, foaming sea water.
They are in Halifax for ten hours, the stevedores and onshore crane operators responsible for loading and unloading the boat. Rodolfo and his ABs continue stripping, grinding and sanding the deck. In the engine room, filters are cleaned and injector valves replaced. In the mess, the second cook chops enough onions for a week, his kitchen filling with a vapour that would leave a lesserman gasping for breath. The boat leaves for Newark, where the sailors are again confined to the ship. Then, in Miami, they are allowed to leave the boat for an hour only, the Filipinos all rushing to the long-distance phone shops that line the port, only to find there’s a problem that night with the trunk lines. They return feeling glum, and lonely, and remembering the terrible moments they’ve had during the voyage. The ship proceeds to Houston, or more precisely to the docking facility at the mouth of Trinity Bay called La Porte, Texas. Here, an official shore leave is finally granted, and Rodolfo heads to a shop called Best-Price Phone Calls. The place is loud with chatter and ringing telephones. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, he’s handed a pass card for cabin number 4, which he finds in a line of wood-panelled booths along the left side of the shop. He nods his thanks, and enters the relative quiet of the cabin. He places a call to Manila.
When Maripaz answers the phone and hears her
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