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REGINA Travel Log: Week Eight
PO2 Steven Pring, HMCS Regina
March 25, 2003 – Day 52
The sun has set, the day’s workout complete, and I’m walking around the flight deck to cool off before going below, my current routine. There is no moon to compete with the billions of stars sweeping from horizon to horizon tonight. A thin wet mist floats 30 feet above the surface of the water, and as though envious of the celestial display each wave crests with bioluminescence, a swirling kaleidoscope of vibrant greens, silvery-blues and pink.
Tonight promises to be a quiet one. Undoubtedly, there will be the usual unending stream of hailings as vessels travelling in and out of the Arabian Gulf transit through our sector here in the GOO, but with luck, the boarding party will get a full night’s rest before their skills are required again.
March 26 – Day 53
The advances in computer and communication technologies over these past 10 years have been astounding. Satellite phones, cell phones equipped with email and text messaging, and for the most part the Internet not in existence 10 years ago, today have revolutionized and shrunk the world.
Ten years ago “snail mail” was all there was. Sometimes weeks would pass without any word from home, and then only when the ship conducted a RAS -Replenishment at Sea - or made port. Today, not a day passes without some form of communication with our families, allowing for day-to-day involvement in the issues that don’t cease simply because we aren’t there in person.
For all of our advances, and I doubt anyone will dispute the advantages of having email, mail call and the arrival of old fashioned “snail mail” still brings with it feelings of Christmas morning. Tightly wrapped postal parcels bringing an assortment of treats, perhaps a “just because” gift, or even that favourite ugly shirt that you forgot to pack and your wife is only too happy to send to Tuk-te-yuk-tuk or to the far reaches of the earth – anything to get rid of it.
Today’s “Santa-drop” revealed to all that our own little Rickie [Sir name withheld] is indeed one very spoiled NavCom – 13 parcels in all. Good thing he doesn’t have any “pink” issues. You’ll have to ask little Rickie about that one.
March 27 – Day 54
“Starboard watch to boarding stations, starboard watch to boarding stations…”
Escort duties most of last evening until midnight, repositioning, patrolling and hailing during the wee hours, and a boarding for port watch first thing this morning, followed by more hailings this afternoon, resulting in the pipe that just called the starboard watch to boarding stations. Day in, day out the taskings remain largely the same, the timings between events dwindling as the work load increases.
“Launch the RHIB, launch the RHIB.”
Memories flood back of a time when I was a member of the boarding party.
The name painted on the hull of that vessel two years ago is not important. No more important, for that matter, than the names of many of the vessels Regina’s boarding party will encounter this time around, as those whose business in these waters is less than savoury will often change the names painted on the stern of their vessels several times a week in an attempt to escape detection.
The pungent odour of rancid cooking oil, cockroaches the size of animated artichoke leaves, and rats so large we felt compelled to name them. The largest of these was Myrtle.
Just one more vessel in dubious condition loaded to the gunwales with contraband oil.
The gentle swells of the Gulf lapped over the low freeboard kept amidships awash, foretelling the watery fate to befall Myrtle’s home less than two months hence. And positioned all around the ship, captured in orbs of light cast by temporary spots suspended from the bridge wings, four-foot Barracudas hovered like assassins’ blades frozen mid throw.
Five hours into a 12-hour security watch, two men on the bridge, myself and one other on the quarterdeck stood guard and restricted the movement of the eight-member crew. For the most part they kept to themselves, not testing the boundaries we’d set for them as they ghosted in and out of view casting furtive glances at their new jailers. None of us huge by western standards, to these eight men whose bodies were wizened by a lifetime of too little food and too much hard labour, we must have appeared invincible giants, girded in body armour and veritably bristling with weapons.
Myrtle went wherever the mood took her. We didn’t protest.
The time came for me to switch positions with one member of the bridge watch. He radioed his intent and a short time later appeared in the external passageway running along the port side of the bridge house. A few words exchanged with my relief and I made my way forward to have a quick look amidships – almost completely submerged now – before taking my place on the bridge.
I paused to inspect the water level from a vantage point in the port passageway, and time shifted into slow motion as the weight of something landing on my right shoulder set my adrenaline to full throttle. Frame by frame I turned my head to investigate the source of the weight. Myrtle, who evidently had been up exploring the wire ways and decided that I would make an excellent ladder to the deck, was now sitting on my shoulder two inches away from my nose.
Starring into her little black eyes I could almost hear her thoughts: “Okay, so this could be bad…”
In a twinkling every one of my childhood nightmares soared to the surface culminating in one all encompassing impulse: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”
The world returned to regular time once again, and if Myrtle was as terrified as I in that split second before launching herself off my shoulder and disappearing into the ship, it was only Mrs Pring’s little boy armed to the teeth and loaded for bear, but clearly not prepared for Myrtle, who screamed like a little girl.
Holding my chest to prevent my racing heart from breaking through my bulletproof vest, I made a note to self: Look up!
March 28 – Day 55
Another quiet night in Ops, but the morning promises an early boarding. Two and a half miles off our port bow a small coastal tanker steams along receiving our undivided attention. We’ve been ordered to shadow this small ship since hailing it a couple of hours ago peaked the interest of Command. Apparently no one has ever logged seeing this guy in daylight. So here we are chugging along at a staggering seven knots staying close and awaiting the dawn.
March 29 – Day 56
Outbound through the Straits, yet again, after dropping off last night’s consort. We’ll return to the GOO and meet up with another one later, but in the meantime we’re closing Montreal in order to transfer some parts during a Helicopter Vertrep. At least that’s what we’re doing at the moment, a moment from now all that might change.
Continuously shifting timelines and ever-changing tasks help to throw off the mind-numbing lethargy caused by the tedium of tasks monotonous in nature and execution. Iranian patrol boats and surveillance aircraft that always just happen to be in the straits during each of our transits, and initially offered a bit of excitement to break up the routine, have been relegated to a minor annoyances dealt with using a set sequence of procedures.
“Port watch to escort stations, port watch to escort station.”
Here we go again.
HMCS Winnipeg leaves us tomorrow to start her homeward run.
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