ChipsNet.net

"A great night for a cruise," thought Chip, as he took the helm from Captain Brad, the clock striking midnight.  The moon showed bright on the glistening waters of the Mississippi River, as the M/V Margy Kelso was southbound with eight loaded sugar barges.  This night started Chip’s second week on the wheel of a tugboat, having just been promoted from Licensed Deckhand to Pilot. 

“Well Chipper,” said Captain Brad, “get you a cup of coffee and I will give you the lowdown on traffic.”  Chip poured some of the strong ‘tugboat’ coffee that he was required to acquire a taste for, remembering Brad’s statement, “if you are going to be a tugboat captain, you must drink tugboat coffee.” Taking a sip of the stout coffee, gaining the taste for the strong brew, Chip stated “Lay it on me.” 

“Ok, the stern lights you are looking at ahead of you are from the Dixie Renegade . . . He passed us just below Port Allen Lock forebay.” Brad continued “The Baton Rouge Gauge was reading 34-foot flood stage, so you are making about 14 miles an hour downstream . . . Don’t forget, on the canal we only made 3 miles an hour, so if you get in a bind, you will have to round-up and grab some bank to stop.”  “That’s comforting,” thought Chip.  “I heard a couple of large tows southbound ahead of you, down around Manchac and White Castle light.  You will have to plan your passing with them, as they will be flanking all points,” continued Brad.  “Remember, with your being new, I’m at location 3 on the intercom; holler if you need anything . . . and happy herding.”   

With that said, Captain Brad went down the stairs, leaving Chip herding the 8 loads of sugar down the boiling Mississippi.  “Dixie Renegade to the northbound tow taking the point-side at Plaquemine Point, I’m the southbound tow looking at you . . . one whistle,” boomed the VHF radio.  “Creole Lady is northbound, point-side at Plaquemine, one whistle works for me,” the radio once again echoed.  Grabbing the mic, “Margy Kelso is next in line behind the Dixie Renegade, 8 loads, southbound, I’ll be on the one also,” replied Chip. 

It wasn’t long, Chip saw the front running lights of the M/V Creole Lady sliding around the bend ahead of him, the wild current steadily pushing the tow off of the point and into the middle of the river.  “It’s a good thing that this river is a mile wide,” thought Chip as the bow of his tow came past the bow of the Creole Lady.  The GM engines of the Creole Lady could be heard groaning as it plied against the swift current.  The Creole Lady flashed her port flood light, which is the same as waving to a passing friend; Chip flashed the port floodlight of the Margy Kelso in reply. 

The Dixie Renegade was making great time, and soon slipped out of sight in the long straightaway between Plaquemine and Manchac points. Occasionally you could hear him air his position as he busted around the next bend.  Then Chip heard what he was waiting to hear “Dixie Renegade to the southbound large tow flanking Point Houmas, I am the southbound tow astern of you, just clearing Brangier, can I pop by you on one whistle.”

“Crimson Duke is southbound 35 loads, just about to finish up my flank at Point Houmas,  I should be in shape for the one, if you can cool ‘em off for a bit, and give me about 5 more minutes,” the radio wailed.   The Dixie Renegade replied “I got ‘em cooled off for you, just let me know when I can get around you.” 

About five minutes ticked by, and the radio sounded off once more, “Crimson Duke to the Dixie Renegade, come-on by on the one, I’m starting to drive on it.”  “Got ‘em in the company notch, heading your way; see you on the one and a good trip on down to ya. . . Dixie Renegade,” replied the pilot.  

Two hours went by . . . no northbound traffic; the Margy Kelso was just clearing Point Houmas, fully expecting to see the stern lights of the Crimson Duke with every bend.  “Margy Kelso to the Crimson Duke,” called Chip on the VHF radio; all that was heard was silence.  “I need to find out where that tow is,” thought Chip; “I know a 35-barge tow doesn’t just disappear.”  After several more unfruitful tries to raise the Crimson Duke on the radio, Chip finally resigned himself to the fact that he would find the tow soon enough. 

About that time, clouds began covering the moon, making the river a dark spooky snake winding its way down through Louisiana.  Chip flipped on a searchlight to pick up the leading buoy off of Philadelphia Point.  River fog was beginning to form, whereby the warmth of the river, and cool night air, raises wisps of fog, like spirits of mariners gone by, giving an eerie look to the water.  “Margy Kelso is southbound, eight loads, at the upper end of Philadelphia Point, standing by for any concerned traffic,” said Chip into the microphone; once again, silence. 

As the wheelhouse began slipping around the point buoy in the middle of Philadelphia bend, spotlight shining, Chip looks up from the trusty Decca 914-C radar that graced the dash of the Margy Kelso.  It was then that he saw it . . . four miles ahead, beginning the flank at 81 Mile Point, the Crimson Duke with his 35 loaded barges, crossways in the river.  The Crimson Duke’s spotlights shined on the point, as well as his wing spotlight illuminated his tow. 

Chip recognized the gravity of the situation.  He reached for the throttles and placed them idle in reverse, still making about 14 miles an hour southbound.  As the air dumped out of the throttles making the familiar hiss, the radio blared “Crimson Duke to the southbound tow just clearing Philadelphia, come in skipper”  “Margy Kelso is southbound with 8 loads just clearing Philadelphia. . . I got ‘em cooled off for you, continue your flank, and I will keep on the one whistle side for you,” replied Chip. 

The turn of the searchlight to the bank showed Chip that the speed of his tow was not even affected by idling the engines in reverse.  He made the mistake many newbie’s to the river make; in the bite of the bend, he begins to back down full speed.  Still looking to the side to judge speed, he doesn’t realize that his swing light, located on the bow of the 800’-long tow was moving to the starboard.  When he looked out the front window to judge distance to the Crimson Duke, he saw the swing happening . . . he also noticed something more concerning, a mile in distance had slipped away in the last 5 minutes. 

Shoving the starboard engine full ahead and steering rudder hard to Port, Chip tried to stop the swinging of the tow; this however was to no avail, as the swing continued faster to starboard.  He brought the starboard engine to full astern to back the boat toward the middle of the river, in hopes to prevent the bow barges from jamming into the granite revetments on the point, with another mile slipping from his hands, the radio blared Crimson Duke to this tow I was talking to south of Philadelphia, Cap . . . you are going to be on top of me before I even get halfway around this bend. . . I’ve still got about 20 minutes in this flank.”  It was time now that the Crimson Duke heard the silence that he had provided, when Chip was trying to find out his location earlier. 

With both spotlights on, waving wildly, checking speed against the bank, looking for the buoy that disappeared beneath the second load, Chip performed some simple calculation in his head; there was an inevitability that the Margy Kelso would be on top of the Crimson Duke, in just mere minutes. 

Chip reached for the intercom and nervously pressed button 3, but not without knocking the coffee cup over on the dash of the wheelhouse.  “Come in southbound tow just south of Philadelphia. . ,” commanded the pilot of the Crimson Duke.  “Brad! . . . Brad! . . . I need you up here Brad,” Chip hollered into the Intercom.  At this point, the Margy Kelso and tow was pointed northbound in the river.  Chip shoved both throttles in full ahead steering hard to the port, to try and check the starboard swing of the tow.   

“Margy Kelso to the Crimson Duke, standby . . . I am trying to get rounded-up so I can stop my tow,” said Chip into the mic.  About that time the intercom comes on “What ‘cha need Chip. . ,” Brad asks. “I need you up here now; I am turning cartwheels in the river, and coming up on one of the southbound large tows,” Chip screamed into the intercom. 

The tow was unresponsive to the horsepower and rudder trying to muscle the swing to the starboard to cease.  The tow was, once again, sideways in the river traveling at about 12 miles per hour now.  A quick glance at the radar showed a mere mile and three quarters to the broadside of the Crimson Duke. 

With the stern pointed into the current once again, Chip pulled the throttles back to full astern.  “Margy Kelso to the Crimson Duke, I have temporarily lost control of the tow and am trying to stop, but don’t know if I will be able to.  If you have men out on the tow, I would suggest having them on your port side string of barges, away from any of the tow cables that may snap, as I may land on you,” said Chip, resigned to the fact that he may lose his license for this.   “Crimson Duke back to Margy Kelso, I will keep an eye on you, try to make toward the bite of the bend, as I have about 1000’ from the head of my tow to the bank on the right descending revetment,” offered the Crimson Duke’s pilot. 

By this time, the tow was again, 90-degrees in the river, making 10 miles an hour southbound, still steering hard to port to try and check the swing, Chip pushed the throttles back full ahead, driving for the bank, planning to sacrifice the port bow barge to the granite revetment.  It was then that Chip heard something that made his heart jump.“Betty Brent to the southbound large tow flanking 81-Mile point, I’m the first northbound tow headed up the bite side; see you on two whistles,” blared the radio.  Before Chip could grab the mic, the Crimson Duke transmitted “Betty Brent, hold your position, we have a situation developing here with an out-of-control tow about to overtake me in the bite-side of 81-Mile Point.”  “Ok, I will hold up at my current location, I got ‘em knocked in the head . . . You pick that up Exxon Baltimore, I am stopping just shy of 81 Mile Point.”  As the Exxon Baltimore acknowledged that he was stopping as well, Chip thought to himself, “how appropriate; a gasoline tow involved in this ‘butt-load of barges that will be floating downstream in an uncontrolled hoard.  

With the head of the tow pointed northward, once again, the steering to port had, at least, slowed the swing.  The wheelhouse door swung open “Ok, Chipper what’cha got,” stated Brad sleepily.  “I have made two complete 360’s in the river; I tried to find out where this joker was, and he didn’t answer his radio; I am still making about 9 miles an hour downstream; I just cleared Philadelphia, and there he was; I tried to back down then lost control of the tow,” Chip nervously stated, voice shaking.  “Where do you think you are,” asked Brad, bumping up the range on the radar.  “I am halfway between Philadelphia and 81 Mile Point,” said Chip, flipping the River Chart upside down to show the picture that the radar was showing; “See . . . that’s Bungee Grain fleet anchorage right there,” pointing to the bite of Philadelphia. 

Swinging the searchlight to the right, Chip saw that he was about three-quarters of a mile from the side of the Crimson Duke.  “Do you want the helm,” asked Chip, to which Brad replied “I’m still half asleep, and you haven’t torn anything up yet, so I will monitor what you are doing, and suggest things for you to do.”  Knowing the knots in the stomach that Captain Charles Hazelwood must have felt, when he found his tanker, the Exxon Valdez, aground on Bligh Reef, Chip finally realized “I will have to get myself out of this situation, as the Calvary is not coming.”  

By the time the Margy Kelso got within one half mile of the Crimson Duke, the tow had worked its way toward the bite side of 81 Mile Point, and was pointed southbound once again, with a gradual swing to the starboard.  Chip grabbed the throttles and jammed them full astern, with both flanking and main rudders pointing to port; this would increase the rotation to starboard, but keep the bow from jamming into the granite revetment.  At this point Chip got the first view of the northbound tows held up in the bite side of 81 Mile Point. 

At a quarter of a mile from the Crimson Duke, Chip reached for the radio, as if guided by some unknown force.  “Margy Kelso to the Crimson Duke, I plan on overtaking you on one whistle, as I will be pointed directly at the bite of the bend and hope for the current to carry me past your bow.  Betty Brent, I want you to come ahead on your tow now and start heading this way, as I will have my tow pointing northward, and back between you and the Crimson Duke, overtake me on two, I repeat, two whistles.  Exxon Baltimore, as soon as I get abreast of the Betty Brent, bring it on up, as I will be pointed southbound at that time, and will meet you on two whistles,” commanded Chip. 

“Well, at least you have a plan . . . and it sounds like a good one,” said Brad, as he poured himself a cup of old coffee, in Chip’s spilled cup, and took a sip, “a good plan indeed.”  Brad settled onto the set-tee in the wheelhouse to get out of Chip’s line of sight.   Chip focused the port spotlight on the corner of the Crimson Duke’s tow, which was rapidly approaching at about an 8 mile an hour clip.  The tow was about 1000 feet upstream from the Margy Kelso, as Chip bumped the radar range down to one-eighth of a mile, and tuned the gain to show the sharp edges of the Crimson Duke.  He focused the starboard searchlight on the starboard bow corner of his tow to judge the distance from the granite revetment. 

As the boat approached the Crimson Duke’s tow, Chip moved the rudders to full starboard and continued backing astern.  100 foot, 50 foot, 25 foot . . . then Chip turned to look out the back window at the stern corner of the boat as it passed the Crimson Duke’s bow with about twenty-five foot to spare.  He reached up and turned the port spotlight off, to keep from blinding the northbound tows.  “All clear of your bow Crimson Duke; have a good trip on down. . . Margy Kelso” radioed Chip.    

With about one quarter of a mile to play with before meeting the Betty Brent, Chip turned the rudders back to port to get the motion going for another complete revolution. “Margy Kelso to Betty Brent, I should be pointed northbound by the time you get up here, so hammer-down on it. . . overtake me on two whistles,” said Chip into the mic.  Within two minutes, the Betty Brent was abreast of the Margy Kelso, passing the tow on two whistles as agreed.  “Come on up Exxon Baltimore, I should be back around by the time you get up here. . . I will meet you on two,” said Chip.  “Coming ahead on it; Exxon Baltimore,” blared the radio. 

Crossways in the river for one last time, Chip put the starboard engine full ahead and kept the port engine backing full astern; the Caterpillar D-379 TA engines whined against the load of trying to stop sixteen-thousand tons of sugar from swinging to the starboard.  The swing was just about stopped as the Exxon Baltimore came abreast of the Margy Kelso and tow.  Chip turned the starboard spotlight off and tuned the trusty radar back to mile-and-a-half range.   

Chip sat down in the wheelhouse chair, then spun around and looked at Brad.  “Well that sucked,” retorted Chip, feeling as though he had just jogged the Boston Marathon, but won; it was a bad feeling, yet a good feeling at the same time.  “That was some great planning and execution on your part,” said Brad, finally breaking the silence that fell upon him since sitting down; “I couldn’t, and wouldn’t have done anything different,” he said as he got to his feet.  About that time, the clock struck 0500, which is when Brad was usually awakened to go on the morning watch.  “I got you . . . go on down, get you some sleep, and lets talk about what happened when you get up in the morning,” said Brad; “I’ll even keep your coffee cup,” he sniggered. 

When one goes through a traumatic experience such as this, one doesn’t usually just ‘go down, and go to sleep,’ as Chip soon found out.  Half way down the wheelhouse steps, he looked over the stern of the boat, over the wheel wash churning the muddy water of the Mississippi, back to what would become his nemesis; 81 Mile Point would rear its ugly head to Chip more than once during his time as a tugboat captain.  Though oblivious to that fact, he looked to see the Crimson Duke finishing the flank at the point, and begin driving into the bite of the bend.  At the same time, he saw the stern lights of the Exxon Baltimore disappearing in the trees on the upper end of the bend.

Chip began to shake, as he entered the galley, face as white as a ghost.  The smell of bacon, eggs and fresh biscuits filled the air.  “What the hell were you doing last night,” asked Jimmy, the captain’s deckhand, as he took a sip of a fresh cup of tugboat coffee.  “If I tell you, I would have to kill you,” replied Chip.  Not able to sleep, with adrenalin still coursing through his veins, Chip grabbed a work vest and headed out on the tow. 

He walked to the front of the tow, and listened to the quiet; the sound of the water being plied through by the bow of the tow was normally relaxing.  Right now, the events of the morning, the smell of breakfast, and the realization of what could have happened, got the best of Chip, as he positioned himself over the bow bitts of the tow and heaved the morning’s coffee into the muddy river.  With that done, he looked up and saw the morning sky begin to turn the slightest shade of pink, hinting at the beginning of a new day. 

As soon as the sun came up, he headed back toward the boat and listened to the drone of the engines of the Margy Kelso growing louder.  He looked to the port and noticed the Dixie Renegade, breaking tow and going on dock at Shell Pipeline’s berth.  It seemed ironic that this learning experience began with a view of his stern lights.  Chip then thought back to a statement made by the captain of the M/V Rai Elizabeth Kelso, Captain Mark; “You know Chip . . . being a wheelman on a tugboat is comprised of 90-percent shear boredom, and 10-percent shear terror; there is no middle ground,” he would say.  “Well, I guess I know what the shear terror consists of now,” thought Chip as he closed the bow hatch, heading for his bunkroom. 

Chip didn’t know of the impending nightmares that would follow an experience of tugboat terror, but he soon would. . .