Clearpool

It was stiflingly hot in the MV Clearpool’s aft hold. Situated just above the engine room, the smell of grease, diesel and sweat was overpowering. The four men worked quickly to secure the pallet and release the derrick hook from the net. As they looked up at the retreating cables, their upturned faces blinked in the tropical sun like startled cave dwellers.

“Alright Stewy,” the Bosun nudged him in the ribs. Kristiono smiled weakly. Years at sea, physical work above and below decks had given his face a wan look to match his skinny frame. ‘Stewy’ was an unimaginative nickname. Stewy was unfortunate. It reminded everyone that he was without an official rank in the boat. He was acting Captain’s Steward, not permanent, not promoted and therefore most likely to get hauled into any job onboard when hands were short. One advantage of this ‘jack of all trades’ utility was that Kristiono knew the boat intimately. So no official recognition but an improvement on the callow youth who had fled onshore responsibilities many years before.

The Bosun or ‘boss’, was an intimidating figure. A huge frame topped by a mop of brown hair, he had grey eyes, a prominent chin and enormous hands. Not somebody you disagreed with, ever. It was crystal clear who ran things and it wasn’t the Skipper. 

Boss retrieved the baling hook from the back of his belt and cracked open the top of a corner chest on the pallet. Peering inside he compared the contents with the manifest pasted to the outside. Grunting with satisfaction, he widened the cavity with his large paws and handed around the bottles from within to the other deckhands Stanley, George and of course Kristiono. A couple of kicks caved in the chest completely and ‘damaged goods’ could now be added to the loading report. A rather too regular occurrence but largely overlooked given the small value compared to the main hold.

Kristiono took the bottle. He felt anxious, sick yet strangely happy that he was included in this illicit act. One of the gang, belonging. Oh how he would later despise his actions in the seclusion of his bunk and rap his knuckles on the hull in feigned punishment. 

…

Sleep was elusive. The sheets were grimy and sweat soaked. But he didn’t mind. He stared up at the ceiling and the faded Serenity Prayer plastered to it. Its presence predated his dozen or so years onboard and given multiple crews prior to that suggested a lengthy line of drink-challenged occupants. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the bottle in his sink from the cargo pilfering. An uncomfortable reminder of his complicity. He hadn’t initiated it but he had done nothing to stop it. 

Ironically he was not a drinker. The discarded bottle was still unopened. Easy enough to pour down the sink or throw overboard at night. So why had he accepted it in the first place he asked himself. No, the bottle represented something more. A history of flight, failure and compromise. His onboard concessions had been small at first, turning a blind eye, a deaf ear, accepting the odd kickback, handling pilfered goods. To fit in, to belong and besides, he told himself, there were likely bigger plots afoot to which he was not a party. What difference could he really make?

‘Courage to change that which can be changed’ read the prayer. He so wanted to change. More than that he wanted circumstances to change irrevocably. Naive. Probably.

He took out a faded photograph from his front shirt pocket. Well creased, the picture showed a carefree, young woman in a Baju Kurung and a small boy with a dark mop of hair in a mock sailor outfit holding onto his mother’s leg. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to reimagine the scene.

The boy would be seagoing age now. ‘How all occasions do inform against me,’ he recalled a quote from the Skipper. A resolution was forming. He swung his legs off the bunk and returned the picture to his pocket.

…

A week or so later and after the Brisbane to Surabaya run, Kristiono was cleaning up in the small galley attached to the dining room. He was busy at the sink washing the crockery when the hairs on his neck suddenly stood up warning of a menacing presence. He turned slowly to find himself within centimetres of Stanley’s face. His breath smelt of kretek cigarettes and garlic. Backed against the sink, he couldn’t move. Stanley wasn’t actually touching him but he was so close, he thought he could feel his heart beating.

The threat of violence was omnipresent with Stanley, one of the Boss’ closest stand over men. Despite the Anglo name, Stanley spoke with a strong East European accent. Kristiono had never had the courage to ask from exactly where. There were lots of stories about his predilection for explosive physical force. Shore police had returned him to the ship and its brig on many occasions. He wasn’t particularly tall, about the same height as Kristiono, his premature stoop notwithstanding. Completely bald, he was broad across the shoulders and very fit judging from the tattooed muscles that bulged from his open shirt. Cold grey eyes sat above a large aquiline nose and a permanent expression of disdain. These were now intensely directed at Kristiono.

The galley had emptied but he could see George, the second mate and by rank actually the senior of the two, loitering by the door. A smaller, darker version of Stanley with a pot belly, he followed him around like a mute lap dog. There was no one to witness let alone help.

“You be a good old man Stewy and stay away from the aft hold for the trip back, eh.” It wasn’t a question but a command. The Boss was clearly graduating to bigger things and picking his mates more selectively. Kristiono said nothing, initially paralysed with fear then surprisingly calm. He realised Stanley was so close he couldn’t actually hit him so this was a verbal warning only. Small mercies, he thought. He looked down at his feet and wished him away. The silence was broken by George belching. “You’re disgusting Georgie, no good manners,” Stanley laughed. George rubbed his belly, grinned and they left the galley together. 

Kristiono heaved a sigh of relief. He put the wet cloth to one side. He had been holding it so tightly during the encounter, one side of his trousers was sodden.

…

The loading was finished. Kristiono had been careful to keep away from the aft hold as instructed. The Skipper had been in a particularly needy mood. Lunch and supper on the bridge. It was unusual for him to ask for one meal atop let alone two. The loading and turnaround schedule were tight and the Clearpool was required to slip moorings from Tanjung Perak at first light. 

As the battens were fixed to the holds in the late evening, he took the Skipper an unrequested coffee topped with whisky and found himself unusually alone with the old man looking out over the dock from the bridge. 

“Thanks Pak Kristiono. Best time of the day is this.” The Skipper was the only one of the entire crew who referred to him by his real name. At least a decade older, he looked the part with a deeply tanned face, a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard, and typically dressed in an off white shirt, cap and blazer. Closer inspection showed the latter had seen better days. As part of his many duties, Kristiono had darned the elbows at least twice. Skipper’s clothes looked oversized which gave the impression he had either lost a lot of weight recently or stepped into a much bigger man’s attire. Given the Clearpool command came towards the end of his seagoing career, Kristiono couldn’t help but feel the Skipper’s dress matched his demeanour, that of stale disappointment. Clearpool was the most reliable merchant ship in the company fleet but no flagship for a man on which to close his career. They both stared out over the foredeck and the setting sun above the bow line. A picture postcard scene. An unspoken exchange.

Kristiono turned and was about to begin his descent to the galley. It was almost a whisper, but he heard him right enough, “They’ve gone too far. Make it count Pak. One day I hope you will think better of me.” The Skipper bowed his head, lost in thought.

…

His Watch was underway and he did not expect to be relieved until the early hours. The crew had long since disembarked for a last libidinous night ashore. The smoke surprised him. It was incredibly dense, suffocating and rising fast up from the engine room. Kristiono had to move fast to avoid being cut off from the aft hold and the gangplank his only exit. 

Sliding down the rail, he turned and pulled on the spiny wheel that secured the water tight door. As it gave, a strong smell wafted over him, a mix of human waste, fear and desperation. They’d only been in the hold less than a day, but there was little ventilation and some had already been sick. “Api! Api! Naik tangga, jangan berhenti!,” he screamed at them in his native Indonesian. They didn’t need to be told twice as the smoke was sucked into the hold. He couldn’t believe how many there were, perhaps twenty women and girls carrying all their worldly possessions. He dragged and cajoled them up the ladder, across the deck and onto the aft gangplank. 

Although the moonless night had concealed most of the smoke, there was no mistaking the acrid smell coming from the dock - the fire had reached the oil tank - and within an hour or so, the Clearpool had developed a clear list at the stern.

A series of rumblings within preceded the main explosion which blew out all the cowl vents consecutively across the deck in some strangely coordinated pyrotechnic display. 

She never actually sank. When they finally got the fire under control, the Clearpool had settled level with the top of the bridge and derricks just above water. At the inquiry that followed, the cause of the fire was traced to the engine room where an electrical fault, it was assumed, had ignited and spread along the fuel lines assisted by combustible material carelessly left along the lower deck.

The port authorities labelled the Bosun, Stanley and George ‘persons of interest’ when they failed to return to the dock. The ensuing report from the inquiry noted the acting chief steward who was on Watch, a man called ‘Stewy’ or Kristiono (the log used the names interchangeably), and the Skipper were ‘missing aboard’. There was no record of the latter two having left the dock so cadavers were expected. There were allegations of human trafficking given luggage and personal items recovered but nobody came forward, nobody ever did in such situations.

Whatever the inquiry’s conclusions, Kristiono was long gone. Once the young women had reached a safe distance from the ship, he had distributed a large wad of US dollars jimmied out of Boss’ cabin locker, and returned to the bridge. Unable to find the Skipper, the gangplank engulfed in flame and with the sound of sirens suddenly audible from the shore, he dropped overboard into the velvety blackness just in time to feel heat from the explosion on the back of his neck and shoulders. Full immersion in the cold sea water was like a baptism. Dragging a small waterproof bag tied to his ankle containing a few meagre possessions, he swam effortlessly towards a collection of small fishing vessels on the opposite side of the jetty. Looking back he felt no small regret at seeing his home of many years drop in the water in a cloud of smoke and fire. 

…

A new start. A good start he hoped. Despite such a momentous decision and the events of the last few days, including very ambiguous feelings about sabotage balanced in some catholic fashion by the release of the women, he had not planned that far ahead. Naturally he wanted to get home. But he hadn’t the foggiest how to make this happen. Officially he would be listed as ‘missing’. This would become ‘presumed dead’, then eventually just ‘dead’. This could take years of course assuming he were to disappear completely. He wondered whether the Skipper really had ‘gone down with his ship’ or like him, was seeking a new start.

Whatever the future held, for the present, he felt able to shape his own destiny, able to write his own story and put forward his own clear truth. The loss of everything had acted as a release. For the first time in his life, he need not live under the false and often contemptible expectations of others.