Page 251 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

seemed to have more than any other was a youngish fellow called Casey (at
least, that was what we named him), an ex-tug skipper from Seattle. A watch
on the bridge with him could pass in pleasant style, which could not always
be said in these sometimes stilted circumstances.

But one could not always rely upon ‘routine’. We sometimes fell behind our
schedule (late passengers, tours held up, delays in berthing and the like) and
on one nice bright night we found ourselves somewhat delayed in departing
Ketchikan. There was an alternative route to Juneau that was shorter, but which
entailed the transit of Wrangell Narrows, a passage between two of the larger
islands that West Star had infrequently used in the past. Mullin was concerned
about our schedule, largely because many tours were tightly programmed and
getting behind could often mean that delay fed upon earlier delays. He therefore
asked the senior pilot (Ed), one who spent his winters on his farm in Montana,
whether we should use the Narrows. I also asked Casey about this transit, because
I had had a previous trip with Ed and thought him a bit amateurish. Casey said
that he himself had had insufficient experience with the Narrows and felt that
in the circumstances he would not recommend such a transit, an opinion with
which Ed ‘somewhat’ agreed. I returned to Mullin and strongly suggested that
we take the longer route, I having seen how convoluted the Narrows were, and
Ed’s hesitant response bore out my previous reservations respecting his rather
loose style with commands. But Mullin declared that the schedule had to be
maintained if possible, and that Wrangell it would be. I then ensured that Bob
Ward was available as the helmsman.

Mullin, both pilots and I were on the bridge as we entered the passage. As
before, it presented an alarming sight, especially as it was a crystal-clear night; so
‘twisted’ is its winding route (it is twenty-two miles in length) that all one sees is
a mass of flashing green, red and white lights, and the perspective is so poor that
it is more important to know the point reached rather rely upon a guidance from
such confusing lights.

About half-way through the Narrows (when all seemed to be going well) Ed
said, “Starboard 10,” but signalled with his left hand to put the helm over to port.

Bob said, “Don’t you mean Port 10?”

“No,” said Ed and gesticulated more vigorously with his left hand … in
seconds, though Bob applied some port helm, we were aground. “Oh,” said
Ed, “I mixed up left and right” (or something to that effect). Needless to say, I
immediately looked at the chart, and observed that we were over ‘loose stones
and sand’, a bottom that relieved some concerns. I told the watchman to go below
to call the carpenter to take some soundings, but I did not think that we had
sustained any real damage; we were at the time on ‘slow ahead’. And so it proved;

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