Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Barges passed us coming the other way, carrying refinery products, wood chips, grain.
We were the only large tanker; because the channel was too narrow for two such ships to
pass each other, their comings and goings were scheduled so that it never happened. But
even the movements of smaller craft had to be carefully coordinated to ensure safe passage
through such constricted waters. So Tweedel and Duane were also traffic controllers, scru-
tinizing the approach of other vessels, ordering them around, negotiating what maneuvers
they and the
Pink Sands
would take as they met.
“I'm gonna need some of that water, Cap'n,” Tweedel said over the radio, cajoling an
oncoming tug into position.
We were entering Port Arthur, passing under the soaring eyesore of the bridge that con-
nected Pleasure Island with West Port Arthur. The Valero refinery crawled by on the left,
superb in the mist. The Sabine Pilots should charge for tours of the waterfront. Throw in a
bottle of champagne and some strawberries, and nobody would ever have to ride in a hot-
air balloon again.
On the right, I spotted the concrete slab where Nelson and I had gone fishing. He had
called me earlier in the week, leaving a joyously unintelligible message, inviting me over
for dinner the night before my ride with the Sabine Pilots. He still had my oil spill fish in
his freezer. We cooked them in foil packets on a grill in his front yard, next to his dump
truck. The fish that needs no oil, steaming and succulent, with rice and tortillas on the side.
We had reached downtown Port Arthur.
“Isn't this the place where the accident happened in January?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” Tweedel said. “It was a ship just like this.” And there was silence on the
bridge.
Tweedel and Duane were deeply skilled men, dedicated to their craft and fully aware of
its importance. But any system that depends on a high level of human skill is, by its nature,
vulnerable to human error. Many months later, when the government finally announced the
results of its investigation into the Port Arthur oil spill, it would point the finger largely at
the Sabine Pilots. The lead pilot on board the
Eagle Otome,
in particular, had started his
turn under the bridge too late, and then failed to correct for the sheering motions that res-
ulted, pushing the tanker into a grand swerve that ended in its collision at the wharf. The
government report would acknowledge other contributing factors, but it would place the
most specific blame at the feet of the pilots. In the end, it came down to bad driving.
I went outside on the port deck, a steel platform that jutted out from the wheelhouse,
high over the water. The rain had stopped, and the breeze was warm under the clouds, and
faintly rank. Earlier, the air had been full of birds, a squad of pelicans coasting overhead,
just out of reach, and black-headed Bonaparte's gulls cavorting behind the ship. They were
