Oh, My Darling Carmelita
Crew Tales: 2018s1
The Accidental Linemen
'We never stole anything" the elfin-faced stooping old cook grumbled on as he ladled a bowlful of simmering broth from the soot-blackened pot in the makeshift kitchen which we hastily put up out of empty oil drums for the men who boarded the ship yesterday. 'It was just very embarassing to be branded like that for something we didn't do," he annoyingly remarked as he craned his neck to wipe away the trickles of sweat dripping from his bare sunburnt head while the merciless sun beat its fury deep into his naked innocense. I somehow believed him.
Pedro
A few months ago they were merely fishermen. Then a fierce storm that wrecked havoc to their livelihood changed all that.
The loading jetty of the nearby limestone mining company was irreparably damaged by the storm surge that the barren cargo ships were instead loaded offshore using low-draft, war-era LCT's converted into barges. For a mere promise of a seasonal income, the inhabitants living near the facilty were all bundled up together to help in the rigorous process of tackling the dangerous operation of shipwork.
'And just when does two thousand and a half pesos excluding food and transportation allowances for an average thirteen days of loading a single ship good enough', a burly man with a faded naked lady tattooed on his arm piped in. 'That, if those greedy tea-sipping shippers in Manila remembered to pay us up front on time, he retorted red-faced and clearly disgusted. 'The only consolation we've had so far are the few fishes that we've managed to land, salted and sun-dried to avoid getting spoiled, he added. Pedro, that was his name, once sailed as a steward in a domestic shipping company before the owners decided to file for bancruptcy and as the only guy who had experienced working onboardship, he was made crew supervisor. Missing two front teeth from a brawl on a Sunday night dance sojourn upland made his disposition menacingly convincing enough though the years of living impoverishly imperceptibly mellowed his spirit to a seething silence of defeat. 'The guys we've replaced were the ones who were stealing from the ships, he said. 'We can't afford to lose everything just for a handful of brass bolts, don't you think' he added, clearly annoyed. Maybe not, I said to myself, half-whispering.
Fishing.
'Reel deep, about twenty meters down! 'That's were the big fishes are', a young man with a heavily intonated accent hollered out suddenly, breaking the awkward silence beforehand as we casted our fishing lines aftship. Schools of fingerlings casting luminencent bubblets are now crisscrossing the narrowed shaft of beam from the ships spotlight trained just below the half secured gangway. The constant jigging of the lines interspersed with some vigorous reeling-in and the contented faces of a big catch momentarily weathered away the passage of time as the night patiently erased the dying light of day. 'Using a live bait ensures a good catch', a heavily muscled young lad sporting a tomahawked hairstyle sided by, gently cupping a freshly caught baitfish in his cracked and calloused hand (and a cellphone in the other) which he deftly wrapped around my barren hook. 'We've caught a twenty pounder from the other ship anchored a mile away yesterday', he reassuringly added. 'But then the sharks at the fishmarket made a better bargain for it with three bottles of 'Empe' and a couple of 'Jackpot' packs to boot'. 'That's why we're batting to SELL the next one, God willing, to the CAPTAIN', he intentionally remarked loudly.
'Never mind that punk!' I heard someone replied. 'The guys fom Surigao are the better fishers', said the man next to me, mumbling, while trying to untangled a few strands of knotted fishing line on deck. 'They've also been spearfishing in the shallows with good results lately since they arrived a couple of months ago', he added. Surigao?, I asked, perflexed. 'Well son, how the hell do we fishermen knew anything about operating a crane', he exhorted mockingly though clearly dismayed.
Home.
'There will be a benefit dance near the fishport come Saturday night', said the pot-bellied guy who owned the service banca one scorching day as we sauntered away on deck hoping to catch any wayward breeze passing by. 'I'll introduce you to Carmelita' he passionately added, chuckling in some sort of maniacal way while pretending to squeeze a hapless imaginary waist against his crotch that was already half-hidden by his bulging belly.
'You'll be better off with me', an aged man sporting a huge gold ring interrupted, as he turned to face us from his perch on a hanging hammock tied between the ship's railing and a jutting gangway spar. 'We'll hire a motorcycle to take us up to those mountains beyond the town where pretty ladies abound, he enticingly added. 'Although a dance cost five pesos, I'm sure it'll be worth the hike',he added.
'No,no,no! 'This guy's a "Sano" so he'll be better off in the town's cockfighting arena'. 'It's just beyond that exclusive beach front with white-painted roofings', the pencil-mustached outrigger master, wearing almost nothing but a loosely-hanged dirty baggy shorts, reiterated.
'I'll be going home this coming Sunday', I replied, interrupting. 'After more than a couple of decades being away, I guess it will be quite proper'.
'You'd better be, Sano', the man with the missing front teeth replied. 'I'll personally ferry you there come Sunday', he adamantly insisted while anchoring his huge left arm around my sagging shoulders and pointedly gestured to the barren fishport a mile away with the other. ' It'll cost you 300 pesos,though!', he added with a brazen devilish grin.
The Old Cook.
'We've been doing this shift since March when the Cebuano's were all sacked by the management for allegedly pilfering the brass nozzles of the rigged hydrants on deck'. 'Twenty ships so far and not a single incident or complain from the ship's master', the old cook rattled on while easing out from his cocooned perch. 'I've been lucky so far, considering my age, to be included in this work gang instead of spending my time at home waiting for the northeast monsoon to abate'. 'And they probably liked my cooking too, he proudly added. 'Meat, my son, meat, that's the secret!' 'For anybody raised on a fish diet and used to believing meat is reserved for fiesta's only, here is where they can splurge it exceedingly without any complimentary regret'. 'I specifically make sure they all have that, daily!' 'Anyway, I'd better start boiling water now for the coffee since the barge will be here around 2AM, come high tide'. 'Otherwise, my pots and pans will surely be swimming along with the fishes tomorrow', he lamented. 'The gang's probably at the tally room right now, playing cards to while away the time'.
He was absolutely wrong as I watched the luminescent silhouette of cellphone lights emanating from the pregnant hammocks swaying gently with the rolling tide that was wallowing underneath the steeled enormousity we all are, in deprivity, imprisoned within. He was already an old man at 52.
Sunday.
There were to be no scheduled barge operation today so the accidental linemen hurriedly embarked to the already overloaded service outrigger to spend a few hours with their families. When the port's loading master explained that it was all because the shallow-draft barge touched bottom due to an unexpected low tide, everybody knew its was a half-truth. And your guess is as good as mine. Today is benefit dance Sunday!
And somehow somewhere out there tonight, Carmelita will be very busy.
