On the way back from Pulau Pawai The sun beat down on us and we got happily dehydrated on deck, staying in the fresh air above the smoky cabin below.
Ah yes: the smoky cabin below. This is the second part of the story, in which we discover that our trusty craft isn't so trusty after all. We were chugging into the busiest part of Singapore's oil-refinery island shipping lanes when the engine started choking instead of chugging, and a distinct smell of burning rubber drifted into our evening air. The captain stopped the tortured motor and we drifted placidly to a halt. We bobbed quite merrily amongst the barges and the oil barges, enjoying the industrial scenery.
I was impressed with the calm with which people accepted the change in plans. The dive master and the captain briefly consulted one another and dropped the anchor off the bow to stop our drifting towards the nearest refinery. We laughed and joked about the situation, reluctant to let go of the easy atmosphere that had prevailed only five minutes before. For a while nobody did anything and we watched the traffic flow around us. Some people lifted the hatch off the engine and started poking around inside. Copious amounts of salt water were poured into the converted tractor engine's cooling system. Not a marine engine, I might add, and definitely not designed to swallow salt water. Clouds of steam issued forth from the depths of the bilge. Gaskets were tugged, seals were wiggled curiously and various useful-looking bolts were tightened confidently. The engine didn't acknowledge the treatment, or our imploring stares. When the ignition was pushed, it made vomiting-cat noises then belched out a sickly cloud of evil-smelling smoke. Truly an unhealthy engine. The hatch was replaced, arms were crossed, and all members of the crew assumed puzzled-looking postures. Our captain spoke only Hokkien but body language is universal: "I'll be buggered if I know what the problem is," said he by the set of his shoulders and the slump of his belly. "We'll just have to sit here and look broken until someone decides to come and fix us."
Then he gestured for us to start waving for help. We joyfully started flashing towels and arms to attract the attention of the numerous craft passing us by. There was a slightly festive air to our excited gesticulation, the ladies doing their best damsel-in-distressing and the guys all manfully waving towels in the sky. Danny got out his cell-phone and called up the owner of the boat so he could get us a tow back into the harbor. Wonderful things, those cell-phones. Everyone should have one for situations just like this.
We succeeded in flagging down a passing bumboat who indicated that he wouldn't be able to help us just yet as he was on his way to some other destination than the one we wanted to go to. He did offer, for a price, to come get us on the way back, though. Nice.
It was at this point that someone politely pointed out that we were drifting towards a large, bristling metal object and an associated chunk of smoothly rocky shoreline. I assumed the object was something to do with the oil industry because it looked to be made of a bunch of six foot high pipes, and could have been converted easily into a water amusement park. (except for the fact that it was extremely rusty and oily-looking, and they looked quite capable of tearing a large hole in the side of the boat. Amusement parks don't generally poke holes in the sides of boats). The island near which our vessel had decided to call it quits was inhabited by an oil refinery. We were about five hundred feet away and closing at a relaxedly alarming rate.
No one did much of anything for awhile, like it was taking some time for reality to set in. Some of us sat on deck, some of us continued to wave towels half-heartedly, with limited success. Friendly people waved back, to our growing consternation. The engine was uncovered again and the same buttons and knobs were poked and twiddled, with the same degree of success as before. A hammer was produced, then was deemed too drastic a medicine for the problem. The captain pushed the starter again and this time no smoke happened. No sounds happened, either.
By this time we were getting close to the rocks, the pipes and a more appropriate level of alarm. The anchor was having little or no effect on our rate of drifting and there was no spare. I suggested that maybe someone should swim with a rope over to a nearby marker buoy to at least stop our drifting. Danny started suiting up in snorkel, mask and fins, I stationed myself at the stern which was now only fifty feet from the pipes. I wasn't really concerned that we were going to die. I was, however, concerned that it would be rather inconvenient to abandon ship, especially considering the lack of life-rafts, etc. Land was only a little way away, but I really didn't feel like spending the night trudging through the oil refinery that occupied the island we were about to be wrecked on. I can imagine the collection of holiday snaps I would be able to show my friends on our return: This is the dive, this is the people I dived with and here's the smokestacks of the petrochemical island that trashed our boat, Here's us swimming ashore... At least my camera was in a waterproof case.
The words "Nick of time" apply beautifully to the arrival of the large orange tugboat that came to our rescue. We were no more than thirty feet from a messy, dangerous dumping when the Australian vessel "Kingstown" appeared from around a convenient corner and headed our way. They tossed us a line and tied us alongside to start towing us away. A nice gesture that, much appreciated. Just not the ideal strategy for the circumstances. Now, instead of being just in danger of crashing on the large collection of sharp-looking pipes, we were now in danger of being crushed between a massive Australian tugboat and the aforementioned collection of rusty steel. Not only that, but the wave action was causing our two boats to crash together with increasing force. I was standing on the stern deck when the siding on the tug hooked under the decking where I was standing and seemed to lever the whole lot upwards away from the rest of our boat. As I scuttled to the relative safety of the cabin, there came from behind me the ugly noise of breaking fiberglass and splintering wood.
Fortunately the Australians noticed this and let out some line as soon as we were away from the immediate threat of dry land. The rope we were using was only quarter-inch nylon and it strained ominously as we moved away. Everyone moved off the foredeck in case it should break. The Australians were obviously not impressed by our performance, especially when a thrown rope knocked over a coffee cup and broke it to a million pieces on their deck. They dragged us over to the marker buoy we'd been planning to send Danny over to, helped us tie up with the straining nylon rope. We bobbed there, thankfully far less mobile than we had been ten minutes earlier. We waved goodbye to the Australian tug, whose crew waved half-heartedly as they went to pick up the pieces of their broken mug.
George arrived half an hour later. George was the owner of our newly distressed craft, and we could see him looking worried in the cockpit of the approaching boat. Apparently he'd had to rent the boat, a seventy-foot tanker tug, for 1000 dollars, as it was the only one in the area with a towing license. It seemed somewhat ridiculous to have that massive boat taking us into harbor when a rowboat with a five-horse engine could have done the job just as well, but we weren't paying and were concerned mainly with getting back home. Lines were tossed and exchanged.
The sun was setting as we made our way back up the river to the marina. We
were all sunburned and thirsty, but happy not to be exploring a
petrochemical factory. We dreamed of the dinner and ice-kachang we would
buy later in the evening and started planning our next diving trip.
We're hoping to go to Tiomann Island for three days of diving and fun on
the first of May. Maybe we won't break down...
