Biscay Bay, grandpa, seagulls, and the Global Mariner. Time for some sea stories

A long time ago, when I was a Chief Officer, I worked on a ship where the captain was a German. An elderly man from Bavaria, we used to call him "Grandpa." In his sixties, he was still flying a hang glider. In the Alps, no less. I won’t lie—this filled me with genuine admiration. Once, I asked him what it was like up there, in the air, soaring high above the ground. His answer was a single sentence, spoken as if he was revealing something deeply personal: It is quiet up there.

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16 february 2025   |   08:08   |   Source: Gazeta Morska   |   Prepared by: Tadeusz Hatalski, kpt. ż.w.   |   Print

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I have never flown a hang glider. Though I have flown on my own hands—but only in dreams, not in reality. So, I truly don’t know what it feels like to glide through the air. But that one sentence was enough for me to understand what he meant. In my mind’s eye, I could see it all: white cumulus clouds against a deep blue sky, steep Alpine peaks nearby, and up there, a lone figure with outstretched wings, silently floating above a green valley. A human being fulfilling the eternal dream of flight. The dream of flying like a bird. I didn’t ask anything more.

But Grandpa, besides loving silence and flying gliders, absolutely hated "rolling"—the relentless pitching and rolling of a ship in a storm. And unfortunately, at sea—especially in winter—this happens quite often. Once, in Biscay Bay, we hit some unfriendly weather. The storm waves tossed the ship mercilessly. No course adjustments helped to find a smoother ride. The ship was loaded almost to the "mark," the maximum load line, with some heavy cargo. This made matters worse since heavy cargo doesn’t fill the entire hold but lies at the bottom, making the ship extremely stiff. This resulted in violent, jarring motions that were particularly unbearable. And it had been going on for two days.

On the second day of the storm, as my afternoon watch was coming to an end, Grandpa came up to the bridge and gave a firm order: Make all ballast full.

Here’s something that needs explaining. Our Bavarian captain had spent practically his entire career on fishing vessels, which almost always sail with full ballast tanks. Rarely does a catch weigh enough to bring a fishing vessel down to its full load line. But things are different on cargo ships. When a ship is fully loaded, ballast tanks remain empty. Filling them would overload the vessel, reducing the freeboard and, in stormy weather, increasing the risk of sinking.

We will get overloaded, I protested.

Never mind, he replied.

Grandpa wanted to sink the ship lower in the water to reduce the rolling—even though "rolling" wasn’t the best term for what was happening. "Tossing," "jerking," or "flipping" would have been more accurate.

Well, the captain gives orders, and the crew follows them. So, I went down to the engine room to pass the command to the chief engineer. On the way, I quickly calculated how many ballast tanks we could safely fill without exceeding the load line. The numbers showed we could safely fill only tank number three.

The chief engineer, also Polish, listened to my explanation. I slightly modified the original order, instructing him to fill only ballast tank three and report to the captain. And if the captain insisted on filling more, under no circumstances should he comply—because if we crossed the mark in this weather, the ship would simply sink. And we would go down with it.

Then I went to sleep. I was still young back then, and young people sleep soundly.

In the morning, I woke up and, looking out the window, saw that we were still sailing on the water—not under it. Over breakfast, I asked the chief engineer how things had played out with the ballasts. He told me he did exactly as we had agreed—filled ballast tank three and reported it to the bridge. Grandpa, in the meantime, must have reconsidered and remembered he was on a cargo ship, not a fishing vessel. He didn’t insist on filling the rest.

Then, the seagulls appeared, flying above the stern—a sign that the storm was passing. We continued south toward Cape Finisterre, where Biscay Bay ends. No more course changes, and with calmer seas.

It was Grandpa who taught me that seagulls know what the weather will be like. This lesson came while I was changing the paper in the facsimile—a device that once printed weather maps on board, similar to the ones shown on TV weather forecasts. The paper roll had run out, and I loaded a new one—the last one we had on board. I informed Grandpa that we needed to buy more paper in the next port.

His response was half-joking, half-serious: Ah, why waste money? Load toilet paper into the facsimile—it’s just as useful as the charts it prints. If you really want to know what the weather will be like, watch the seagulls. If they’re flying over the water, the weather will be good. If they’re sitting, fluffed up on the water or onshore, bad weather is coming.

Since then, I started watching seagulls. Grandpa was right. Seagulls always know what’s coming, and their "forecast" never fails. That day in Biscay, they were right again. And we safely reached port.

Years later, in 1998, in a completely different setting, I found myself recalling Grandpa’s lesson about seagulls. That year, as part of a campaign against "flags of convenience," the Global Mariner—a ship operated by the International Transport Workers’ Federation (ITF)—made a stop in Gdynia. The ship was on a European tour, hosting an exhibition showcasing life at sea and raising awareness about exploitative shipping practices (a problem that remains unresolved to this day). I was involved in the event.

During one of the tours, I was on the bridge, explaining the equipment, life at sea, and the issue of flags of convenience to a group of visitors. From the bridge, there was a clear view of the Gdynia port breakwater.

Looking out, I saw seagulls. It was summer, and the weather was beautiful. But the seagulls weren’t flying. They were sitting on the breakwater, fluffed up and still. I pointed them out to the visitors and told them about Grandpa, the facsimile, and the toilet paper. And about how seagulls "predict" the weather. I told them that, based on what I saw, in two or three days, the weather would change—wind and rain would replace the sunshine.

Three days later, the Global Mariner was still in Gdynia. I was once again on the bridge with another group, giving the same tour. This time, I didn’t mention the seagulls—I had forgotten. When I finished, someone from the group spoke up:

You were right about the seagulls predicting the weather. I was here with the previous group when they were sitting on the breakwater, and you said they were waiting for bad weather.

Everyone turned to look out the window. The seagulls were gone. And the weather had indeed changed. The sun was gone, replaced by wind and rain.

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