LOS ANGELES — A Southern California tugboat’s crew members have had a front-row seat to a world economy thrown off balance by the pandemic: ships anchored offshore, containers waiting to be offloaded, so much stuff without a home.
Their work is but one link out of hundreds in the global supply chain: Each link is dependent upon all the others for the success of the whole.
If a day turns out like any other, the Delta Teresa escorts at least four vessels to an assigned spot inside the Port of Los Angeles or Long Beach. The crew members’ work, guiding ships through narrow waterways to within inches of a dock, is both delicate and brutish. Fifteen tugs serve the two ports, and for more than a year, the pace has been relentless.
“Old-timers say that this is the busiest they’ve ever seen it,” says Capt. Mike Johnson, who started working in Southern California two years ago. “Every dock is taken up, and if there is an opening, people are fighting to get there.” On one early December day, the crew started the day waking up in a dead-end back channel in the harbor where they had tied up the night before.
The congestion at the ports has drawn its share of ink, Johnson knows. Fingers are quick to point at shipping lines, terminals, truckers, but who’s to blame? Like cars backed up in traffic with no accident ahead, the slowdown is more frustrating than solvable. The culprit, if there is one, is the American consumer trying to make up for lost time.
“And I’m just as guilty as the average Joe,” says Johnson, having just ordered off Amazon foul-weather gear from a French company.
“Every day we get a firsthand view of the size and scale of the American economy and American consumerism,” he says. “Not many appreciate this when they go to the market and buy individual items.” The radio crackles to life, Channel 5.
“Good morning, Teresa,” says the pilot, who boarded the cargo ship Marjorie C at a sea buoy one mile out. From its bridge he will take the ship into the harbor with the Teresa and the other waiting tug, the Delta Audrey, alongside.
“Put your line up on center-lead aft,” he tells Johnson, shorthand for where he wants the Teresa positioned: directly behind the ship. The Audrey will take the bow.
Johnson nuzzles the Teresa’s bow against the stern of the Marjorie C. Thick fenders cushion the impact. Deckhand Max Cota and engineer Charlie May don hard-hats and life jackets and ready their lines on the lower deck.
‘NO ROOM FOR ERROR’
The three men work silently, their focus honed by years of offshore experience. Johnson, 41, got his start piloting a dredge off the Louisiana coast. Cota, 40, pulled barges to China and delivered food to Haiti and West Africa, and May, 32, was chief mate delivering jet fuel and diesel around the Hawaiian Islands.
“You have to be perfect on every job. There’s no room for error,” says Johnson.
He says it only takes a moment for boredom to become terror or worse. In 2007, a tugboat deckhand working off El Segundo died when a tow line unexpectedly pinned her against a railing. Another mate was severely injured.
Johnson watches as a winch on the Marjorie C pulls up a 3-inch-thick braided nylon rope that connects the two vessels. Once it is secured, he allows the tug to fall back.
“Teresa is all fast,” he radios the pilot as he maneuvers the tug through the big ship’s washing-machine currents.
The Marjorie C is a regular customer, running containers and vehicles between San Diego, Long Beach and Honolulu.
“Transverse arrest, easy power,” the pilot radios. The time has come to start putting on the brakes.
Because the pilot wants to be able to steer the Marjorie C, its propeller must continue to turn, but its slowest speed is too fast, which is where the Teresa can help.
Swiveling his propellers sideways, Johnson uses the tug as a dead weight to act as an anchor to slow the Marjorie C.
CONTAINER LIMITATIONS
Off the port bow, docks covered with wood products and container stacks emerge in the morning gloom. Off the starboard bow rise the so-called candy cranes (nicknamed for their red and white stripes) at the automated terminal where the largest of the container ships are tied up. At least twice a week, Johnson helps bring in one of those behemoths.
Rivaling the Empire State Building in length, mega-ships began arriving on the West Coast in 2015, creating a surge of cargo — up to 10,000 containers at a time — that even then were blamed for tying up the supply chain.
Maritime historian Sal Mercogliano with Campbell University in North Carolina wonders if the shipping industry is seeing the end of the revolution that truck driver-turned-businessman Malcom McLean started in 1956 when he put 58 containers on the deck of a converted oil tanker for passage to Houston.
“That’s the irony of all this,” he says. “The container system was designed to prevent bottlenecks, and for 65 years the system has fairly worked well. Now you’re hitting its limits. What is the next technological leap we can make?”
FEW MORE INCHES
As the Marjorie C passes under the new bridge spanning the back channel, its cables lit blue against the gray sky, the pilot orders the Teresa to change position.
Soon the cargo ship and the two tugboats have slowed to a halt.
“Teresa, push bare minimum,” the pilot calls. Johnson responds, turning the Teresa perpendicular to the ship and begins to nudge it sideways to the dock.
Having crossed the Pacific from Hawaii, sailed up the coast from San Diego, the Marjorie C now has a journey of inches.
“Teresa, stop,” the pilot sends his last command.
The line handler on the Marjorie C lowers the braided rope back to the Teresa.
Johnson gets on the public address system. “Thank you,” he tells the crew of the Marjorie C as he pulls away. The hour-long dance is over. “See you soon.”