A Captain's Duty

exploding around us. I would stand in the bridge and watch this gigantic wave of black water come over the bow and roll straight toward me until it smashed against the windows ten feet in front of my face. The bridge would go dark, like you were underwater for a few seconds, which in fact you were, and then it would be past you and you’d see the next one cresting over the bow. I thought, Jesus Christ, I’m standing seven stories above the ocean and I just got buried by a wave. That was a seventy-footer. Those are the kinds of waves that eat tankers.
    The captain was a short Greek guy named Jimmy Kosturas. He was like a statue on the bridge. As the storm tried to rip his tanker apart, he stood there and lit one of these little cigarillos that he liked and then he calmly watched the waves come at him. Jimmy was grace under pressure personified.
    “Course?” he’d say.
    I’d give him the course.
    “Speed?”
    I’d give him the speed.
    He’d nod and take a puff on the cigarillo.
    Then CRAAAAASSSHHH! The wave would hit and the water would slither down the bridge windows, black against the green glass.
    Jimmy stood calmly, a curl of smoke wafting up from his cigarillo.
    I watched as the captain barely ate and barely slept and yet kept his crew focused like a laser beam. By showing no fear. If that hurricane had turned us lengthwise, we would havebroken up. But he was as calm and cool as if he were sailing a little dinghy across Boston Harbor on a calm summer day. He barely said a word, but he inspired such confidence that I never doubted we’d make it through.
    Deeds, not words . I’d always remember Jimmy, standing there like Gary Cooper as the ocean tried to kill him. I liked that.
     
    By the time I got my captain’s license in 1990, I’d seen the good, the bad, and the really bad. I wanted to be the kind of captain I’d loved serving under.
    I can still remember taking charge of my first ship, the Green Wave, a container ship out of Tacoma, Washington. I’d been serving as chief mate on it and a good friend of mine, Peter, was captain, and we were carrying military supplies—planes, helicopters, M16 ammunition, you name it—from base to base all over the West Coast. It came time for the captain to leave and I had to take over. We did our handover of the ship all day and then went out to dinner. We rolled back to the port around 10 p.m. and Peter pulled up in front of the gangway. We got out, and I was standing there looking up at this immense ship in the darkness, and he turned to me and said, “Okay, you’ve got it.” We shook hands and he laughed and said, “Good luck, Cap.” It was the first time anyone had ever called me that in my life.
    I was nervous. I didn’t feel ready. But I had to do the job, so it didn’t matter how I felt.
    I’m sure I made a thousand mistakes that first trip. I was just holding on, trying to learn as I went. But I didn’t try towhip the guys under me into my idea of a perfect crew. I didn’t want to be the Coach Marshall of the high seas. I felt that if you did the job right, if you let people be themselves and cracked down only when they blew an assignment, then morale would take care of itself. You have to show people that you deserve the respect that goes along with the title Captain. You can’t browbeat them into looking up to you.
    My motto became “We are all here for the ship. The ship isn’t here for us.” That really served me, because it’s true. When you’re out of port, the ship is your mother, your temporary country, your tribe. And there was an unspoken part of that saying that I kept to myself: “The captain is here for the crew.”
    Coming up, I got a reputation of being a tough guy to work for. When I’m working, I’m working. I become a little obsessed with making sure things are done right. So if you’re lazy or just plain bad at your job, I’m going to be a nightmare for you. But if you’re on top of your duties, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll never give a good man make-work just to feel like I’m in charge. My attitude is “You hope for the best, but you train for the worst.” Because one day, the worst will find you.
    A bosun, one of the hardest workers I ever had, gave me the best compliment from a crew member. He’d worked with me on more than one ship. “You know, you are a pain in the ass, but I know what you’re going to say before you say it,” he told me. Meaning: You’re consistent. And I am.
    When I got off the