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By Degrees: Around the World by Tramp Freighter

by Richard Moses

246 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0876; ISBN 1-4120-0507-8; US$22.50, C$25.95, EUR18.50, £13.00

Travel with Richard Moses and his popcorn popper as they go around the world on an old-fashioned cargo freighter. A humorous, detailed account of Moses' 122-day journey.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book BY DEGREES takes the author and his hot air popcorn popper, from Houston, Texas on an around-the-world odyssey aboard an "old-fashioned" general cargo "tramp" freighter, with Polish officers, a Filipino crew, and three other (German) passengers, calling at twenty ports, many of them "unexpected", meeting "pirates" in Thailand, getting lost in Singapore, endangering his life in Chinese taxis, finding peace in a tiny Japanese village, and, four months later (to the day) arriving back in Houston.

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About the Author Richard Moses, now retired and living on Salt Spring Island British Columbia, Canada, has been a social worker, teacher, librarian, musician, broadcaster, taxi driver, driving instructor, sailor, newspaper columnist, and, always, an inveterate scribbler.

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Sample Excerpts

33°30'N x 112°W (Phoenix)

April 9, 2002 Airborne! At last! But, it won't make any difference now. This plane is already an hour late leaving Phoenix en route from Vancouver to Houston where it is now 8:54 p.m., or, by the 24 hour clock, 2054 hrs. (CDT). Flying time to Houston is 2 hours, 20 minutes. I knew this was going to be a tight squeeze - runway to ship - but a makeable one. Now "This is your captain speaking..." has shot my safety margin all to hell. Which means that, almost certainly - figuring time to round up the baggage (if it's there!), phone the ship's agent, and nail a cab for the half hour (or so) ride from the George Bush airport to the Port of Houston - I am going to miss the boat!

This is not just a figure of speech: his "boat" is the ship which, I had hoped, was going to take me clean around the world, a voyage of "19 to 20 weeks", stopping at "20 ports or more", and which, to the best of my knowledge, is scheduled - as much as a tramp freighter can be scheduled - to sail from the Port of Houston's Pier 16 at midnight, i.e., 2400 hrs. tonight - three hours and six minutes from right now!

It's 2212; I've finished my book and read everything in the New Yorker including curtain times for every Broadway show. Nothing to do but sit here going 524 miles an hour and fret over what to do first if we ever actually do get to Houston:(1) the phone, (2) the cab, (3) the bags. I decide I will blow an extra twenty bucks for the cabby if he or she can get me to the ship on time.

2302, we're about to land. 58 minutes to get to the dock.

29°30'N x 95°W (Houston)

2310: We're down. But rolling, rolling, rolling, turning, more rolling, then stop, and all the other "geese" stand up in the aisle and don't move for five minutes, then shuffle slowly out the door.

When I am able, I race down the ramp, down the corridor, into the baggage hall (will my unique and absolutely crucial baggage be there?). Not yet, it isn't. I head for the taxi rank: there is no taxi rank! More coming, says the lady. Try the telephone; can't get through to the agent. Back to the carousel. Ah, one bag! AHA! The other one! Drag and drop at the now-existing taxi rank.

At 2325 I say to the first cabby in line:"I've got to get to the Port of Houston, Pier 16, Turning Basin Terminal. Know where that is?"

"Well, lemme see. Uh - geez, I'm not too sure - umm..."

"It's somewhere near Clinton - "

"Oh, yeah, I know the place."

"There's an extra twenty in it if you can get me there by midnight."

And we're off! 80 mph, nearly empty freeways, not a cop in sight. I have no idea which direction we're going, but the driver seems to know; keeps encouraging me to think positive. I'm thinking of how I can get to Beaumont, Texas, he ship's next port, in the middle of the night. I look at my watch, count out dollars, ready for a quick exit just in case we do make it. More freeway, more exits, finally: "PORT OF HOUSTON".

At exactly 2356 we pull up to the main gate, tell the guard who we are, where we are going. He slowly checks his clip board. "Hmmmm, lemme see here - you said BIBI? Pier 16?. 'Scuse me -", and he turns slowly away to check out an exiting truck on the other side. Then back to us and more page riffling, "What's the name a' that ship again?BIBI?Hmmmm. Nope, I got no ship up there at all."

"Let's go anyway," I say to the cabby. It is now - 2358, and I can see it all in my head: even if the ship is there, lines have been singled up; the pilot is aboard; tugs are nudging; the ship is moving slowly away from Pier 16. But there is still just a chance: maybe a slight delay of some sort, and I have flown a good 2,000 miles today to get here, so both of us lean forward from the edges of our seats, and barrel along the empty port road: Pier 28. Pier 25 (these are actually enormous warehouses or "sheds"). Pier 22. Pier 19. I say, "Blast your horn, let 'em know we're coming"

"Horn's busted," says my concentrating cabby, "sounds like a sick cow."

Approaching the Pier 19 shed now, straining for a view of -what?-an empty quay, a bereft wharf?

But, as we clear the last corner: LO AND BEHOLD! THERE SHE IS! Lit up like Times Square, huge dark green hull and, emblazoned on her bows: BIBI. "MY SHIP,"I holler, "YOU MADE IT!", clapping the cabby on his shoulder. "She's still here!" We beetle across the vast and deserted quay.

It is exactly 2400 hrs. - 12 midnight!

But the gangway is pulled up three or four feet off the quay; several men are gathered; a pickup truck stands empty. "She's getting ready to leave! "I mutter to myself through clenched teeth, as we haul the bags out of the trunk. I reward the cabby generously, dash to the foot of the gangway. A Filipino crewman is standing by, no doubt wondering who is this frantic, bearded oddball. "I'm a passenger; sorry I'm late, but I have to get on this ship!" I gasp. He grabs a bag, signals up to the deck and the gangway is lowered slightly. Another seaman clambers down and grabs the other bag. I teeter up the sloping stairway after them, and am at last, actually, really, standing on the deck of my very own ship! I made it! I'm here! I had told the folks back home that I would believe this trip only when I was planted firmly on the deck, and, almost unbelievably, here I am!

The seamen move me and the bags in through the doorway and onto a tiny elevator. The gate is slammed and we rise five stories to E Deck where I am hustled down the corridor to wait while one of the crewmen enters a door marked CAPTAIN and points uncertainly at this midnight apparition. The Master himself emerges, we both talk at the same time, saying the obvious things; he beckons and I enter. I take a seat; the room is full of men - some uniforms, some suits - and a lot of papers. I notice very little; am still feeling unreal that I am actually aboard this ship - and just in the absolute nick of time!

Soon the men leave, the Polish Captain beckons again, and we head off down the corridor to the elevator with the crewmen and the big bags. We ride down to C deck and approach my cabin, "#5". Still somewhat breathless, I say to the Captain, "The ship is just about to leave, right?"

"No," he says, "we just got in."

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Catalogue Information

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