Ahoy there!
Let me tell you, the 1990s were a wild ride if you spent ’em sailing the seas, especially when your ship dropped anchor at those bustling commercial container docks in places like Hong Kong and mainland China. It was the tail end of one era and the start of a whole new ballgame, driven by the almighty container.
Back in my early days, we’d pull into a port like Hong Kong’s Kwai Chung – the undisputed king of container ports even then – and settle in for a proper stay. We’re talking 30, maybe even 45 days tied up! Plenty of time for shore leave, exploring the town, and getting to know the local haunts. Kwai Chung was already a beast, deep water berths stretching forever, cranes towering like metal giants, and folks constantly building more of it. Efficiency was the name of the game, even back then, with all sorts of contraptions like straddle carriers and gantry cranes zipping around. Security was tightening up, fences and gates appearing, though nothing like the lockdown you see today after… well, after things changed.
But man, did that change quickly! Over the decade, those nice long stays started shrinking. First 15 days, then a measly 5, and eventually, if you were unlucky, you’d get the dreaded 24-hour turn. Talk about a shock to the system! Those lazy dockside days vanished, replaced by a frantic scramble. Hectic, rushed, stressed – that was the new normal. No time for sleep, definitely no time for proper shore leave, just a blur of activity and the frantic loading of voyage stores.
Speaking of shore leave, or the lack thereof, I remember working the cruise ships in Hawaii for a bit. American Hawaii Cruise Lines, the Constitution and the Independence. Less than 24 hours in port! If you wanted to step foot on dry land, you literally had to buy your time off. Find another poor sod willing to pick up your shipboard duties for a few hours and pay ’em for it. Taught me the value of time, alright. Nothing comes free or easy, especially not a cold beer ashore when your ship’s due out before you can blink.
The container docks themselves were a world unto themselves, a place where danger was just part of the scenery. Heavy machinery everywhere you looked – cranes swinging overhead with massive boxes, straddle carriers rumbling past, forklifts darting about. You had to have eyes in the back of your head. And those containers swinging overhead? Man, a 吊り荷 (slung load) was always something to watch out for. Misjudged swings or a dodgy twist lock could ruin your day, or worse. You were constantly working at height too, clambering around on stacks of boxes to secure and release twist locks. A slip up there meant a long fall. Add in oil spills, rain, general port muck, and the surfaces were slicker than a politician’s promise.
The noise! Constant, deafening. Cranes groaning, trucks beeping, machinery clanking. You’d finish a shift with your ears ringing. Then there was the dust and fumes, depending on the cargo. And because these places ran 24/7, night operations added another layer of risk with poor visibility and sheer exhaustion. Security was a growing thing, yeah, but back then you still had to watch out for petty theft and the occasional bit of smuggling activity.
Getting off the ship and out of the wire-fence fortress of the terminal was often an adventure in itself. You couldn’t just wander off; these places were sprawling industrial zones, not built for pedestrians. You’d wait at the bottom of the gangway, hoping the port shuttle would show up to haul you to the front gate. If you were lucky, the port had one, though they weren’t exactly known for sticking to a timetable. Taxis were an option, if you had the cash, but negotiating fares could be an art form in some places. Local buses existed, but navigating the routes and language barriers was a challenge. Some port cities with waterways had water taxis, a quicker way to get to town if you knew where you were going. Walking? Forget it. Too far, too dangerous with all the traffic. Sometimes you’d get an informal lift from a local port worker or the agent, but that wasn’t exactly reliable.
I saw the other side of the coin too. At some docks, you’d see the stark reality of poverty. People, literally impoverished, sweeping up loose grains of rice spilled from bulk sacks just to have something to eat for their families that night. And the stevedores, working at breakneck speed, non-stop, keeping up with those demanding schedules, trucks rushing containers around the yard like their lives depended on it. It hammered home just how intense and unforgiving this world could be.
Not all ports were created equal, mind you. The container docks were one thing, but other ports had their own unique… charms. I remember being Chief Cook on the Liberty Sun, loading grain in Lake Charles, Louisiana. We were lashed tight to the dock, loading straight from rail boxcars. That meant a lot of grain spillage onto the dock itself. My shift was brutal, 5 am to 6 pm, so shore leave was only possible after dark. Stepped down the gangway one night, low visibility, couldn’t see much past my feet. But I could tell the ground looked… weird. Like it was moving. Took a step and CRUNCH! The dock was alive! Covered, absolutely covered, in two-inch-long American cockroaches. They rippled under my feet like some sort of nightmare carpet. One of the grossest things I’ve ever encountered. But the thought of the local pub was a powerful motivator. So, mustering every ounce of courage, I basically skipped across the heaving mass of bugs to the waiting taxi. The things you do for a pint!
Then there was the absolute madness of the container docks at Al Jubail during the Gulf War. Completely different scene. Going ashore meant navigating through piles of bombs, ammunition, tanks, choppers – you name it. The dock was huge, maybe half a mile wide and a mile long, stacked ten feet high with military gear. One night, desperate for a run ashore, we “commandeered” a golf cart to sneak down the docks under the cover of darkness, trying to avoid the stern glares of the US Marines guarding the place. Found an unguarded gate near the road to town and stashed the cart in an empty container. Coming back, after a few too many in Al Jubail (let’s just say we were three sheets to the wind), we thought, “Hey, let’s get the golf cart!” Bad idea. On the way back to the ship, in our slightly altered state, we somehow managed to crash the thing right into a massive stack of lumber. The whole pile came down, burying the golf cart completely. Thankfully, the Marines who found us actually found it hilarious and just escorted us back to the gangway and up the ship. Some tales are just too good for them to get mad, I guess.
Through all this, the ship chandlers were our unsung heroes. Absolute lifelines. They were the maritime equivalent of a superpower combined with your local corner shop. Food, fresh, frozen, dry – they had it. Deck and engine stores, tools, spare parts, ropes, paint – they sourced it. Bonded stores (the essentials: booze and fags) – sorted. They were the bridge between us at sea and everything we needed from shore. Logistical wizards, navigating the port rules and security to get the goods on board, saving us precious time, especially on those quick turns. In a pinch, if something broke or we ran short unexpectedly, a good chandler could work miracles. And they often gave credit, which was a godsend. For us seamen, a reliable chandler wasn’t just a supplier; they ensured we ate, had the tools for the job, and maybe a few small comforts that made life at sea a bit more bearable. They were gold.
Ships in port were like magnets for vendors, too. Chandlers, sure, but also guys selling spare parts, laundry services, repair crews, bonded store agents, money changers. Towards the end of the 90s, you even started seeing folks hawking phone cards and early internet access – the first hints of staying connected becoming easier. And, of course, port security and customs officials were regular visitors, always poking around.
Life around those docks, whether you were a seaman or working ashore, was just plain demanding. Long, unpredictable hours – 24/7 operations meant your body clock was constantly confused. It was physical work, no matter how much automation came in; securing those heavy containers was still a backbreaker. The dangers were constant, requiring you to be sharp all the time. Communication was often a nightmare, trying to coordinate with different crews and nationalities, sometimes with language barriers thrown in. Time pressure was immense – get the ship loaded/unloaded ASAP, or face the wrath of the schedule keepers. You were exposed to the elements – baking sun, pouring rain, howling winds. And for us seamen, the isolation was real. Stuck behind those fences, far from the city, shore leave often felt like a distant dream. And the bureaucracy! Paperwork, regulations, customs… a constant headache.
Yeah, the 1990s were a pivotal time. The container revolution changed everything, and ports like Hong Kong and those rapidly growing ones in mainland China were right at the cutting edge. They were places of incredible economic activity, but they were also tough, hazardous environments for anyone who worked there. Demanding, dangerous, sometimes frustrating, but never, ever boring. And if you were a seaman passing through, they certainly gave you some stories to tell. Even if some of those stories involved skipping across a dock covered in giant cockroaches.
Cheers!
/.BH
