The Tabloid Press and the Murder of Ethan Toney.

After Toney's murder, the tabloid press, Ultima Noticia Bonaire featured the murder on the front page, a story complete with a picture of Toney being taken off the ship in a stretcher and another of the knife used in the slaying. Unfortunately, the local tabloids are written in Papiamentu, a Spanish Creole language with a mixture of Portuguese and Dutch and spoken only on the islands of Aruba, Curacao, and Bonaire and I was never able to find someone who could translate it for me.

Nevertheless, I kept a copy of the newspaper in my files for many years. On a Caribbean cruise a few years ago, we stopped in Bonaire and I met a gentleman who remembered the MacVie and when I told him about the newspaper story, he offered to translate it for me. So when I got home, I faxed the story to him and shortly after he faxed back the translation.

Here is a copy of the actual front page of the tabloid.



The translation:

Caption under the picture on the left.

Ethan Toney being carried off the ship enroute to the hospital.


Caption under the picture on the right

This is the killer. His name is Ciro Glenn Cannegieter who covered his face after noticing us taking his picture. He is shown with Detective Goeloe and Assistant Prosecutor Davelaar.



Kralendijk – Sunday morning at about quarter past six the police were notified that a sailor from the "Macvie" had been dangerously injured with a knife by a fellow sailor. When the patrol unit arrived at the ship in question they found 30-year-old Ethan Toney from St. Vincent on the deck with a knife next to him. He had a knife wound in his abdomen and was urgently transported by ambulance to the hospital. [note: he was taken in the back of a pickup truck.]

At his arrival at the hospital, his condition was assessed as critical and he needed to be transported to Curaçao. But moments later his condition got even worse and the staff feared for his life.

It was considered unnecessary to transport him to Curaçao as he would not arrive in time to save his life. Dr. Kouwe tried everything in his powers but moments later had to declare him deceased.

Quickly the police and detectives, together with the Assistant Prosecutor Davelaar started their investigation. They overheard that a fellow sailor, 23-year-old Ciro Glenn Cannegieter from Curaçao had struck the victim with a knife and then run away.

As it turned out, the murderer ran into the direction of the police station but it is locked between midnight and 8.00 a.m. and one had to press the bell for the officer on duty to open up. The murdered did not know this so he waited under the garage behind the police station. It wasn't until 7.45 a.m. when after an extensive search the police that they returned to the police station and found him sitting there. [Note: How or when Ciro escaped and hid in the countryside for six days is not described but I doubt they ever actually found Ciro until he gave himself up six days later.]

A witness, also a sailor aboard the ship, told us that the whole problem started early in the morning hours when the Victim Ethan Toney cut another Curaçao sailor. He himself bandaged the would which wasn't very deep.

But the problem got worse when in the morning hours Ciro Glenn Cannegieter, a Curaçao native, got into an argument with the victim who hit him (Ciro) vary hard in the face. The eye-witness told us then that Ciro came to him and told him that Ethan had just hit him without any cause. The witness would have spoken to Ciro and told him not to worry and to tell the captain.

But after that Ciro waited for Ethan to go to bed. When Ethan was asleep Ciro would have cut him with the knife in his abdomen. After Ciro ran away the eye-witness who is also from Curaçao went to call the police. [Note: First, Ciro Glenn went on duty in the engine room for his 4-hour shift starting at 2 a.m. During his watch, he must have fumed over the slap which happened about 1.30 a.m. and as soon as his shift was over at 6 a.m. he went up and got the filet knife and did his act.]

As we understood it for quite some time the three Curaçao natives had to undergo all kinds of abuse from the rest of the crew who were from the English-speaking islands. When they would report this to the captain he would tell them that if there were problems on board not to fight on board, but on land.

He also overheard some claims by the murderer that he had to undergo all sorts of abuse because he was the smallest on the ship. For example, he told the police that some time ago one of the sailors on board lost his wallet and accused Ciro of stealing it. He hit him and he fell and broke his knee. It was that particular morning that he got fed up because he had no problem with Ethan and the latter had hit him without cause.

He (Ciro) looked to us like a peaceful person and this was confirmed by the other Curaçao sailors who did not want to stay on board anymore as they too were often targeted by the other English-speaking crew who disliked or hated them. It was not easy to get Ciro to become angry at the other sailors as he was such a peace-loving person.

This witness was also accused of stealing the wallet and consequently threatened.

Our deepest sympathy goes to the family of the victim.

July 18, 1983


It is interesting to me to see how the reporter turned the murder into a Curaçao vs the English-speaking islands and by the end of the story had Ciro, the murderer, a peace-loving person and Toney an abuser.

The "eye-witness" was our former cook, Sha Sha, who I had encountered later that day and he was afraid for his life though that evening until he had to go to the airport for a flight to Curaçao he attended a Raggae concert featuring the widow of Bob Marley, a concert attended by about 5,000 people (the island population was only 9,000). And, worse, he carried a knife under his pant leg and sheathed in his sock.

At best it was a frightful affair. Ciro spent a total of nine years in prison though with the sympathy expressed in this article probably got off early for good, "peaceful" behavior.

An Affair With Gypsies

(The MacVie anchor windlass and chain. "Gypsies" are the lugs that grab the links of chain as the drum (wildcat) revolves.)


After receiving our charter and making several once-a-week round trips to Bonaire, our first serious problem arose. It occurred suddenly one fine morning after an evening during which Betty, daughter Susanne and her husband Jack, and I were at our rented house and clowning around celebrating the receipt of our charter money which we had in a bundle of US dollars. I remember laughing and singing the song from the musical, Evita," "When the Money Comes Rolling In…" and at one point throwing the wad of money up against the ceiling and watching in merriment as it floated down around up. Betty never approved of such antics but it was a way to relieve the pressure of the business, something we needed at times.

Well, as I was saying, the morning dawned hot and sunny as usual and, after a leisurely breakfast, I went to the MacVie where I knew that Lloyd's inspection F.J. Verloop was due to make another one of his interminable inspections. Unfortunately, he beat me there and had made his inspection and put a "NO SAIL" tag on the ship. Apparently, he had determined that one of the gypsies on the anchor windlass was worn down a bit too much. Gypsies are the lugs that grab the links of the chain as the windlass drum revolves when weighing the anchor. Each gypsy is about 3 inches wide, 1 inch thick, and sticks up about 2-3 inches and the windlass drum (wildcat) has about ten of them.

(The "gypsies" are located aroung the wildcat pictured here.)



Verloop, who was still on the ship when I arrived, said I had two options: 1) replace the drum of the windlass, or 2) repair the gypsies by adding weld to them and grinding them to the correct size and shape. The first option was completely out of the question so I was left with the second: reluctantly I agreed to have the gypsies welded.

That simple decision led to many complex and expensive actions:

1. First, we had to wash all ten tanks, tanks that held over a quarter of a million gallons of oil, and certify them "gas free." This process involved hiring a crew of four men with masks and air tanks as well as hoses, washing equipment, and tank trucks with pumps to take out the wastewater. All told, it took two complete days around the clock. When we thought they were they were "clean," we called in the chemist who went into each tank with his Gas Detection Meter to test. He pronounced the MacVie, "Gas Free."

2. Inasmuch as we were now officially off-hire, all expenses in moving the ship accrued to us. A pilot was hired to move the ship to a "gas free" dock where the welding could be done. Upon arriving at the repair dock, Verloop came to inspect the operation and said that since the ship was now gas free, we would have to make some other repairs requiring welding. There was a long list but suffice to say the added repairs took longer than the original gypsy repair.

(The "gas-free" repair dock and welding equipment.)


3. Meanwhile the island of Bonaire, because of limited storage capacity and our inability to service them, ran short of gasoline and had to institute gas rationing. Moreover, they were desperate for propane and diesel fuel to fire their water desalinization plant.

5. After seven days, Verloop certified that the repairs were acceptable and we re-hired a pilot to bring the ship back to the refinery where she was loaded with fuel, a process that took a full 24-hour day. We were now 8 days off hire.

7. Finally, fully loaded, we sailed to Bonaire and arrived at about 10 p.m. on the 9th day off-hire. A workman from the local bakery immediately jumped on board to grab two 200-gallon propane tanks so that they can make bread in the morning. Meantime, we connected our discharge hoses to the manifolds of the gasoline station and begin all-night pumping.

Our load was not large enough to supply the pent-up demand however so we had to make an immediate trip back to Curaçao for more gasoline and diesel fuel after which the lines at the gas station ended and everything returned to normal.

But "normal" in Bonaire is a rarity. Within hours, the governor of the island thought, "what if this happens again?" His solution: he instructed his secretary to get a large barrel and have it filled with gasoline and stored in his garage for emergencies. The secretary subsequently decided that the governor knew something she didn't so she spread the word and then got some storage for herself and her family and soon the word was out like wildfire. Back came the lines of people with their containers of every size and shape and soon Bonaire was out of gas again. Away we went back to the refinery and another round trip.

Finally, things returned to normal and everyone was happy. What a great business


(sailing back to Bonaire with a load of fuel and some propane tanks)

I was never able to unearth the reason Verloop was so down on us and going out of his way to find fault with everything. Moreover, it did no good to complain to the managing director of the Lloyds' office in Curaçao, Mr. Sleuter, because he was even worse. We would just have to find a way to live with it.

I had expressed my frustration to our agent and he suggested a subtle bribe, an expensive lunch perhaps or a small gift to Sleuter who, he said, was not averse to receiving a gift or two. In fact, he said that his office had delivered and "old, used" refrigerator to Sleuters's house one day, a gift of the Holland America Line, except (wink, wink) the "old" refrigerator was in a brand new crate. I did arrange to take Sleuter to lunch at the best restaurant in Curaçao but nothing came of it. I simply didn’t know the fine art of bribery.`

Just Another Ho-Hum Day in Paradise

Ethan Toney, a deckhand, was originally from St. Vincent but when I owned the ship his mother lived in Curacao in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Willemstad. Several relatives also lived nearby or boarded in the house; I was never sure.

Toney, as we all called him, had a winning smile and a mellifluous voice with a nice Caribbean lilt. He also had a mean streak.

He was the closest to our family and took many pictures of us to put on the wall of his bedroom, a practice unbeknownst to me until I had to visit Toney's family home after he was murdered.

We had owned the ship for a year and a half and were thinking seriously about how to extract ourselves from the business when one Saturday night upon returning to the ship after a late dinner I heard a good deal of partying in the crews quarters. The porthole of Toney's cabin was at my eye level as I walked past the ship and someone inside spotted me. Toney stuck his head out of the open porthole and asked me to come in a have a drink. No way, I said, and warned them about making so much noise lest they wake up the Chief who would go nuts. The last thing I said was. "pack in it you guys and get some sleep."

I was asleep on Sunday morning when I awoke with a start. It was an unrecognizable yell from outside my forward porthole. I got up and looked out and I could see Toney leaning against the rail and waving his fist at someone. I went to the side porthole to see who he was waving at and saw one of my crew half running down the pier toward the town. Returning the he other porthole I looked again and Toney was gone. I remember thinking that they most likely were chasing an intruder off the ship. So I went back to sleep; but for a moment only. Something made me get up again and look out the porthole. Still no Toney. I then craned my neck and looked straight down from the porthole and there lying akimbo on the deck with a knife in his hand was Toney.

In a daze -- more like shock -- I pulled on a pair of shorts and my flip flops and ran up a flight to the navigation room behind the wheelhouse where the first aid station was located. Unfortunately, everything in the cabinet was in Dutch so I had to rip open box after box after box to find a compress.

Sweating profusely, confused, terrified I guess, a practically jumped down the three flights of stairs to the weather deck where Toney was lying with some white stuff oozing out of a small wound in his stomach. There was no blood. I pressed the compress on the wound and as I wondered what to do next, pumpman Jim came out on deck. I ordered him to hold the compress on the wound while I went to get an ambulance. Away I ran down the pier toward the police station a few blocks away. Arriving, I discovered that the doors were locked and nobody around. My mind was racing. A hospital! I remembered a large building that looked like a hospital on the other side of the city several blocks away. Irritated with myself, I thought, why hadn't I been more observant.

I ran through alleys and streets in my shorts and flip flops and got lost in the maze of alleys until finally reached the street where I had seen the building and there it was, very institutional looking. I ran inside, panic on my face I suppose, and saw several people milling around in the halls. "Doctor!" I shouted. "Where is the doctor?" One woman uttered a benign "Bon Dia," and another one just looked at me blankly and smiled. Most just ignored me. Suddenly it hit me: this was an old folks home; these people were senile. I was near collapse with heat and panic when I saw in the distance a woman in a white outfit outside in the back courtyard. I ran out there and asked her for the doctor and she indicated that there was a clinic in a small building in the rear. I ran to the clinic arriving just as the doctor was getting up and stretching and also just as a pickup truck roared up to the emergency entrance with several people on board and Toney on a stretcher.

We grabbed the stretcher and quickly got him into the operating room and shut the door and I went to the waiting room. I could see Zach standing outside next to the truck talking to reporters from the local press who were arriving quickly and I remember wondering what he would be telling them. I wished at that time that I had gotten rid of him sooner. What next? I thought

What was next was the doctor coming out to the waiting room and in a matter of fact voice announcing that Toney was done for. I suggested that we could fly him to Curacao if needed to be operated on there but the doctor said he was dead, finished, that he bled to death internally.

I was stunned. What should I do? The doctor assured me there was nothing I could do. And after a moment's hesitation, he returned to the operating room and I was left alone in the waiting room. So I left and as I walked past Zach and the reporters, I told him that I wanted walk back to the ship by myself to clear my head and I left the clinic. It was not yet 8 a.m. on a beautiful Sunday morning. Cars were starting to fill the streets. People were walking past dressed in their Sunday clothes heading for Mass. I had just had a murder on the ship.
Sitting on a park bench I realized that I had to gather up what was left of my strength and to do my best to deal with this ugly mess.

The rest of the day was lost in a fog: there was the police search of the ship; the cars and trucks full of police and militia tearing around town looking for the killer there rifles on the ready (doubtful they had ammunition in them) and waving to people they knew as though it was a festival parade. Meanwhile, back at the ship I had the rest of my crew to deal with.

(Bonaire police depart after searching the ship for Glen)

At one point, Sha Sha, our former cook, came to me and said he was frightened and that they were out to get him too. He said that he had given one of the oilers, who was going home on holiday in Dominica, his handkerchief and his picture and that the oiler showed it to a shaman and the Shaman said that he, Sha Sha, did not steal any money. Now understand that Sha Sha was a Catholic so I said , "Sha Sha, surely you don't believe in shamans do you?" His response surprised me: "Yeah mon, they know." But what worried Sha Sha on this day was that Peter had left the ship for good and could not testify as to his innocence to the rest of the crew. And he asked me to get him back home to Curacao and to protect him.

So that was it. Stolen money. Apparently, during the party, it got a little ugly with accusations floating around the cabin when in a rage, Toney slapped one of the oilers and accidentally scratched him on the chest. The oiler was due to go on watch so he left and went down to the engine room where he sat, half drunk, and probably seething with anger. At about 7 a.m. as soon as he was relieved from watch he went to the galley and took a filet knife and then went to Toney's cabin where he found him fast asleep on his bunk. He plunged the knife into Toney's stomach and that was that. If Toney had not pulled the knife out, he might have been saved.

In any case, Sha Sha asked for protection and to be returned to Curacao where his family lived so I brought him to the police station and asked the guard if he could stay there until the plane departed at 10 p.m. that evening. They agreed and I bid Sha Sha good bye and went to my agent's office to make arrangements to get him home. Then, to clear my head, I went for a long walk into the countryside along the coast.

The aftermath: The murderer, from Curacao, was Glen, an oiler on the ship. It took six days in desert-like conditions (Bonaire is semi-arid) amid the cactus and sand without water before he stumbled into town and gave himself up. For his sentence, he received six years in prison. Unfortunately for him he escaped again after the sentencing and this time spent only three days in the wild before giving up, an act that got him three more years in prison.

We paid for Toney's magnificent funeral in Curacao and everything resumed as normal. Easy.


(Left to right) Toney, deckhand Elvis Jack, daughter Susanne, Sha Sha, and son Don displaying a Marlin they caught on the way to Bonaire one day)

Part XI: The Crew of the MacVie (continued)

Jim, from Antigua, was our pump man. In that capacity, he supervised the on- and off-loading of gasoline and gas oil of which we carried a total of about 4,500 Canadian barrels or 180,000 gallons. Typically, to protect his own value to the company, he would not share his skills with other crew and quite frankly I didn't know how to operate the pumping system either and was, therefore, at his mercy. Being a deckhand as well, when he wasn't pumping, he chipped and painted as the rest of the deckhands, a chore I knew only too well.

(Here's Jim smiling and posing for a picture.)

Capt. Zach said that Jim had several wives scattered around the Caribbean (probably a Zach overstatement) but I do know that he would send parts of his pay to difference destinations and as the Chief, he always sent cash.

When he was off duty, he worked out in a makeshift gym under the fo'c's'le, which is at the forward end of the ship near the bow and he had the body to prove it.

(Jim with son Capt. Don Jr.)

Though diffident most of the time, when provoked, he could throw a withering look that kept his adversaries at bay. As on many ships like this, the gulf of friendship between the deckhands and oilers was very tenuous: arguments and fights, usually very short, could break out at any point for a myriad of reasons but most centered around perceived insults. Moreover, since there were no locks on their cabins and the door always open, thievery was always suspected which led to many an altercation. Moreover, there was a natural dislike between oilers (engine room crew) and deckhands.

(Pumpman Jim at the offloading manifold in Bonaire.)

Before taking over the ship, I had stopped in Barbados to sign some insurance papers. I was already a little apprehensive about the crew situation, i.e. would I be able to cross the cultural divide between us to effectively manage them. Having completed my business, we had dinner with Capt. Vieweger, the former owner, and his wife, Madalyn. Vieweger was an inveterate story teller and spent the evening reminiscing about his ownership of the MacVie. We were starting to get pretty tired and a little sleepy when he told a story about the ship that woke me up and gave me pause to think what we were about take over. Let me try to recall the exact story as told to us by Capt. Vieweger: "We were sailing down the Pacific from Vancouver to the Panama Canal and bringing the ship over to Curacao, eh? [Viewegere was a Canadian, eh] Well, one night they knocked on my cabin door screaming that two crewmen were at each other with knives. Well, I grabbed a piece of green heart lumber four feet long and an inch on the sides -- you know it's the densest wood there is. It doesn't float." He went on, "Well, I keep that stick in my cabin for just this sort of thing. I took that stick down to the galley where they was facing each other down, eh, and I slammed that stick on the table with a WHAP and I said, 'DROP THOSE KNIVES!,' and they damn well did too? You know," he paused for effect, "they can smell fear." After that story I couldn't wait to get on that ship.

Next, Ethan Toney, the deckhand who was murdered on the ship.

Part XI: The Crew of the M/T MacVie

A period of over 15 months have passed since my previous post about the MacVie. One of the last things I wrote was that I would recall some vignettes about the crew and their antics. For some reason, I exhausted my motivation; perhaps it was my weariness or the memory of the episodes that got me down. Well, we are back in Florida for three months so I thought I would do my best to continue the epic.

The next few posts will introduce the crew of the MacVie; today's will focus on the captain and chief engineer

The men pictured are Jack Eberhard (at the time, Jack was my son-in-law who with his wife, Susanne, my daughter, spent significant time in Curacao assisting us in the daily operations and representing the MacVie in business matters) and my captain, Chris "Zach" Zahariaczewich, a former Polish citizen but now a Canadian naturalized citizen who carried enormous emotional baggage which he acquired during his youth in Poland.

Zach was born in the city of Auschwitz, Poland, in approximately 1930. His father was murdered by the Russians in the early stages of WWII as one of a mass murder of Poles who were fighting against the Russian army. After the murder, the men were bulldozed into a huge, common pit. When the Nazis drove the Russians out of Poland in 1939, they uncovered the grave site and, according to Zach, with great publicity the Nazis showed the international world how heartless and barbaric the Russians were. Soon after, Zach said the Nazis "rounded up my mother and me and we were put in a labor camp where we were abused and kept for the rest of the war." Baggage indeed.

Freed in 1945 but now under oppressive Russian rule, Zach worked diligently to get his seaman's license and after receiving it, got a job on a Polish steamship where he bided his time until the opportunity to escape Poland arose. It was on a trip to Amsterdam that the chance presented itself and he jumped ship and sought political asylum from the Dutch authorities. While awaiting adjudication of his case, the handsome young man spent his nights locked up in jail and his days in the "care" of the prison warden's beautiful wife ostensibly doing her errands.

In time, Zach's asylum was granted and thereafter he applied for and received a work permit as a seaman in the Canadian Coast Guard. He went to Victoria, Canada, to live and work and in time got his Canadian Merchant Marine Mate's Certificate.

Later, during the Vietnam War, Zach signed on as a First Mate on a U.S.- owned mercenary helicopter carrier that operated in the Gulf of Tonkin. One stipulation of the deal was that if he stayed aboard for two years he would receive American Citzenship as a reward. After 23 months, Zach decided he had enough and quit. The captain of the carrier tried to convince Zach to stay one more month for the citizenship but Zach was done and he signed off and returned to Victoria, Canada.

When he told me about this one day, I expressed amazement that he didn't want to wait another month for the citizenship but he just looked at me quizically and laughed: inscrutable and typical.

Eventually, back in Victoria, he was hired by Capt. Vieweger, the owner of the MacVie, as its captain and to operate her in the Eastern Caribbean under charter to Texaco Refinery out of Trinidad. He worked for Capt. Vieweger and our company until he retired. I remember the first time I met Zach.

Upon arriving at the MacVie for the first time to inspect her before buying her, Capt. Vieweger and I were met by Zach in the captain's quarters behind the pilot house. He was standing there in the gloom--we were experiencing a torential downpour which was uncharacteristic for Curacao--with nothing on but shorts and sandals and he was combing his chest hair. The first thing he said to me was, "You look like Richard Widmark."

After some chit chat, Vieweger instructed Zach to take me around to see the ship and meet the crew that were aboard. We started out in the engine room where we found the Chief Engineer, Edison Yarde, a Barbadian national, working on an engine. Speaking loudly over the noise of the generator, Zach introducted me to the chief as "Richard Widmark." The chief didn't smile and warily shook my hand and after a brief but awkward pause during which I tried unsuccessfuly to explain that the Richard Widmark thing was Zach's joke we left. I was to lean later that Zach and the Chief were never not on speaking terms unless it involved serious business matters.

We contnued the tour and whenever we came across a crewman, Zach invariably introduced me as Richard Widmark; he was enjoying his joke and the crew sensed that they were being fooled somehow and I was totally embarrassed. To say the least, Zach had a perverse and strange sense of humor. In time, I was to alternatively enjoy or be driven to madness by that humor. Unfortunately, if I bought the ship I would inherit the captain as well.

Zach worked for us for 24 months at which time we had to ask him to retired from the MacVie and he did. Since then, we have visited him in Victoria where his behaviors again drove me to distraction and reminded me of his previous antics and in Copper Harbor where he drove to see us and stayed in town for a day before heading back to Victoria. We exchanged cards every Easter (from him) and Christmas (from me) but nothing has passed between us for a couple of years now so I have been wondering if he is still alive. Someday I will try to locate his whereabouts.

The last time I saw him was in Florida where we were staying for the winter. He was was on his way with his girlfriend to take a cruise out of Ft. Lauderdale. We had a pleasant visit during which I asked him if, as a youth, he knew about the death camp on the outskirts of Auchswitz. Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Of course. You could smell the burning bodies."


(a picture taken of the Chief Engineer, Edison Yarde, in the engine room of the Macvie. The chief is on the right facing my friend and me on the left.)


Chief Yarde, as long as he worked on the ship, never left her to go anywhere except on the dock or quay to which it was berthed and once a month to the post office to send his pay home. He was a meticulous man who spoke so fast that the words tumbled out of his mouth one on top the other and that coupled with his Barbadian accent and a slight stutter made him almost incoherent. Invariably I had to ask "What?" every time he said something to me and that tended to slow him down. Though I often tried to start one, we never had a real conversation. In fact, I was so worried that he might quit the ship that I tended to coddle him and do his bidding which he soon realized would get him almost anything he needed. Without the chief, I soon realized that I was doomed.

As with all the crew, the chief was paid once a month in US dollars, cash, which he promptly mailed home to his wife in Barbados. Once I expressed concern about mailing cash through the antiquated Caribbean Basin postal system and suggested it might be better if I gave him a paycheck. Absolutely not, he said, adding that he had no faith in paper checks. As far as I know, he never lost a dime.

The chief kept to himself either in his engine room or his quarters and only occasionally came on deck and usually only then to inspect a repair of some equipment. When he was in the engine room, he always carried a wiping rag in his hand to clean up a spot or a drip. It was the engine room, spotless and organized, that sold me on the ship. Mistakenly, I thought the whole ship was in the same condition.

When we left the ship two years later, the chief was still aboard and preparing to work for the new owners.

Next post: Jim our pump man and Ethan Toney a deckhand.

The MacVie Story, Part X. Victory???

(The M/T MacVie, fully loaded, sails under the high bridge (Queen Juliana Bridge) on her way to Bonaire.)

(For a larger view of any picture, double click on the thumbnail photo.)







The is the last part of the MacVie narrative which was covered in ten parts from finding her to getting chartered. Starting with the next post, I want to share some vignettes featuring both humorous and serious events over the two years we ran the charter. For example, the murder of our crewman, Ethan Toney.

This part of the narrative, has a question mark behind "Victory???" because there was trouble yet to come, the outcome of which we were uncertain in November, 1981.

In mid November, 1981, the Shell Refinery Marketing Department agreed to hire the M/T MacVie to run the Bonaire as needed, which turned out to be about once a week. By Mid December, however, I began to realize that the $900 per day rate was inadequate to retire our loan and repairs. It was the 1980s and interest rates were soaring. Our loan was with Heller & Company of Chicago at an interest rate of 24.3%. Something had to be done or we would surely fail. But what?

While we ran the trips to Bonaire as planned, I kept pondering what could be done to get them to increase our charter. My chance came on January 8, 1982, when Shell handed me the completed Time Charter document supposedly containing all the terms which had been negotiated. In the approximately two months since we started sailing. I had learned something about shipping and charters and that was to read and study your charter carefully and thoroughly and hold your charterer to the provisions in them because they will hold those same provisions against you. When I got the actual charter, I did just that and discovered that all the restrictions that were agreed to regarding where and how they could use the MacVie were ignored. Whether this was by design or mistake it mattered not; I took the charter at face value and decided to take action.

After a day or so, I wrote an extensive letter to Mr. Schoonbrood of Shell in which I pointed out the lack of restrictions. I concluded the letter by saying that as far as our company was concerned, the charter was null and void and had to be re-negotiated. Period. I delivered the letter by hand and the next morning I was called to Schoonbrood's office for a discussion.

As forcefully as I could, I pointed out the provisions in the charter which dealt with voiding the charter. He listened intently but said nothing. After a few moments of silence I said that he knew the charter and shipping business better than I and that he knew that the rate negotiated was inadequate. Further, I pointed out again that neither he nor I were part of the negotiation so we had no emotional ties to the terms. Then I asked for $300 more per day for a total of $1,200. Though reserved, he was friendly and said he would take it to his board to get their response.


(Here we are underway heading for Bonaire. With the deck almost at the waterline, the seas wash over it as though it was a immovable dock. Sailing back and forth was always a pleasant experience. Porpoises and flying fish were regular visitors and once a baby surfaced near the ship.)


Within a few days, Schoonbrood called to tell me that he would like to see me. Dressed in a suit and tie as most Dutch businessmen, I arrived full of anticipation tinged with dread. What would I do if he said "no?"

I had brought a briefcase with me and I opened it and spread out my papers on the table. He got right to the point: his board understood the situation and agreed that 1) the rate was too low, 2) that they would raise it to $1,200 as requested effective immediately, and 3) all the restrictions previously negotiated would be spelled out. I thanked him and but said I wanted the pay to be retroactive to when we started sailing, almost 60 days earlier, a total of $18,000.

Absolutely not, he said.

Now this is one of those decisive moments when a businessman has to take the ultimate risk: all, compromise, or nothing. I chose "all" because in reality I had no other option.

I slowly picked up my papers, swept them into my briefcase, snapped it shut, and said, "Well, Mr. Schoonbrood, I 'm afraid I will have to pick up my chips and go home," and with that I got up, shook his hand, and walked across the office toward the door. As I walked, I started to panic. Was this foolish? What the Hell was I doing? One is amazed how many thoughts can go through one's head as he is making this dramatic a move.

When I got to the door, in an irritated voice, he said, "Come back here!"

(One of the local pilots which we were required to use when entering the Ports of Bonaire and Curacao. Pilots have specialized knowledge of local conditions.)















(Berthed at Bonaire's desalinization plant where sea water is converted to fresh water. The equipment needed a weekly ration of gas oil. We stayed at this location only as long as it took to off-load the oil after which we would be taken by pilot to the main pier in Kralendijk, the largest city in Bonaire and the seat of the local government.





(Approaching our berth in downtown Kralendijk, the main city in Bonaire. From this pier we off-loaded gasoline and propane tanks. Typically, we would remain in Bonaire for a couple of days just relaxing before heading back to the refinery.)




(At our berth in the center of Kralendijk. The vessel to the far right is the bow of the condemned tanker "Debbie" which we replaced.)







Relieved, I went back to the table and opened my briefcase resolving as I did that I might have to accept defeat or compromise after all. But it was neither: he agreed to the retroactive pay and ordered his secretary to cut a check. Less friendly now, he handed me the check and said simply, "Good luck." I thanked him and mumbled something about having a good working relationship , etc. and then departed as quickly as possible.

I drove immediately to the Bank of America where I had my account. Standing on the front steps of the bank, I turned and with arms and check raised like Rocky Balboa, I had my son-in-law, Jack Eberhard, take my picture. Unfortunately, we can't find it for this blog.

So everything was signed, sealed and delivered and we were in business. Little did I know, however, that at the time I had planted the seeds for my eventual downfall. But thats another chapter for later. In the meantime, let's bask with a few vignettes.






(The M/T Macvie returning empty from Bonaire.)






Next: A portrait of the wonderfully vexing Captain Christopher "Zack" Zahariasyzwitz.

The MacVie Story, Part IX: Ready for My first trip.

(A small part of the Shell Oil Company Refinery on Curaçao. Once one of the the world's largest refineries, it is now considered rather average.)

At 10:30 p.m. on the evening of November 25, 1981, I arrived at the Curaçao airport and after clearing customs was met by Capt. Zack who drove me to the ship. On the way, Zack said that she was fully loaded and ready to sail in the morning. It would be her 2nd trip to Bonaire and I was going to be aboard. I could hardly contain my glee at the thought of it. Also, it would also be my first sight of the MacVie at her berth in the Shell refinery. Zack had already got my pass so we entered the grounds of the refinery, a highly restricted area, without delay. Driving through a refinery at night, especially one of the world’s largest, is eerily disconcerting the first time. Danger lies everywhere: pipes emitting steam, methane vented and burned in great plumes of fire and smoke from tens of stacks throughout the grounds and everywhere what must be miles of pipes and hundreds of blue, red, and yellow lights, some blinking madly, others buried deep in the apparatus of the cracking plant and "DANGER" signs everywhere. Refinery odors are unique and almost overbearing. But as those who live downwind from a paper mill, one gets used to it.

After a winding long drive through the refinery we arrived at the ship. There she lay: the M/T MacVie, low in the water, filled with gasoline, diesel fuel and propane tanks, all ready to sail. I was awestruck. She looked glorius. When I boarded, I could feel the heaviness of the ship. Yet it was a feeling that she was alive, almost a springy spongy feeling. It was a feeling I grew to love.

After a short sleep, I awoke early. Unlike the dockyard where noise was constant and harsh, the refinery’s noises are hushed, humming, swishing, and the MacVie’s generators hummed and droned along with them. It was very soothing. The MacVie was berthed on her port (left) side and my stateroom was on the starboard side so when I looked out of my portlights, I saw only the harbor water shimmering from the lights of the refinery beyond the small bay we occupied. I looked out for a long time. It was also the windward side. Far in the distance was the high bridge which crossed the Sint Annabaai River which bisected the city of Willemstad. Soaring above the bridge at one end was Fort Nassau and the restaurant where a few week earlier I had stood in utter despair. Beyond that was the lights of Willemstad reflected into the sky against some low-lying clouds. And the wind! Prevailing easterly, it blew into my portlights constantly, a hot, dry wind. As I faced it, I had the sensation that I should feel cold; I didn’t and it was altogether pleasant. Into my berth I went and slept.

When I awoke, it was getting light and I could here noises about the ship, sounds that I couldn’t yet indentify. I dressed and walked back to the officer’s mess at the stern of the ship. A secured table surrounded by eight secured swivel chairs and a small refrigerator were in the room. The adjacent room was the galley where two crewmen were preparing breakfast for themselves. I asked them their names and position on the ship and was quickly told that they were not cooks. In fact, they said, we don’t have a cook at all and everyone just makes do for himself. After showing me where the coffee was, they departed to the crew’s mess which was on the other side of the deck. I poured myself a cup of coffee and walked out on the fantail to survey my surroundings. My whole body was electric; I couldn’t stand still and could barely drink my coffee.

Zack came down from the bridge deck where his stateroom was located and greeted me by telling me about several problems that we had faced when I was in Michigan, all of which took money to solve. But even that news couldn’t undo me. I just laughed it off. Told we were waiting for a pilot to guide us from the Harbor, I was taken aback. Simple as that, I thought, no ceremony; just get the pilot and leave. And then as if he deemed it, the pilot boat arrived and a young man dressed in a smart white shirt with captain’s bars and neatly pressed black trousers came aboard and headed directly to the bridge. I wanted a picture of the ship before we left and I asked if I had time to take a picture. With a long-suffering look at Capt. Zack, the pilot said okay and worked on his paperwork while I ran off the ship with my camera and looked for a vantage point. Being very low in the water, she didn’t look right taking the picture from the wharf so I ran around the end of the inlet and took a picture from across the way. Though hastily done, it turned out to be my favorite picture.

(November 26, 1981, the M/T MacVie fully loaded and ready to sail to Bonaire)

Next, Part X: Sailing to Bonaire.