Upcoming SEAPA Exam and My Path To Becoming A Deputy Pilot

The Southeast Alaska Pilots’ Association will hold examinations to select new trainees from April 6-10, 2020, at the Pacific Maritime Institute (PMI) in Seattle. Applications must be either postmarked or emailed by 2/15/20. Minimum qualifications and detailed application information can be found here, but applicants should know that no local knowledge or Alaska experience is required to apply. Depending on initial qualifications, the training program typically takes from 2-4 years.

From a personal perspective, no local experience is required because the training program is a beast. But in a good way. You are definitely going to be pushed, humbled, but then incredibly ready to do the job by the time you finish training. I entered the training program in 2015 with 27 years of sailing experience, 19 of which were as Captain - over a decade of sea time in SE Alaska - and I still was amazed at how much there was to learn about Alaska, shiphandling, bridge resource management, etc. In other words, this is not for the faint of heart, nor for folks trying to find themselves. 4 tough years later, I became a Deputy Marine Pilot, and the hardship made me all the more proud of my accomplishment.

SEAPA, as a pilot group, is unlike any other in the United States in myriad ways, not the least of which is that we can be onboard a ship for days at a time, not hours. We typically pilot cruise ships, bulk cargo vessels, and large yachts.  Cruise ships are definitely our bread and butter, and that traffic is expected to continue to increase with approximately 1.4 million cruise passengers expected to move through the region in 2020. Cruise ships are in the region from May through September, so all of our pilots work full-time through the summer, and most of the training program takes place at the same time, but off season cargo work and the acquisition of Federal Pilotage takes up the rest of the year.

There are over 11,000 nm of shoreline in SE Alaska (Dixon Entrance to Yakutat), and you will become an expert in all 11,000 miles as you get Federal Pilotage endorsements for the entire region. You need to be able to reproduce the 5 or 10 fathom curve, soundings, tracklines, place names, ATONs, tide & current information, weather, and other coast pilot information for every chart. Oh, and also completely reproduce the entire light list for that area. Describe pivot point, communications with tugs, using an anchor? No problem. Regurgitate the names, characteristics, nominal range, height and descriptions of up to 47 lights at a time? Bigger problem. (I ultimately found a system that worked for me, and you will, too. Shocking what the brain is able to do when pushed...)

SE Alaska is also home to some of the largest tides and tidal currents in the US, and you will never forget the first time you drive a 115,000GT cruise ship through a channel only 0.07nm wide, 18 knots of wind on the port quarter and a 2 knot following current. Again, this job is not for the faint of heart. And I haven't even mentioned the glacial ice...

Finally, I want to point out that I wasn't the first female SEAPA pilot. I wasn't even the second. I was the 4th, loooong after Captain Kathy Flury became the first female pilot in SE Alaska way back in 1992. She paved the way for the rest of us and I can honestly say that it has been incredibly refreshing to not be a novelty. Also, please read not only Captain Flury's story, but a full issue of stories about incredible women mariners in the latest USCG Proceedings. We all (men and women alike) owe an incredible debt of gratitude to the women mariners that came before us and the ones that continue to lead, mentor and inspire other women mariners, like Elizabeth Simenstad, founder of this amazing community of Sea Sisters!

Feel free to email me with questions about the training program, pilot group, SE Alaska, etc. (The only thing I can't chat about are the exams as I'm helping develop them...)

See you out there!

Captain Russell on the bridge

Jill Russell can be reached at jillfrussell@gmail.com

So You Want To Be A Pilot

Recently I was asked by a friend, who is sailing as a mate on a tugboat, “what is the best way to prepare over the long term for a pilot entrance examination?” Here was my response: 

There are several things you can do to set yourself up to be successful not only in taking a pilot exam, but in doing the actual job. 

Practical stuff 

Start looking at the different pilot groups and consider how each group has very different jobs. For example, in Puget Sound you’ll find mostly large cargo including bulk, containers, and tankers; one pilot might stand up to a 10 hour solo watch; there will be lots of shiphandling and working with tugs, and you’ll have close to a split schedule of work, but lots of highway driving to get to jobs. In Southeast Alaska, you’ll work with mostly cruise ships; there will be two pilots on the ship for days at a time; there will not be as much direct shiphandling, and you’re looking at 4 months of work in the summer season and then the rest of the year off. And so on; different regions present very different schedules, challenges, and incomes. 

Once you get a sense of which type of piloting job appeals to you, research the hell out of their entry requirements and their training program. Some offer stipends, some require an Unlimited Tonnage Master while others only require a 1600 Ton Master’s license. Some are 2 year training programs, some are 4, and some vary in length based on your progress as a trainee. 

Once you think you know which group you want to go for, plan all of your sailing to set yourself up for that goal. 

Theoretical stuff

Be a lifetime student of people. What? Yes, people! Pilots must immediately incorporate themselves into the bridge team the moment they step onto the bridge. If the team is uncomfortable with your decision, you need to recognize it from body language or other subtle cues immediately and ask yourself if you effed up, or maybe you just didn't explain your plan well enough. It is a new day in piloting and no longer are pilots the stoic stranger on the bridge. You've got just a few seconds to earn the team's trust. 

Be a lifetime student of shiphandling. Watch how people handle ships, boats, barges etc. in various environmental conditions. Think about power, maneuvering levers, pivot points, and the effects of the wind and current. Take every class and read every book you can get on shiphandling to the point where you recognize that different authors have different theories, and try them out for yourself when you get an opportunity. If you don't have the conn, pretend you do and give commands in your head, trying to predict what the ship will do and then reflect upon the job and decide if it could have been done differently; specifically, more elegantly. Talk to every shiphandler you respect and pick their brain. Some newbies aren’t able to verbalize what they are thinking while shiphandling, but don't get frustrated and don't fall into the habit of holding back when you aren’t sure what you are trying to convey. Pilots MUST be able to verbalize their plan to the bridge team, as well as execute it in the moment via spoken commands. Pilots don’t touch the throttles or wheel at this level. All verbal. 

Be a lifetime student of the COLREGs. Not the USCG exam version of the nautical rules of the road; I'm talking the Craig Allen/ Farwell's insight into the rules. You should consciously put every vessel interaction you encounter into the context of the COLREGs. Read Farwell's like it is your bible, because if it isn't now, it will be when you become a pilot. 

Be a lifetime student of tides, currents and wind. Start a “Ports Journal” for every port you visit and jot down the environmentals you are expecting (what is predicted) prior to arrival; then write down how you think that current will push your vessel and what you should expect to steer to counter it. After the fact, review what you actually experienced. For example, Juneau has a crazy hydraulic current that only occurs when the tide is +10' or more, as the flood spills over the Mendenhall Bar. What the what? Exactly. Many ports have wildly unusual local phenomena such as this, and local knowledge is the key to approaching these unique situations. The more you get into the habit of paying attention to local and seasonal effects, the better you get at planning your shiphandling vs. reacting to the unexpected. 

Be a lifetime student of natural ranges. Every place you visit, whether it is just once, or on your milk run, start looking out the window for natural ranges to help you determine if you are getting set, or if you are encroaching on a "no-go" area. Write these down in your Ports Journal. Also, when you find a range and are on it, look at the RADAR and memorize that view as well. Incorporate all of these tools into the "do things correlate?" question you should be asking yourself constantly. 

Be a lifetime student of navigation. Note this is pretty far down the list. By now, we can all navigate, right? But what the really excellent navigators do is make it look damn easy. They understand how the outside environmentals are affecting the ship, they always know where they are, and they are constantly not only looking out the window, but integrating and correlating the data from all of their equipment. We are required to use "all available means" to safely navigate, so I'm not going to badmouth ECDIS, but you had better understand the inherent limitations of electronic charts and, more importantly, recognize when the ECDIS, RADAR, and depth finder do not jibe with what you are seeing when you look out the window. 

Finally, learn to critique your skills in a constructive manner and practice, practice, practice. After every single maneuver I did as Mate and Captain, I would later ask myself why I did certain things and what could I have done differently or better. Then - and this is important - I would incorporate those lessons learned into my next maneuver and start the cycle over again. By being willing to deconstruct your skills without beating yourself up, you will create a habit of continuous improvement and will enter a pilot training program far, far above the skill set of the average trainee. 

Comms

An alarm jolted me awake.  I struggled to awareness and with it, to answer basic questions like “what is that alarm?” “where am I?” “what ship am I on?” and most importantly, “am I supposed to be on the bridge right now?”

The room was dark but I could tell from the gentle rolling of the ship that we had changed course, and if the rude tones emanating from my cell phone were any indication, the ship was nearing Cape Spencer and with it, the last chance to take advantage of a coveted cell service window.

I got ready for watch, checked the time and with 5 minutes to spare before my presence was required on the bridge, I greedily scrolled through texts from friends and loved ones. As my alarm sounded again, pushing me from my stateroom and toward the bridge, my eye caught the final text from my wife back in Seattle before I had to shut down my cell phone: “Gah!! Where are you?! I have a huge question for you!!” And thus ended our cell window for the next 2 days. 

Communications with loved ones has never been so easy.  Easy? Yes, easy. 

In 1988, on my first ocean-going ship, the clack of the telex was reserved for ship’s business only.  Want to ask your parents if they will send you another season of Northern Exposure on VHS? Buy a long distance phone card in port and don’t mess up the time difference. 

In 1992, on my first near-coastal passenger ship, guests and crew alike could use the Marine Radio Operator to make a call on the VHF to a phone number in the US, but every other ship within radio range could also put a pin in their boredom and listen in on the shore-based side of the conversation.  So, crew rarely wanted to risk the money or ridicule that inevitably came with using the Marine Radio Operator, but I remember one particular passenger - some bigwig from Hollywood - who came up to the bridge while we were underway and said he had to make a very important phone call. After explaining the basics, he looked at me and asked if I could leave the bridge to give him some privacy.  Um, no, not while we are underway. 

In 1997, the use of satellite-based systems finally became ubiquitous at sea, and with it definitely came better communication, but no internet, and email was only business correspondence from the home office and usually meant more paperwork, checklists, maintenance schedules, Safety Management forms, etc.  We dreaded the increased office presence in our daily lives, especially as it was still a rare ship that had personal email available for the crew.  Honestly, though, in 1997, most of us didn’t have email addresses; not until the following year, when Tom Hanks listened to the modem squawk-chirp-scream as it connected to the internet so he could flirt with Meg Ryan in an AOL chat room. 

On September 11, 2001, I was on a ship in Canada’s Inside Passage and we still did not have real-time internet capability.  The sat phone/computer was in the purser’s office, which was closed that early in the morning, so we only learned of the tragedy taking place in the lower 48 when the Chief Mate tried to find a Seattle Mariners game update on the Single Side Band radio. 

In 2008, finally, I had personal email at sea. Sometimes. When the ship was on the right course. And the seas weren’t too big. And it wasn’t raining too hard. And the 20 other people onboard weren’t also trying to use one of the 3 computers available. 

And now it is 2016. As a Marine Pilot Trainee, I’m not attached to any one ship, so I don’t have access to the ship’s onboard email system. But the array of domes and antennas mounted above the wheelhouse of all but the oldest ships that ply the waters of Southeast Alaska tells me that the crew can likely send as many emails as they wish. 

The idea of communicating solely through email and the occasional cell phone text or call must be unimaginable to those of a certain age. But going to sea has never been about living in real time. 

Though they can’t always connect regularly with those at home, most sailors are used to the punctuated equilibrium of weekly, or monthly, catch up moments, quickly distilling life’s essential events into 15-minute phone calls. This pretty much guarantees an awkward moment or two upon the return home, not knowing that Stacy and Dave divorced, the Johnsons had another baby, or that your wife decided to buy a house while you were gone. But it is an amazing house, with perfect light, surrounded by green and great neighbors and the entire connected world, which is easily converted from electrons in the wires that run along the rooftops into the bits and bytes that stare brightly at me from my screen.
 

“How did you get started in the maritime industry?”

Like all good sea stories, this one starts with a storm.  There I was, 40 foot seas, listening to the crash of the loose filing cabinet as it slid drunkenly toward the bridge wing. I dodged the drawers, pulled up the wastebasket and puked up my crackers and soda as I thought, “What the hell am I doing here?”.

From a very young age, I was sure that I was going to be a veterinarian, caring for horses and dogs, bandaging their wounds and listening to their hearts with the stethoscope that I imagined I would casually toss around my neck. But as I began the very long road to veterinary school, I discovered a very real truth about myself. I hated chemistry, and biology was a close second on the “I am not good at this” list; both topics of which are integral to that profession. 

So, casting about for an easy “A” while I figured out how to tell my parents that I was going to drop out of college, I stumbled upon a physical geography class. I’ve always enjoyed landscapes, rocks and maps that point the way to the next mountain. This one-time class turned into a few more, which turned into a piece of paper proving I had cartography and surveying skills. I found myself behind a drafting desk, hand drawing maps of flood hazards and 100 year storm boundaries with a mechanical pencil that I would double click to get the lead the perfect length, learning to not smear the fine lines demarking the deep zones across land. I was quickly bored beyond belief and growing pale and lethargic under the fluorescent hum. I wanted to move across the landscape, not draw it from a chair, swiveling from side to side.

I decided that I would follow in the family tradition and join the Navy, serve my country in khaki and dark shades of blue. As I talked to my Dad about my desire to “do something” - as he, my brother, and my cousin did - my father, as only a father who really loves his daughter can do, turned me away from the family vocation. “There isn’t anything for you to do in the Navy. You’re too smart for the Navy. Do you want to fetch some Admiral’s coffee?”

“But”, he continued, “I worked once with some guys in the NOAA Corps. Scientists in uniform, but they work on ships.”  

Fast forward a year and I was a character in my own sea story: a brand new Ensign on a research ship north of Dutch Harbor, dodging loose filing cabinets and hoping to not get caught throwing up again; mocked by the ABs, the other Ensigns, and my family’s heritage. I managed to make it through that stormy watch and woke up the next day to a steady horizon and the sound of what must surely be the devil trying to scrape his way into the hull. The daybreak had found us in the northern Bering Sea, insulated from the Soviet gale by a thick layer of sea ice, cracking, moving, jeering at our attempts to go further north. I dreaded the return south, the transit through open waters in a fetch larger than the 10 meter openings we had been following. But we headed south, then north again, and over the next several years, we boxed the compass across the world.

As we motored through storms and fishing fleets, I learned to cope with sea sickness while my head was in the radar hood, trying to determine the course change around a contact using a grease pencil which refused to stay sharp, leaving smears and clumps across the screen. So it was with a slow recognition, blocked by frustration and fatigue that I discovered a surprising truth about myself: I loved being at sea. I loved working on a ship. I loved the lifestyle of working so many hours during the day that you would return to your rack exhausted, falling asleep with your book on your chest, and wonder whether it was am or pm when your alarm went off 6 hours later.  I loved working 7 days a week for months at a time, then celebrating the land and green trees and meridian strips and shipmates with shots of horrible whiskey and heartfelt salutes. 

But my real love, despite our tumultuous love / hate rom-com beginnings, became the ocean. Out here, I love looking up and finding new stars, comparing the view to the book in my hands, and feeling like Magellan. I love being on the mid-watch, looking down and glimpsing the glow-in-the-dark torpedoes as they make their way to the bow, catching a free ride to wherever we happen to be going. I love watching the wave tops turn white and blow downwind. And most of all, I love following the track that I draw with my double-clicked lead, careful not to smear the fine lines demarking the deep zones as I move across the water.