Mammoth dredge toils at Beaufort Inlet

March 19, 2009 by Jeff Aydelette

Today, Evans, 38, is responsible for every facet of operations associated with the 10,000 ton ‘hopper’ dredge -- a maritime bug that bit three decades ago in the middle of Delaware Bay near Philadelphia.

“I would be out there in the middle of the bay boating with my dad,” recalled Evans. “We would see all of the ferries and barges going back and forth, and I thought to myself that would be fun to do one day.”

Fast forward to 2009. The father, Durl, now owns a bed-and-breakfast in Oriental. With his son on a month-long assignment less than an hour away, dad recently finagled a tour of the massive dredge not only for himself, but also for a half-dozen buddies.

The outing offered an up close look at the nation’s never-ending battle with Mother Nature, who revels in her task of closing inlets and clogging harbors.

McFarland has a two-fold mission: Emergency response anywhere in the world, as Evans and his crew experienced when they encountered 55-foot seas en route to the Gulf for Hurricane Rita relief. Second, planned maintenance dredging to guarantee viable commercial and recreational waterways.

“You guys are all boaters,” Evans told his visitors over lunch in the officers’ dining area. “We make sure all of these inlets that you like to go in and out of stay open. I know you don’t want to run aground.”

Though the hopper dredge fleet operated by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers has dwindled in recent years, the four gargantuan units that remain act as an automatic check on the prices paid by U.S. taxpayers. Most jobs are bid out to dredges that comprise the private sector.

“We figure our actual cost to dredge is $94,000 per day,” estimated Evans. “Private companies can come in up to 25 percent over that figure and get the business. The fact we are out here, ready to go on a moment’s notice, keeps them honest.”

One look into the 3,140 cubic yard belly of this beast definitely confirmed a visitor’s first impression.

“You could dig out all of Pecan Grove Marina with one scoop of this thing,” proclaimed the elder Evans, referring to a well known, local haven for sailboats of all sizes.

Please forgive the proud father for his hyperbole. McFarland does not scoop, it vacuums.

His son is a hands-on leader, willing to tackle any duty. He has spent much of his career on board McFarland, climbing the ladder all the way from a first step in ’92 and ’93. As a cadet from the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, “I painted, scraped, worked in the mess hall, and did a little bit of everything,” he said.

This type of apprenticeship remains the best way for a fledgling seaman to break into a career, and Evans retains that can-do attitude. Deep inside the hull of the vessel -- well below the outside waterline -- a huge conduit transports dredged material from channel floor to hoppers.
Evans eyes a crusty hatch, there for 42 years as a human access point for the occasional -- but nasty and risky -- job of ‘clean-outs.’

“I prefer to go in there myself,” he said. “I don’t have to do it, but I’d rather do it than send one of my guys in there.”

His crew can top more than 40 for big, round-the-clock jobs. But, despite an unlimited ‘Master’ license, Evans does not have dominion over all.

He pays particular attention when a boarding crew arrives from the U.S. Coast Guard. And, don’t forget Brad Davis, a third-party observer under contract with the National Marine Fisheries.

Davis is assigned to the McFarland, where he is charged with monitoring for the accidental destruction of endangered species. Most at risk are sea turtles, which can be sucked up and killed by the ship’s gigantic vacuum-powered drag head. He also watches out for ‘ship strikes’ of migrating right whales.

Fortunately, McFarland and rare oceanic species seldom lock horns.

Nevertheless, Davis, 45, has the prerogative to stop dredging literally in its tracks, an incredibly costly decision. He lauds Evans and his crew for treating him less like a pariah, and more like one of the on-board family.

“Even if I were not here,” said Davis, “I really feel like everybody on the ship would be doing the right thing.”

Even more so than Evans, Davis also finds himself exploring the bowels of the McFarland. His routine, but decidedly unenviable task comes five or six times during every 12-hour shift. Then, he descends into one of two ‘capture cages’ -- on either side of the gargantuan vessel.

These enclosures, engineered to confiscate the remains of any large species, are stainless steel fabricated into a 4-inch by 4-inch mesh. Equipped with knee pads and coal-miner style lamp on his hard hat, Davis flashes a big grin before disappearing below deck.

“Welcome to the glamorous world of endangered species,” he jokes.

On the day of the visit, Davis pulled out a long stretch of 2-inch fire hose and a knarly tangle of fishing line -- typical stuff that sinks to the bottom of a busy channel and far from endangered.
McFarland and her crew will be in Morehead City until early April. Then, it is on to the next task -- the mouth of the Mississippi.

With a diesel fuel capacity of 270,000 gallons and a cruising range of almost 9,000 miles, these guys know how to kick back when they’re not working.

“We can get her up to 10 knots if we’re in the Gulf Stream,” said Evans. “I usually put it at trolling speed so we can fish the whole way.”

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