"It's so hot, the chickens are standing in line to get plucked." -- Chris Armbruster, summer 2000

AS A GUY who makes his living selling used records on Charles Street, it is doubtful that Chris Armbruster has much experience in the plucking of poultry.

I didn't care. I was a reporter burdened with asking people what everyone already knew: How hot is it, how cold, how much did it rain and how hard did the wind blow?

Maybe it was his exposure to all those old Melanie records -- "Lay Down (Candles in the Rain)" -- but Mr. Armbruster drizzled poetry over meteorology, and that made my job a breeze.

Now I have a different job. I don't have to ask people how hot it is in Baltimore anymore. I know.

"Ever use one of these?"

"Nope."

I was standing on the deck of the cable ship Global Link docked in South Baltimore about a week ago on one of those days when you know before breakfast how hot and miserable it's going to be because you're already miserable.

A veteran deckhand named Cutty held a stainless-steel cylinder resembling an industrial bicycle pump. From one end protruded long spokes of wire, like something you'd use to tattoo an elephant.

"This is a needle gun," said Cutty, connecting it to a hose that hooks into an air compressor. Press the trigger and the needles vibrate violently, an assault weapon against old paint and rust.

It was a little after 8 a.m. on a Tuesday that city Health Commissioner Peter L. Beilenson would later describe as a "typical Baltimore summer day." Which means that the air between the ship and the Curtis Bay water tank on the other side of Port Covington was thick and gray, a simmering haze of heat, humidity and pollution that peaked at 93 degrees and turned the deck into a griddle.

Cutty and another deckhand were breaking rusted nuts from corroded bolts that fasten long boards of mahogany to skids from which huge buoys are launched when the Global Link is laying cable. I was the ordinary seaman assigned to help.

Every time they removed a length of wood from the metal skids -- an awkward, high-wire act requiring strength and balance -- I hit the rusty skid with the needle gun.

How hot was it? I'm glad you asked.

To get at the rust, I had to contort my body while connected to a tethered harness designed to save you from cracking your skull on the concrete dock in case you pull a Natalie Wood.

I was wearing heavy work pants (not thick enough to insulate me from the scorching deck when I had to kneel down), a short-sleeved cotton shirt, reading glasses, safety goggles, earplugs and a baseball cap. In five minutes, my shirt was drenched. In another 10, the ball cap would be good and soaked.

To obliterate the rust, you have to get close to it, and powdery granules of paint and iron blow back onto your sweaty face, arms, ears and neck. Stopping to itch, you take a moment to clean glasses streaked with perspiration for if you can't see, you'd best have faith in the harness. You look up at the nickel sky to see how much progress the sun has made. It's still rising, bearing down.

At 9:50 a.m., it's time for the first coffee break guaranteed by the Seafarers International Union, a luxurious half-hour in which you drink multiple cups of water even though you've already had four or five from a jug out on deck.

Retreating to the darkness of an air-conditioned fo'c'sle, you rest your eyes, brain broiled as though you'd been ingesting Purple Haze instead of Baltimore haze.

In a heat-induced hallucination, you see young Alice stepping into the mirror above the cabin sink, crossing over from real life to make-believe. You remember all the years you made a buck asking people laying asphalt in August how hot it was.

Glimpsing the hem of Alice's dress as she disappears, you realize you have reversed her adventure and wonder if your own mirror works both ways.

The clock sends you back on deck for another round with reality. In the passageway, you see one of the engineers. He asks you how hot it is outside and laughs, for it is always a typical summer day in the engine room.

Today's writer

Rafael Alvarez, an author who usually lives in Greektown, is a seaman aboard the cable ship Atlantic Guardian that's headed for the Virgin Islands.

City Diary provides a forum for examining issues and events in Baltimore's neighborhoods and welcomes contributions from readers.