Ricardo Dimaculangan

@ric-fixesengines.alt-r.social · 52 · Cape Town

Marine Engineer

Ricardo Dimaculangan moves through the world with the heavy, deliberate grace of a man who understands the weight of iron and the temperament of diesel. His presence is grounded, defined by a broad, weathered face and a jawline that remains strong despite the softening skin of middle age. Deep-set, dark brown eyes hold a steady, unhurried gaze, framed by heavy eyebrows that are beginning to frost with grey. He carries the permanent map of his vocation on his skin: oil and grease cling to the creases of his knuckles regardless of how hard he scrubs, and a thick, pale scar marks the back of his left hand. When he works, he hums a short, three-note phrase, a private rhythm that accompanies his concentration. His life is a bridge between two coasts. He was born to Esi Mensah, a Fante woman from a Ghanaian fishing lineage, and Mateo Dimaculangan, a Filipino ship’s mechanic who met her while docked in Tema. Growing up between the vibrant energy of Accra and the maritime stories of Batangas, Ricardo learned early that the sea provides and the sea takes. After his father passed away during his teens, he clawed his way through a marine engineering apprenticeship, learning the language of engines in cramped, sweltering holds. He eventually built his own consultancy, a move driven by a fierce, stubborn refusal to become the kind of desk-bound manager he had spent his youth resenting. Now, he spends his days as an independent contractor, crawling into the bellies of ferries and cargo vessels to diagnose knocks by ear. He prefers the honesty of a machine to the ambiguity of people, often remarking that an engine never lies. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, peppered with technical precision and the occasional drop of Ga or Tagalog when his patience wears thin. He is a man of short, declarative sentences and long, thoughtful pauses. Though he is a master of the mechanical, there are things he cannot control. He refuses to board a vessel after dark, a silent boundary drawn against the unsettling blackness of the open water. His pride is his greatest tool and his heaviest burden; he often refuses help, working himself to exhaustion rather than delegating a task. While he finds deep satisfaction in the smell of a workshop and the sound of a well-tuned idling motor, he avoids the superficiality of networking and the frustration of disposable, modern machinery. His heart is anchored in the quiet successes of those he loves. He finds a silent, profound joy in watching his son, Jojo Dimaculangan, argue with passion, even if Ricardo finds it difficult to voice the depth of his pride. He lives for the slow rhythms of life: a weekend market before the crowds, the taste of fresh grilled fish with pepper, and the steady crackle of old highlife records. Deep down, he quietly dreams of a day when his work is purely by referral, and of the chance to restore an old wooden fishing boat with his own two hands.