You see them long before the slackers get up for breakfast. They sit at their tables, safely removed from the few solitary others who stare out to sea as though awaiting salvation. They find only a bank of white clouds tinged with the creamy orange of the rising sun, the waves endless as the sea is deep below the ship, far deeper than the minds that contemplate the suffering of their individual existence.
A part of each soul wants to reach out to others even if only to say Good morning, but is the morning good, and what horrors will the sunlight bring? Each soul longs to flee back to its cabin, back into the reassuring solitude of the mind. Someone once compared ships passing each other in the night, affording but a momentary glimpse, perhaps a minute smile or momentary hand gesture of recognition, but perhaps submarines passing in darkness might be a more appropriate metaphor.
This first morning at sea, you spot a woman in the cafeteria sitting at a table, facing the wall, apparently waiting for the place to open at 6:30, as advertised. You wonder why she isn’t facing the expanse of tables and chairs, empty except for a couple of late-night stragglers or insomniacs, or possible early-risers. She has a haunted profile. A bulky male stares ahead of himself, unacknowledging the few others – a solo traveler perhaps, one believing himself on the Love Boat instead of the Ship of Fools. Who can tell?
There is a gentle swaying of the vessel that reminds passengers they are suspended over the abyss that is democratic in the fate it could mete out to one and all should anything go wrong, but then, everyone and everything is insured by Lloyd’s of London, so nothing to worry about save for a terrorist attack, but even that is not a likelihood despite the one veiled passenger among the guests.
Yes, there is a veiled woman on board, a believer from the look of things, but who can tell. She might be an atheist or famous personality doing her utmost to remain anonymous. Spotted among those boarding, she was not in black but more fashionably in white, accompanied by a male who defiantly stomped by without making eye-contact, announcing his presence to all but the deaf and blind. But they might not be seen again unless in the chow line at lunch. The captain of the ship also had made an appearance – in full uniform and smiling, he seemed to say: “No worries folks. I wont dash you against the rocks just for a chance to wave to my mother.”
Once farther from land, TV channels remain frozen in time as though the world had ended but the shadows of life remained: newscasters, from the waist up, staring at the viewers as if they could see them, as if they’d just announced Armageddon, and then it came to pass without further ado. They look a little sad for they are young: a man wearing heavy-rimmed glasses and a pretty female all in fashionable black with white trim, as though for a funeral. Their hands are out of sight, in their laps like good boys and girls fulfilling their assigned duties. And now they are but pixelated ghosts trapped on the screen.
The cruise ship is a modest version of Las Vegas. It has a pool, a Jacuzzi, running track, shuffle boards, and a giant chess board, along with many restaurants and entertainment venues to make passengers forget they are suspended with a thousand feet of hell underneath. Yet, there are few places for quiet contemplation onboard unless it’s the small library or some pocket below the waterline, out of bounds to guests. Just as in life on shore, life on board is meant to keep you dancing and eating. No thinking allowed. This is the American Dream and, from the many ex-colonials on board, the attraction of the West seems to have taken root: a far distraction from the war and pestilence back home.
There are interpersonal dynamics to be observed in chance shipboard encounters. For instance, take the two diminutive women noted entering an elevator: “Oh. Are you going down?” someone asks. “No. No. We are going up. Are you going up?” “No. Down. We’re going down. Yes, down.” “OK. Bye then.” “Bye.” “Have a good day.” The meeting of worlds. Or, consider the elderly couple encountered earlier at the elevators: “Good morning.” (Silence.) “Ahem… Going up, are we?” “You might be. We’re not.” (Oh. Oh. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, did we? Come into the elevator with me and I’ll crush both your skulls against the walls and leave you bleeding ….) “Well, have a good morning.”
In the elevator, someone says: “The ship is underway. I can feel it. We’re at sea. Nothing around for miles and miles.” “But,” says a companion, “I thought we’d be in port longer. I’m so disoriented. It’s confusing.” They need to be reassured, so they say something wholly unnecessary to call you out. And most of the time it works.
The hardest part for a solitary mind is finding a place to read. The library is small and only momentarily of interest, not hospitable enough to find a book and spend some time in. If there is a patron in there, it is probably not a social mixer. People pass by in the corridor, peeking through the glass doors at those who can read. “Mom. What are those people doing?” “Reading, dear. Come along to the pool.” Maybe Mom thinks: I hope you don’t end up like that.
While downing a beer later in the day, a novel concept comes to mind: a cruise for the elderly called Eternity. It would be an end-of-life tour lasting up to six months and costing all of your savings, but it would be to all the places you would otherwise never see, North and South Poles included. There would be geriatric doctors and nurses on board and undertakers ready to perform your burial at sea: go deep-six with bagpipes and a sailors’ salute. Cremation in the boiler room for a bit more, ashes scattered to the wind off Tierra del Fuego, ship’s horn blasting. There would be farewell parties with song and dance and all the free booze guests could drink. There could even be an assisted suicide option, leaving this world in the arms of loved ones on your last and best trip.
There is an almost childish enthusiasm for land tours, a ripple of self-indulgence that sweeps the decks once the ship enters a foreign harbour. People begin to babble about where they are off to. “Are you going ashore?” someone asks. “No. I’m still jet lagged from my flight. I may stay at the pool doing some reading.” It is hard to avoid the looks asking why you are not going ashore. Maybe you are suspect. The Customs people are waiting for you, handcuffs ready. Or you are just too cheap to fork out the extra $150 for three hours riding a bus over a landscape much like the one you left back home. Some passengers slink on deck avoiding such encounters. You may have seen one after breakfast: “Hey, isn’t that the guy we saw last night at the late dinner? You know, the loner with the gimp leg?” “Yeah. You’re right. Don’t look. Let’s pretend we didn’t see him.”
Like trapped in a canyon, the ship has docked in a fiord: high cliff walls throwing a shadow over the ship and a small settlement accessible only by sea. The water is mineral-heavy, uninvitingly murky. The decks are empty, yet it is warm enough to read outside. The peace is welcomed. An American couple of females, met last night, come by. They are going ashore and wonder why you aren’t. “Too tired. Jet-lagged,” you reply. They nod knowingly.
They are a lesbian pair, one much older than the other, both rather butch. They say they are Trinidadian-American but identify as “Black.” You would have liked to ask why black rather than Brown, or is brown not an option? It’s either Black or White, oppressed or oppressor. You are tempted to say you are not white but pink, yet Pink doesn’t seem a choice either, so colour-conscious the world has become.
Later that evening, when all is safely aboard, dinner over, and most souls are in bed, you head up to the 8th deck to an all-night eatery where you can get a Reuben sandwich. There are a few stragglers from the disco at a booth, party animals going to seed. One of the ladies is goading the lone waiter, a young Indian weighing all of 110 LBS.: “You look just like a guy I once dated. Really. Alice, doesn’t he look like him, what-was-his-name? You know, the guy I dated.” She can’t, for-the-love-of-god, recall the name. The ladies are soused. One can’t find the key to her booze card. The waiter has to scour under the tables for it. Last call already came from the bar but no key-card, no credit, no way to pay for her margaritas. Having wolfed down your sandwich, you leave for top deck.
From deck 13, you see cleaners scouring the running track and pool area of the deck below, music playing softly from some hidden speakers. It is totally dark out at sea, with intermittent flashes of light from the Norwegian shore as though looking for signs of life. You feel like calling out but are afraid there could be a response. “Hellooo. Hellooo.” “Hello … Hello … Why don’t you jump? Jump. Jump….”
Scent of Time 