The Cruise

October 15, 2012

I am on the tiny balcony on the port side of the ship.  It is after 9PM, and the darkness is punctuated by an occasional flickering light cast by a fishing vessel waiting for its nets to fill.  While I know that boat is on the horizon, the darkness gives the illusion of one of those black velvet paintings from the 1960's.  The waves rush away from the Inspiration's steel flanks creating a rhythmic heartbeat just above the steady purr of the engines.  I sometimes think I hear a voice from an adjacent cabin or an extra splash from just beyond the ship. 

A raucous group of young passengers laughs as they head aft on the deck below.  "I think we're on the wrong part of the ship."  The voice of a male only recently immersed in adulthood follows the giggles of the young women ahead of him.  They return from their venture, their voices quickly absorbed as they pass the lifeboats.  My sister joins me and at first we share the excitement of a stargazing app on my iPad.  We travel from constellation to planet to satellite, glad that the ambient light of the city that was amplified by the haze is receding behind us.  Soon we sit silently, looking up, as we glide through the skyocean.

October 16

"Oh, look! It's kind of like Jurassic Park!"  We are inching past the headlands of Catalina and into Avalon Harbor.  I had laid awake much of the night listening to my sister's breathing and dismissing my imagination as the ship rolled.  My favorite person in the world is the first one to bring me good coffee in the morning, and that person arrived at 6:45.  I'm thinking of Natalie Wood as the small boat anchorage comes into view and of Huell Howser taking me on a television tour of the Wrigley Mansion.  A similar mansion (maybe that’s it?) is directly ahead of me, like my beloved Mt. Tam is at home, and I am now certain that I am destined to live in such a mansion.  Well, pretty certain.

We coffee, we laugh, we clean up, and I make plans to first go ashore and later to get a massage.  I'm off for a walk while my sis and brother smoke on the balcony.  I dig out my big red hat and head for the promenade.  At 3:30 this morning I wasn't so sure I'm a cruise kind of gal, but now, I'm thinkin' maybe I am.

Suzelle

I brought a small plate of pastries back from the dining room thinking that perhaps my sister or brother might want one last nibble before going ashore.  As I was leaving, our stateroom steward entered and began to tidy up.  "Do you throw away all the food that is left out?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said, "unless you tell me not to." 

We looked at the plate of pastries then at one another; it was unmistakable that we were sharing the same thought.

"I'm having a wonderful time on the cruise, but somehow I feel strangely about it."

She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side.  I was looking toward the cabin window, and she was a silhouette before me, yet I could see her eyes.  "What do you mean?"

I struggled to find the words that would make me sound neither condescending nor insincere.  " There's just so much here.  So much food.  I think of my students who eat so poorly..." my voice trailed off.

"Back home in Trinidad when I return from a trip, I use my tip money to buy food for five, six families.  One time I feed twelve families.  Each family for $60 I can buy food for a month."

The dam was now broken by our shared sentiment, and though we only exchanged a few more words, there was a joining of spirits that required no further elaboration.  Thereafter, Suzelle and I greeted one another with a sincerity that assured us both of the irony of life.

Catalina

As we began to enter Avalon Harbor, I thought of the story that Jeff told so many times during his last few days, of the sinking of Jeff’s new fishing boat, the Tiburón, on her maiden voyage to net the valuable swordfish.  His version went something like this:

A storm blew up before they could set the nets, so Jeff pointed the bow toward an inlet that was ringed by rocky bluffs.  After some challenging maneuvers, they got the boat anchored in a position that provided enough clearance from the shoals.   He left Russ on watch and went below to sleep for a few hours.  Before bunking in, he admonished Russ to not get too relaxed (e.g., smoke too much weed) that he neglect to reposition the Tiburón should the surge pull the anchor loose. 

Shortly after he fell asleep, Jeff awoke to the bumping and crunching that could only be the hull against the rocks.  The damage was such that they took on water almost immediately; a mayday was sent to anyone in the vicinity.  The choppy surf made clearing out what belongings they could difficult, but the immediacy of the situation sent them into an adrenaline-fueled frenzy.  They had a plan for such events, but they never suspected that they would need to put it into effect, let along so soon.  Jeff tried unsuccessfully to remove the ship's bell, but the seas were so rough that they had to board the life raft and leave the Tiburón to the rocks and waves and rain.  They were rescued by a nearby Coast Guard vessel. 

Years later as Jeff lay dying of brain caner, Russ joined us all in the living room of our home.  The room was shaped like the bow of a ship with a panoramic view of the valley below.  Jeff talked of a huge swordfish headed toward the boat and of his joy at being out at sea with no limitations but those enforced by nature and his own powerful young body.  At one point he again declared his love for me, then asked, "Where are we?"  "We are home, Jeff, in your bed."  He smiled.  "I wondered how you got on the boat.  I knew you didn't belong there."  We curled together more closely on the hospice bed.

Late that night he told Russ, "You'd better find that goddam bell before those salvage bastards get it."  Thirty-six hours later Jeff slipped out to sea.  I hope the bell is still in that cove. 

One of the miracles of the mind is that such memories can be triggered and play out as though in real time, yet only seconds pass.  When I even hear the name Catalina, I will also hear, "You'd better find that goddam bell."

 Dolphin Dance

"Please forgive the interruption, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought I would point out a special sight."  The Italian accent of our captain coated our ship like a blanket of honey.  (For all I know, he weights 350 pounds, but Italian men always sound exquisite, don't they?)  "On the starboard side of the ship, that is the right side as you face the front of the ship," (he rolled the r's ever so subtly), " you will see a large school of dolphin swimming toward us."

My sister and I were already on our balcony on the starboard side and indeed hundreds of dolphin were leaping singly and in two's, three's, even five's as they raced the Inspiration toward Ensenada.  Dolphins in the ocean seem to symbolize both freedom and community for all humans because soon the decks were alive with voices using the same tone as if looking at a litter of the most adorable puppies in the world.  My brother rushed over with his camera, and I grabbed my iPhone, and the three of us were cooing just like all the others.  This is what Jeff saw on every trip, and he never got tired of it.  He was much like a dolphin; the open sea invigorated him. Although responsible, he chose the rules to live by, and those rules always helped him take care of his loved ones.  Like the dolphins, he led his family to the safe places, the places of beauty, always taking the time to share the moments that we would not know would end so many decades sooner than we planned.  We watched the dolphins until they were no longer discernible from the waves.

Ensenada

This port had the potential to be a forgettable adventure but instead was a benign and pleasant visit with family members whom I had not seen for years.  The company was charming, the setting bucolic, and the meal delicious.  Rather than allow my anxiety manifest in wordiness, I was quiet and thoughtful to such an extent that several people asked if was feeling poorly.  The epiphany of the day:  remaining silent is advice that I should have taken forty years ago.

At Sea

Today I spend most of my free time writing.  I carry my iPod like the devout carry their books of prayer, and I seek out the quiet spaces that inspire me most.  I'm currently on the uppermost deck lying belly down on a chaise with the music of the resort pool area maintaining the party ambience that encourages the imbibing of cocktails.  As my bikini in-the-sun days are behind me, I retreat to the relative quiet of the balcony off my stateroom.  Heather and Rob are there enjoying their smokes and the silence, and I snooze on my bed overlooking my siblings and the sea. 

Our last evening onboard together is delightful.  We meet as usual at the Mardi Gras Dining Room mid-ship and once again share tastes of appetizers, entrées, and desserts.  I skip dessert tonight, attempting to better stave off the inevitable withdrawal from sweets by substituting bread.  It's my version of gustatory methadone, and it works.  We laugh, we talk, we share favorite memories of the voyage, and Karen speaks eagerly of the show we will see after dinner.  She is right:  seeing a show on the ship, no matter how simple it may be, is the cherry on top of the entire adventure. 

I watch those kids working so hard at their profession, knowing how long they practiced to get there, and how quickly these few prime performing years will pass.  I envy them the courage they showed by leaving the comfort of some small town, perhaps some distant homeland, and most certainly the theater friends they had before announcing, "I got a job with Carnival!"  They are singing and dancing their hearts out by night, and quite possibly acting as guest attendants during the day, but they made it:  they are professionals, earning a living doing what they love to do.

After the show, we begin the debarkation shuffle that has the complex choreography that the show seemed to lack.  We must quickly pack and place our tagged luggage in the hallway by 11PM.  We each read and then study and then review the instructions for the morning, and align those directions with the ones Karen gave us orally.  Rob joins me as I attempt to return the walker that I checked out for Dad on the first day.  I had been told to return it to Medical Deck 3 by 6PM, then to guest services before midnight.  I choose the latter option as it provides the most time for Dad to use it. 

Wrong choice. The darling girl barely out of her teens at Guest Services looked at me like I was trying to re-gift a fruitcake when I asked her to refund my deposit. She quickly regained her composure, made the necessary notes to Medical, then met me at the door to the office to retrieve it.  I was impressed by her willingness and ability to solve this unexpected twist with charm and flexibility.  I wonder if that is the result of good training, good sense, or both, aware even without her slight accent that she was not from the United States.  How sad is that?

Back at the cabins, or staterooms as the cruise line optimistically call them, we check every wardrobe, every drawer, every horizontal surface at least three times to ensure that we have all of our belongings.  We double-check that we have clothes to put on in the morning.  It is during this ritual that the contrasts between my sister and me once again emerge.

Heather packs precisely, rolling her clothing neatly, rewrapping some of her lovely pieces in the tissue paper that kept them lovely during her travels.  I, on the other hand, advise her not to look while I pack my dirty laundry in the paper bag from the wardrobe drawer, toss it into the bottom of the suitcase, then grab two armfuls of clothing and dump it in on top.  Extra shoes are tucked away on each side of the bag (I only brought two pair and wore flip-flops most of the time), fold my hanging bag in thirds on top and zip the suitcase shut.  Done.  She graciously refrains from whimpering as I do this.  I explain somewhat redundantly that most of my clothes are travel knits and Costco jeans and tee shirts.  The bags are in the hall by 10:45PM.  We are both sound asleep by midnight.

Back to Oceanside

Rather than the clusterfuck I expected, leaving the ship is simple, especially when in the company of someone who requires wheelchair service.  We whisk past any lines as we

follow the Carnival employee who is sprinting to the dock with my father, making us jog to not lose sight of him.  Who knew that a sturdy middle-aged woman could be so swift on her feet, and I am not referring to any of the three of us.  No, apparently the red Carnival polo endows her with Superwoman speed and incredible strength, both of which she demonstrates as she shoves Dad up a steep ramp then prevents him from careening down the other side.  We arrive in the luggage warehouse panting a bit, retrieve our luggage and our pater, and work our way curbside.  The shuttle shows up almost immediately, and we are back in Dad and Karen's condo by 10:30AM.  Trip over.

Home, Wherever It May Be

I'm on Southwest Flight 918 to Oakland in a nearly new Boeing 737 800 series.  I know this because the crew, no doubt relieved to be in a clean plane, have told us so at least four times, and we've just left the gate.  It feels huge and now features better air flow, a new style of overhead bin, increased headroom, and even has wi-fi service available.  It is a wonderful improvement.  The threesome to my right talk about their shared devout Christianity while the funny young man to my right makes a crack about the new plane.  "Hope they've worked all the bugs out before flying this one.  Hope you've made your peace with Jayee-sus Chrast."   I don't think he can hear the conversation on the other side of the aisle.  I crack up.

I've missed my girls.  I've missed my dog and cat, and I've even missed the chickens.  I look forward to a good night's sleep and the comfort of my bungalow. The abundance that spills into excessiveness that made up the last five days will be once again replaced with gratitude and simplicity.  What will never be replaced is the love that I observed between my dad and his loyal wife, and among the five of us as we share the never-spoken truth that every moment is made more precious by the pernicious intrusion of Alzheimer's into our lives.