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.