by Winona Kent
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d now like to practice putting your own lifejackets on, I’ll run through the steps again for you while members of the crew pass among you to assist you and answer any questions you might have.”
“I’ll just help you with this, shall I?”
I’m holding Fam_Tripper’s fragmented lifejacket, having retrieved it from underneath her chair.
“They’re not actually meant to be dismantled prior to wearing,” I continue, humorously, sliding the tapes expertly back inside their brackets, making the sum of the parts whole again. “Here we are. Arms please.”
“Anybody’d think I’d never been on a ship before,” Fam_Tripper says, as she extends her arms and I slip the lifejacket on her from behind.
I’m around to her front, doing up her clasps. This may be the source of many jokes on Twitter later.
“No need for embarrassment,” I assure her. “Though I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to find you in the event of a real emergency. Best practice putting it on and off yourself.”
“Thank you,” she says, looking for my nametag.
She’s not successful: my identity’s temporarily hidden in my pocket.
“Jason,” I tell her, as I move on to help a rather stout gentleman who’s trying to put his lifejacket on upside down.
I’m with Sal again, as she delivers reports to Barry, our Chief Purser, in his office behind the Pursers Desk. The investigators, decorators, electricians and refitters disembarked an hour ago. You’d never know there’d been a fire. It’s nearly six, and if we delay any longer, we won’t make slack tide at Seymour Narrows, a notoriously difficult channel about 100 miles north of here, where currents can reach sixteen knots.
“Memo re: tomorrow’s Senior Management Meeting, and ditto for Monday’s USPH, galley round reports from last inspection duly attached.” Sal hands them over. “You’ll let me know when Miss Wyndham boards?”
“She landed at YVR six hours ago. God knows what she’s been doing all this time.”
“I arranged for a limo to bring her to the pier,” Sally adds, “but the driver hasn’t seen her. We’ve put a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne in her stateroom, compliments of the Captain.”
There’s a commotion outside, which Quentin is dealing with. Barry, Sal and I peek from behind the open door, unseen. It’s not Diana. It’s a man. With a brochure.
“I wish to complain. Our cabin is not what we were led to believe.”
He thrusts the brochure at Quentin. Quentin checks its cover.
“There’s absolutely no room in the closet—it’s an abysmal closet, by the way, not nearly enough hangers. What do you think we are? Street people?”
“This is Holland America’s brochure,” Quentin says. “A completely different ship. I’ll just go and get one of ours.”
He joins us in the back, rolling his eyes. Barry quickly hands him one of our Alaska books.
And there’s Diana. Making her entrance by way of the Entrance Hall. She’s still a looker, even in her sixties. Kev should be here. She elbows Closet Man aside, and raps on the counter.
“Chief Purser!”
“Excuse me,” says Closet Man. “I believe I was here first.”
Diana looks him up and down, with studied disdain.
“You must be American.” She knocks on the counter, once more. “Chief Purser!”
Barry straightens his tie. “Wish me luck.”
And out he goes.
“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“And you are who?”
“Chief Purser, madam. Barry Charles.”
“I am not a madam. I have never been a madam, as far as I know. You may address me as Miss Wyndham.”
“I can see why you wanted to disembark,” Sal whispers, to me.
“Do you actually know her?” Quentin asks.
“Word travels fast. Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Ah,” Barry says. “Miss Wyndham. Welcome aboard. How may I assist you?”
“I expect compensation for being forced to ride to the pier in a third world taxi that appears to have come straight from the back streets of Bangladesh.”
“Indeed, Miss Wyndham. We did, in fact, hire a limousine for you.”
Diana’s dismissive. “I saw no limousine. And I won’t be kept waiting.”
“Oh,” Sally says, under her breath. “The lying cow.”
“Want to disembark with me?” I ask.
“I had shopping planned, and an excursion to the top of one of your mountains.”
“I trust your activities were successful?”
“They were not,” Diana replies.
This will not end well.
“Then perhaps you’d allow us to offer you an additional sightseeing tour, at no cost, to make up for the…inconvenience…?”
“That would be the least you could do,” Diana replies. “I shall be in my stateroom. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Wyndham.”
Diana sweeps away, into the lift. Her place is taken at the counter by Closet Man, still indignant and still brandishing our competition’s brochure.
“My turn,” Quentin says, to Sal and me. “I’ll offer him an upgrade, shall I? Next door to Miss Wyndham?”
He goes out with our Alaska book in hand. And Barry comes back.
“Before I forget,” he says, to me. “I’ve got something for you.”
He picks up an envelope from his desk. It’s a pretty lilac colour, sealed.
“Secret admirer, Jase?” Sal inquires.
On the front, instructions, in neat printing: “Please give to Jason Davey. Thank you.”
Sal’s waiting.
“It was left on the counter after Pax Muster,” Barry supplies.
“Come on, then, Studmuffin,” Sal says. “I’ve got important things to do. Open it.”
I was once offered $1,000 to engage in an afternoon of passion with a fifty-eight-year-old divorcee from Palm Springs who’d been admiring me from her table in TopDeck for three nights running. That invitation had arrived in much the same way.
I open the envelope. Inside is a flowery card, purples and blues and whites. Both Barry and Sal are craning their necks to see. I tip it open, deliberately disallowing their curiosity.
“Hello Jason. I’m so excited about this cruise. And I absolutely loved your lifejacket demonstration. Thank you! xxx Guess Who?”
“Palm Springs again…?” Barry inquires.
“I hope it’s more than $1,000 this time,” Sal says. “You’re so much more experienced in these matters now.”
I politely turned down the lady’s offer. Both Sal and Barry know that. They’re only teasing. I show them the inside of the card.
“You really do have a secret admirer!” Sal says. “Who’s Guess Who?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Not quite true. I’ve some idea. I only gave her my first name, but there’s that display with my photo in the foyer outside the Atrium Room. Which is unmistakably me.
“That last one from Palm Springs was quite attractive,” Barry says. “If you’ve no interest in this one…you know where to find me.”
He’s going back out to the counter.
“Studmuffin,” he adds, over his shoulder.
5
Saturday, Vancouver
In the old days, leaving port was actually something special. Crowds would gather pierside to wave off the passengers, fond goodbyes, while a small army of tugs guided the ship out, and it was a grand affair. The Sapphire still aspires to that time, though the adventure of a one way voyage to foreign shores has long since lost its intrigue, and what she offers passengers now is a well-researched, week-long round-trip facsimile.
I have a certain affinity for those very old days. My dad and mum crossed the Atlantic in 1967 aboard the Queen Mary. One of her last voyages. When she was still a ship, and not a hotel surrounded by concrete at Long Beach. I’ve been told I was conceived during that particular voyage. Th
e sea really is in my blood.
Sailaway’s a minor affair now. No crowds. No tugboats. Retro-fitted bow and stern thrusters and feather-touch controls do all the work. I’m astounded by the delicacy with which we manoeuver in and out of port, though I don’t suppose most of the passengers give it a second thought.
I’m standing on Observation Deck, at the very front of the ship, overtop the Bridge. I can see the Amethyst, slipping out just ahead of us, twelve decks high and nearly three football fields long, everything about her grand. I’ve been on board. She has a three-tiered showlounge, a retractable glass dome. Half a dozen restaurants and cafés. A two-level “wellness facility” and a six storey atrium surrounded by shops, lounges, and specialty bars.
The Sapphire, in comparison, is tiny and old and a slightly arthritic Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. Well past her prime, but the illusion’s maintained with makeup and nostalgia. And, like Joe Gillis, I’m in love with her. We all are.
While I wait, I connect. I have a clever iPhone that lets me Twitter while absent from my cabin. It’s early in the morning back home, and a few of the faithful are still about.
Jilly’s still there. Afternoon, lovely. How’s the weather? Are you out in the sun?
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Jemima Vickers, your Cruise Director, speaking to you from the Bridge.”
There’s a hush on the decks below and I watch as a bouquet of gleaming white balloons escapes from someone’s custody. They soar skyward, trailing silver strings that waltz and bob on the wind.
Jilly’s switched over to DMs. Have you seen her?
Seen and spoken to. And I’ve received A Letter.
From Fam_Tripper? Addressed to you personally? Real name?
Only Jilly knows my real name on Twitter. My avatar’s me, but it’s a photo taken when I was seven years old.
Real name, I tell her. First and last. But I’m not certain it’s from Fam_Tripper. It was signed Guess Who.
It’s her. Make no mistake.
On the pier, the gangways are down, the ropes let go.
“Captain Callico informs me all preparations for departure have now been completed, and Star Sapphire is ready to set sail for Juneau!”
There’s a rumble under my feet as Sapphire’s turbines come to life.
Fam_Tripper and I have actually shared many tweets since I’ve been at sea. She seems to like me a lot. Correction. She seems to like Cold_Fingers a lot. She doesn’t know me. Nobody knows me, really. Not even Jilly.
With a deafening blast from the funnel, Sapphire’s retro-fitted thrusters manoever her out from the pier and towards the middle of Burrard Inlet. It’s a busy day. We’re jockeying for space with a commuting SeaBus, growling float planes, joyriders in motorboats, the Harbour Patrol, two massive freighters, and three other departing cruise ships.
I think it’s a coincidence that Fam_Tripper is aboard my ship. Jilly obviously believes otherwise. Jilly doesn’t like her, has experienced chilly feelings and worrisome readings. Jilly believes that introducing myself to Fam_Tripper may not be in my best interests.
Another DM. I thought you should know—she’s been Blipping under a different name. SaylerGurl.
The psychology of Blip is fascinating. You can send a song to someone directly, or indirectly. Joke, be serious. Comment on the world, or yourself. Create an excuse to seduce. Have an argument, break up, get back together. All with a well-placed tune. Or series of tunes.
How do you know it’s her?
She propped you. Didn’t you see?
My knowledge of music is vast. There’s a library in my head and it doesn’t take much work to find something appropriate to suit any occasion. I’m on Blip now. And searching yesterday’s tunes. There. I had seen it, but given it no further thought. Everyone props me.
Go to her DJ page. Read what she’s written.
I look. Songs. Many songs. All with messages attached, many xx’s, explicit words and suggestive thoughts, written to some secret unidentified lover.
They’re all for you, Jilly says.
I’m perplexed. How do you know that?
I’m your Guardian Angel.
But how do you know SaylerGurl is Fam_Tripper?
It’s my job, my love.
Dignified, majestic, Sapphire turns about, and then, under a brilliant blue sky, joins the flotilla of cruise ships and slowly sails past the float planes, the freighters, the mountains and Stanley Park, and under Lions Gate Bridge, spanning the harbour entrance.
Should I be worried?
You know what I’ve told you.
Yes, but you’re usually wrong.
Only 50.4% of the time.
As we pass under Lions Gate and enter open water, dipping and rising on the swells, Sapphire senses the wind and yearns for the deep waves she was born to crest.
I’m not sure I believe in Guardian Angels. I’m not sure I believe in Jilly. And I’m definitely not convinced Fam_Tripper is SaylerGurl.
As we pass the last of the millionaire ocean view properties of West Vancouver, Captain Callico sounds the whistle again in a proud salute. It’s a deep, blaring roar, and it shakes you to your core if you’re standing just ahead of it, as I am. My Sapphire is in her element.
It’s time for dinner, I tell Jilly.
And I’m gone.
I tried to look Jilly up once. My mum’s researching our family tree and she has an account with one of those websites that’ll give you every vital statistic you’d ever want to know about someone, past or present. Jilly Snowdon. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere.
I was disappointed. But not surprised.
I once asked her, partially in jest, playing along, what she’d died from, and she told me, in three DMs:
Knocked down by a car, my love. A distracted driver, not paying attention, overworked and exhausted.
His wife had just lost her job and one of his children was very ill. I forgave him immediately…
…which of course expedited my admission to Guardian Angel School.
That made me smile. You go to school for these things?
Of course! We attend classes & study Angelic Theory. We must write 3 scholarly papers. And we must earn our halos and wings in an assigned practicum.
Is that all I am to you, Jilly? An end-of-term job placement?
Ah no, lovely. Once placed, we are with you for life. Unless of course there’s a major falling out or disagreement…
…in which case we can negotiate a reassignment.
Some people take their Twitteroles very seriously.
Where were you born? When? And where do you live now?
There was a long pause. Then: I’ve taken temporary lodgings near Caterham. A cottage with a thatched roof. Very cosy. I keep 3 hens and 2 cats.
Not something I could easily check, being at sea and all. And she avoided answering my first two questions. But I like Jilly. I suppose you could say I’m fascinated. I’m never sure what she’s going to say next.
Why am I special? Other people don’t talk to their Guardian Angels.
She still owes me the answer to that one, too.
So. Will it be the Officers Mess for dinner tonight…or the self-serve café on Lido? I’m banned from the Seawind Dining Room—not for anything I’ve done, but because of who I am. For the purposes of eating, gambling, lounging in hot tubs and being seated in public areas, I am Crew. And Crew Must Not Deprive Passengers of the Amenities They Have Paid For.
Therefore: I may walk through the Casino, but I may not insert, lay down or otherwise offer cash in exchange for the possibility of winning. I may swim in the pool, but not simmer in the hot tub. And I may admire the dancers in the Showcase Lounge, but I must remain standing at the back of the theatre, like a bored usher, and not sit down.
Lido Café, I think. It’s Saturday, and on Saturdays there’s sushi—which they never serve in the Officers Mess.
The Café is packed. I don’t understand why these people aren’t eating in Seawind, with ex
quisite linen and exceptional waiters. It’s what an expensive cruise is meant to be all about, isn’t it? Not pizza and salad bars. Which I know for a fact they didn’t have aboard the Sapphire when she was sharing the North Atlantic with the Queen Mary.
I spot one empty table beside a window.
“Can’t you just switch it off?”
It’s Carly. In the Deli Sandwich line, wearing her best frock and tottery heels. And Rick, on his mobile.
“No, darling, I can’t. It’s my bleeding lifeline, innit?”
Marvellous things, mobiles. You never need be out of touch. That call’s costing him a fortune. We’re well beyond Vancouver—he’s up on the satellite. And he doesn’t get the incredibly good crew rate that I enjoy.
Rick spots me, and waves the hand that isn’t holding his cellphone to his ear.
“Why can’t we eat in the lovely Dining Room?” Carly wants to know.
“Give it a rest, girl.”
I’ve got my sushi. I’ve got my tea. And I’ve got that empty table.
I could have taken my plate back to my cabin and eaten in peace. I probably should have. Because here comes Carly, carrying the tray for both of them, and here comes Rick, mobile still pressed to his ear.
“Ask the mechanic if he’ll take my credit card. I know it’s two o’clock in the morning, Wools! When he opens up shop! No it’s not American bloody Express! Just write it down, will yer?”
And now he’s juggling the phone with his wallet, trying to extract his card…and he’s dropped the lot.
So I’m on my knees on the floor with Carly, retrieving bits of paper and numerous items of plastic. Rick’s already picked up the card he needs, and he’s sat himself down—in my chair—and he’s reeling off the number to his mate eight hours in the future.
Bloody cheek. He’s not going to budge. I take the chair beside him and slide my sushi over. I knew I should have eaten in the Officers Mess.
Woolly Worms is the roadie for Shag Pile. The band Rick’s managing. And the All-England Tour is bogged down in Bognor Regis, as the bus—affectionately known as The Pile Driver—has blown a gasket. You really couldn’t make it up.
