Nothing But Blue

by Diane Lowman

  I felt the downshift immediately, as I tried to corral the sewing supplies so needles and spools didn’t escape into the cushions or onto the floor. Although the ship may have looked like an arrogant, inscrutable behemoth, it was actually very easy to read her moods and moves. I knelt on the tweedy mustard cushions and hoisted myself up so I could see out the porthole, although my body knew before my eyes did that we’d veered ever so slightly right. We’d been within eyeshot of the coast since leaving New York. I could see a thin crayon line of muddled brown just on the horizon, dividing the blue, dark for the sea and light for the sky. Now it was growing wider, and the V-shaped frothy wake the bow cut began to subside. We’d left New York less than a day before, and we were heading into a new port.

  Herr Most came in to confirm what I already knew.

  “We are near Philadelphia. You finish. You eat. You can watch, ya?”

  I popped up, perhaps a tad too quickly, and composed myself to show a little less enthusiasm and a little more care as I stowed the supplies. The pile I’d been working on looked untouched and dwarfed the finished pile, but it wasn’t a bad morning’s work in my mind. Herr Most stood by, stoic and inscrutable.

  I motioned to the completed work and started to ask what he wanted me to do with it, but he cut me off before I started. “Leave it. You come back the same time tomorrow morning.” He used, as always, the imperative. I was never quite sure if he meant it to sound that way or if it was the limit of his facility with the language, but he always spoke to me in commands. “Through the galley door, ya?” he said. Like Cinderella. Like the help. Which is exactly what I was.

  That was it? Lunchtime, and I was done? I made my way back down to the crew mess for the midday meal, with no clue what to do for the rest of the day.

  I left the ivory tower of the ship’s aristocracy and headed back down to dine with the common folk. But the problem was that I belonged to neither group. I was at once completely contained and entirely adrift. The lightness I felt as I finished work for the morning disappeared as I wound my way down the stairs, the air and my mood more sluggish with each step. I reluctantly slunk back into my seat.

  Why, I imagined them whispering, is she on board? Every time I walked into a room or out of a room or by a room, I’d sense a slight pause in whatever everyone was doing, and hear the same refrain in my mind. Why are you here? Do you think this is some kind of amusement park? You may be on vacation, but we are working. Hard. We are not amused, you entitled little bitch.

  And the whispers would grow louder, and the crew would grow in stature. In some kind of Alice in Wonderland, topsy-turvy, twisted-proportion distortion. I could barely communicate with the only two other women on board: Claudia and Ana, the diminutive Brazilian wife of one of the greasers, who seemed to be more like a souvenir from a port than a real person.

  I’m sorry, I wanted to reply to their unspoken words. I’m sorry that I am a young woman straight out of the American upper-middle-class family sitcom you are imagining. I’m sorry I’m here. Invading your space. Your lives. Upsetting the delicate balance on board.

  Eventually the crew and I would have the opportunity to ask, and answer, these and many other questions in person, trying hard to understand each other in the absence of a common language. Their English was broken, at best, except for the officers and a few of the crew. My German was tourist rudimentary, making it hard to clear up misunderstandings and misconceptions without a shared lexicon. It’s one thing to try to make yourself understood when asking for the nearest focaccia bakery in Italy on vacation, but the struggle takes on a very different hue in a dark, below-the-sea-line, shared cabin of three of the lowest caste members in the evening after they’ve had several Holsten beers. But no matter what the time of day, or the rank of the sailor, or the point in our journey, the question was always the same: What are you doing here? And no matter what my answer, they never seemed quite satisfied.

  So I ate quickly. My discomfort propelled me from the room. I could feel the ship slow and veer and tug me to see what would happen in port. I went out onto one of the lower decks to stay out of the way and out of sight, especially of the officers. Although we were still in the United States and only a short way from home, I really had no concept of things that had become so customary to the sailors. We slowed to what felt like a doggie-paddle as we got closer and closer in, and the waters around us calmed and grew more congested with other vessels, large and small. Ships our size didn’t turn quickly, especially at slow speeds, so getting in and out of port safely took great skill.

  Buildings came into sharper focus, and when we got very close, tactful tugs pulled up alongside us with their huge rubber bumpers to gently coerce the ship into its berth. I would develop a real affection for these mighty midgets, usually painted cartoon-brightly so as to be readily visible. Their crews knew every nook and cranny of their own port as intimately as melted butter knows its English muffin. In some larger or busier ports, pilots from the tugs actually boarded the ship like friendly pirates completing a bloodless, albeit temporary coup. The captain, who was solely responsible for the crew and all the cargo on board, maintained an iron fist of control over his ship. It was only at these times that he would voluntarily let an outsider wrest control of his charge so willingly.

  I waved at the rough-looking, overall-clad, burly, five-o’clock-shadowed men on the tugboat decks, and they always smiled and returned the greeting. They treated our big red beast of a ship with the tenderness a mother reserves for her newborn.

  Back then, we were one of the first generation of ships to be outfitted with thrusters that allowed some lateral movement, but even these were not sufficient to guide us into a slip safely. So those aquatic assistants nudged us until we were lined up parallel to and within feet of the concrete dock. I watched the crew unfurl heavy, twisted, metal cables from the decks and hook them over what looked like huge steel chess pawns to secure us in place. This was not a procedure for the impatient. Not like my father who had bequeathed to me his ability to one-handedly whip his car backward into a parking spot. The whole operation, from entering the mouth of the port to tethering, could take hours, and varied with the size and traffic of both the port and the specific dock. It was a thing of beauty—a ballet, really—danced silently except for the tender toot of the tugs and the bass-y bellow of our ship’s unique, UFO-shaped funnel.

  Nothing happened quickly on the ship, and that’s something to which I had to inure myself. I’d inherited both impatience and efficiency from my father, who would do whatever he could to control circumstances and circumnavigate rules to get what he wanted when he wanted it. It has taken me a lifetime to recognize the nuclear fallout of this type of behavior, and I work hard to modify it. The seeds of change were planted on board that summer. Almost everything important to a ship’s smooth operation is beyond its control: weather, tides, and dock operations. They could anticipate and plan as much as possible, but things changed, always.

  The ship may have sidled up and been secured, but unless myriad workers were available and conditions were met, we would just sit and wait—and often did. But things went well in Philadelphia.

  I don’t know the exact capacity of the TS Columbus Australia, and she no longer sails for Hamburg Süd, but their Spirit of Sydney has a capacity of 3,630 “TEU” (twenty-foot equivalent unit). Empty, a twenty-foot container weighs around 5,000 pounds; full they may weigh 65,000. Math may not be my forte, but any way you look at it, that’s a lot of weight to haul around.

  Enormous cranes (called gantry cranes) stood sentry at attention waiting for us to dock, their arms (called spreaders) almost as long as their bases, pointed straight up initially, in the pose of a diver poised on the high-dive platform. The operator lowered them parallel to the ground, creating a ninety-degree angle.

  I watched the cranes standing over two hundred feet high, with almost that wingspan, travel over the full width of the ship as they unloaded and reloaded the containers waiting their turn p
atiently. Their facility in sliding back and forth along the dock from fore to aft, making quick work of moving the weighty freight, awed me.

  The crane operator slid the arm over each container like the claw in an arcade game that skims tantalizingly over the stuffed animals and treasures in slippery plastic capsules. He artfully centered the spreader over its target, and lowered the boom onto the top of the container. Unlike the arcade claws designed to miss, these cranes sunk their talon hooks into each of the four large holes in each corner, locked them in place, and lifted the enormous containers, making it look as easy as if they were lifting a stuffed panda and not a twenty-foot, fully loaded, metal box.

  I stayed in place to watch them stack the multicolored containers into a Lego-like mosaic. The shipping line had its own signature red containers with Hamburg-Süd emblazoned on the side in white, but we carried all types, including the orange ones with blue lettering of our competitor, Hapag Lloyd. Some were refrigerated (for example, the lamb that we’d carry back from New Zealand), and others not. Yet when I asked one of the officers what was in each container, he shrugged. “Who knows? We just know which to load and unload at each port.”

  As the operator caught and carried off each container, he’d reel it back onto land like a sport fisherman who’d hooked a prize, and place it delicately on the dock to await its next destination. From there, some were placed onto waiting freight trains or tractor-trailers, or unloaded right at the port. The process, complex to me, went as smoothly as a well-rehearsed symphony. I imagined that crane lifting me off the ship and placing me carefully on the dock so I could call my parents to come get me in Philadelphia: “Hi, Dad, I changed my mind. . . .”

  Charleston went as quickly as Philadelphia. We had little cargo for those ports. I did not venture out. There was really no time, I was afraid to ask Herr Most if I could leave the ship anyway, and I needed to get used to the routine on board. As nervous as I was, I wanted to get on with the adventure.

  Container ships unload and load more quickly than other ships, so depending on how much tonnage needed to be moved around, we could be in and out in the nautical blink of an eye.

  I kept mostly to myself those first few days on board. I did not want to come across as aloof or unsociable, but my cabin held me safely, and I had no idea what interaction would be proper and acceptable with the men. I couldn’t communicate easily because of the language gap. At meals, certain groups always sat at the same tables, like in a middle-school cafeteria. I dared not break with this order, and preferred my seat right next to the door. It afforded easy egress. Karl, a quiet electrician, and apparently an unknown twin of Harpo Marx’s, always sat across from me. He had loose blond curls and an easy manor that matched his smile. He would nod and share the time-appropriate, abbreviated greeting: “Morgen,” or “Abend,” leaving off the “Guten,” and then sit down and eat quietly.

  Alois, the third officer whose cabin I inhabited, and who had escorted me down to my first meal on board, made an effort to be friendly. With ulterior motives, I suspected. He brought to mind some Tolkien character with his solid build and wavy red hair. With a pointy hat and pointy ears, he’d have made an excellent garden gnome. His air was light and friendly, but I always sensed that he was trying just a little too hard. To fit in (as a low-level officer he shared my limbo between the grunts and the gods). To make the right joke. To add the right quip. His tone and timing were always just a little bit off. But his English was good, and so far he was one of the only people on board who had spoken to me.

  “Morgen, Fraulein Meyer,” he said.

  I looked up from lunch, wondering why he was down here slumming.

  “So. We have here on board every week on Wednesday movie night. We call it Kino. It means cinema. At 2000 hours. In the crew lounge. You come?”

  I considered this only briefly. I usually finished work and dinner by 1900 hours, and the nights alone in my cabin, even this early on, stretched out like the ocean ahead of me. I longed to find a way to fill the hours and felt cautiously interested in interacting more with the crew.

  “Ya, danke.” He explained how to find the lounge. I listened carefully so I could remember.

  I sat in my room after dinner on Wednesday, on the couch, feet on the ground, palms facing down by my side, staring at the door. A strange hybrid of a deb anticipating a cotillion and a criminal awaiting trial. Six days into the trip, and I’d have both my coming out party and my first day in court. I didn’t know if I should dress up and wished I could calm down. Too fidgety to read, I turned and kneeled on the couch cushion, arms resting on the space below the porthole, and watched the inkwell of endless ocean go by.

  I decided to wear the exact same shorts and T-shirt I’d had on all day, with my hair back in a ponytail and no makeup. I did not want to look as if I’d primped in order to attract attention. I closed the door behind me at 1945 hours and left my solitary days on board behind, at least for the time being.

  The lounge was dark, thank goodness. I slunk in and sank into one of the blue upholstered chairs, trying to make myself small. Alois came in and right to me.

  “Ah, so you are here, Fraulein! Good. I will introduce you to some of the crew.”

  “This is the radio officer, Herr Stuhlemmer”

  I smiled and shook hands with each like a Von Trapp child. I all but curtsied, and made only brief eye contact. I wanted to be polite, but I was intimidated and overwhelmed and felt as if I were on display for assessment. Glad when the lights began to dim, I curled up into a blue barrel chair near the door, as the attention thankfully shifted from me to the screen. And there, dubbed in German, was Bruce Lee. Enter the Dragon? Fists of Fury? I can’t remember, because mostly I was dazed by the surreal combination. I wanted to call someone—anyone—at home. You’ll never believe what I just watched, I’d say. But that couldn’t happen. I was content to cocoon in the cool dark, lit only by the flickering screen, the men reacting to the film the soundtrack behind me.

  When the credits rolled and the lights came on, I made to leave, afraid to loiter. I hugged the wall on the way out, as if I could fade into it and escape unnoticed, but someone grabbed my arm just before I reached the door. I started.

  “You liked it?” asked Alois. “You come to have a drink with us now?” He motioned over his shoulder vaguely toward a gathering group.

  “No, danke,” I said. “I have to get up early to work, and I’m so tired and. . . .” I ran out of excuses and wanted to run out of the room.

  “Another night, maybe?” He said.

  “Yes. Thank you for inviting me,” I said, and turned to seek sanctuary in my cabin, to let the tension that was twisting me unwind.

  Movie night broke the ice and allowed for a slow thaw. Some of the men I’d met would come up to reintroduce themselves and ask a few questions or suggest an activity. I was still reluctant to dive into the deep end of this pool, but I appreciated the offers and assured each one that I’d join them as soon as I got my sea legs. But that joke was wearing thin, and I felt as if I were treading water on a fine line between reticence and arrogance.

  We left the Atlantic Seaboard for the Caribbean en route to the Panama Canal. In the open waters, without the wall of land beside us before, the sky dawned brighter, the sea shone lighter, and the humidity hung heavier.

  Radio Officer Herr Stuhlemmer summoned me to his office to discuss a few business items. Nerdy and a little pudgy, his white dress shirt strained to close over the belly that struggled to escape his khaki pants’ waistband. His thin, mouse-brown hair matched his mousy voice. When he spoke, I could see little Chiclet teeth that didn’t quite meet, and his cheeks puffed out just enough for me to suspect that he had some cheese saved up in them for later.

  “You are enjoying your time on board?” he asked. It came out as a peremptory courtesy more than genuine interest.

  “Ya, ya,” I said. What else could I say? In response to questions, ya always came in pairs.

  “We have a safe in
my office. If you want, you give your money to me and I will record the amount and keep it securely for you. It will be better here than in your cabin. I can give it to you when you need it. I can change money for you in Australia and New Zealand, but a bank will make a better exchange rate for you. You may buy items at Kanteen on Tuesday afternoon or Friday evening. These items will be charged to your account. The Chinese man can do your laundry. It will be charged to your account. You will leave your bed linens and towels outside your door with your laundry on Monday morning by 0800 hours; it will be returned to you in the afternoon. You can make ship-to-shore calls from here. The connection is not always so good. You will let me know in advance when you want to make these calls. They will be charged to your account. Do you have any questions?” He’d barely taken a breath. I hadn’t.

  My head was spinning. I wished I’d brought some paper to write all of this down. Who might go into my cabin and steal my money? Which morning was Kanteen?

  “Um . . . no. Thank you. I will bring my money up, for sure. But wait, I do have one thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Ya?”

  “I brought an eight-track tape player with me. But I forgot a converter.”

  “Oh, ya, ya,” he said, more relaxed now that business was over. “I can find that for you, or one of the electricians can make it fix. Bring it up when you bring your money. There will be no problem.”

  “Thank you so much.” Music would fill my cabin with so much more than melody.

  He just straightened up and nodded, dismissing me. He had work to do.

  On the way out of his office near the bridge, First Officer Rose stopped me and introduced himself.

  “You are Fraulein Meyer, ya? Herr Rose here, if I can be of any assistance. Perhaps you will like to visit the bridge at night to see how we navigate by the stars.”