Nothing But Blue

by Diane Lowman

  I nodded and he said again, for emphasis, “You stay away from them.”

  Even on a vessel as large as the Columbus Australia, standing still and walking required constant calibration and recalibration of my center of gravity. Every time I picked up my right foot, the surface below it moved from where it had been when my foot left it, so I needed to find the floor and rebalance myself with each step. More pronounced swell required additional attention. It helped to touch anything built in—walls, tables, or anything else that would not sway as much as I did. This even happened sitting down or otherwise stationary. The ground or cushion or padding under me always moved, and my upper body stirred relentlessly, like a wooden spoon in risotto, to keep vertical. Even in bed, I felt like a gyroscope. This micro-adjustment became second nature, unconscious muscle memory. Which worked very well as long as I was on board.

  As soon as the motion stopped—say, when I disembarked in Sydney, after nearly a month on board—my body insisted on trying to adjust to the terra that was quite firma. The resulting “sea legs” made me nauseous. I was seasick on dry land. I did not feel ill one day on board, but for the first day in Sydney, I was so queasy that I nearly threw up. My mind was thrilled to be off the ship, but my body rebelled.

  I sprinted off in the morning as soon as Herr Most released me, guidebook and camera in hand, to explore Down Under. He warned me several times to follow the thick yellow painted path out from the ship to the road where I could find a bus toward town. Apparently it provided a safe route through the maze of machinery and vehicles in constant motion at the docks. According to him, the workers would strike if someone violated the sanctity of the walkway. I in no way wanted to take responsibility for shutting down an entire port, especially as this would delay my return to New York. I stuck religiously to that yellow path, like Dorothy and her colleagues. I shared her tenacity in wanting to reach home with minimal intervention from flying monkeys and other dangers. As promised, it led me past the maze of warehouses, cranes, and rail cars ready to cart containers away to their ultimate destinations. The dockworkers’ stares could not bother me because I was too happy to be liberated.

  I had three goals for the land portion of my trip: to get to know each of the six cities on our itinerary as well as I could in the short time I’d have in each place, to take in some arts and culture, and to find the perfect souvenir for the long list of recipients I’d complied on the crossing, as well as for myself. In some ways, I viewed the last as a synthesis of the first two. Shopping may seem a shallow, frivolous activity, but for me, supermarkets, department stores, and all the boutiques in between gave a good glimpse into a society’s priorities and preferences. I enjoyed touching tchotchkes and watching consumers consumed with their daily routines. I relished the treasure hunt.

  I dove headlong into each of these pursuits for the four days we had in Sydney: languishing on the quay in the shadows of the Opera House, eating savory pies and chips, and watching slices of people’s days as they passed, scrutinizing them for those little idiosyncrasies that made them very different from but exactly like me. I spent hours shamelessly eavesdropping. I sipped Fosters. I found Pancakes on the Rocks, and although I felt very self-conscious about eating alone, I forced myself inside, knowing I’d never have this opportunity again. The cute customs officers had not steered me wrong.

  “What are you doing all alone this far from home, luv?” asked the waitress. I explained, proud to have made it this far. “Good for you. You enjoy yourself Down Under!” she said.

  I joined a walking tour of the Rocks where the guide pointed out the exact spot where the “POMs”—“prisoners of her majesty” or “prisoners of mother England” had disembarked. Their journey was even longer and far more miserable than mine. Having traversed the globe in relative comfort, I couldn’t imagine their plight, and felt a bit better about my own ship.

  A few older couples from England shepherded me around like mother hens with a chick. They gasped and gaped when they asked, and I explained, about my circumstances. The more people asked—and reacted with awe and amazement— about my journey, the more it occurred to me that what I was doing might actually be out of the ordinary and an important achievement. It made me feel proud and stronger than I ever had been. At the end of the tour, I sensed they were reluctant to let me get back on board alone, as if they knew something that I didn’t about the return voyage. I sensed that they’d have liked to keep me with them rather than letting me go back to the big red beast with the bad boys. I assured them that I’d be fine.

  The next day Karl and I took a hydrofoil over to Manly Beach. I was happy to have the company, and it was funny to cross the bay so quickly on such a small boat. After lumbering across the Pacific, this craft amazed us both as it lifted us just above the surface and hovered across the waves. We hung over the smaller hull and let the Sydney Harbor spray cover and cool our faces.

  On the way back, we had a clear view of the TS Columbus Australia from a very different perspective. She looked quite majestic berthed there, regal scarlet crowned with her unique round white funnel. I spied my cabin porthole just under the wide, angled panes of the bridge windows. I couldn’t believe I’d crossed the Pacific in what, from that hydrofoil’s deck, looked like a very small space. I felt a tinge of pride for my ship sitting just under the Sydney Harbor Bridge. She had sheltered and protected me like a mother hen.

  “Happy Birthday!” I said to Herr Most as I entered the galley the next day for schmoke time. The thin slip of ship news announced his big day. “We should put a candle in your strudel!”

  “Nein, nein. Nicht,” he grumbled, not meeting my eyes.

  “What will you do to celebrate?” I persisted, ignoring his indifference.

  “I walk to Sydney after dinner to buy some German champagne. I drink it when I get back. You can walk with me.” Not quite an invitation, but he looked up for just a moment from the nail he was so focused on when I walked in. “Ya?” he asked.

  “Ya, ya,” I said, thinking how well champagne would go with the kiwi fruit he had covertly slipped me since we’d made landfall, but more importantly, about the momentous nature of the gesture of inclusion. I didn’t want to act too enthusiastic, or he’d change his mind.

  We left the ship around 1900, when he’d finished with the officers. He still wore his steward’s outfit. Even the Good Humor Man changes into casual clothes occasionally. Did he ever wear jeans? Sweats? I couldn’t picture him in anything but black bell-bottoms, a crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt, and sensible black shoes. I’d given no thought about what to wear. He didn’t care, and I wasn’t as self-conscious with him as I was with the crew. But I did wonder how to act. We had never spent this much time alone together, and I didn’t want to make him regret having asked me.

  It was three miles to town, and I had taken buses from the gate of the port, but they ran infrequently in the evening. While Herr Most may have intended to treat himself to champagne, I guessed he’d never spring for a cab. Or maybe he just wanted the feel of land under his feet and the fresh air on his face after being cooped up on board for so long. From previous visits, he knew a liquor store that stocked the brand he wanted, so we set off, I to abet his solitary celebration.

  I wondered what we must have looked like, this odd couple, race-walking together away from our big, crimson floating home. His gait mirrored everything he did: short, clipped, staccato steps. Nothing wasted. One very young, one much older. Not walking close enough to be lovers, or even father and daughter. We kept a respectable distance. What would people make of us? What did I make of us? As it turned out, it was very easy.

  He said only a little more than he did in the course of any day, but it revealed volumes. How long he’d worked for Hamburg-Süd (thirty years). When he planned to retire (five years, to New Zealand, to live with his wife). I could not picture this man living off the ship.

  I didn’t say much, either. I just listened, afraid that anything I said might break the spell and s
hut him up. Mostly, we just walked.

  June is winter in Sydney, but the air was temperate. Cool enough for a sweater, but not cold. We found the store— small and narrow, with bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors crammed into the front window. Price tags in Australian dollars sat in front of each. It was warm inside, and my eyes wandered the shelves, looking for items familiar and foreign.

  Herr Most asked for three splits of the champagne. One for tonight, one for the visit with his wife in Wellington, and one for . . . But before I could spend too much time wondering, he paid for the bottles with characteristic efficiency, cradled them in the paper bag with uncharacteristic tenderness, and said to me, “Schnell,” as he turned to leave.

  I rushed out after him like a puppy that has realized its master has moved on while he was still busy sniffing the ground.

  We walked back in dusky silence, each of us adrift in our own thoughts, but together on our journey. When we got back to the ship he turned to me before we parted ways. I realized I didn’t even know where his cabin was: down with the crew or up nearer the officers? He nodded, said, “Gute Nacht,” and handed me the third split. But before I could even react, thank him, or wish him a happy birthday, he’d turned and walked briskly away.

  Before we were to depart Sydney I rushed around stocking up on supplies: more books, an oversized journal for transcribing my poems, and some snacks and drink mixes. I bought a jar of Vegemite, even though I didn’t much like it, because it so represented the country. I perched once more below the Opera House’s fanned shells to soak in the sights and sounds of my favorite spot.

  As I was writing in my journal, a young man with a scruffy beard and a large backpack, engaged in the same sort of writing, turned to me. “American?” he asked. “I’m Peter. From Seattle.”

  “Hi, Peter from Seattle. I’m Diane from New York. I’m working on that ship,” I said, pointing at her.

  “Wow. You win! I’ve just come from Asia. I plan to spend some time traveling around Australia and New Zealand before I go back. I left a corporate job at IBM. I just needed to see some of the real world before buckling down in, you know, the other real world.”

  I nodded my head, even though I clearly did not know. “And what will you do when you return?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but it won’t be IBM. I’m sure of that. I suppose for you it’s easier, knowing you’ll go back to school.” I did have a pretty clear path ahead of me for the next two years. He, not so much.

  I nodded my head in agreement, but I knew that this trip would change everything. “Yeah, but I will feel very different in some ways, you know?” I replied.

  It was his turn to nod. “For sure. I know exactly what you mean.” Peter had given me permission to breathe again, to look at this trip through different eyes. I was self-conscious because I felt attracted to him. He must have been ten years older than I, but I just wanted to put my hand on his scruffy beard and pull him close in for a kiss. Just one kiss, so I could remember what it felt like. To inhale that male scent that wasn’t tinged with grease, sauerkraut, and threat.

  I hated to go; I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed really talking to someone—someone who didn’t seem always to be ridiculing me in some way—but we would depart that evening, and Herr Most had cautioned me to return well in advance of our estimated time of departure, even though we all knew we’d go later than scheduled. “You cannot always trust the timetable,” he’d said. “We’d hate to leave you behind.”

  Peter and I exchanged addresses and wished each other safe travels. I wonder where he is now.

  I made it back, careful to toe the yellow line, and entered the ship just as the half-dozen or so ladies of the night, headed home, definitely looking worse for the wear. “Hello again, luv!” they said in unison as they giggled.

  “Hi,” I replied, keeping my head down and my distance in accordance with Herr Most’s edict.

  But they surrounded me like an amoeba ingesting a smaller organism.

  “You’re adorable,” said one.

  “How old are you? You look so young,” said another.

  “Are you a Yankee?” asked a third, while reapplying bright red lipstick.

  There was no way out but through, so I held my head up high and said, “Nineteen, and yes. I’m Diane. It’s nice to meet you.” Ugh, nice to meet you. Really? This was hardly a cotillion.

  Divine intervention came in the form of a door slamming somewhere down the hall. The Hydra turned its heads toward the noise, then back to me, and tittered again.

  “You’re lovely,” said yet one more. “Enjoy those boys! Ta, luv” And they chortled their way toward the shore.

  I tried to reconcile the monstrous picture Herr Most had painted of these girls, heavily painted, but not much older than I, and really very sweet. We each, after all, worked on the ship. Just in different ways.

  Ingo had gone shopping, too, for fresh seafood, and prepared a feast that evening before we left Sydney. After a month on board surrounded by an ocean rife with life, I realized we hadn’t eaten fish once. He bought huge pink shrimp and dark brown lobsters that didn’t have claws like the ones at home. And some fish that he cut into steaks. Even though we had a room full of Holstens below, he bought cases of Foster’s oil-cans to give the feast a genuine local feel. He set up the same rectangular grills—they looked like oil barrels sliced the long way—on the main deck that he’d used for the “Western” BBQ. That night at sea, he and the other cooks had charred endless cuts of landlubbing mammals: bloody beef, lamb, and pork. Here, near land, he deftly seared gifts from the sea. He stood, apron-clad, behind the smoking coals, flipping seafood deftly. The jolly master of his domain attempted an Aussie accent as I approached with my plate.

  “G’day, Sheila! Shrimp on the barbie and a Fosters to go with it?” he asked with a sly smile.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. The attempt at Australian layered over the German lilt resulted in a hilarious hybrid. Ingo could always make me laugh.

  “Yes, Mate, bitte, danke,” I mixed my linguistics as well, much to his amusement. The men were jolly and tame, sated in every way, which made for an easygoing last evening in Sydney and let me hope that the return trip might not be so bad.

  We sailed out at around the same time we’d come in, and I watched the jeweled collar of the cove recede, wistful. I felt refueled, like the ship, in large part thanks to the warm welcome Sydneysiders had given me on behalf of this island continent. I watched until we passed back under the Coat Hanger Bridge’s halo, and went back to my cabin to plan for Brisbane.

  En route, on the Fourth of July, I alone celebrated America’s birthday by sporting red, white, and blue: denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and red bandana holding my hair back. I felt a little silly, but also like I had a torch to bear. I couldn’t let the day go by without notice, especially after all the ribbing I’d taken for my country and her myriad sins.

  When I walked into the mess thus clad that morning, Ingo grimaced, grinned, and started whistling “Anchors Away” while saluting.

  “Very funny, Ingo.”

  “Fraulein Meyer, you are so patriotic!” he said.

  “I just stand up for what I believe.” He kept whistling. Maybe I was celebrating my independence, too.

  In Brisbane, Australia’s “south” because it’s further north and hence closer to the equator, the temperature rose with the sun. We had fewer containers to unload and load there, so I had less time to explore. This was the double-edged sword of the container ship. Cargo ships took longer in port—more time for sightseeing—but much lengthier round trips. We’d likely only have two or three days here, and all I wanted to do was get to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary that I’d read so much about for some marsupial cuddling. As soon as we docked, I marched dutifully down the omnipresent canary-colored path and out to the street to take several buses to await the ferry there.

  At the park, I met the marsupials with another group of middle-aged English couples. The
y subjected me to the same inquisition and showered me with similar concerned parental protectiveness as my acquaintances from The Rocks. Our guide, dressed like Crocodile Dundee, complete with khakis and outback hat, led us around the forty-four acres of paradise. We saw Tasmanian devils and platypi, echidnas and emus, wombats and wallabies. But the kangaroos and koalas captured my heart.

  Although I supposed I’d been drenched in nature for the whole voyage, this was different. I wandered through a wonderland of crocodile-green brush amid a court of kangaroos, roaming freely, many with joeys in their pouches. Any tension I’d been gathering and storing for six weeks just melted away as I knelt down with food for them in both fists, and stared right into the roos’ big brown saucer eyes. They showed no fear, and just gamely met my gaze. They let me hold their front paws as they gently nibbled on kibble right from my palm.

  “Lovely, aren’t they, then?” asked one of the women, Edith, in our group.

  I nodded, looked up at her, and realized there were tears in my eyes. They welled up and spilled out faster that I could wipe them away. I sat down on the ground next to my kangaroos.

  “Oh, love, what is it? Are you okay?” She had her arm around me now. “Have you had a rough time on that ship? Have those men given you trouble? There, there.” She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and handed it to me.

  I wasn’t sure I could even explain this flood of emotion. “I’m okay, thank you. Yes, I mean no, they’re okay, and no one has given me a hard time, really. It’s just been a long time since, you know, I’ve been home or had anybody be nice to me.” I just wanted to hug her and the kangas and not let go. I don’t think I realized how much I craved a little tenderness, and getting it from these endearing creatures and this lovely English woman had made my yearning surface.