Nothing But Blue

by Diane Lowman

  I held a pile of letters the shipping agent in Melbourne had delivered, mostly from my parents, each in handwriting so distinct that I felt I was holding their hands when I held the letters. Blue enveloped me. I knew that the high seas contributed to my low mood, and resolved to check into flight costs when I got to Dunedin and delay any decisions until then. I’d have to ask Herr Stuhlemmer to call them to see what they thought about the whole thing. I didn’t want to think about making that call, or think about anything. So later I did what every good college student did when feeling overwhelmed. I got drunk.

  We were close to the coast of New Zealand, and we were traveling slowly, which ratcheted up the rock and roll. After dinner Ingo and a few other guys took a cooler of beer and some rods and reels on deck to fish for sharks. I supposed if they caught any, Ingo would clean and cook them up for us. I’d never eaten shark, and had certainly never seen anyone fish for them off a container ship, so I sat with them to watch. I gratefully accepted every Holsten they offered me to assuage my angst. They got nothing, and I got a massive hangover.

  Herr Most called in the morning and shouted in my ear that we’d land soon and he didn’t need me. I was glad he wouldn’t see me. I must have looked like shit. I felt like shit. I stumbled and fumbled to get myself up and out to the bus that went from Port Chalmers to the larger town of Dunedin, just inland. I almost missed it because I was in the small bank exchanging Australian for New Zealand dollars. I panted in gratitude as I tripped up the steps of the bus. The driver, smiling and patient said, “There’s no hurry, luv. We will wait for you, but I’m glad you made it, because the next bus to Dunedin leaves in three hours.” He shut the doors and asked where I was headed. I sat down right behind him and explained that I’d just come from the ship and wanted to explore town. “I’d love to find a coffee shop for some breakfast to start,” I told him. He guessed that I was fourteen, and asked why I was so far from home. I wondered that myself.

  The New Zealand accent sounded just different enough from the Australian to notice and was, I thought, a little softer around the edges, which is exactly what I’d end up thinking of the small island nation and its inhabitants, both human and wool-covered.

  He said he’d happily point me in the right direction, and then told me there were more sheep than people in New Zealand. I finally settled back into the blue upholstered seat for the twenty-minute ride, and gazed out the big windows at some of the most picture-perfect scenery I’d ever seen. A lush gradation of jade green carpeted a slope that rose gently up from the sapphire-blue bay that we were driving away from. A handful of cotton puffs glued to the felt mountains by preschoolers came into focus as we passed countless lazily grazing, fluffy sheep. “It’s so beautiful!” I said out loud, and the driver just nodded and smiled again, maybe seeing his countryside through my eyes.

  That sweet man pulled the bus, about half-full of passengers, over at a coffee shop in the center of town and got out to escort me to the door. There was no bus stop there, and I doubted it was part of his scheduled route. He did it just for me. I was not sure whether it was his kindness, or the fact that not one person in the bus seemed upset, that astonished me more. I could just picture in my mind the revolt that would ensue if a bus in Manhattan veered off its trajectory to escort a nineteen-year-old New Zealander to a diner.

  It may have been the only coffee shop in town, for all I knew, but it was perfect. Just what I needed to assuage my aching head and sit and think. I found a seat right in the big bay window that afforded me a panoramic view of Dunediners coming and going. I bathed in the flow of people, just letting the rhythm of their motion wash over me, in this land so distant and different from my own, going about their daily routines, just like we do: holding toddlers’ hands as they cross the streets, greeting friends to exchange gossip, reading newspapers. The obvious differences—this small town nestled in a green velvet-lined teacup, the endearing accents—fascinated me, but the similarities amazed me even more. We all want the same things when it comes down to it.

  And at that moment, we in the café all wanted coffee. I needed some food in my stomach, as well, to quell the quake.

  “What can I bring you, luv?” asked the white-aproned waitress who appeared over my shoulder. She had short brown hair done up in a 1950s-looking pin curl style that reminded me of my grandmothers. She wore sensible, white, thick-soled shoes and had her pencil and pad at the ready. I liked her immediately.

  “Coffee, white, please, and a cheese roll.” I’d learned the jargon for ordering coffee with milk.

  “Ta, luv,” she said, and she brought it in no time. I eavesdropped shamelessly as I sipped from the mug, not to be invasive so much as to absorb the local flavor along with the caffeine. The coffee, maybe because I needed it so badly, tasted as good as any I’d had recently, and the roll was warm, spread with soft cheese; I presumed it had come from some of those sheep that I’d seen en route. I thanked them silently as I savored it.

  Thus fortified, I set out to find my craft supplies and a travel agent. I’d seen the latter as I’d enjoyed my breakfast and the view of town. I settled into a blue vinyl, aluminum-framed chair across a wood-laminate desk from a middle aged woman who very much resembled the waitress, and asked about one-way fares from Auckland and Panama City to New York. Her raised eyebrow reminded me that this was probably not a routine request.

  “Oh, luv, I don’t hardly blame you for wanting to fly home,” she said after I’d explained my situation. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

  I looked around at the posters that festooned the walls, enticing travelers to exotic destinations near and far— Rotorua, Fiji, Thailand—and thought how none of them appealed to me. All I wanted was to go home.

  After a few minutes she gave me the bad news, which she graciously converted into US dollars for me: $845 from Auckland, and $270 from Panama City. That would be roughly $2945 and $950, respectively today. She looked apologetic. I looked dejected.

  “Wow,” I said. “Wow,” I repeated, at a complete loss for anything more coherent to say.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s a lot. Would you like me to book a ticket for you?” She was asking to be polite. I knew she knew the answer.

  “No, thank you so much. I will have to talk to my parents first.”

  She reached across and took my hand in hers. I fought back tears. “You take your time, luv. You will be fine.”

  I thanked her again and found craft supplies at the local Woolworths before I headed back to the bus that returned to Port Chalmers and the ship. I hoped she was right.

  We stayed only briefly in Port Chalmers and the lovely south island, having little to unload. All the containers we loaded had telltale attached motors and fans indicating refrigeration. I suspected they were full of lamb, a major New Zealand export; Herr Most confirmed this for me in the morning.

  The rest of New Zealand went by quickly, which filled me with both joy and dismay. I wanted to begin the return trip as soon as possible, but I found the country enchanting, and would have enjoyed having more time to explore. I spent most of my shore days in the museums dedicated to the indigenous Maori culture. Tim even joined me one day, which surprised me on two counts: I did not think culture appealed to him, and it meant that perhaps his resentment toward me had dissipated with the miles since our chat. Shame on me for the former, and I kept my fingers crossed for the latter. As indignant as I still felt about his assumption and presumption, the voyage back would be immeasurably more tolerable if the leader signaled to the tribe that we’d achieved a delicate detente.

  We met an old gentleman at the docent desk in the museum in Wellington. His blue irises shone from otherwise cloudy eyes, like sky peeking through an overcast sky. They belied the age that his deep wrinkles spoke of. It pleased him greatly to hear that we worked on the ship, and asked which one and where we were headed.

  “I worked on the ships for many a year,” he told us. “Truly, I sailed between here and San Francisco before th
ey built either the Golden Gate or Oakland Bridges!” he looked past us now as he remembered. “Yes, it’s true. I saw them both open.” He winked and wished us safe travels.

  I bought a small, dark carved wooden tiki with iridescent blue mother-of-pearl eyes for myself at one of the museums as a talisman for the trip back. I hoped it would smooth the seas and speed us along. By then, I’d put my faith in anything that offered even a glimmer of hope of removing obstacles in our path. Also, I found a very old walking stick for my dad. I’d missed Father’s Day and his birthday since I was away; now I had one cane for each celebration. I hoped he’d love them. Thinking about him filled me with such mixed feelings. He loved me deeply and wanted the best for me, but to him, that mean better than his life, and as he pictured it for me. Even halfway around the world, I was desperately trying to please him. He returned or exchanged every single gift anyone ever gave him. Nothing was ever exactly what he wanted, and his own needs blinded him to the thoughts and gestures that went into the giving. Giving gifts to him became a joke in our family. We’d always attach a receipt (before the day of gift receipts) and include glib messages in our cards: “Happy Birthday, and hope you enjoy the gift you eventually get yourself!” But really, it wasn’t funny. It was more important that he satisfy himself than that he make someone else feel good about their efforts. I wanted these to become his favorite canes. To sit prominently in the doorway and hear him say, over and over, “Diane brought these back for me from Down Under from her great adventure!” At least he couldn’t return them.

  In Wellington, Herr Most did something unthinkable: he took a day and a whole night off to stay with his wife. I simply could not imagine this stolid man in the throes of passion, not to mention smiling for an extended period of time. But I felt happy for him and hoped he was enjoying his conjugal visit.

  Herr Stuhlemmer would also enjoy the marriage bed once again when his wife joined the ship in Panama City.

  But by far the best bounty bestowed upon me in that Kiwi nation came in the form of a bulky packet delivered to the ship in Wellington by the Hamburg-Süd shipping agent.

  “Fraulein Meyer,” said Herr Stuhlemmer, “It seems someone at home is thinking of you.” The bulk of the bulk came from a tape that my family had recorded for me. I sat in my cabin and listened to it over and over and over, until I thought the tape would break, just to hear their voices. My sister said hello and that she actually missed me (she was back from her Navajo visit). My mother hurriedly filled me in on all the local goings-on. She liked neither to be photographed nor recorded, and remained literally and figuratively in the background. Despite her beauty, grace, and intelligence, insecurity and low self-esteem dogged her. It was hard to shine next to my father’s big, bright star. I ached to hear that in her voice, even as I reveled in the words. I rewound it and listened over and over again: “Love ya, my honey. Miss you.”

  And as always, my father stole the show. I knew the tape had been his idea, and I knew he knew how much it would mean to me. He read my spring semester grades that he’d opened when they came, even though they were addressed to me. He made jokes and gave weather and political updates. He and his longtime army buddy and great family friend, Joe, sang songs, and my father’s notoriously awful voice made me laugh and laugh. I couldn’t get enough of it, and it made me ache for home. I hoped they’d received the lengthy missives and pithy postcards I’d sent from each port, but I had no idea if any of them would reach home before I did. Most importantly, hearing their voices strengthened my resolve to stay on board and see the journey through to the end. I wanted them to feel proud of me. I had something to prove to them. I had something to prove to myself.

  I did call them from Wellington to check in, but I could barely hear them over the very crackly, echo-y connection. They sounded so far away. They were so far away. I couldn’t talk too long for fear that I would run up charges equivalent to the cost of the flight home I’d considered. I told them how much their correspondence meant to me, and about the potential delays and flight costs.

  “My honey, come home if you want to.” I could hear concern in my mother’s voice.

  “Klube,” said my father, using my childhood nickname, “we love you. If you want to come home, you just let us know. Don’t worry about the cost. But if you feel like you can hang in there, I bet the trip back will be a real adventure. . . .”

  So there it was. A serving of unconditional love with a side of implicit pressure. My dad’s specialty du jour.

  I had already decided to stay because it meant something to me to know that I could. To test my strength, resolve, and resilience. Not for him. For me. I would never forgive myself if I cut and run in Auckland, no matter how challenging the crossing might prove. But now that he’d laid down the gauntlet, I picked it up without hesitation. “No, I’m staying. I love you guys. I’ll be okay.”

  And Away We Go

  July 23, 1979

  36.8485 S, 174.7633 E

  A big, bright-blue tug pulled up alongside to escort us out of the last port in the Southern Hemisphere. I’d never seen a blue tug before, and it looked funny against the red steel of the ship, bright and visible even though the sun hadn’t quite risen. I had such mixed feelings about pulling away. I’d grown quite fond of this land Down Under, despite the relatively short time I’d spent ashore. The people I had met, to a one, treated me like family. They were as warm as the thick, dense wool covering the sheep that dotted the lush hillsides, with quick, easy senses of humor, and a ready willingness to lend a hand. Everything that the crew wasn’t.

  The tug let us go at the mouth of the harbor, and I waved at the few men on board, as if in saying goodbye to them, I could wish all the Aussies and Kiwis I’d met “G’day!”

  The coastline receded as the sun came up from the direction in which we sailed, as if beckoning. Some of the lights in Auckland started to extinguish with the morning light. I imagined early risers putting on teakettles and going out to dewy front yards for the morning paper. A few vehicles moved on the roads—on the wrong side, I thought. Maybe delivering those papers, or milk. Do they still deliver milk here, I wondered, like they did in Howard Beach where I’d grown up? The glass bottles had indentation on each side, so our small hands could more easily grip them. The red plastic handles affixed around the bottles’ necks allowed us to pick them up and out of the lidded metal box just outside the apartment door. We would leave two empty bottles inside on the night before a scheduled delivery, and the milkman would replace them with two of ice cold, fresh milk. Was it sheep’s milk here? There was so much I still didn’t know about this place, and I was already leaving. How differently my morning was starting out than theirs. The calm water of their harbor would give way to what were rumored to be some rough seas ahead.

  Maybe some of the lorries, which now looked like matchboxes, were carrying the containers we’d dropped off. I watched from the deck until I couldn’t see land any more, and tried not to think about when I’d next see it. But I knew that when I did, I’d be very close to home. I turned to go inside to report for duty.

  Was I just imagining it, or did Herr Most actually look happy?

  “Good morning. How was your visit with your wife? Is she okay?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t prying too much.

  “Ya, ya,” he said, clearly not interested in elaborating.

  “When will you get to see her again?”

  “Next time we are here. But after my next trip, I go off the ship in New York and fly home to Düsseldorf for a month. She will meet me there.” And, to change the subject, he said, “And you, Fraulein, you have some friends on the ship now.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. Did he think something had happened with some of the men?

  “We have two new workaways. A married couple. Mark, he is from Scotland. And his wife, she is Barbara, from Ireland. Maybe they are thirty. They stay below. They will work hard. Harder than you!” he pointed a finger at me. He said it in a half-joking, fully sting
ing way. I would happily have completed any assignment he gave me, but I also knew that he and everyone on board treated me with kid gloves because of Mr. Williams, the coordinator for their most important port, and because of the Herr Kapitän’s edict. Having me on board at the whim of some American bigwig surely irritated everyone.

  I had never asked for any favors or special treatment, but my simple presence was a favor, to Mr. Williams, and to a certain extent I inconvenienced everyone on board. I felt guilty for something I had neither intended nor could help. I sensed that he regretted what he’d said. He walked past me in the narrow galley and opened the dumbwaiter that had just arrived from below. Warm scents of dough, apple, and cinnamon wafted out. He carried a large pan back to the counter, silently cut a piece of fresh apple strudel, meant, I was sure, as part of the officers’ breakfast—we never had pastry at breakfast downstairs—and put it on a plate. He handed it to me with a fork and napkin.

  I mused curiously about the new people, and kept returning to her name. Barbara Barbara Barbara. My mother’s name. As if she had come on board, through a surrogate, to shepherd me back across the Pacific. My mother had espoused mindfulness and the power of positive thought long before they became mainstream, while Eckhart Tolle was probably still sitting on the bench, homeless. She constantly “hodged” for things to happen or not happen, as the need arose. “Hodge” was her made-up word for focusing her thoughts and envisioning the desired outcome. She found parking spots for my father in the most impossible, unlikely locations in the heart of Manhattan. She channeled the Beach Boys’ proverbial good vibrations to my sister and me whenever we needed a little extra help with a test or some other difficult situation. Later, after both of us married and had children of our own, she would “hodge” for them to make the golf team, recover from a tough bout of flu, or get into college. Things always worked out with her strong force behind us. I knew unequivocally that she was at home “hodging” hard for a safe and pleasant return journey. It was too coincidental that, out of all the names in the universe, the one female workaway we got was a Barbara. I knew my mom had a hand in this, and no matter how new age crazy that might sound to outsiders, only the believing mattered to me.