by Diane Lowman
“Mommy! I want my mommy!” I wailed as the black rubber-lined accordion bus doors closed, the diesel engine revved, and we pulled away.
Passengers must have seen her screaming as she dropped the parcels and my sister to the ground to frantically wave her arms: the reverse image of Zhivago frantically trying to get Lara’s attention from the bus as she walks calmly along the street and out of his life for the third and final time. In that scene, Zhivago did not succeed and lost Lara forever. The passengers surrounding me joined ranks and got the driver to stop so we could be reunited for a happier ending.
Everyone always told me I had a good sense of direction. That I know where I am in space. “It must be a gift,” they say, like Zhivago’s brother Yevgrav tells his niece Tanya, Lara and Zhivago’s child, about her balalaika skills. She too lost her mommy’s hand in a crowd.
This, I thought, is not so much a gift as a skill built through sheer determination never to be lost again. To hold tight to my lifelines, but to know where I am if they slip away again.
I could have asked—and often did ask—the duty officer for our exact longitude and latitude. But that information, while accurate and precise, would have given me no more orientation than the very few and far between and completely unfamiliar landmarks that marked our progress. I needed to develop an inner compass to find my own center of gravity, regardless of how the crew treated me, how unfamiliar my surroundings, or how the ship tried to throw me off balance.
By August 1 the storms had passed. Not surprisingly, the crew had managed to repair the boiler without me. We had crossed the International Date Line for the second time and had two Mondays, complete with repeat Monday menus. It was funny, this manipulation of time. I wished someone could teletransport me home, manipulating my molecules like they did the clocks, but at least the advent of August made the return home more tangible, as if I could see it in the distance through a spyglass. Barring any more unforeseen delays, we would dock in New York this month. I redoubled my efforts to trim down a bit. Like the meals, the schmoke-time treats reappeared in a predictable loop, so I’d sampled most of them by now. Unless something really special appeared (anything chocolate), I resisted. Also, I decided to tackle the other side of the equation with actual exercise. The push-ups, sit ups, and running in place in my cabin had no impact, and anyway, after Wolf almost threw me overboard, I was loath to do anything but tiptoe around my cabin.
Voyeurs be damned, I donned a pair of gym shorts and my rattiest T-shirt and slid into the only-marginally-bigger-than-bathtub-sized pool most days to do laps. Lots of them because of the truncated length. I still felt self-conscious and tried to strategically select times when no one else was apt to be out there, but the water (salty) and the motion (my own, not the ship’s) felt invigorating. Propelling myself for a change, rather than surrendering to Neptune’s whims, empowered me.
After Kino one night, Barbara and I sat out on deck and talked. It was nice to have the company, in English, of another woman. I was disappointed that we hadn’t spent more time together. When she came on board in New Zealand, I’d had fantasies of having a new best friend, a lifeline to save me from drowning in this pool of testosterone; but she was busy, tired, and married. She came alone that night. Mark was sleeping already, but she couldn’t. The movie was the 1974 White Dawn, in English with German subtitles, about three sailors stranded in the Canadian Arctic with the indigenous Inuit. We mused at the irony of showing a ship full of sailors a movie about shipwrecked men.
“I could so relate to that,” I said to her, laughing, watching the moon paint the crests of the frothy waves white and tint the tips of the flying fishes’ wings silver. “Except it’s hot and humid here, and the natives have not been nearly as welcoming,” I added.
“I expect not,” she said. “How has it been for you on board, all alone?”
I gave this question more thought than I’d allowed myself now that I had to answer it out loud.
“Oh, it’s been okay. Really it hasn’t been bad. But it hasn’t been good either.” She nodded. “At first I was a novelty to the crew, but one protected from the top down. Once they realized that I would not sleep with any of them, they shut me out for a while, but now they just treat me with indifference. Karl is great. Ingo likes to give me a hard time, but he’s harmless. Some of the crew can be rough, but the officers are generally kind.”
“But aren’t you lonely? Don’t you miss home?”
My eyes welled up before I could answer. I just nodded. Again, having to say it out loud was like bringing a submerged submarine to the surface. It kind of sucked the air out of me when it crested.
“Yes. A lot. I’m not sure what I expected or what I thought I was getting into, but it’s been quite an odyssey. I’m really glad I did it, but I can’t wait to get home. Back to my family. Back to my friends. Back to school.”
She touched my shoulder. “I get it. It’s different for me; I have Mark. And there are things at home I needed some distance from.”
“Do you mind if I ask what?”
“No, of course not. At University, before I met Mark— we both read philosophy—a boyfriend raped me. I fell into Mark after that. He enveloped me, and I felt protected and safe. But I’m not quite sure I’m over it. Do you ever get over something like that?”
“I’m so sorry. I cannot imagine. I think Bruno is rough with Claudia—don’t tell anyone I told you that. What is it with guys that they think they have that right?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s not all of them. Mark is a love. You just need to make good choices. But that’s true in general, isn’t it?” I nodded, and wanted to ask how to make those good choices, but she went on.
“And my brother, my baby brother, has had a very difficult time. My parents finally had to put him in a mental hospital. I’ve no idea what will happen with him, and it’s agonizing not to be able to help him.”
I could do nothing but nod again. I had no context for any of this. My problems seemed now like splashes in a backyard kiddie pool compared to the tidal wave she was facing.
“The flying fish mean we’re getting closer to the canal. I first saw them when we came through to the Pacific,” I explained.
“I’ve never seen anything like them before. What fantastical prehistoric creatures!”
I laughed into the deep blue night. “Yes, I do feel like I’m in some Neanderthal fantasy sometimes.” Now she laughed.
“You know we crossed the equator today,” I added.
“No! No one said anything. We flew over it last time. I did see the Galapagos. I wish I’d known.”
I have to admit I felt a little tiny bit smug at having been awarded the equator-passer certificate, even if it had come with an ulterior motive.
“Yeah, we’re back in the Northern Hemisphere. The toilets’ flush and the sinks’ drain have reversed. The Southern Cross has disappeared, and the North Star has taken its place,” I said, pointing up at the inky sky.
“Yes, everything is right in the world,” she answered.
Homeward Bound
August 6, 1979
8.9824N, 79.5199W
We could see the coast of Panama on August 6. Despite the bad weather and rough seas, the return crossing still took five days less because New Zealand was further east than Australia. I no longer felt so much that the ship propelled us, as I did on the way down, as that the land—and home—pulled at us now. As if my parents had pushed me out of the nest, a gray downy cygnet to test my mettle. Now I sailed back proudly as a full-grown swan, able to survive on my own.
We anchored just outside the canal to await permission to enter amid an armada of other attending ships. A coterie of dolphins greeted us as we glided into place. As before, the glimpse of land delighted me, as did the sweet sound of the Spanish-speaking DJ playing American disco songs on the radio that could finally receive a signal. Barbara and I finished work by lunchtime, so after our meal we sat by the pool protected by the deck overhang. I knew the near-equatori
al UV rays could penetrate even the fog that had followed us for most of the Pacific crossing, and I’d learned my lesson about sun exposure on the way down. Her fair Irish skin avoided solar rays like Dracula. We watched Ana splash and giggle in an off-white crocheted bikini that barely covered . . . well . . . anything.
As she frolicked, I kept trying to make out the coast through the fairly heavy cloud cover. I felt a completely different type of anticipation than I’d had coming in the other direction. Then, I had no idea what to expect, from either the canal or the wild blue thereafter. But now I knew. I pointed out each of the different ships to Barbara, “The one that looks like a tank transports cars, and the smaller one next to it carries pallets of cargo.” I explained the complex canal lock procedures and told her what we’d see on the journey through. We’d come to the river portion first from this direction, and the wider, more lake-like part toward Colón, at the Caribbean side. I knew with more certainty how long it would take to get home from here. We would head straight up to Halifax, and then Boston, before New York, but we’d be in and out of port quickly, so there was less opportunity for delay. I could count the remaining days on my fingers.
I could easily and much less expensively get off in either port and travel home by plane or train if I wanted to, but curtailing the remaining few days after Halifax or Boston seemed pointless. No, I could see the finish line from here. I would cross it, like I had the equator and the International Date Line.
The crew knew I would disembark soon and became suddenly friendlier. Many had begun to ask what I thought of them, the trip, and the ship. Some gave me their addresses at home, and told me to let them know if I ever travelled to Germany.
“And next Friday, we make ‘schnitzel a la Meyer’ in your honor, Fraulein!” announced Ingo. A dish named for me? Like a regular celebrity? Ingo couldn’t know about our miniature schnauzer named after the iconic German dish. Suzanne could barely pronounce her name at age five when she debuted, slipping and sliding down the hallway in her own pee, tail wagging and nails clicking and clacking, yapping a high-pitched greeting. “Shit-zel!” she’d say instead, making us all laugh. At eight, I could just make my mouth cooperate enough to get her name right. I missed that dog as much as any human, so Ingo’s culinary tribute took on even more meaning.
The attention surprised me; I didn’t think anyone even noticed me anymore. I’d become more like one of the containers, just something to load in one port and unload in another, just so much cargo. But it seemed as if I’d acquitted myself well enough to dispel any notion of the rich, spoiled, preppy, college kid they thought they’d seen when I boarded.
I felt a little wistful myself, and thought about inviting some of them up to the lake house when we docked in New York. I wondered if my mother would welcome a bunch of sailors on shore leave for a typical American BBQ, but quickly dismissed the idea as absurd. For a number of reasons.
It was no less fascinating to watch the canal crossing in reverse the next day, as we entered the intricate lock system that would lift us from sea level up to the level of the canal so we could sail back through.
The Colón agent had only a few letters from friends for me, as well as Frau Stuhlemmer for the radio officer. She was a jolly, red-cheeked dumpling of a woman. I could not help but envision her wearing a traditional German dirndl, mastering the two-fisted carry of multiple tankards of frothy ale to a rollicking Oktoberfest biergarten crowd. Herr Stuhlemmer could hardly look me in the eyes while she was on board. When he did, it was with a combination of embarrassment and veiled threat. Don’t you dare tell her about my drunken dialing and confessions of love. Please! I imagined him thinking. He needn’t have worried. I had empathy for her and had no intention of ruining their time together.
On the other end, the Panama City representative brought letters and another tape from home. I was happy to escape the heavy heat and head back to my cool cabin to devour them.
Once through the canal, heading north, the sirens of home seemed to call from everywhere. I listened to a soap opera from Cuba, a Bahamian radio station, and finally a pop AM station from Miami. It was as if, with gentle tethers, they were gently guiding me, reeling me back in.
“We stop in Charleston tomorrow,” said Herr Most, offering up some fresh-baked apple strudel that I refused.
“I thought Halifax first?” I asked. Three more ports instead of two. I tried to recalculate the estimated time of arrival again in my head, but gave up, my shoulders relaxing. It doesn’t matter, I thought. Soon enough. It wasn’t weeks. It was days.
“Ya, but these next three ports, they are very short stops, sometimes not even overnight, depending on when we get in. We drop some containers from Australia and New Zealand, but we do not load anything again until New York. You can see if you look aft; the ship, she is mostly empty. She has lost some weight, like you. Not eating treats anymore?”
I had noticed the lightness. Without the containers stacked high behind the superstructure, the sunlight could make its way through the previously blocked portholes. The ship lifted slightly above the surface, having shed some of her burden.
“And real workaways disembark at the first port, so your new friends will go off in Charleston.”
I didn’t know that either. Barbara, not that I’d seen much of her, hadn’t mentioned it. I had no right to expect that she’d tell me, but I felt a little disappointed nevertheless.
“We passed through the Bermuda Triangle today. No disasters. Smooth sailing from here, Fraulein Meyer,” he said.
This was as chatty as he’d ever been. Maybe he felt lighter, too, knowing he would soon be relieved of his own burden. Me.
The Atlantic looked more welcoming, too. We had left the murky, churning chop behind us on the other side of the canal. The wind pushed us from behind now, rather than fighting us from in front as it had all the way up from New Zealand. The water was clear, crisp blue and provided no resistance. The bow sliced through the surface like a glazier scoring a mirror.
My grandfather David, my mother’s father, was a glazier. I remember watching him wield a wheel cutter in his workshop in Union City, New Jersey. Careful, serious, and concentrating hard, he slid the blade over the reflective surface. We could not make a sound lest he slip and break the fragile glass, or cut himself. The ship now seemed as focused, determined, and skilled as he, as she made one long, smooth straight slice, barely creating any waves. None of the strain and struggle that seemed to accompany every mile in the South Pacific. The aft wake was calmer, too, and the sun shone brightly. The extra stop in South Carolina could hardly do anything to dampen my mood on such a day.
That night Barbara and Mark treated everyone on board to a beer. We toasted at dinner, and I asked if I could take a photograph of them.
She shook her head adamantly. “No. No photos. You don’t need a photo to remember us. You know, in some cultures they believe that you steal someone’s soul when you take their picture.”
Her reaction surprised me, but I respected it. We docked before dawn in Charleston, and they had disembarked before breakfast, without saying goodbye, almost as if they’d never been there. I wondered why they had left so early—maybe the ship required it—and if I’d just imagined them to help palliate the pain of the Pacific passage. My imaginary friends.
After breakfast I went into the port office to make a call and ask how to get in to town, although Herr Most had cautioned me not to take too much time because we’d probably leave before dinner.
Manning—and I do mean manning—the office were three delicious southern gentlemen. Hot as steamy grits, each sat at a military-issue-looking steel desk on stiff metal chairs resting on a gray linoleum floor. The grim surroundings made their sweet smiles and sky-blue eyes even more alluring. Their crisp navy uniforms said military too, but I knew they were Port Authority. I almost had to pinch myself when one, who was a blond version of the Middlebury football player with a crush on me, said, “How can we be of service, ma’am?” His drawl
, butter dripping on the grits, was one more ingredient in the mélange of accents I’d heard during the trip. They were the first Americans I’d seen in over two months, and what fine specimens to welcome me back they were!
“I need to make a call home, and then I’d like to figure out how to get into town to do some sightseeing before the ship leaves.” I sounded like such a dork. Why hadn’t I worn any makeup?
“I can help you with both,” said Captain Charming. “And what in the devil’s name are you doing on a ship like that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I didn’t mind one bit. I was melting, and not from the heat. The office was amply air-conditioned. I explained, flattered by the attention, and startled by how starved I was for civilized male attention.
“Here’s the phone,” he said, after I’d shared the condensed version of the trip, practicing the script I’d use over and over in the weeks to come once I got home. “Take as long as you need.”
I placed a collect call home, fidgeting as it rang and the operator asked if my parents, who I’d clearly woken up, would accept the charges.
“Of course,” said my groggy father. No way to perpetrate our Middlebury charade now.
I could just picture them lying in the queen-sized bed that took up most of the floor space in their lake cabin bedroom, covered, even in summer, in a rag-tag assortment of quilts left by my mother’s Aunt Miriam and Uncle Eddie. The sun would be refracting through the crystals my mom hung in the large picture window, making rainbows on the brown, braided area rug and maple-syrup-colored wood floors. They would watch the resident swan couple shepherding this season’s cygnets around the lake in search of breakfast. All of close to different water.
“Hi, my honey!” said my mother. She must have taken the phone and kicked my father out of bed to grab the olive green extension on the kitchen wall.
